puttin' the DAMN! in Sepdamnber

it's spider weather. 

I will never again live somewhere where there is not always something quirky and urbane and surreptitious to discover and admire. the eerie dearth of random human art-stains in Anchorage was so discouraging. 

the corpse flower, again. you know how the smell of Lysol doesn't indicate cleanliness and sterility, but rather a vile knowledge that something exceptionally disgusting happened very recently? I wonder if forensic investigators feel the same way about Vapo-Rub. the menthol covers up the rot-funk but must serve as a Pavlovian association. 

the corpse flower, even in its post-bloom denouement, emitted wafts of... yeah... it reminded me of a compost bin in the sun, with coffee grounds dumped atop dog shit and maybe an overripe cantaloupe. it was a chewable smell.  

Holga-filtered pitcher plant. I ran my fingers over the textured rim and pretended I was the most incompetent DJ ever. 

sullen goth flower 

hides its colorless stamen

from the smug orchids 

it's Thunder the WonderCat! 

it's Entropy-Pants, stalker of the nonexistent! 

it's a dead rat being throttled by a rubber band! what came first? what came first, indeed. 

it's a reflection along 4th Avenue on a hot slinky afternoon in sexy, mysterious Seattle! 

nothing else to tell here.