By JANE LOTTER

If you think I'm going to complain about the destruction a few weeks back of the Twin Teepees Restaurant, you're wrong. What do I care about my many happy childhood memories of eating Saturday breakfast there with my parents and four sisters? What do I care that my parents had their first date at the Twin Teepees all the way back in 1939?

(At this point you may have suddenly stopped considering the recent bulldozing of the Twin Teepees and find that you are instead thinking about me, Jane Lotter. You may be thinking if my parents were dating in 1939 - and what were they doing at the Twin Teepees? - then I, Jane Lotter, must be about 100 years old. That I, myself, could probably qualify for landmark status or, at the very least, be mistaken for that wrinkly green puppet who plays Yoda. Under ordinary circumstances your inferences would be correct. But these are not ordinary circumstances, and this is no ordinary column. The romantic and eccentric fact is that I was born late in my parents' lives. I am a sort of miraculous biological love child who, in actuality, were we to meet on the street - and I certainly hope we don't - would probably impress you as being in my late 20s. Especially if you had been drinking heavily or someone had just knocked your glasses off your nose.)

OK, back to not complaining about the loss of the Twin Teepees. I mean, really, what do I care if every Seattle landmark short of the Space Needle is disappearing with such speed that I frequently have to stop and ask directions to my own house. (Oh, well, actually, I guess that could be the early Alzheimer's, couldn't it?) Indeed, now that the Twin Teepees, the Pioneer Square pergola, and most of Fremont, just to name a few, have been flattened, I figure it's only a matter of time before somebody slaps a Master Use Permit over my husband Bob, the children and the hamster.

Today, when I take out-of-town visitors to the top of the Space Needle, I no longer point out my favorite landmarks because they're all gone. They've all been replaced, or are being replaced, or are about to be replaced (it's a verbal nightmare!) by hideous, soul-dead boxes.

Have you taken a look at what's happened to Belltown, or seen the proposed design for the new Downtown Library? I rest my case.

Now when I show visitors the sights, I make it all up. It's easier and, really, nobody seems to notice. "Over there's the Trump Tower and the World Trade Center," I enthuse. "Across the water, you can see Brooklyn. And look!" I exclaim, pointing to the Walla Walla or the Kalama,"There goes the Staten Island Ferry!"

Last month, I went to a baseball game at Safeco Field; it's such a lovely spot I'm amazed no one wants to demolish it. My family and I sat on the top tier with the common folk: the overworked, the poor, the ones like us who'd gotten free tickets, the huddled masses suffering from vertigo. Feasting on a $5 hot dog, I sat joyfully amid a sea of humanity; I was among the people and I was loving it!

Sitting next to me was a goateed young man wearing a vintage Megadeath baseball cap. Not far from him was a 40-ish woman wearing a nose ring, several tattoos and a T-shirt that said, "Harley Chicks Rule." Between innings we introduced ourselves; a short, lively discussion followed on interconnectedness and the changing face of our city. And here's what we all agreed: the most notable thing about Seattle these days is not its architecture, which is largely a shambles, but the fact that we rank fourth nationally in the use of anti-depressants. "My therapist says depression is anger turned inward," the Harley chick declared. "If Seattle's depressed it's because we're all angry about something and we won't allow ourselves to let it out." (The Blue Jays purposely walked Ichiro and she jumped up and booed loudly.)

You know, the Harley chick was right. If you're annoyed at how unwieldy and unrecognizable Seattle is becoming, it's OK to gripe about it. It's OK to complain about the continued trashing of our city. Just don't expect it to change anything - except, perhaps, the dosage level of your Prozac.

Here, I'll go first: The Twin Teepees is gone, and I'm angry about it. I'm really, really, really ticked off.

There, that helped.

So just remember: Verbalize that anger, vamp that anxiety, vent that sorrow. You may never win, but you can whine. After all, whining is everything! (