To hell with that drek anyway. Chewing it through now’s probably just a way of distracting myself from the fact that the blue sky I saw over downtown has turned out to be as dependable as a politician’s promise and that the hard rain’s started up again. By the time I reach Ravenna and find a good place for my bike, I’m soaked to the fragging skin. My apartment’s in a building called the Wenonah, a low-rise that’s about twice as old as I am. It used to be painted, I think, but the solvent they call rain in Seattle has seen to that. The building’s just bare concrete now, stained and pitted and streaked with pigeon-drek. (Query: With so many other species going out forever, how the frag do those flying rats people call pigeons manage to hang on? End of digression.) I jander up the stairs to the front door, push it open.