Rebar outside of Re-bar: Rats have likely been hurt in the making of that building.


No one knows what the bar and performance space Re-bar is made out of—cardboard and meringue?—but the building going up next to it is made of very heavy materials, some of which were being lifted into the air by a crane at 11:30 a.m. on Monday. Five construction workers stood in the street and watched. Uncountable rats huddled nearby. The only reason we suspect there were rats nearby is that at a recent nighttime performance of Dina Martina's spring show at Re-bar, we stepped outside during intermission and peered down the alley between Re-bar and that new building, intending to walk between the two structures to smoke some weed, but we stopped, horrified, at what appeared to be a deleted scene from The Secret of NIMH. There were enough rats scurrying back and forth through that alley, their backs reflected faintly in the darkness, their bellies doubtless filled with corned beef, that it looked like the asphalt was rippling.


We saw you, a woman perhaps in your mid-30s, trying to pull person after person onto the dance floor at FRED Wildlife Refuge throughout last Thursday night. We saw you approach at least a dozen people and try to persuade them. You failed more than you succeeded, but your tenacity and un-Seattle-like forthrightness were impressive.


We are not the type to make gross generalizations about our fellow human beings just because of where they live or how they dress or what they say, think, and do. However, you didn't make it easy for us after we drove up I-5 to witness the Donald Trump rally/protest last weekend firsthand and discovered, to our eternal chagrin, that you were a bunch of small-minded, intolerant rubes with no sense of style and no capacity to even suspect that you are being duped by the most cynical political opportunist in modern history. We did appreciate your American flag two-piece romper outfit, however. Points for that.



It was a beautiful Thursday evening, and you were drinking outside at the Diller Room, overlooking the rush-hour traffic on First Avenue. We couldn't help but overhear your conversation. "At age 22," you announced to your friend with all the wisdom of every 22-year-old, "I know now that I need security." You said you liked that famous people come through the exclusive downtown club where you work. You said one day some older gentlemen all got together in one of the club's dining rooms—scientists, you thought. Their event was so private that they kicked out the servers. But the bartender got to stay for the talk, and afterward she told you what they said. "There's an earthquake coming," you reported to your friend. Evidently you are a 22-year-old woman who has somehow heard nothing of the earthquake that has been predicted for Seattle in every news story, book, and broadcast for the last, oh, forever. "It's serious," you said in a conspiring voice. "I'm not kidding. And then I heard they're closing down a road. I think it's I-5. I think they know something." Your friend, who must keep up with the news more than you do, responded that the road was not I-5 but the viaduct. It didn't seem to matter to you. "I'm really scared," you said. "Those guys were really smart." Then you started talking about the yoga "community" you plan to open in Seattle, if you can stay at the club long enough to find a financial supporter among the men coming through. Though the viaduct is now open, we can't stop thinking about how sad it is that the future vision of a person who was kicked out of a talk where she could have discovered things she should already have known is to find a sugar daddy and spread spiritual wisdom.


We were riding the light rail from Beacon Hill on Friday evening, and when the train stopped at Pioneer Square, you pounded the glass in front of your seat and shouted "SHIT!" with such volume and anger that you nearly gave everyone around you—mainly teens—a heart attack. Maybe you'd just realized you'd missed your stop? Maybe you had Tourette's? After you exited the train with a scowl, your outburst was all anyone could talk about.


You rushed past the bus driver toward the middle of the bus as you boarded a 40 headed downtown on a Monday morning. Like you owned the place with your shiny black Patagonia jacket and your Swiss Army backpack and your white earbuds in your ear holes. "Hey," the bus driver called. Nothing. "Hey!" he had to call again. "Jesus Christ," you muttered. Why should anyone question you? You, who are clearly not homeless, who are clearly rich and white and male and legitimate? You shoved a transfer slip in front of the black male bus driver's face. "That's not the right one," he said. "I've been doing this a long time." "Jesus Christ," you repeated, as if you were being martyred by being asked to produce the same documentation as everyone else to be allowed on the bus. You riffled around and took out another slip and thrust that one at him. "Thank you," he said. You said, "Jesus Christ," and plopped into a seat. recommended