SUCKING FACE IN BALLARD
You were a couple enjoying cocktails in a corner booth in the upstairs loft at Hazlewood in Ballard on Sunday night. You, lady in coral, and you, bro in chambray, drained your drinks and proceeded to have the loudest make-out sesh that we've overheard since middle school. God, it was loud. You realize you're not actually supposed to suck the other person's face, right? You're not a vacuum. You realize you were in a public place, right? PDA is irritating enough as it is, but you, Coral, you took that awkwardness to new heights when you started popping open Chambray's shirt buttons while seemingly draining his life force through his mouth. Chambray, you seemed a bit more reluctant to be putting on this show for all of us, but you're not excused, either—your side-butt grope did not go unnoticed. When Coral finally slurred out, "Why don't yew just call an Uberrrr?" we felt nothing but relief. Then she added, "I just want to go home with yeeeeww!" And, thank the fucking lord, you finally, finally did.
FARMER-SPITTING IN THE WIND
We saw you issue a very fulsome farmer spit as you were biking down Pine Street. A farmer spit, for the uninitiated, is when a person expels the contents of their nose one nostril at a time. We watched as you pressed on one nostril and blew hard, and then pressed on the other nostril and blew equally hard. Out came the snot, which in one direction fell into the bike lane and in the other direction—sorry, but also you kinda deserved it—splooged all over your rain jacket.
PANHANDLER? PIRATE? WE GIVE UP
You were sitting on an out-of-the-way, unremarkable street corner in North Seattle, but you looked nothing like the usual homeless panhandler. You had a stuffed parrot doll attached to your shoulder, a mangy beard, and a pirate hat on. Your sign indicated you were seeking "whiskey and booty." You were holding a small, well-groomed dog. You eyes lit up and you grinned good-naturedly as cars drove past. You looked too sure of yourself, too happy, and too in touch with your creative side to be sitting on an empty corner. Had you come to Emerald City Comicon, dressed as a pirate villain, and gotten lost?
TIGHT WHITE JEANS ON THE E BUS
In your dark sunglasses, tight white jeans, impossibly high heels, and equally impossibly high pigtails (they resembled antlers), you ambled up, a little off balance, to the E bus heading downtown in the gray of Monday morning. You got on the bus, pushed aside a sleeping man's bag by telling him, "Oh hell no, I know your type," and you both laughed. "I respect you because you spent the money on food instead of a hit," you told him. You looked down at your white jeans, stained on the thigh above your crossed knee, and you said, "I can't keep these clean for 48 minutes, but it doesn't matter, because what they're looking at is the back side, anyway."
CAPITOL HILL CRANE AT A CRAZY ANGLE
We saw you, many of you, staring at a construction crane that was reaching not straight up into the air, but diagonally, seemingly precariously, over a newly constructed Capitol Hill building. The crane's arm was so extended that it seemed to have extra parts, and the midsection of the arm was almost touching the top-floor apartments it had just helped build. The angle of the crane's arm worried us. It seemed to worry everyone. In further defiance of gravity, at the tip of its extended arm was yet another crane component, made of other materials, and strangely bent, like a vacuum attachment. It gave the crane additional reach and angle. What was this whole extended-crane-arm business all about? At length it became clear. The crane at an angle was building another crane whose vertical shaft was rising directly behind the new construction.
We saw you, a 30ish dude with a possibly ironic mustache at a synth exhibition at Melrose Market Studios on Sunday afternoon, wearing a T-shirt emblazoned with the words DON TRUMP rendered in the jagged, italicized DAFT PUNK logo font.
UNMARRIED MAN AND UNMARRIED WOMAN SPOTTED ON MERCER ISLAND
Cut into the hill that rises above the delightful little suburban Mercerdale Park on Mercer Island, there's a small but assiduously maintained complex of trails. We saw you, a middle-aged man wearing a bright-blue windbreaker, forcing yourself up and down a set of stairs that leads to the trail, your breath heavy but your steps surprisingly spry. Down below, walking along the sidewalk that loops around the park's great lawn, there was a middle-aged woman yogically flapping her arms, as if performing a series of routine and possibly doctor-ordered dynamic stretches. We checked for rings on you both, but didn't see any. Just sayin'.