(SEA) BEAST MODE AT UWAJIMAYA

We saw you, 12th Man and 12th Woman, watching the Seahawks get pummeled by the Carolina Panthers in the cafeteria area of Uwajimaya last Sunday. Your sad faces made us sad. But then, after eating a delicious bowl of veggie fried rice and General Tso's chicken from the deli, we made our way to the seafood department and laughed at the "GO SEAHAWKS!" thought-bubble signs someone had taped on the glass of both the tilapia and Dungeness crab tanks. These ancient sea creatures seemed to want to reassure you that it will all be okay. There's always next year.

BUS BABY

You looked particularly tiny—tiny orange jacket, tiny hand pressed up against the window—as you sat alert on your mom's lap watching the gray world pass by from the route 43 bus. But each time a new person boarded and found a seat on the bus, you had an enviable ability to do something none of us adults could do, no matter how much we wanted to: stare.

DISGRACED-FUL

All through opening night of Disgraced at Seattle Rep last Wednesday, we could feel the 99 percent white audience squirm through the awkward race/class/gender/religion tension being ratcheted up by Ayad Akhtar's powerful hot-buttony drama. At the climactic moment, though, you—white, male, 30-ish—had had enough. How did we know? Because you had the provincial temerity to stand up and shout "STOP THIS! THIS IS RIDICULOUS!" as you attempted to storm out. Your private play-within-the-play was interrupted when you fell on your face in the aisle. You then regained your balance and added "SHAMEFUL!" before at last quitting the auditorium. Your last word was right on the money. You should be ashamed—not for interrupting the play, but for being too soft for this world. Did you not understand that the people onstage were actors, and they were only pretending to be mad at each other?

PIONEER SHARE

You were standing on the corner with a red raincoat and a backpack in Pioneer Square, near the Chief Seattle Club. A woman who looked pretty strung out was asking passersby for some cash. You didn't look like you had much yourself, but you handed her some bills. She looked so happy she could cry, and said, "Thank you, thank you, thank you." People with much nicer clothes than yours kept walking.

FUCK ME WITH YOUR TECHNO

You were the young woman at Kremwerk on Saturday night handing out little stickers to people that read "Fuck me with your techno." That's it. That's enough.

SHATTERED GLASS

Sunday afternoon near Summit and Madison: You were taping a white garbage bag over a freshly smashed hole in your car window and looking defeated.

THE POLITICS OF PERSONAL DISROBING

On Sunday night, while some of your neighbors watched the Democratic presidential debate, you and a lady friend stood in your Capitol Hill living room—mostly naked and clearly visible through your window—smoking.

LOVE LUST IS BLIND

You—a young man in a kilt, letter jacket, and boater hat—were passionately kissing a woman in a Capitol Hill Starbucks parking lot on a Monday morning. Which goes to show: Anything is possible.

BALLARD HOARDER SURVEILLANCE

You, in your workout pants and black parka on Monday morning in Ballard Commons Park, were photographing a vehicle piled high with detritus, as if somebody might be living in it, or hoarding in it, or both. Why did you take the pictures, especially the picture of the license plate? Were you trying to help someone on MLK Day or just gathering ammo for your NIMBYism?

PATTI PARTY

In the mirror of a rehearsal room in NYC, we saw you being introduced to none other than Patti Smith, shaking hands, and offering praise. This encounter was wasted on you, as you know, and you will go to hell for pretending you read Just Kids when all you did was read a few reviews.

DUET FOR SOLOWHEELS

Both of you were on 11th trying to zip across John on Solowheels in the pouring rain. You were holding umbrellas, looking like a pair of those creepy vampire people from 1998's sci-fi dystopian thriller Dark City. Or like two wayward and landlocked stand-up paddle boarders. Or like two Rosie the robot maids from The Jetsons. Whatever the case, you didn't look at all like two human beings trying to cross a street in the rain.

JET BLUES

We heard your suffering on the Jet Blue flight from New York City to Seattle. The plane was 30,000 feet in the air. You were behind us. You had just watched the Seahawks lose to the Panthers on the screen in front of your seat. The clouds drifted by your window. The sun set in the distance. The atmosphere thinned into the great emptiness of outer space. We could hear how devastated you were by the loss. We turned back and saw that you—a woman in her 30s—had your head on the shoulder of an elderly man. He tried to console you, but your face said only one thing: You will not be happy until the next football season. Dark days were ahead. Indeed, it would not have bothered you one bit if we all had stayed in the air for the next nine months and only landed on the day the first game of the 2016–2017 season began. This was you at that terrible moment.