it was on the clearance table, next to its figgy-pasted brethren.
georgetown.
the lot beside the old Rainier brewery is now a ghastly nondescript beige thing. it's fucking dreadful. they didn't attempt to aesthetically ease into their surroundings whatsoever.
planes flew low overhead and older white people browsed cluckingly through expensive antique stores and groups cackled in bars. fire barrels cast smoke over the rainy outdoor craft market, where one could buy bright resin magnets encasing letters spelling "POOP" and "GO AWAY." the record store continues to maintain an impressive (and expensive, but not Bop Street-expensive) collection of krautrock. the guy at Georgetown Liquor said "well hello there, my friendly friend" when he came to take my order. a dude on the bus alternately swooned in his seat and scratched vacantly at his entire body.
Georgetown's gentle graffiti.
and me, being missed.
Reservoir Ducks.
it was a sexy showoffy-mountain kinda day. I took this from the bus as it crossed I-5 on 45th. I saw other people admiring it also. no one said a word.
well spaced.
"you are nobody, and I might have been somebody, and the road to each of us is love." -John Fante
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