Tomorrow morning, the city's five automated public toilets—which will be decommissioned in August—go on sale on Ebay.

Bids start at $89,000 per toilet.

Please plan accordingly.

Photo by FireEye'dBoy via flickr.

Or... the advisability of leaning out a sliding glass door, holding onto a metal railing, and videotaping a thunderstorm. Ouch. Glad you're alright, Slow Loris.

Thanks to Slog tipper Fnarf.

For you, my friend, I will attend the international stunt man school in Mukilteo, Washington.

And I will invite you to my graduation, when I will fall, screaming and on fire, from a 40-foot tower. Because I know it will give you joy.

Brad, as you may have heard, has been at the Stranger for 14 years, ending today. I've been here something more like 14 months. So I don't have as many Brad memories as some of my colleagues, and thanks to the pot, a lot of the Brad memories I do have are hazy at best. But there is one time I can semi-coherently recall hanging out with Brad outside of work.

Grand Archives were playing the Triple Door. I was going because that sort of thing is kind of my beat here (and because, hey, Grand Archives). Brad was going because he knows all those dudes form back in Jesuit school or whatever. So we combined forces to seek out somewhere to drink downtown before the show. After being rebuffed at a few overcrowded yuppie bars, we ended up down at the Alibi Room, drinking bourbon at the bar. We talked about the ladies. We talked about life. We were about go watch Grand Archives. You know, real guy stuff. And it was sweet. I get the feeling that, if I had come around a little earlier, or if Brad was sticking around a little longer, he might've imparted a lot of dudely wisdom upon me. Or at least more bourbon.

Now it's gonna be all ladies and fags around here. Thanks, Brad.

Brad is leaving the paper today. The future looks bleak. Who will I turn to when I need a jolt of inspiration?
There was always one of these in your office. No more will this be the case. Kelly has a mountain of bionic beer; Megan has a bucket of sweets; and there once was a drawer that contained nuts, raisins, and other miniature things that mice like to masticate. But these foods and fluids have no effect on me. Where will I go for my jolt of inspiration?

I saw Pixar's WALL•E last week and everyone's right: it's wonderful. It's also the rare "family film" that drips with contempt for its audience. In Wall•E's world (small spoiler alert) the earth is an uninhabitable wasteland, leaving mankind—every single member of which is morbidly obese and strapped to a full-body iPod—to float around outer space in a huge, stupor-inducing spaceship.

It's a ballsy choice—for comparison, see Blade Runner, which presented a dystopia that quietly stroked audience's egos. (The future may be ruled by some vague Asian conglomerate, but at least we'll get to fuck Daryl Hannah-shaped robots!) But in Wall•E, the earth is a big dead trash dump, and humanity is so fat it can barely move of its own volition.

For what it's worth, the fatties in Wall•E are adorable (like babies) and hilarious (like platypuses). But people of size aren't laughing.

Here's New York mag's link-heavy overview of the brouhaha.

And here's a heartfelt letter written to Pixar from disappointed fan:

Do you know what it feels like seeing a shipfull of fat people who exist to show how dissolute and horrible and wasteful people can be? I’ve had fat jokes directed at me. I’ve had people laugh at my pictures. Since childhood, I’ve even had family members poke fun at my body, where I’m supposed to “take a joke”.

Pixar, this is one joke I don’t want to take. It is horrible when you see the only bodies shaped like you as things to laugh at, as living examples of as a culture, how shoddily we treat the earth. There’s no complexity, no understanding, just an easy punchline. Why is it instantly funny to see people fall and struggle and be hurt?

Worst yet, I sat there watching trying to be hopeful because at least the fat couple touched hands and smiled at each other. Unlike Wall-e and Eve, they never got to dance.

Read the whole eloquent letter here. (And go see Wall•E! At the Cinerama, if you can...)

From the King County Department of Animal Care and Control:

Reward offered for information on dog drowning in Cedar River. King County Animal Care and Control investigating.

King County Animal Care and Control is seeking information for its investigation into the intentional drowning death of a dog in the Cedar River on July 4. The agency responded to a citizen report of a lifeless body of a Pit Bull in the river near the Landsburg Bridge in the 25200 block of Landsburg Rd SE in Ravensdale, WA.

Animal Control Officers arriving at the scene within the hour of the call found the dog anchored down in the deep, fast moving water. The Animal Control Sergeant on duty asked the Sheriff’s Department to send their dive team to recover the body, but they reported they would not be able to respond until later in the evening due to the high number of priority service calls related to the Fourth of July holiday.

Instead, later that afternoon, a fisherman pulled the dog’s body from the river and turned it over to King County Animal Care and Control (KCACC). Investigating officers discovered it was a black and white female Pit Bull with a homemade anchor tied around its neck with a rope.

The Kent shelter veterinarian on duty performed a necropsy on July 5th which found that the animal may have been alive before being submersed in the river. The dog did not have any signs of penetrating or exit wounds or any injuries typically associated with dog fighting.

“This is a horrific and tragic case,” said King County Animal Care and Control Communications Specialist Nancy McKenney. “We need more information from the community to help find those responsible for this needless death.”

Anyone with information is asked to contact King County Animal Care and Control at 206-296-3958. In addition, The Humane Society of the United States has issued a $2,500 reward for anyone who provides information that leads to the arrest and conviction of the person or persons responsible. Intentionally killing an animal is a Class C Felony under the State of Washington.

...do you say, "Fuck it, I'm not going to lay here wide awake anymore," and get up and go for a bike ride or go buy some crack or go blow your brains out or something? The freakin' sun is coming up. Fuck it, I'm going to read the NYT and then write a very special sleep-deprived episode of "Savage Love." Victrola opens at 5:30, right?

From North Carolina's News & Observer:

L.F. Eason III gave up the only job he'd ever had rather than lower a flag to honor former U.S. Sen. Jesse Helms. Eason, a 29-year veteran of the state Department of Agriculture, instructed his staff at a small Raleigh lab not to fly the U.S. or North Carolina flags at half-staff Monday, as called for in a directive to all state agencies by Gov. Mike Easley. When a superior ordered the lab to follow the directive, Eason decided to retire rather than pay tribute to Helms.

Put that man's face on stamps and money, pronto.

(Thank you for the heads-up, Gawker.)

This just in to I, Anonymous:

How do you know you dig someone? You just know. It’s a feeling. Actually it’s like 28 feelings. I mean, you know when you are connected in seven of 28 ways with a chick you’ll end up fucking for three months, because those seven things were all parts of her body. And when you dig a chick for 14 of 28 reasons, you hang out for like six months because those same seven things mentioned previously are so fucking good that you give them double credit. And then there is the chick with 21 of 28 things and you last about a year, cuz it takes about a year for you to raise your hands in the air and say ‘Did you really just fucking say what you just fucking said?’, and she says you don’t understand her and someone moves out the next day. But when you get 28 out of 28, you fucking know it. And you know what you do? You just say to the other person, ‘There is no way in which I don’t love the fuck out of you’. It’s that simple.

From the Associated Press:

Police say white water rafters going through the tricky Blossom Bar rapids on southern Oregon's Rogue River may see the body of a California woman who drowned there last week but cannot be recovered.

The waters remain too rough for safe removal of the victim. Rafters are complaining about the ever-present corpse. Full story here.

Upsetting update/background from Slog tipper Ryan:

My cousin, a rafting guide on the Rogue River for eight years, told me about this story three days ago. His company Arta wasn't responsible for the accident, but knows the company involved. What was left out:

Helicopters aren't the only way to get to the body. Powerboats that commonly go down the rogue for tours are able to get to the body and one such boat tried to remove the body. It was too tangled to remove without risking ripping the corpse in half.

Oregon BLM [Bureau of Land Management] had agreed that dam levels could be altered for a half-day time period so that river levels could be lowered to get the woman out. The sheriff's department refused to ask for the levels to be lowered and the BLM cannot lower levels without a proper request. It would potentially take 4 hours for one person with bolt cutters and a saw to get her out if the levels were lowered.

The woman was a mother of three. The other rafter had her kneecap torn off by the accident. She was medevaced out within hours. The dead woman is visible from the water and her hand is above water line. Tour groups walk around this rapid now.

Basically, the sheriff's office is lying. Expect something to be done as its in the news now. The woman drowned 6 days ago. This is a really disturbing case, especially considering how callous the sheriff's department has been in handling it.

Eep. Stay tuned.

Update from Slog commenter Truthteller: The woman's body has been recovered.

The US Consumer Product Safety Commission wants you to have a safe Fourth of July, so they've put together this handy video showing what happens when you light off a M-1000 inside your three-wall cardboard house, why you should never look directly into an aerial display shell, and some other text advice which goes by far too quickly.

Note the proper way to enjoy our nation's birthday: Cook hot dogs, make small-talk, play ball with kids, watch pussy-ass little fireworks from safe distance, dunk in bucket.

U.S.A.!

Thank you kindly for all the advice about Greeley, CO. In the end it didn't smell, and I didn't wear chaps, but the annual Fourth of July Parade this morning was cute:

Thanks also for all the Denver advice. Perusing it now. Happy Fourth, Slog mob!

I'm on my way to Denver for a freelance assignment that involves the Greeley Stampede. ("The World's Largest 4th of July Rodeo & Western Celebration!")

What to pack, what to pack...

Also: Things to do in Denver when you're not stampeding? Or being stampeded? I've already been told—several times—about the Brown Palace. What else?

Has given birth to a baby girl. Meanwhile, in Indiana, one man is revoking a new father's "man card."

In Portland, OR, the city's drinking water was threatened by a pair of trespassing skinny-dippers. From Local6.com:

Two people were caught Saturday around 3 a.m. skinny dipping in a reservoir that provides most of Portland's drinking water...Officials said the accused skinny dippers were found in a part of the reservoir that had been offline. Had it been in use at the time, the Water Bureau would have been forced to shut off the reservoir and consider dumping millions of gallons of water.

And in Seattle (in a story that's already drawn significant Slog coverage; whoops, sorry), neighbors in Queen Anne neighborhood are feuding over nudity. From the Seattle Times:

Police told two Queen Anne women to get their blinds fixed after the women reported seeing one of their neighbors looking at them through the window with binoculars. The neighbor, whose wife told officers she should have called police on the girls for "putting on a show" by walking around naked or in sexy lingerie, was told by officers responding to the call to put the binoculars away.

Readers undoubtedly recall the saga first reported by Last Days Hot Tipper Oscar, in which a prophesy-spouting freak brutally attacked a blind woman on a Metro bus, instigating a rescue effort by Oscar and his fellow riders and resulting in criminal charges against the attacker. This week brought a lovely new chapter to the ongoing saga, via a typewritten, snail-mailed letter from one Jeanne Towne:

Dear Stranger,

I was the blind woman assaulted aboard a Metro bus on Sunday morning, May 18. I want to add my thanks to the people who intervened on my behalf and looked after me when it was over. At first, I didn't even realize someone had deliberately struck me. After three blows I finally wised up enough to duck, but he managed to hit me a few more times anyway.

Although I was dazed and amazed that someone would do such a thing when I was simply minding my own business and noticing how happy folks sounded on their way to do whatever, and although I did have to miss work due to a mild head injury, people were wonderful. It's one heck of a way to make friends, but WOW! what friends in need! It makes up for the laxness I felt prevailed in 2001—when I'd been stalked for fourteen and a half months with supposedly hardly anyone noticing. (It took a year for me to convince anyone that i had a real problem. Disbelief was the first reaction, I think, because most folks I know are too nice to consider doing such a thing as throwing rocks at a blind woman or putting obstacles such as dumpsters in her path. It took someone actually seeing him doing hard to spur the police on.

The reaction of the other passengers on the bus this May has restored my faith in the decency of Seattleites and in the power of teamwork. God bless them all—especially those who also sustained injuries. All I can offer you is a song if we ever meet in Pike Place Market.

In case you're interested in an update, the guy from the bus—a man in his thirties named Nguy Hughes—has no record of doing such a thing in the past. However, he was evaluated and considered not stable enough to stand trial. He's now being held at Western State until September, when he'll be checked again.

Should he escape or be acquitted by any fluke, I've been assured he's banned for life from riding Metro. He'll be arrested if he tries. The security cam onboard the bus caught an excellent video of the incident, which has been turned over to SPD for evidence. I've received concerned apologies from the King County Sheriff's Dept. (responsible for Metro security) and from Metro, along with an annual pass.

Thanks again.

And thank you, Ms. Towne.

This weekend, I made one colossal mistake and had one brilliant, faith-in-humanity-restoring stroke of luck.

The mistake: Hiring All My Sons Moving and Storage to move my stuff (and my piano) to Columbia City. The stroke of luck, I'll tell you about in a minute.

Here's the short version: The guys from All My Sons Moving and Storage showed up late--not just a little late, but two and a half hours past the end of the four-hour window the company gave me for the move. So, there went my Friday night, but whatever. The guys were pretty fast, and they managed to get most of my stuff into the new place within the two hours I'd agreed to pay for when I booked the time with the company.

MOST of my stuff.

While we settled up with one of the guys and paid for the two hours noted on the contract ($290, because of the piano), the two other guys went outside--to bring in my piano, I assumed. But minutes went by, and no piano. Finally, I asked: "Where's my piano?" The guy responded: "Oh, that's going to be another $150." No way, I said--we signed a contract, we paid what we owed, and there was no reason we should pay another $150 even if we had it, which we didn't. He said no money, no piano.

We tried to reason with him. "Look, we're not going to let you extort us. Just bring in the piano, drive away, and we can all go on with our lives. He replied, "Well, we've gotta take off, so we'll just have to take your piano with us."

So we called the police.

A few minutes went by in standoff. Then the guy inside the house bolted, ran to the truck, hopped in, and sped away. We followed him, running, outside.

There, on the sidewalk, was my piano. All 1,000 pounds of it.

Fortunately, the story has a happy ending. Just as I was starting to seriously lose my shit--because there's no fucking way the two of us were moving this piano into the carport, much less up the stairs--three guys came stumbling up the street. "What's with the piano?" one of them asked. So we told them the whole story. "Well, we've had a few beers, but we can try to help you move it," one said gamely. And they did. And now my piano is safely inside--no thanks to All My Sons Moving Company, but many thanks to the three wonderful neighbors who stumbled up our hill to save the day.

"I have named him Skully," writes Slog tipper JC. "For the past year or so I have witnessed his slow decomposition on the gondola spikes at my morning bus stop at 5th and Jackson. It amazes me that there is still enough tissue to bind his frail skeleton together and I suspect that is only a matter of time before his little pigeon head falls off onto a waiting Metro commuter below."

It's not a new story, but in case you missed it:

THE remains of a woman have been found sitting in front of her TV - 42 years after she was reported missing.

Hedviga Golik, who was born in 1924, had apparently made herself a cup of tea before sitting in her favourite armchair in front of her black and white television.

Croatian police said she was last seen by neighbours in 1966, when she would have been 42 years old.

Her neighbours thought she had moved out of her flat in the capital, Zagreb.

But she was found by police and bailiffs who had broken in to help the authorities establish who owned the flat.

A police spokesman said: "So far, we have no idea how it is possible that someone officially reported missing so long ago was not found before in the same apartment she used to live in.

"When officers went there, they said it was like stepping into a place frozen in time.

"The cup she had been drinking tea from was still on a table next to the chair she had been sitting in and the house was full of things no one had seen for decades. Nothing had been disturbed for decades, even though there were more than a few cobwebs in there."

Where are you now, Ruslana Korshunova?
In minus time-space or plus soul-time?

...[T]he 20-year-old supermodel whose face graced the cover of Vogue, committed suicide on Saturday when she fell from her ninth floor apartment in New York's financial district, according to the medical examiner's office.

The effigy of 19th Century journalist known as Victor Noir has long been popular with women visitors.

Officials concerned about damage to the icon's groin area have erected a fence around the grave, and a sign prohibiting indecent rubbing.

The statue shows Noir in a frock coat and trousers lying flat on his back, with a distinct enlargement in the groin.

The effigy has been held as an aid to love or fertility.

The new sign warns: "Any damage caused by graffiti or indecent rubbing will be prosecuted."

Remember folks, while rubbing a journalist's groin does have its benefits, be gentle or you'll rub that thing right off.

A well regulated Militia, being necessary to the security of a free State, the right of the people to keep and bear Arms, shall not be infringed.

Enjoying your recently expanded rights under the 2nd Amendment of the US Constitution? Wait, let me adjust that quote above to reflect the Roberts-court interpretation:

A well regulated Militia being necessary to the security of a free State, the right of the people to keep and bear Arms shall not be infringed.

Ahh, with those pesky commas out of the way, we can finally get down to business and discuss the meaning of your new rights--the only rights we're likely to see expanded in our lifetimes.

If you get a firearm:

1. You have a reasonable chance of shooting yourself:
Between June 1, 1992, to May 31, 1994 about 34,485 accidentally injured themselves non-fatally with a firearm. This averages out to about 18,000 non-fatal injuries a year.

2. If you manage to not shoot yourself, you have a reasonable chance of harming yourself with the gun anyways:
Not counting those who shot themselves, about sixteen-thousand people injury themselves with firearms each year in the United States sufficiently to require a visit to the emergency room. Usually these injuries were the result of the routine handling of firearms, with 43% from recoil.

3. About half of children unintentionally shot--don't worry, the majority of children intentionally shot are minorities--are shot in their own homes, with their parents own gun. Another 40% are shot in the house of a friend or relative. To those of you working through the math, 90% of children injured by firearms are injured by a parent, relative or friend's gun.

4. Somewhere between 2% and 12% of children live in a home with a firearm.
Four practices, in combination, can dramatically reduce the risk of these children injuring themselves with the household's firearm:
1. Store the gun unloaded.
2. Store the gun away from the ammo.
3. Lock up the firearm.
4. Lock up the ammo.

5. Programs that teach children gun safety--like the NRA Eddie Eagle Gun Safety Program--do not decrease the chance that young children will handle or attempt to fire a handgun they stumble upon.

Have fun! Try to not to blast away too many of your children your neighbor or yourself--even if is your Constitutional right.

And remember, I still believe bicyclists and pedestrians in Seattle should be mandated to carry loaded firearms at all times.

Thursday, 26 June 2008

I asked you to pray about the situation with the State of Washington Commission on African American Affairs. Thank you - your prayers were answered!

OneNewsNow.com, the widely disseminated online news division of the American Family News Network will be running a very long article on this subject sometime during the coming weekend. Please watch for it and pray that God will be glorified as the truth about the State of Washington is revealed.

Pastor Hutch

Moments ago, I was walking down 11th to move my car, and saw three SPD squad cars parked all around it. Always a bad sign.

Thankfully, when I walked up, I found three officers tearing through the car parked next to mine. A big bag of what appeared to be weed, a coffee can and a smaller bag of pills were spread out on the roof of the car

I asked the cops what was up. "Just bustin' bad guys," one of them told me.

One of the officers moved his patrol car so I could pull out of my space, and as I drove away, I saw something flapping on the hood of my car. I pulled over and, much to my delight, found one of the officers' notepads.

I walked back and handed it to one of the cops standing around the car.

If only SPD made my job this easy all of the time.

It's common knowledge that attractive people are attractive. Much more interesting to me are the negligibly attractive—normal-looking-or-lower people who nevertheless produce spasms of lust in otherwise sane citizens.

Recently I quizzed a group of friends about their personal shame crushes—which, as I explained, couldn't just be non-glamorous people, but must be those aggressively contrary to the common "sex symbol" ideal. (For example, Johnny Knoxville and Jean Enersen don't qualify, Kid Rock and Jean Godden do. To find your true shame crush, you must dig deep. If your ego isn't squirming, you're not doing it right.)

My friends' responses were as illuminating and upsetting as I'd hoped.
One sane young gay man expressed his bottomless lust for James Gandolfini.

Another sane 40-something straight man revealed his mysterious attraction to former Secretary of State of Florida Katherine Harris.

A lovely heterosexual woman shared her confusing childhood lust for Eric Stoltz in Mask, inspiring an equally lovely heterosexual man to reveal his ongoing crush on Charlize Theron in Monster.

As for me, when it comes to shame crushes, I'm a Bruce Willis-in-1995/baseball-capped-shlub-from-the-inexplicable-syndicated-sitcom-Yes Dear kind of guy.

(Also, at least once, I've wondered what it would be like to kiss CNN legal analyst Jeffrey Toobin on the lips.)

Please help further my understanding of humanity by sharing your shame crush in the comments.

Poor guy.

Michael Shane Smith's mom died last month, so he left Alaska to visit some friends in Sutherlin, Oregon (population 6669). Got too drunk one night, probably blacked out, found his way into a stranger's home and fell asleep on that stranger's couch. And then got shot to death.

Police said Christy Cramer found Smith passed out on her couch early Thursday. Cramer fled the house and got her husband, Keith Cramer, who happened to be at the same place where Smith and Lyons had been drinking.

Cramer called the cops twice. Once to say there's a drunk stranger passed out on my couch and again to say I just shot the drunk stranger passed out on my couch with a high-powered hunting rifle.

Cramer's lawyer says poor Michael Shane Smith woke up and threatened Cramer. Smith's friends say he was a harmless, gentle drunk who fell asleep in the wrong place.

Which reminds me of the story of Daley Bailey, a professional gambler from a small town in Eastern Washington. I knew Daley's brother (a country musician and carpenter living in Seattle), who used to tell this story:

Years and years ago, Daley was staying with the parents in Wenatchee for awhile. One night, he went out, got drunk, came home late, and found the door locked. "Shit," Daley thought, "my folks changed the locks on me." So he kicked in the door and passed out on the couch.

The next morning Daley woke up, rubbed his eyes, looked around, and realized he was in the neighbors' house.

"The only reason he didn't get shot," Daley's brother used to say, "is because the neighbors were on vacation."

Poor Michael Shane Smith.

Thanks for all your suggestions about what to do on my Seattle staycation. I actually took a couple of them—or, in truth, was already planning on doing a couple of them. (Not the one about the SLUT tracks, though, sorry Doug.)

Best thing I saw while wandering around the city with eyes that weren't headed back to work any time soon:

A cute guy on one of those bikes of the moment—you know, older road bike, big colored rims, short horizontal handle bars. He was crossing 12th Avenue near the new Trace Condos; he was wearing a yarmulke (no helmet, God will protect); his rims were the same hue of blue as the star on the Israeli flag; and his tzitzis—that would be the strands from the tallis he had on beneath his worn t-shirt—were trailing in the wind.

I've said a few things about Seattle hipsters and Seattle Jews, but this struck me as some sort of of sign (from above?) of the changing city.

I'm back from staycation and catching up on my Prayer Warrior reading. Looks like he recently returned from some time off as well—and is now rested and ready to turn his holy fury on Gov. Christine Gregoire.

Monday, 23 June 2008

I’m back!

Put on your knee pads and start praying!

This past Sunday I was preaching on Romans 2:11 which says God is no respecter of persons. I was informed last week that this is not true of Governor Christine Gregoire and the State of Washington. There is extreme favoritism in this state.

I was informed by Rosalund Jenkins, head of the Commission on African American Affairs for the State of Washington, that if I was the black pastor of a black church instead of a black pastor of a white church, I would have more clout to say I was discriminated against at Mt. Si High School at the Martin Luther King Day Assembly.

I was informed that a homosexual is part of the Commission on African American Affairs so I can forget about fighting the issues of racism and homosexuality.

I was informed that even though she is head of the Commission on African American Affairs for the state of Washington she does not work for black people. She works for Governor Chris Gregoire because hers is not an elected position, she is a gubernatorial appointee.

I was informed that if I continue to go down the road of racism and homosexuality, I’m fighting against the white power structure of the State of Washington and I don’t have a chance of winning.

As I was talking to her, it dawned on me that the NAACP must be controlled and owned by the white power structure of the State of Washington as well.

I filed a grievance with the NAACP and now I know why James Bible, President of the local chapter doesn’t return my phone calls. The only member of the NAACP who has any intestinal fortitude is Rev. Phyllis Beaumonte. She has constantly said that they are supposed to investigate any complaint brought by a member, yet the President has put this off week after week after week.

Pray for Rev. Beaumonte. She is trying to get the NAACP to do the right thing.

Continue to pray for me as I stand on Biblical Truth and the Word. I was informed by the head of the Commission on African American Affairs for the State of Washington that Gov. Gregoire has established a special place for homosexuals in her administration and the State of Washington.

This will be an uphill battle but I am willing to fight trusting in God until we attain victory.

Pastor Hutch

But where says some is the king of America? I'll tell you Friend, he reigns above, and doth not make havoc of mankind like the Royal of Britain. Yet that we may not appear to be defective even in earthly honors, let a day be solemnly set apart for proclaiming the charter; let it be brought forth placed on the divine law, the word of God; let a crown be placed thereon, by which the world may know, that so far as we approve of monarchy, that in America the law is king. For as in absolute governments the king is law, so in free countries the law ought to be king; and there ought to be no other. But lest any ill use should afterwards arise, let the crown at the conclusion of the ceremony be demolished, and scattered among the people whose right it is.

We are not safer. I expect this from Bush and am no longer surprised by McCain. I'm having trouble forgiving Obama.

When the boyfriend wants me to hurry my ass home he sometimes emails me a tempting pic or two. If the right-wing Christian bigots only knew what sort of decadent, sinful stuff we get down to at our place, man, their heads would freakin' explode.

From the Madison Park Times' Police Log:

Domestic violence Friday 5/1, 11pm

A woman alerted police to damage in her apartment located in the 2700 block of E Union St. She told responding officers that while she was in the hospital the day before, she thinks her boyfriend came to her apartment and damaged some of her property.

When she came home in the evening, she found her toilet was filled with photos and letters. In her bedroom she noticed a jar of lotion that is normally white that had been dyed red, possibly from blood. She also found a cup for one of her home's altars filled with what seemed to be urine, a ring sitting at the bottom. On her living room floor were broken picture frames and glass.

The victim told officers that her right forearm was bruised where her boyfriend had grabbed her a few days ago. The officers photographed the damage and gave her the department's domestic violence pamphlet, explaining its contents to her.

Thank you, Hot Tipper Amelia.

KIRO (which provided the image above) has the story:

Three bodies have been removed from the Crystal Mountain area near Mount Rainier. The three Seattle-area men apparently died in an avalanche while snowboarding in December. Friends resumed the search after snow melted and found the bodies Saturday. They were removed Sunday by airlift. The three men were 26-year-old Kevin Carter, 29-year-old Devlin Williams, and 41-year-old Phillip Hollins.

Here's Courtney Nash's February Stranger feature on the missing men (and the lure of the avalanche-prone backcountry).

Not all Americans know how to drive, Andrew.

Some e. e. cummings (the spacing is his)--wrong season, but whatever:

who are you,little i

(five or six years old)
peering from some high

window;at the gold



of november sunset

(and feeling:that if day
has to become night

this is a beautiful way)

And the sun is hurting my eyes.

Hat tip to ECB for introducing me to the term for this close-to-home break I'm currently taking. And thanks to urban dictionary for providing an example of proper usage:

With the price of gas soaring, a staycation is what most Americans will experience during the summer of 2008.

I'll be back next Wednesday, ready once again for all the knuckle bumps and chuckle heads that campaign 08 can provide. But until then...

Suggestions for (non-Capitol Hill) spots to enjoy the Seattle staycation life?

The international man of mystery known as the Freeway Blogger is on his way back to Seattle.

This time, he's taking on global warming:

FB says he'll be in town in the next month or so. Keep an eye out for his work.

And she was right. A year after Edith Macefield rejected a developer's offer to buy her house, Seattle’s most tenacious homeowner is dead.

Writes MyBallard.

Edith Macefield has passed away of natural causes, according to the King County Medical Examiner’s office. My Ballard has received a few emails in the last couple of weeks saying that ambulances have been seen coming and going from her home. She was 86 years old.

Edith lived in the same house on NW 46th St. for the last 56 years. She made national news in 2006 when she refused to sell her home for $1 million to developers. Construction crews then proceeded to build the development around her.

I know I’m always chanting and ranting about the need for density, but every time I think about Macefield’s house surrounded by that humongous building, it makes me damn proud of her. Check out this excellent passage:

Inside, the place is clean and organized. Pictures of herself as a girl, posing with her mother and brother at Alki Beach, stand on bookcases. There are framed pictures of opera singer Enrico Caruso and composer Giacomo Puccini on one wall. A collection of glass animal figurines are lined up along every windowsill and sash. A bookcase is neatly stacked with old movies on video.

She has no regrets about refusing to sell her house. She said she doesn't mind the noise at the construction site. She turns the television up, or plays her opera so loud you can hear it outside.

"I went through World War II, the noise doesn't bother me," she said. "They'll get it done someday.

Macefield’s house shouldn't be torn down—it should be preserved as a historic landmark of this building boom, a homage to tenacity and stubbornness. Happy travels, Edith Macefield.