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The perfect detective story cannot be written. The type of mind which can evolve the perfect problem is not the type of mind that can produce the artistic job of writing.
-- Raymond Chandler
Tuesday, June 3, 1997
After much discussion and debate, A--- and I had decided to attend the festival at the Guild 45th theater tonight. That meant getting off at a different exit and driving to Wallingford, one of Seattle's cool neighborhoods. A significant portion of Seattle fandom lives in Wallingford.
So then I drove A--- to his place downtown. When I first met A--- he lived in one of the crummier apartments I have seen in Seattle. It was a small studio at the top of Queen Anne Hill, with nasty sparkle popcorn on the ceiling, and wiring that had been applied on the surface of all the walls with wiremolding. In the kitchen this took the form of a spider sending its legs out from the lightbulb in the ceiling to the outlets on each wall. He must have been saving his money while living there, because when I helped him move some years back, it was to a condo he bought in a rather nice building downtown near Pike Market. I laughed at the time, because I had just moved from the "luxury" apartment I had shared with my parents to a much more funky co-op apartment. Was our karma connected in an inverse way? I am glad that this pattern didn't continue.
Luckily I was able to figure out how to turn on the bright headlights on my car, because I had been driving with just one headlight, and then the other one burned out too! I figured that annoying as driving with the brights on was, it was better than no headlights at all. The lack of a safety inspection requirement in Washington state means that folks skate by a lot more with this kind of car defect than they did in Virginia where I grew up.
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