Scene of your nonstop commentary. You want to talk about ass? You’re an ass.

LIBRARY OF (SEXUAL) CONGRESS

On Sunday, the first truly glorious day in what would become a nice run of them, you, a young man in an army jacket, bummed several people out by standing in front of the Central Library in downtown Seattle remarking on the general fuckability of every woman who came within harassing distance of the revolving door. You rated them. You made grunting sounds. "That," you remarked, "is an ASS!" And it was, it's true, an ass. No one confronted you, least of all us, which is a shame, but you did get several contemptuous looks from women as they passed, though they didn't deter you in the least. Maybe you were blinded by the sun? Or perhaps a larger obliviousness was at work.

DEATH DEFIER ON DENNY

We saw you, a man in your 20s, biking east on Denny near Boylston on a Thursday morning while texting or making a song selection on your phone with one hand. At least you were wearing a helmet.

WATCHING PORN ON MERCER ISLAND

You were kicking it at home in the residential area of north Mercer Island late at night on a Saturday. We were passing by during a stroll to go find a decent smoking spot. Your house was beautiful and had a sweet deck facing the street. Even more eye-catching, however, were your massive windows that gave us a view into your bedroom. We may not have seen you exactly, but we did see what you were watching. In fact, the whole street could see that oil-slicked ass bouncing on an incomprehensibly large dick on your giant TV screen. You do you. But maybe get yourself some decent curtains?

CASUAL TASER THREAT ON PIKE

Walking up Pike Street across from the convention center, we saw you approach in a neon-green hoodie and a goatee. It would have been fine if your facial hair were your only offense to decency that evening. But no. You had a Taser in your hand, too. You approached and held out the Taser in your open palm as if it were a jar of Grey Poupon you planned offer random members of the public. Then you said: "Hey, I got this Taser! I got this Taser!" And, looking down at your hand, everyone could see that you did, in fact, have a Taser. When you started pushing the button, causing the weapon to crackle with electricity, you crossed the line from being an annoying dude to being an annoying dude who was posing a threat to other people. Hope you find the help you need, but in the meantime—fuck off with that Taser shit.

SING IT, CELLULAR-BIOLOGY AFICIONADO

On Saturday morning, you—an intense white guy in horn-rimmed glasses, listening to music on your phone—were striding uphill on Olive Way near Harvard while rapping in a frantic voice about "mitochondria and cells."

FOUR BLACK BOYS ON BEACON HILL

Late on a Thursday afternoon, while doing dishes and looking out of our kitchen window on Beacon Hill, we saw you, a group of four black teenage boys, sauntering down the alley behind our house. You were all wearing hoodies and shorts, and you joked around with each other as you dribbled and passed a basketball back and forth. You were probably heading to the nearby park to shoot some hoops. But considering that just three weeks before, we watched four police officers chase our neighbor, another young black man, through the same alley before forcing him to the ground, guns drawn, your ordinariness moved us to tears.

BELLTOWN BRAT

On an unseasonably warm Friday afternoon, you sat near the back of the 33 bus wearing a red jacket and your hair in a bun, chatting loudly with a friend. When the bus slammed on its brakes along Third Avenue in Belltown, you shouted at the driver like a pissed-off teenager in the back of your mom's minivan, "Learn how to drive!"

CONVENTION CAUCUS CRAZINESS IN BALLARD

You gripped a white index card with your name and polling district written down on it. You were one body in a sea of hundreds crammed into the gym at Ballard High School for the Democrats' delegate caucus. The index card was your "vote," and in order to cast it, you were supposed to wait at least an hour for introductions and speeches from your fellow delegates. Your eyes widened in horror when you realized that this process probably wouldn't just take an hour; it would take two, maybe three or four. You asked a volunteer what you should do with the card if you needed to leave earlier than that, and she did not know. She instructed you to take a picture of yourself with your index card and send an e-mail to the organizers. What would have happened if you had nefarious intentions and stole a stack of index cards? What would happen if you dared to write down other people's names? Is this what democracy looks like?

A SUNDAY WITH A STRANGER

You had The Stranger and a Sunday Seattle Times splayed out on the table in front of you at Hot Cakes as you sank the edge of your fork into a thick, crumbly brownie. You were there alone, enjoying the newspaper and the brownie. If we had to guess, you must have been in your 80s. It seemed like the only way you ought to be spending a Sunday morning.