Late Night Text

December 10, 2025

Last night my phone lit up at 11:07 p.m.

A simple message, no emojis, no lead-in:

“Earl Sweatshirt has a concert here next week.

I figured you wouldn’t wanna miss it.”

I laughed so hard I had to put the phone down.

Because two years ago, I had no clue who Earl Sweatshirt even was.

I just knew my daughter wanted to go.

So off we went to Seattle—

packed shoulder to shoulder in a venue with no seats,

surrounded by people hotboxing the entire building.

Two mysterious DJs took turns onstage

spinning music that sounded like an alien transmission,

and every now and then the crowd would erupt

as if they understood what was happening.

We stood there for over two hours,

waiting for Mr. Sweatshirt himself to materialize.

He finally arrived, muttered his way through a 40-minute set

that felt like the same song on loop,

and then—poof—he was gone.

Show over.

Emily and I were half-dazed, half-contact-high,

so we did the only sensible thing:

we went to Taco Bell.

So when that text came through last night,

I smiled.

Not because I’m dying to relive the concert,

but because she remembered.

Because she knows I’d go anywhere with her.

And because sometimes the sweetest love

is tucked into the silliest memories—

and sent at 11:07 p.m.

with a line about Earl Sweatshirt.