Ritzville

The other day, while riding the bus, a trio of Junior High boys stretched their ungainly limbs out in the back. In young-pitched, cracking voices, they talked about normal Junior High things: music, video games, music, more music, teachers. Nothing about girls, as their voices were still too frightening to hope for such a commodity.

The bus made one of its last stops in the family-centric neighborhood before moving onto the University Ghetto, and the boys swaggered off. In passing, I was stricken by how abnormally they were dressed. Flannel shirts thrown atop over-sized t-shirts, slightly baggy jeans, hair that was long and hadn't been washed in three days. It was exactly how everyone—and especially me—dressed when I was their age. Not a detail was off.

Junior High was a decade ago for me. Granted, when I'm nearing fifty, those ten years will seem like nothing. However, it feels like it was an eon ago. And in the fashion and pop culture world, ten years is an eon.

So why are Junior High students dressing like they did ten years ago? You can't even consider the Grunge era vintage at this point, hence it can't be in vogue. Granted, everyone in Seattle used to dress that way (sans the unwashed hair) years before the rest of the world coined the word "grunge." But since that time, Seattle has quickly become a world of $200 REI jackets, GAP jeans, Pottery Barn-furnished lofts, and a pair of Birkenstocks or Danskos to tone down the Yuppification and add an air of authenticity to the look. Grunge faded here when it died throughout the rest of the country. What was once a way of life became a passing pop-culture fad.

To have seen "grunge" resurrected amidst the corporate whore attitude of "New Seattle" was rather comforting, leaving me with a twinge of hope that Seattle's future may in fact not be a grayer shade of the Bay Area's bland and soulless tech industry.

Ave Street Fair

It took me long enough, but I finally uploaded the photos from last weekend's Ave Street Fair in the University District.

I ended up going both days as I had to spend a good portion of the weekend on campus. Like all Seattle fairs, the food was expensive (excepting China First and their awesome $1 deals), the wares were tacky and expensive, the street performers were few and far between and the people were too genial and docile. But I guess it wouldn't be a Seattle fair without the above. My only real complaint is that there are never enough musicians and bands at Seattle fairs. But hey, it was still fun- especially after hitting up the $3 Margaritas at Ruby's. Tequila's my tonic, and margarita's are my ambrosia, so not much could ruin the fair after being tipsy.

View album pages or view thumbnails.

When Pigeons Attack

What a beautiful spring-like day it was in Seattle. I enjoyed a nice saunter to the HUB on Campus to grab a cup hearty soup before wandering around aimlessly and taking pictures. I didn't end up taking too many pictures during my two-hour break, but I did enjoy the warm weather. I didn't even have to wear a coat!

Apparently the pigeons were enjoying the weather as well. These two were certainly enthusiastic about a wire belonging to Flowers sign. Their fight over the wire lasted at least ten minutes before a third pigeon joined in. Unfortunately, I didn't get to witness the rest of the fight and who the victor (if any) was since the bus rolled up just as the third pigeon decided that delicious looking wire was worth braving two of it's fellow vermin.

Clean-O-Type

I love this laundromat! If my washer or dryer ever dies, I know where I'm going.

Someone Set Up Us The Bomb

My friends and I went through a phase where we adored this remix video. We even drunkenly wrote "all your base" in chalk all over campus one chill Mardi Gras night.

Update 10/11/2004: you will pay if you hotlink this image.

Fixing a Hole Where the Rain Gets In

A month ago, I said my goodbyes to Twyla outside the Thaiger Room and crossed to the other side of the Ave. While walking north to my apartment, I saw a small elderly man with a brownish green duffle bag larger than his brittle torso stumble under its weight. He fell to the ground, a mass of pamphlets and postcards scattering about the sidewalk in a swirl of hysteria. The man huddled into the duffle bag strapped across his back for a moment, hiding his thinly round face deep in the crook of an arm. All around him, college students and middle-aged adults passed in a hurry, agitated with how he was in the middle of the sidewalk and thus in their way. I was soon in front of the man and crouched down to the cool sidewalk and gathered up his pamphlets. Wondering why he collected so many different advertisements and stuffed them in his duffle bag, I asked him whether or not he was hurt. He answered my question in a quiet and sharply squeaky voice that I couldn�t understand. I handed him a stack of his pamphlets which he then hurriedly stuffed in the top of his brownish green duffel bag. Standing up, I offered him my hand. His was rough and weathered when he clasped mine, but the movements his body made in order to stand were delicate and feeble. Squeaking something I understood to be a �thank you�, he clutched his duffle bag close to the front of his body and scuttled off. I watched him rush down the street, realizing that his entire life was in that duffle bag- a life of pamphlets and postcard advertisements.

This afternoon, I said my goodbyes to Twyla outside the Thaiger Room and crossed the Ave. When walking north to my apartment, my eyes squinted against the onslaught of rain, I saw the same squeaky voiced man. He was standing with his back against a wall near the Russian bakery with it�s sandwich board sign jutting into the sidewalk, boasting the best piroshki. The man held out his hand to me. I did not take it, nor place anything in it, but nodded at him with a smile. Did he remember me?

Ananas commotious

The very minute I had entered the Conservatory Plant Sale with Jane and Jeff, I split from my friends and made a bee-line towards the bromeliad table. After straining my neck and walking briskly around the outside of the horse-shoe table, I finally found what I had come to Capitol Hill for. And better yet, I had seven different pineapple plants to choose from. I took my time examining each one and selected one with the least damaged leaves, although it also contained the smallest and greenest fruit that might not ripen with the upcoming fall skies. Carefully carrying my coveted prize, I weaved in and out of the booths, trying my best not to stab strangers with sharp leaves that jutted out in all directions. If I was ever to become a comic book hero, I realized that this should be my weapon of choice. "Prickly Pineapple, the Piercinating! She'll stab out your eyes and finish you off with her castration boots!"

After browsing through the booths over and over again, randomly running into my friends who were experiencing the same overwhelming feeling of "plant overload", I finally managed to tear myself away from the drainage of money and make my way towards the exit and pay booth. As I crossed the small taped off section of lawn, fellow plant lovers who had previously expressed annoyance at being stabbed by my weapon suddenly turned into admirers of the small fruit proudly protruding from an otherwise unremarkable plant. What soon followed was the chaos otherwise known as the "gotta have it" phenomena compulsive buyers suffer from.

"Oh wow! A pineapple! Where'd you get that?"

"A pineapple! Where are they?!?"

"Where did you get that pineapple plant?"

"The bromeliads," I said, no longer feeling overwhelmed by the selection of plants but rather by the demanding voices that came from all directions.

"Excuse me, miss. Can I have your price tags?" a volunteer, who had seemingly appeared from the air besides me, asked politely. Confused from the immediate flood of attention, I looked blankly at the short brown-haired man who was already trying to pull the plants out of my hand and grab their price tags.

"Hey, how much is that pineapple and where'd you get it?"

"What?"

"Can I have your price tags?"

"Oh sure, here.... The pineapples are over with the bromeliads."

"That'll be $27," a small elderly woman told me after I gave her a slip of paper the other volunteer had handed me. Glancing down at the paper for the first time, I saw it had the total of my purchase scrawled out in abrasive letters. I handed my money to the smiling woman, gazing at the fluffy white hair she had piled on her head.

After she handed me my change and I was about ready to exit, I realized that a commotion at the back corner of the bromeliad table had erupted. It was where the pineapples were tucked away. A mass of people had gathered around the corner, most coveting their bruised, battered and rather ugly plants while they watched a pair of women argue bitterly over who had seen the last available plant first. "You racist bitch! Just 'cause I'm black doesn't mean you can steal what belongs to me!" one of the women cried. In the next instant, the white middle-aged woman was tugging on one end of the pot while the black-middle aged woman tugged back on the other end, both screaming at each other.

"Wow, Min! You really bring out the worst in people," Jane observed as she handed a wad of cash to another elderly lady who also sat at the cashier booth.

"I don't know why everyone wants these plants all of a sudden," I wondered aloud.

"Because you're a hip trendsetter," Jane responded jokingly. With that, we exited the plant sale and made our way to the parked car where Jeff was already waiting. We walked along the peaceful and sunny sidewalk, admiring the park waterfalls and sculptures while discussing a possible future visit to the Conservatory. As we walked, I could hear the argument fade behind me. It reminded me of my Senior year of High School and the horrid middle-aged beanie baby customers who pettily bickered over anything and everything. No matter what unimportant reason started the bickering, they often found excuses to verbally attack the staff at Hallmark. As I usually hadn't worked the beanie hell shift, I had never been attacked. Others were less fortunate, such as my friend Kim who had been brought to tears at least three times and suffered countless other ferocious attacks. At these memories, a shiver tumbled down my spine. Fortunately, it was forgotten the instant we saw Jeff's purple monstrosity of a plant perched atop our deep green car, making it look as if the car had a stylish cascade of hair.

Give My Umbrella to the Rain Dogs

I often tell non-natives that there are two seasons here- three months of warm sun and nine months of cold, wet overcast days. Most of the time I feel like I'm exaggerating, but nothing seems closer to the truth today than this. It seems like we had a transition period of three or so days where it was a bit colder while still managing to be sunny. But even so, the weather change seemed to come out of nowhere.

I have mixed emotions about the return of our typical Seattle weather. On one hand, I'm happy it's raining because this summer has been too dry. On the other hand, I'm kind of sad that we're moving out of Summer as it means I'll have to start German 202 (nothing makes me shudder more than this). I'm also going to lose the joy of eating all of my freshly grown tomatoes and basil. How sad!

The adjustment between Summer and Rainy (my name for the season that is considered three seasons elsewhere in this world) is the hardest for me. Just when I've acclimated to the hot days, the cold and rainy days hit me out of nowhere. Fortunately, I have a longer season to adjust to for the cold days. But, then again, out of nowhere the temperatures seemingly skyrocket and I find myself sweating buckets for the first month of summer. Deodorant may keep me from smelling bad, but it sure doesn't keep me from sweating like many advertisements have informed me it should. (Does that mean its false advertisement? Can I sue and put myself through college because I bought said product to keep myself from sweating and it didn�t work?)

Anyway, it certainly looks like Summer is officially over and Rainy has officially begun. I better get off my ass and go dig up those pepper plants I wanted to overwinter for next year. Ah, the joys of a P-Patch...

P.S. The title is from Tom Waits' "Rain Dogs".

The Vacant Video Store Bum

This morning I went to the Kinko's near The Metro for work-related business. I've been going to this Kinko's for work related business so much recently that all the morning people know my face, and most know my name. Every time I go to Kinko's to pick up something, I leave a little earlier than I'd leave for work, walk west to Roosevelt and then south until I hit 45th. When I get to 45th, I turn the corner around the former video rental store and make my way towards Kinko's. Decorating the vacant video store are faded and paint chipped carnival columns that create a gaudy and misplaced feeling. I always examine these columns as I pass, wondering about their history. I often find the need to know what type of store found a use for them, as I'm almost positive the video store wasn't responsible.

When I turn the corner, there is always a big man in a sleeping bag nestled in the rain-protected niche the front entrance offers. I usually exchange a friendly "hi" with this man if he's awake. But sometimes, he's passed out and smells of cheap whiskey and piss. It's a smell I've decided to call "Bum Piss" as it seeps from every tucked away corner on Roosevelt and the other streets near where I live. On these occasions, I walk by thinking of what cheap alcohol I'd pass out with if I were cold, lonely and on the streets of a cynical city. Tequila is my alcohol of choice since it makes a really tasty drink known as Margaritas. But is cheap tequila the cheapest there is? I'd probably try to maximize my money and buy the cheapest, hardest alcohol available. And yes, if I was living on the street and had no one to take care of me or to take care of, I would probably buy alcohol and drink myself to oblivion at every chance I had. Wouldn't every other person do the same, whether they want to admit it or not? Even the pompous businessmen walking the streets of downtown Seattle who always make it a point to yell, "get a job!" at the bums aren't protected from the same fate should they fall into similar circumstances.

Often, when I walk by the man a second time on my way to work with my box of copies tucked under my arm, I nod to him and smile. When I pass and he remains in his sleeping bag, receding unseen, I wonder if anyone else smiles at him? Do the bus patrons standing in front of him make it a point to ignore his very existence? They probably do, as I often do the very same thing with other bums. But this bum is different for some reason. He has never asked me for money, and has never cat called me or yelled creepy sexually suggestive comments in my direction. He simply smiles and gives me a big cheerful "Hello".

For some reason, I've never stopped to talk to this man, even though every time I pass him I want to. I want to ask him his name. I want to ask him where he'll sleep when the vacant building opens as a bike shop and the owners decide to chase him away. I want to take him to a restaurant or caf� and buy him a meal where he can sit and enjoy the soft music and warmth. I want to hear his story, and then I want to go on my way to work and make a difference in this world. But instead, I pass him and continue on my way.

Up The Ave

You. I know you. I know your walk, your clothes, your face. I know that you lived a floor below and some thought you were the most perfect person possible. You had a four-point-oh in every class because you studied all day- sometimes you studied too much. You hated your roommate, and so did we all because he lacked social skills and he was Mormon and would walk in peoples' rooms when they were having sex- or were close to sex. But you weren't there that year when he invaded three different moments of utmost privacy, moments when his neighbors were twisted into and around their loved ones with faces even more twisted in the blue-tinged darkness of ecstasy. He would stand in the doorway, dumbstruck, awkward as both his Mormon eyes, and those of the lovers, would explode from uncomfortable silences and mutterings stifled only by the darkness of the room. But you weren't there. Now you are here, smoking your cigarette and walking towards me. You look through my translucently white Seattle skin and take a long drag at the death between your lips as you continue to saunter closer in your khaki pants and button-down shirt. You can't smoke because some say you're the most perfect person possible and you were accepted into a school better than ours after one year because you never had a grade under the highest possible. Looking through you in return, I know you're not you because you would be in Oregon with your family right now, during the summer months, and not here in Washington. Looking through you, I know you don't smoke. As you walk closer to me, and closer to death, your face transforms slowly, and you are less you and more someone else. I was mistaken, you are not you.

But, you I know. Yes you, in your brightly yellow shirt with the words "Jews for Jesus" stamped across them like some Hitlerian banner. I do know you, because you went to my work one still summer day and harassed me and my manager. You harassed us even though we're not Jews and she's for Jesus and I'm for something else that's not Jesus, but is spiritual like Jesus and Buddha and Zeus. You harassed us because we work for an organization for Jewish college students. All of the Jews were gone so you annoyed us instead. You wouldn't leave, so we threatened to call the police. Then you left. Instead of through you, I look at you, with the hatred I try to reserve for bad cookie recipes and other not-important-in-the-grand-scheme-of-life things. You do not deserve to be looked through, but at. Sadly, you don't notice because you're too intent on the old Christian woman who believes what you do is good. I know you, and you are not a Jew for Jesus because such a thing can't be.

You I don't know- but I want to. You're crazy and funny and you don't like Bush. I am your kindred spirit, flying in a sea of muck and media. But you wave your sign on a college street- a street where fat white men with boats don't spit on you and yell that you are a rapist because you don't want innocent people being killed. Maybe you went to the big protests downtown where so many people filling the streets- filling the streets like a custard donut- made it safe for you. But you weren't there with the small and brave assemblage of aging Hippies rolling a black coffin through the media-inspired hatred and hostility. You weren't there when they rolled along without anger. I was with those Hippies, but I was not one of them because I yelled back at that man who forced his angry opinions on us like that of a rapist forcing his angry body on a victim. I was so enraged because I knew what being close to rape is like, and he only knew what raping was like. I give you one thumb up. But I do not look through you, or at you, but past you. I have decided I don't want to know you any longer.

But I'm not sure about you. It's unnerving having you walk so close behind me while I'm carrying my newly printed copy of The Stranger which protects my two preciously new David Sedaris books from the fresh droplets of gray. It's even more unnerving having you mutter "Have a happy Friday" with a voice that sounds as nervous as you walk over and over again. How can nervousness spread from every inch of you to me? How can it make you convulse and contract in the manner of a caterpillar? You suddenly walk jarringly quick past me with twitches and jerks and yell to the man getting in his car about a "'68 for sale". The college boy walking towards us is confused. The man getting in his car is confused. I am concerned. But I'm also not concerned. I'm something else as I secretly watch you, intrigued by how much your body and your voice twitch to the same rhythm. Then you dash across the street towards the beautiful shining Frat bar with its antique brown mirror windows and I think I want to know you.