Cut to a wholly unnecessary shot of Peter Krause's ass in a pair of gray Marky Mark boxer briefs. Ew. Also, clench Peter! Clench! Brenda enters with an "Ew, Nate" of her own, and for a moment I think Brenda and I may be in total agreement about something for the first time ever. Then she cops a squat on the toilet, grabs a magazine with her feet, and lets the Foley guys go to town with the tinkling sound effects. Now that's an "Ew." Nate continues flossing his teeth while she does this, all the while obsessively discussing his trip to Seattle in an ultimately vain effort to make his newly-distant girlfriend jealous. Brenda, however, is just too damn busy being bitchy to care. And judging from the occasional "poot" noise emanating from the toilet, she's also too busy farting. Someone on the sound staff at Six Feet Under certainly has a sick sense of humor. Brenda finally shuts him up by reminding him that she's trying to read, and that she really hates it when he flosses in front of her. Nate takes his whipping like the furry little beast he is, and heads out of the bathroom. Cut to later, as Peter Krause stands in the bedroom, arms strategically placed to cover the wide Sargasso Sea above his right nipple. He's still on the Seattle subject, wondering repeatedly if it's weird that he didn't even ask Brenda to come with him. "Okay, now it is a little weird," she says, "but only because you're making it weird." They both climb into bed, with Brenda opining that it will be good for Nate to spend some time with his sister. Yeah. Because all that quality time with the siblings has worked out so well for Brenda herself. Anyway, hope clearly springs eternal in Nate's loins, but Brenda once again shuts him down with a perfunctory "goodnight" before rolling over and going to sleep. The director treats us to a quick close-up of Nate's ostensibly rectangular brain, and then we fade to white.
Fade back up on the interior of an airplane. I'm quite pleased to note that I apparently have a much better travel agent than Nate and Claire, because their seats suck. Claire is perusing some sort of travel magazine, and is thrilled to discover that Sleater-Kinney will be playing at a club there. Nate informs her that he knows the club, and unfortunately, it's eighteen and over only. "What makes you think I don't have a fake ID?" wonders Claire. Ahh, the fake ID. I had one in college, and the story of how I got it is so shocking and incredible that your hair would literally fall out if I repeated it here. Suffice to say, I'm still wanted by the Secret Service, and my name isn't really Aaron. Anyway, Nate is pretty cool about the whole thing, saying that he had a fake ID once himself, and that he might even enjoy tagging along to the concert. Claire continues being snotty, prompting Nate to reply, "Would you just try to get over yourself for a second and let me be your friend, AND your brother?" Shocked by this, Claire asks him if this whole thing was intended to be some sort of pity trip to take her mind off Gabe. Nate claims he invited her because he thought it would be fun, but now he's having second thoughts. Apparently satisfied by that, Claire changes the subject to ask where they're staying. When she learns that their host will be an old friend of Nate's named "Lisa," she immediately asks if it's an old girlfriend. Nate: "No. No way. Not even close. We were strictly roommates." Methinks The Rectangle doth protest too much. Claire asks if Lisa is "all crunchy granola, backpacky, and like way into grunge." Nate says she's a little on the first part, a lot on the second, and definitely not on third, because "grunge died long before Kurt Cobain." Yeah. Whatever, Mr. Music Man. Weren't you a Sting fan last season? The best description of Lisa that Nate can come up with is that she's "hard to categorize." "You guys still did it a few times though, right?" asks Claire.