I need somewhere to sleep the nights of June 25 and June 26. My original plans fell through.*
I don’t have a car, and I strongly prefer not to be late/miss part of the (expensive!) writing workshop because I screw up the bus schedule. So I need a place on Capital Hill–then I can walk there! If you live on Cap Hill, or if you’re staying in a hotel for the Locus Awards, please consider having me.
Reasons you should offer to house me for two nights:
1. I won’t get cooties on you or your stuff. I will bring my own bedding, and I definitely want the floor. (It’s possible I would even prefer your porch/balcony.)
2. You won’t have to see me, speak with me, or acknowledge me unnecessarily. I’ll either be at the workshop, or doing homework from the workshop for the entire weekend. (If you like, I’m sure we can arrange to have dinner and hang out a bit… after all, I don’t make a lot of social trips outside Bellingham, and whoever you are, I probably like you! I just mean you won’t be obligated to entertain me.)
3. I’m perfectly capable of wearing a pair of headphones as I sleep (or all the time) to tune out whatever it is you’re doing with that jackhammer and those aardvarks.
4. I don’t expect charity. I don’t have much $$$ left after the workshop tuition, but I can pony up about $30 a night. Or we can trade slave labor! I can brush your teeth for you or something.
5. Being in my near vicinity is scientifically proven to give you super powers. And not shitty Aquaman powers, either, but like, laser eyes.
6. You can gawk at my gorgeous new hairstyle/color(s). No, I’m not showing you a photo. That takes away incentive!
* A few people have already offered to house me, but I’m hesitant for various reasons–they live too far away, they already have company, etc. So I probably won’t have to sleep in an alley, but my options at the moment, in spite of the fantastic spirit in which they were offered, are less than optimal.
My pet archaelogist flew up to Seattle for a couple of days. I was kind of hoping we would go solve mysteries about long-dead people like on Bones, but instead it turns out the only thing she likes more than dead people is dead pennies. We went on a search for machines that ruin U.S. currency for fun and profit, and hit something like eighteen of them in one day.
Our adventures included this hairy little friend:
Cute Japanese dog need diet! He too fat!
We fed him two fistfuls of pennies before his owner noticed we realized he wasn’t going to smear them and stamp them with an image of a bone.
So, I constantly argue about car art with my partner. He thinks cars are beautiful when they’re sleek and subtle, with only minor aftermarket adjustments; I think they’re boring, and you should paint all over them and glue things to them, like kindergarten art projects with wheels. This van, for instance, is the coolest SF-themed vehicle I’ve seen in a long time, but he gave me the “You voted for McCain, didn’t you?” face when I showed it to him.
Whatever. I love you, space van. <3
(Giant) van featuring (tiny) spaceships.
This is my favorite photo from the trip:
This shrunken head is about to sneeze.
I put my phone number against the glass, but it wasn’t interested. Fine, I can take a hint. I know when I’m not withered enough for the popular curiosities to want a piece. At least I’m not a fake, Head! Yeah, you heard me. You and (most) everything else in that display case. A skillful fake that fooled me even after I stood there for three hours and eventually had to be escorted out by security, but a fake all the same. Maybe I’ll make a post about shrunken heads later.
Next, we had dinner in the rotating restaurant at the top of the Space Needle. The restaurant spins around, making a full rotation once ever ~45 minutes, but the walls remain in place. We found a napkin on the windowsill with a conversation on it between two people presumably on opposite sides of the restaurant.
Slowest conversation in Seattle.
Check out the pantspissing gorgeous view from the observation deck.
If you see puke on the camera lens, that was me.
My fear of heights isn’t crippling, which means it’s basically a psychological toy I can use to torment myself when I’ve run out of pranks to play on the people around me.
And speaking of pranks…vandalism isn’t always wrong:
Cyborgs use the crosswalks, too.
That’s public art, man. I would pay extra taxes to have more signs like that.