Can Hair Deflate?

It's 89 degrees in my bedroom at 9:00 PM and I hate everything. I put off coming home as long as I could for the last few days but after a while, you just run out of places to go and you remember that the tomatoes must be watered. And so must the cat.

"Degrees" mean different things to different people. To some people, "100 degrees" promises salmonella poisoning from undercooked chicken. To others, it's an object that is only mostly turned halfway around. For me and all other Portlanders, 100 degrees means we abandon any and all fashion sense (if one may call it that) in an attempt to clad ourselves in the least amount of clothing possible without getting arrested for public indecency (on all but Naked Bike Ride day).

It's the clothing normally reserved for wear only on laundry day in one's own home with the shades drawn. The back up clothing. The Tae-bo in your living room, but only when you're single clothing. You know what I'm talking about. We put it on and we go OUT. We go out because it's too fucking hot to stay IN. Because we don't have air conditioning. This state, collectively, is like those women who profess to forget how painful childbirth is as they prepare to push out their 8th mouth to feed. The hot days of summer fade quickly into shitty, gloomy rain and we go another year without installing AC. Imbeciles.

Which is how I end up out in public in a hand-me-down patchy jeanskirt that is so short, when I sit in a chair...it's straight cheek to vinyl. I sound like velcro when I come back up. Walking down the street I do that preggo waddle to prevent my thighs from touching as they pass to keep the friction from starting a small fire. My tank top is 10 years old and the cotton has become so thin, it's misshapen and see-through. The outfit belongs in a lawn chair at a trailer park. But I wear it, dragging my burning feet along in sandals so thin I can feel the pavement. I wear it and I'm thankful for it. When it goes back to 80 degrees, maybe I'll shudder at my knotted up hairstyle and my lack of makeup, my giant Elton John sunglasses that cover half of my face, les tout ensemble. Maybe then I'll care.

But right now...I want to crawl into my refrigerator and learn to speak Inuit.

A Nonfat Chai, Please

I'm having to do this from a coffeeshop since the internet moved out with Kansas. My home is very empty now. And quiet. Even emptier and quieter without internet. But I'll fix that on Monday. Soon my abode will be filled with the laughter and childish voices of funnyordie.com and youtube. I know what's important in life, don't you think I don't.

When I asked the coffeeshop dude in the derby (I'm not sure it's actually a derby, but it's some kind of fancy hat that a lot of jazz basists seem to sport), anyway, when I asked him if this place had WiFi he was like "of course". And then he made made me a chai. With nonfat milk. And he spilled some of it on the counter. But that's not important. What is important is that I am able to blog for at least as long as my battery lasts (about an hour) because these old dirty hippy victorian houses don't have an overabundance of outlets. Selfish.

I've spent the whole weekend going to various happy hours and soccer games and generally boozing and laughing my way around the city. There's always something to do here, despite the fact that it's not Seattle. I don't get the big todo about Seattle. It's just like Portland, only there are more hills and longer distances between the cool neighborhoods. As a lazy cyclist (which is precisely what I am), I find this offensive. Plus it rains more. 9 months out of the year here in Portland...so any more than that is just stupid. And that's what Seattle is to me. Even if Radiohead is playing there this summer and not here. I'm trying really hard not to take that personally.

The fact of the matter is, people pee themselves on a regular basis over this dumb city. And by pee themselves, I mean they pass through on a road trip or what have you, go home, quit their jobs, leave everything they know and move here. This happens on a regular basis. Belive me, I've done the research. 1 out of 10 people I meet are transplants and they all have the same fucking story. "Visited here and fell in love with the place". Yeah, that means they came here in summer. The other three seasons are a different story.

I've been trying to leave this town my entire life. New Orleans was a good place to start, but I moved back here right after college due to some...situations. Condsidering the hurricane a few years later, it probably wasn't the worst decision I've ever made (despite the fact that I moved back to Oregon when it had the worst unemployment rate in the country...because I do clever things like that). Since I've been back these 5 years, I've come to terms with the fact that this is an acceptable city. I've embraced the bike culture, become attuned to the difference between an IPA and and Amber Ale (which is NOT called an AA...and I think that's a shame) and most heartily ebraced the pub theaters even more tightly (until they had to ask me to stop), found a music scene that jives well with my style...etc. The size is still a factor given my unlucky habit of running into old boyfriends or bad dates that I never called back. But it usually happens with a drink in hand, so I can usually keep it graceful.

Anyway, this isn't meant to be a travel brochure. Do not take this as an invitation for you all to come visit. Because if you do, I know what will happen. And there's no more room.

I really don't have the right to be so self-righteous about being a 'native'. Me pappy hails from San Fran. But he knew what was up in the 60s and moved here all early-like to go to college. Smart man. But Mom...Mom's from Tillamook. The land of the best cheese known to civilization. They also have a race there every year at the county fair where you grab a greased up piglet and have to start and drive a Ford Model-T around in a circle without dropping the pig. That's class. But that means I'm almost 2nd generation. It means I was here when St. Helen's blew (granted I was 3 months old and it's actually in Washington, but Portland got ashed to shit), and when Goonies was filmed, and when the Blazers didn't suck, and when Tanya Harding introduced ice skating to henchmen, and when Keiko joined the aquarium, and when Modest Mouse was $5 to see live, and when Gus Van Sant got a DUI and of course when St. Helens blew up again just a little. That was fucking weird. So I guess that right there is my justification of self-righteousness. I win.

The end.

I would just like to add - last Saturday it was 75 degrees. Right now it's snowing outside. You can't tell me this place doesn't suck just a little.