BEST DRESSED ON HALLOWEEN

We saw you standing under an awning outside Northwest Film Forum just before 7 p.m., in a cactus costume you'd made yourself, consisting of cut-up straws hot-glued to a green shirt. It was simple, eye-catching, and hilarious, especially because it was on the rainiest Halloween in Seattle history—like the straws were out to drink up the moisture.

WORST DRESSED ON HALLOWEEN

You went to the Halloween techno party at Re-bar—which featured a bill of cerebral DJs and producers from Portland, Vancouver, and Italy—dressed in a cape that contained the insignia of the Confederate battle flag. You undoubtedly thought you were being ironically hilarious and more provocative than thou, but clubbers gave you a wide berth, as if you were emitting the corpse stench of 19th-century racist assholes. The intensity of stink eye you received should have driven you to contemplate your contemptible decision, but you seemed oblivious.

WALKING YOUR ROOSTER IN COLUMBIA CITY

On a Friday evening at 5 p.m., you were walking a rooster west on Columbian Way, going up the hill from Columbia City to Beacon Hill. Your rooster is a brawny, proud, and majestic creature, with a gorgeous coat of brown and iridescent blue-green feathers. He's obviously very well cared for, reminding us of the cocks we've seen fighting in pits in Ecuador and the Philippines. We were tempted to follow you at a discreet distance in the hopes that you would lead us to a hidden Seattle cockfight.

OVERHEARD AT MCCAW HALL

You and your friend—two middle-aged white women—were at the Seattle Arts & Lectures Ta-Nehisi Coates event at McCaw Hall last Thursday. Coates explained how, when Toni Morrison called Bill Clinton the "first black president," it wasn't meant as a compliment. It was because when people tried to bring him down, they did so with a certain animosity that black people are familiar with. "She could have used another term," Coates said, but he declined to say it out loud because, he joked, the local NPR station might be recording the talk. Clueless, you turned to your friend and asked, "What word is he talking about?"

SO HAPPY UNDER THE SPOKANE STREET VIADUCT

Two Saturday mornings ago at 9 a.m., you were dancing, beer in hand, as you crossed First Avenue South in Sodo, under the Spokane Street Viaduct. "I saw 2 Chainz last night!" you declared, and then you added, "I was going to a house party in West Seattle, but I slept in a flower bed." You were nothing but happy. Cheers to you, sir.

GOOD NEWS/BAD NEWS IN PIONEER SQUARE

You were a gaggle of folks standing in a semicircle, holding hands and big picket signs that shouted your love of Jesus. To emphasize your affiliation, you sang hymns, while all around you, the mentally ill denizens of what reactionary old KIRO called "the most dangerous block in Seattle"—Third Avenue between Yesler and James—stumbled around in search of social services. Your message of salvation through prayer and faith was drowned out by bus engines and clouded by exhaust fumes. And yet you sang on. Thanks for making the neighborhood more terrible.

PUBLIC DISPLAYS OF AWKWARDNESS

We saw you at the corner of Pike and 12th on a recent Friday evening in the rain—you in a dress and no jacket, the guy you were with dressed in a gingham cotton shirt and jeans. He was attempting to swaddle you like a baby with his coat, which appeared to both comfort and embarrass you, especially as he began incessantly kissing your face, right there with all those people around. It's nice to know that public affection is horrifically awkward for you, too.

CRITICAL THINKING ON THE 28 BUS

You got on the 28 bus on Dexter above Westlake on a Tuesday morning, wearing sophisticated high dark hair and a camel-colored long coat. On a piece of paper you pulled out of your bag, there was a chart in a sunburst-like shape with the words "The Aspects of a Critical Thinker" printed at the top. You looked at it for a minute and then switched to writing in a notebook. What are the aspects of a critical thinker and how do they relate to sunrays? What class was this?

WASHING YOUR HAIR AT VENUS

On a Friday night around 11 p.m., you were washing your hair at Venus, a great karaoke place beneath Fort St. George in the International District. You were at the sink in the men's room. The giant hole in the wall behind the urinal provided a funny backdrop for your vigorous public bathing, an effort, no doubt, to look your best before debuting the song you'd clearly been working on for weeks. Lest you feel ashamed, shaving and washing up in public used to be the norm. Cary Grant does it all the time in the movies. More power, and more shampoo, to you.

SWIMMING POOL OF DREAMS

We see you repeatedly in our dreams, though you do not exist in real life. You are hidden behind ivy, attached to an empty mansion, waiting for us, always warm, always welcoming. We love to swim in you, love to lie there afterward in chaise longues with no care in the world. It is always jarring to wake up.