Dear Columbia Center: What the fuck is up with those lights around the tops of your numerous tiers? Who did this to you? It's like accessorizing your expensive little black dress with jewelry made from Chiclets and twine. You're the architectural antithesis of Eliza Doolittle—you went from classy to trashy. What's next? Pink flamingos at your base in the plaza? Furniture in the Columbia Tower Club being replaced with bales of hay? Old nonworking refrigerators or washing machines on your front porch? This isn't Times Square, this isn't Vegas, and this isn't tacky town. This is Seattle. We're dark, we're reserved, and we don't wear flashy accoutrements to draw attention to our broody selves. Take it down a notch, will ya, and tell your light person not to touch the "make 'em flash" button ever again.