We stood behind you at Columbia City's new PCC Natural Market. You—white, almost old, and male—were buying a bunch of standard vegetables and condiments. The cashier rang you up for $53. You handed him bills and said: "It must be great working with the Indian." What in the world were you talking about? There wasn't a South Asian anywhere in the store at that moment, or a Native American. The cashier was confused, and the customers behind you in line were confused. You laughed and pointed at the guy bagging your groceries. He stopped and looked at you in confusion: Why was he, a young white male, an Indian? "His hair is like a Mohawk," you said, with the dumbest laughter anyone has heard this year. It's really impressive that the young man with the hair did not spit your bag.


On a Thursday night, you were drinking alone at the bar at Maneki in the International District. You kept trying, unsuccessfully, to engage a busy waitress in a flirtatious conversation. When a man came and took a seat next to you, you turned to him and said, "Last time I saw you, I was married." You are the definition of a real downer.


You were 10 feet away from the automatic sliding door of the Walgreens and really struggling. The thong part of your flip-flop was broken free from the sole. The store has a no shirt/no shoes policy, and you wanted to respect that. But what could you do? What could you possibly do? You tried doing that thing where you're pressing your foot down hard on the insole while cupping the flip-flop with your toes, trying to advance across the surface of the earth without losing contact with the flip-flop. But the sandal slipped out from beneath you. Then you tried grabbing the thong part with your toes. But, with no weight to keep the sole down, the whole sandal flapped wildly about as you tried to walk. You finally reached down, picked up the sandal, and walked into the pharmacy, shoeless. If only evolution had been kind to us, as it was to monkeys, regarding the articulation of feet and toes.


You were making the most of a school night in a patch of green grass between the sidewalk and the street on 18th Avenue. "I'm the best!" you shouted triumphantly into the orange traffic cone you held up to your mouth like a megaphone. "No, I'm the best!" your friend shouted over you into her own orange traffic cone megaphone. What a perfect stage of adolescence: old enough to sit outside as dusk falls, yelling weird proclamations at no one, but not quite old enough to doubt that you are, in fact, the best.


At 5 p.m. on a Thursday—closing time at Scratch Deli—you were telling a friend about a dance party fundraiser for Bernie Sanders. It was called "Bernie Man," you said. "Bernie Man," you repeated. "Like 'Burning Man.' Isn't it funny?" If your friend laughed, it was silently.


You were walking down Pike Street, past a grocery store and a bus stop, carrying what looked like a ferret. It was hard to tell. There were no ferret experts nearby. Its long body was covered in fluffy white fur and its beady eyes kept shifting from you to the sidewalk to the other people on the sidewalk who somehow didn't even seem to notice that you were carrying a ferret. You carried it with one hand, flung over your shoulder, snuggled up against your face and kissed it a few times.


You were working sound at Machine House Brewery in Georgetown. There was a fog machine situated near the stage. After the show, you said, "I just figured out that this fog machine uses the same exact technology as a vaporizer. I'm going to fill one with hash oil and throw some dub shows."


On a Tuesday afternoon, you were perusing the artisan wares of a vendor at Pike Place Market. You asked for the price of an object. When she replied, simply, "Fifty," you forced the vendor to clarify that the cost of her handmade product was fifty dollars, not fifty cents. COME ON, DUDE.

MAN 0, DOG 1

You were playing soccer in Cal Anderson Park with an unusual opponent: your dog. Dressed in a blue and red Barcelona jersey, you were dribbling the ball with your feet, pirouetting and sprinting left and right, trying to keep the ball from the dog. The dog, short-legged with patchy brown hair, kept up with you surprisingly well—you couldn't open up much space for yourself. There were humans playing soccer nearby, and you were clearly skilled enough to play with your own species, but you chose not to, and some of the other players seemed to look at you enviously, wishing they had their own soccer-playing dogs to practice with.


Relegated to the den of Chop Suey the night that 10 bands associated with Stumptown employees played, you set up a looping machine and a vocal mic and placed a small guitar (or was it an alto ukulele?) in your lap. You then proceeded to play the most achingly beautiful set that anyone heard that night. It was unexpected, to say the least. Soon you will probably be famous. recommended