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trust me on this: nothing good happens after 2am.  after somewhat of a tumultuous start to the weekend (involving 3am panic attacks, 4am drives across the 520, and 5am RDTs), it was time for a stay-cay of sorts.  my first stop of the day was olympus spa, a lynnhood haven of hydrotherapy pools, energy rooms, and most importantly, chapchae.  not only was it a much needed opportunity to decompress, but the nude women’s spa also doubled as an ego-booster.  upon detoxification, the next logical thing to do was to restore karmic balance with an evening of re-toxification with my posse.  being that i don’t believe in changing plans despite awkward situations, we stopped in at tavern law for a pre-dinner drink, which shortly morphed into liquid therapy.  the hours and venues started to blur (as well as my “two drink limit”), and soon i was at the doorstep of the hideout, an art bar on first hill.  staying true to it’s name,  the obscure ‘h’ logo on the awning is easily dismissed by the unknowing eye, but the minimal exterior is zeroed-out by the dimly-lit barrage of art coating the loft-high interior.  the couches and stools were occupied by an underground artist scene who appeared to take refuge from the commercialism of surrounding neighborhoods.  a vending machine in the back served up snack-sized treats of art and literature, and underground punk blared on the speakers.  after a fernet (and some siphoning of another), the night left me feeling numb –  just what the doctor ordered.

'h' is for hideout, hipsters, heartbreak

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