Weapon Of Choice: Purchasing Power

there is rain on the window sill, a little puddle forming on the inside. the grey has been a weighty slab of flesh dampening the color of these trees and hills, a seemingly unending year of a thick, bland sky. the reluctance to reach out, text or call is indicative of my apathy and it’s only a moment more that will determine whether i leave this house or crawl into bed.

opt to leave, little man.

and bring your checkbook.

A Garden Spade Ain’t No Snow Shovel, Portlander.

winter storm warning. what a ring that phrase has! for us locals, a veritable crap-ton of snow dropped in the back yard last night that even has the truck wondering why it sits buried under fluffy white. cars lie empty and cockeyed on shoulders of the surrounding roads, hazard lights faintly blinking while their drivers presumably limped off into the drifts. they say an uber driver will arrive to my door within 20 minutes but i’m unsure uber realizes the hills in which i reside. i have a 4 o’clock shift downtown and the 12 inches of beautiful snow that’s stacked between me and the city is so daunting it’s laughable. a giggle occurs.

off to the clean-cut heroes of my automotive traction needs. on foot i shall acquire chains which i will then slap onto an old little truck and we’ll see just how fast off to the races we can be.

Bless This Balmy Northwest

Lately, every time I look up at the cold Northwest overcast, I go through the same cycle of thought: “Geez, it’s miserable again, haven’t seen blue sky in what seems like a month, when will summer finally get here?” Then I realize that the East Coast and Midwest have some truly miserable temperatures that literally make getting down the street a terrible chore and even the idea of going on a  run in the park is an insulting farce in the face of an indomitable winter.

It’s cloudy today and I haven’t seen the sun in what seems like months but it’s a toasty 42 degrees farenheit and I’m going to go goof off in the park as soon as I push “enter”. (In shorts, no less.)

Wintertime Love, Summertime Rolls

Title homage to Jim the boor and Perry the weird guy.

I haven’t gone over 60 miles an hour in almost a year. Everything in Vietnam is wonderfully relaxed, even the frantic throngs of traffic go slow, conversations and schedules are leisurely fixed inside a sphere of a lackadaisical world.

It starts as a cool and airy morning that grows into a thick and sluggish muggy afternoon proceded by an evening of small breezes and then finally a nighttime where the air is thrilling and refreshing. Except for the occasional mushroom cloud of putrid organic mysteries that have been building all day, the smog lifts and the atmosphere becomes a dark haven.  

It’s the dead of winter in Vietnam and I haven’t seen any scarves or stocking hats, no gloves or jackets with hoods, I haven’t seen my breath or sniffed ice-cold clean brisk kiss of a January wind. It hasn’t fallen below 80 degrees even for a second and my internal thermometer is still residing at a higher latitude.

The locals and foreigners all lounge on street fronts, storefronts, corners and under awnings. Gathered on cool stoops or shady alleys, huddled chewing the fat and imbibing cold beverages, watching pedestrians and perfecting what I know as a “summertime lean.” When the heat is your master and the only way to obey is to get as close as horizontal as possible, however and whenever.

What a way to spend a winter.