I'm back, sort of. I must apologize, as I've been busy and had writer's block for the past few weeks. So rather than bore you with half-assed, sub-standard posts, I just decided to let them rot on the vine, unfit for your consumption. If I knew how to overcome such mental obstacles, then you'd be enjoying an entertaining piece of literary hubris. Sadly, you are not.
Could it be the pressure of providing some kind of meaningful content? Possibly. Or could it be that my trip to California, Disco and Mady's wedding and jury duty were truly overwhelming. Maybe all of those things in succession are just too much to sort through. Or, maybe I'm trying to cull something out of those events that somebody would want to hear about. It could be the fear of having my reportage of a commonly experienced event scrutinized by my peers. Or maybe it's my roommates propensity to discuss trivial matters when she hears the typing noise. There's got to be someone to blame for all this.
Thus, the responsibility lies squarely at the feet of Ryan Kelly. "Damn, Jefe, the weather? No one wants to talk about the weather, least of all bike messengers," Ryan laments. Hurtful, just hurtful. As part of the healing process after such a harsh critical outburst, however, I shall retort. The protagonist of the story, being an unemployed bike messenger, spends his day pathetically looking at his homepage and waiting for the weather to change, thus illustrating--however poorly--his refusal to take action on his own behalf, as he opts to wait for some outside force (i.e. his computer and it's perceived control over the weather) to improve his standing in the universe. So sorry about the phrase "grey drizzle," but it was essential to the story. I open up to you people and look what happens. Hurtful.
Also, the proposed relocation of a certain pigeon population (referred to in Sept. 13 post) has yet to materialize. This doesn't make it off limits here, but I'm not sure if it is a devious plot, an interesting (maybe even controversial) process or total bullshit. But here's the lowdown:
Apparently, one of the more humane options available to those wishing to deal with a bothersome pigeon "infestation" is to trap the entire flock and relocate it. I raised a sceptical eyebrow as my anonymous source explained what sounded like no more than a hair-brained scheme hatched late at night in a local tavern. It seems that a flock of pigeons is indigenous to a specific nesting area. I guess this explains some of the behaviors and practices of homing pigeons.
After having lived in one place for several generations, pigeons are understandably reluctant to leave their home. Thus, the entire flock must be repatriated to a different location that is far enough away from their original home that they can't find their way back, much like the Cherokee relocation to Oklahoma, commonly known as the Trail of Tears.
Or, as my friend offered with a shrug, "Maybe they just kill 'em."
Tuesday, September 25, 2007
Thursday, September 13, 2007
On an early September day the Yahoo weather report says that the temperature is supposed to be 75 degrees farenheit. The sun shines in all of its glory on their site. The grey drizzle that floats down on me as I make my mid/late-morning trip to Stumptown would say otherwise. It's currently holding at 60 degrees with a projected low of 58 degrees. The day, and my personal feelings about the day, take a turn for the worst as I elect to take my triple iced Americano hot. Not only is this a truly uncivilized way to transition from late morning to early afternoon, but its implications weigh heavily on my psyche as I realize that a summer of laze and leisure might be at an end.
Just yesterday I was watching the sun try its best to pierce the thick, brown layer of smoke from wildfires too numerous to bother keeping track of. Each part of the state I was in had a little fire that it could be proud of. Who says the seasons aren't distinct in California?
I had excercised what was left of my grand plan to spend large chunks of the summer out of town, and spent a week visiting relatives in California.
So in a gloomy Portland summer, I'd managed a week of California sun, abeit with a brown hue.
My return to reality was decieving. I'd stepped off of the plane into a beautiful, late summer evening in Portland. It was 75 degrees and the sun was just beginning to set. The MAX and a bus had gotten me home in about 30 minutes and for $2.05 (suck it, airport cabbies!!) I stopped by Stumptown for the ol' triple iced and was back at home. It felt good to sleep in my own bed.
The next morning, my eyes opened to an unexpected, yet familiar sensation. The birds were not chirping as the morning sunbeams welcomed me back from the land of sleep. No, it was cold and grey, and the birds felt no reason to sing. I was forced to forsake my flip-flops in lieu of shoes, socks and a hoodie. I didn't even bring my sunglasses. Before I left, I noticed that my beloved tomato plants had turned to a light green color, with some of the leaves becoming yellow and brown as they had begun their inevitable decline as one of the minor, yet sure, signs that fall was here. This sent me into a slow, melancholy kind of panic.
Wait. I can't be thinking like that, because those a-holes that do the weather on my computer said that it is supposed to be seventy-fucking-five degrees out and VERY sunny. There were no clouds on the thing for the day. I could understand if it was merely some jackass at Yahoo (they can take their trademarked "!" and shove it up their copyrighted asses). But they've contracted that stuff out to the Weather Channel. Another reputable source debunked.
After about an hour and a half sipping warm esspresso, some crossword, soduku, eavesdropping on some self-proclaimed artists and a conversation about the potential abduction and forced relocation of a certain avian population, I headed back. A look at my computer revealed that it was, in fact, only one degree warmer than it had been when I left my house. Also, the sun was NOT beaming down on me and melting away the cold, cloudy haze that hung over my morning. As the day progressed, my paper-shuffling was interupted by glances at my homepage, which still maintained that the day's high would be 75 degrees--and sunny. Very sunny. "It might even be 78 degrees tomorrow, there buddy!" it seemed to say to me.
"And just as sunny and beautiful as today! We're Yahoo (!) and The Weather Channel and we say so!"
I continued to look for them to change their tune, but those weathermen, or whatever they are, wherever they are, stood by their claim. And, as the September sun began to set on the West Hills, I dilligently did my part, waitinig for the sun to redeem itself and burn the clouds away.
Editor's note: It did not. Also, the Yahoo!/Weather Channel claimed that things would be different tomorrow and there would be sun and warmth. And, much to my disappointment, they let me down again. Oh, well, they can't be wrong forever.
Just yesterday I was watching the sun try its best to pierce the thick, brown layer of smoke from wildfires too numerous to bother keeping track of. Each part of the state I was in had a little fire that it could be proud of. Who says the seasons aren't distinct in California?
I had excercised what was left of my grand plan to spend large chunks of the summer out of town, and spent a week visiting relatives in California.
So in a gloomy Portland summer, I'd managed a week of California sun, abeit with a brown hue.
My return to reality was decieving. I'd stepped off of the plane into a beautiful, late summer evening in Portland. It was 75 degrees and the sun was just beginning to set. The MAX and a bus had gotten me home in about 30 minutes and for $2.05 (suck it, airport cabbies!!) I stopped by Stumptown for the ol' triple iced and was back at home. It felt good to sleep in my own bed.
The next morning, my eyes opened to an unexpected, yet familiar sensation. The birds were not chirping as the morning sunbeams welcomed me back from the land of sleep. No, it was cold and grey, and the birds felt no reason to sing. I was forced to forsake my flip-flops in lieu of shoes, socks and a hoodie. I didn't even bring my sunglasses. Before I left, I noticed that my beloved tomato plants had turned to a light green color, with some of the leaves becoming yellow and brown as they had begun their inevitable decline as one of the minor, yet sure, signs that fall was here. This sent me into a slow, melancholy kind of panic.
Wait. I can't be thinking like that, because those a-holes that do the weather on my computer said that it is supposed to be seventy-fucking-five degrees out and VERY sunny. There were no clouds on the thing for the day. I could understand if it was merely some jackass at Yahoo (they can take their trademarked "!" and shove it up their copyrighted asses). But they've contracted that stuff out to the Weather Channel. Another reputable source debunked.
After about an hour and a half sipping warm esspresso, some crossword, soduku, eavesdropping on some self-proclaimed artists and a conversation about the potential abduction and forced relocation of a certain avian population, I headed back. A look at my computer revealed that it was, in fact, only one degree warmer than it had been when I left my house. Also, the sun was NOT beaming down on me and melting away the cold, cloudy haze that hung over my morning. As the day progressed, my paper-shuffling was interupted by glances at my homepage, which still maintained that the day's high would be 75 degrees--and sunny. Very sunny. "It might even be 78 degrees tomorrow, there buddy!" it seemed to say to me.
"And just as sunny and beautiful as today! We're Yahoo (!) and The Weather Channel and we say so!"
I continued to look for them to change their tune, but those weathermen, or whatever they are, wherever they are, stood by their claim. And, as the September sun began to set on the West Hills, I dilligently did my part, waitinig for the sun to redeem itself and burn the clouds away.
Editor's note: It did not. Also, the Yahoo!/Weather Channel claimed that things would be different tomorrow and there would be sun and warmth. And, much to my disappointment, they let me down again. Oh, well, they can't be wrong forever.
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