MEN WILL PEE ON ANYTHING

We saw you abandoned at the foot of a certain Capitol Hill lamppost: one lonely watermelon rind, fruit scooped out, a large wet sidewalk stain all around you. Our theory regarding this tableau of human waste: One hungry person, possibly a vegan, was eating watermelon with a spoon while walking down the sidewalk. This person finished eating near the corner lamppost, and when the light changed, gently placed the rind on the sidewalk as if the sidewalk were a server's tray. (Naturally, this person kept the spoon for the next course—soup, possibly?) After this, another person saw the rind and, emboldened by booze and delusions of novelty, decided to use it as a urinal. That second person missed the mark badly.

OH, YOU SILLY SOCIAL CRITIC

We saw you pause, while dragging a red roller suitcase in the Metro Transit Tunnel at Westlake, to read a piece of graffiti. The graffiti was on an advertisement promoting the sale of diamonds, especially a pair of diamond earrings. The banner read: "Of course she would love to go to Paris, but wearing these." Someone scribbled out "Paris" and wrote "The Central African Republic" in its place—calling out the atrocious conditions in which diamonds become "blood diamonds." After reading this, still holding your suitcase, we heard you mumble to yourself, "Oh, you are SO SEATTLE."

"DO NOT TOUCH" (TOUCH)

"This is not a toy," the sign on the thrift-store typewriter clearly read. "Please do not touch." And yet, you—a blond teenager perusing the Fremont Vintage Mall—could not be bothered with instructional signs and began to type incessantly. No one stopped you. Type. Type. Type, type, type.

CHICKEN, WAFFLES, AND PUNS AT FAT'S

On Sunday evening, you, a man in your 30s, and a lady friend were eating at Fat's Chicken & Waffles in the Central District. We are guessing that you are a geologist, as the back of your T-shirt bore a list of the "Top 10 Reasons to Date a Geologist." Among the reasons: "Geologists make the bed rock" (groan), "Geologists will date anything" (meh), and "Geologists are very sedimental" (applause).

ODD FELLOWS WINDOW COPPER

You were ostensibly a police officer standing in the second-story window of the Odd Fellows Building as Bill Clinton glad-handed and freely gave reading recommendations in the bookstore below. Literally tens of people were waiting to snap a mediocre cell-phone photo across the street, but all they could see were groups of guffawing white men huddled together in the building's entryway. While the crowd argued about who among them were Secret Service and who were just giant bald frat boys burdened with the task of talking college basketball with Slick Willie, you surveyed all, occasionally speaking into the walkie-talkie on your shoulder. What must you have been thinking up there all alone?

BEACON HILL BAUHAUS

You—the former bassist for influential British goth-rock icons Bauhaus and psych-rock popularizers Love and Rockets—were playing an intimate house show on Beacon Hill Saturday night before about 30 people. With acoustic guitar strapped on, you introduced one song as "an indictment of the music industry." A memorable line in it went, "How many A&R men does it take to change a lightbulb?/'I'll get back to you on that.'" The song's refrain was "What is your shelf life?" It was no "Bela Lugosi's Dead" or "Kundalini Express," but that tune has serious appeal—especially to rueful musicians burned by the biz.

E LINE BIRD WATCHER

All the way to downtown from far up north almost at Shoreline, you sat contentedly on the E bus—the one that runs through some of the saddest, porniest strips in Seattle—and watched minutes and minutes of a bird documentary on your Samsung phone, smiling as the penguins and toucans and herons pooped and pecked and bobbed their heads in lush nature.

COLD (PORK) SHOULDER, 11TH & UNION

On a Tuesday afternoon, you, a 12-quart Cambro container covered in plastic wrap, were sitting, abandoned in the rain, on the sidewalk of 11th Avenue, just south of Union Street. You appeared to be giving off a colorful glow, and, against our better judgment, we were drawn to you. A closer look found you to be filled with many pounds of braised and shredded pork shoulder, with a one-inch-layer of bright-orange congealed fat sitting on top. Someone had peeled away the plastic wrap, broken through the layer of fat, and pawed through the meat. Were you a runaway from nearby restaurant Meat & Bread or Slab Sandwiches + Pie? Did your orange color come from annatto, chilies, or some other spice? Whatever the answers are, we hope you did not go to waste.

YOUR CUSTOM IS CHERISHED

You sat in the row of seats at the far back of a Route 19 bus to Magnolia on a Wednesday night at rush hour. You were sporting big headphones, a serious mustache, and a leather jacket that wouldn't have worked on everyone. Staring down at your phone, you scrolled through posts on Seattle's only blog. Another satisfied customer.

PLANET EARTH IS BLUE

We saw you emerge as the galaxy's skinniest alien visitor, and then transform into a pale plastic soul pretender, a thin white duke, a ghost of fascism's collapse, a bouffanted waver, a happily married retiree, and, most recently, a button-eyed cipher, returning from the void to deliver one last perfect transmission from your home planet. Then, all of a sudden, we learned that you had died, and all your selves converged into a magnificent supernova. And the stars look very different today. recommended