You were having the time of your life feeding birds in Cal Anderson Park on Tuesday afternoon. While people were kicking soccer balls in another part of the park, you were kicking huge rolls—or were they hamburger buns?—to the pigeons, sometimes hitting the pigeons and knocking them sideways from the heaviness of the bread. Two or three of them, having been hit by the latest roll to launch off the tip of your shoe, would panic and scatter, but then eventually regroup around another roll—after all, you'd scattered them everywhere, double-sided rolls perfect for making huge deli sandwiches the likes of which are hard to find in this city. Where'd you get all those rolls? Were you trying to help the birds or harm them? Ambivalent as they must have felt about you, they were at your mercy, as none of them were quite large enough to just pick up a whole roll and carry it somewhere peaceful to eat.


Relaxing in a hot tub at the Ballard Pool last Sunday morning, you, a man of regular build, asked your female companion, also of average build, "Is it true that you can go to a clothes-stretching place and have your clothes stretched?" Your friend looked as if she didn't want to deliver the news that she did not believe there was a clothes-stretching place, and maybe she was thinking, "What if there is a clothes-stretching place and I just don't know about it?" After a pause, she said to you, "I know of shoe-stretching places." You said you had a pair of pants that had become "skintight" in the thighs. They fit perfectly everywhere else, and you loved the pants, and only the thighs were affected. Your friend nodded in commiseration and may have muttered something like "Right, right." Another pause. "That's muscle," your friend said of your thighs. You both agreed you were doing well with your workouts. The magical thought of a clothes-stretching factory lingered in the steam.


First of all, #alltrucksmatter. Second of all, wow. We saw your truck and its homemade decal last weekend on a trip to hike Mailbox Peak and, well, we can't stop thinking about it. Just because you're capable of mocking something doesn't mean you have a point. The hashtag spanning your back window is NA-NA-NA I CAN'T HEAR YOU masquerading as hick wit—an effective and at times syntactically gorgeous form of humor you have no claim to—and it's embarrassing. The most generous interpretation of your joke is that it's cynical. You're making fun of the idea that anything actually matters at all. You're a fire starter. Though you might be the first to criticize people for burning down a drugstore or a fast-food restaurant after a police officer kills yet another one of their neighbors, you're the fucking dude walking around the backcountry and lighting grass on fire for the fun of it. The least generous interpretation of your joke is that you're a "proud white person." Let me play out that conversation for you. We tell you that your truck decal is racist. You say you're just talking about trucks, and why do we have to make everything about race, and then you smile. We say you're mocking #blacklivesmatter, which you must know because your joke wouldn't even be a joke in the first place if you weren't. You say, well that may be true, but white lives do matter. Then we say you're making an error of degree, in that the phrase "black lives matter" does not negate the fact that white lives matter any more than saying "save the rainforests" negates the fact that other forests need saving, too. And then the conversation ends. Because that's where "the conversation" always ends with you.


At Chapel Performance Space on a Friday night, we saw you—Minneapolis experimental-electronic musician Eric Frye—use six speakers positioned around the spacious venue to create a hexaphonic mindfuck that recalled the synth innovations of Morton Subotnick and Mort Garson. The acoustics in there are wonderful, and it felt as if you were playing ping-pong with our brain cells and causing polar shifts with our eardrums. If we had been on acid, we doubt we'd have left the building with our sanity intact. Endless gratitude for such a memorable display of sonic sorcery, Mr. Frye. recommended