You were at the Mount Baker Transit Center apparently waiting for the 7 bus, which, as always, was late. Ten or so other people were standing around doing the usual things (Facebook, Instagram, texting), but you were doing something totally new. From the green military-style belt that barely held up your sagging baggy pants there swung a charcoal-black UE Megaboom speaker. A carabiner, like rock climbers use, attached this speaker to your belt, and the wireless technology of Bluetooth connected the speaker to the music on your smartphone. You were blasting a very bass-heavy rap track. Usually, playing music out loud is nothing but a public nuisance—it's just common decency to use earphones—but the sight of the thick, circular speaker dangling near your crotch was such a new thing that we were more fascinated than irritated. Finally our bus arrived (actually, two 7s arrived at the same time), and you somehow disappeared. Where did you go with your sick belt of beats?


You two—young women in your 20s or 30s—were out for cider around 10 p.m. on a Friday night. "He's six feet eight," one of you said to the other, "and he's, um, proportionate. Is 'too much' a thing? It was too much."


On a Sunday afternoon at 4 o'clock, you were one of many people stuck, immobile, on I-5 northbound because of a bad multicar accident that left at least one car upside down in the middle of the freeway. Ambulances and police cars were arriving. Not that we have to tell you the details of the accident because while everyone else stayed in their cars, relieved they hadn't just died on the interstate, you, a middle-aged man with wild, wiry hair and a bushy mustache, opened your driver's side door and were standing, perched on the edge of your Volvo station wagon, peering into the scene of the accident, gesturing impatiently, and yelling who knows what, so horribly inconvenienced that you could not get where you were going.


The 40 bus to Northgate was already jammed by the time it arrived at Westlake Station on Thursday night, and you were just inside the door when the last person scrunched inside. Everybody was packed tight. You wore a cowboy hat and said loudly, after she got on: "Well, back in the old country, this kind of touching would mean we're married already!" Then you bellowed. Everybody else tried to look anywhere but at you or the woman, who was forced to continue touching you—as if you were married, in the old country—because she had nowhere else to go.


You, an auto mechanic in Green Lake, were grinning like a Cheshire cat as you put the receipt on the counter and rang up the customer. Asked about how the oil change went, you answered without hesitating that everything "Looked great!" There was just enough knowledge about car mechanics in the rest of your answer, beyond what the average person would be expected to know, that one might get the impression you knew what you were talking about, but the longer you kept rambling about the "visual inspection" you performed, while smiling toothily, it was hard not to be suspicious. And it turned out, you were full of shit. The car broke down on Highway 99, a few miles from your shop.


To the couple who couldn't keep their hands (and mouths) off each other at a Central Cinema screening of Psycho on a Friday evening: Wow. To anyone who wasn't in attendance: At various points it looked as if the man was actually trying to devour his lady companion—snuggling into her neck, back, and face, rubbing his face all over her like a cougar marking its territory, etc. We just stared and stared—because you were sitting right in front of us and we had no other choice. It was more disturbing than the images on the screen.


On a Saturday night on Capitol Hill, you were crammed into a corner of a tiny space in the back of Nacho Borracho, DJing underground techno off a USB stick jammed into a mixer. The night is called Weird Room, which is the city's most constricted electronic-music event—imagine a dance party in a space about the size of most clubs' coat-check areas. But Weird Room draws sizable, enthusiastic, inebriated crowds consisting of Seattle's techno hoi polloi and other aficionados, with the surplus attendees spilling out into Nacho's long corridor, where one speaker is sagely deployed. This is an innovative idea that's so wrong, it succeeds smashingly.


You had a ticket to HUMP!, The Stranger's amateur porn festival, which costs $25, by the way, and you waited in line on a rainy Saturday night in Lower Queen Anne, but when you finally got inside the Uptown Cinema lobby, you were seen going into the wrong auditorium—theater three, which was screening the turgid Steven Spielberg/Tom Hanks Cold War "drama" Bridge of Spies, tickets for which cost only $12—and not coming out. Could it honestly be that you were too embarrassed to buy a ticket to such a boring movie? Everything's porn to someone. recommended