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.

Time Management The Jefe Way

My long-time friend and mentor Matt Hogan once told me, "You know, Jefe, the hard thing about doing nothing is that you never know when you're done."
You see, Hogan was a musician, and even in the depressed live-music industry of rural Northern California, it was his sole source of income, save the annual prune harvest. Hogan always had a surplus of leisure time.
I never understood his words--until now. I didn't even take him seriously, as I never expected to be in a position to benefit from his sage advice.
I also think of Chuck Bukowski saying "the days run away like wild horses over the hills."
And so they do.


You see, I'm currently unemployed. My skills include nine years as a bike messenger with some "editorial" skills from long ago as a hazy afterthought. The Clift Notes version: virtually unemployable. And so, with a Hogan-esque amount of free time, minimal time-management abilities, an over-active imagination and serious lack of focus, not to mention a stunted maturity level, I found myself mired in an state of nervous lethargy.

Just as the sun rose to exciting and lofty goals and the best of intentions, it would set to loose ends, wasted time and predictable disappointment. Like the Tell-tale Heart, Hogan's words beat like a drum, unrelenting and clear in my mind. The day doesn't last forever, I told myself, and my days as a man of leisure would not last forever, either. If I couldn't find a way to effectively structure my time, how close was I to spending my days with Regis & Kelly, Montel and Springer?

In order to cope with such a dire predicament I've developed a routine. The beauty of a routine is that it forces you to make a kind of non-binding schedule--and keep it. Now, it may sound like an intimidating task, but look at a routine for what it really is--a kind of structured rut.

My routine helps to keep things like looking for work or calling the weekly claims office from getting lost in the shuffle, safely tucked away in an implied to-do list.


My routine goes a little something like this:

First, I get out of bed. Once I've turned on NPR, I settle in for an intensive briefing on world events until about 9:30am, 11am at the latest. A jingoistic world-view and an Amero-centric sense of superiority aren't helped by listening to "World Have Your Say."
Next, I dive right into a rigorous 10-minute calisthenics program I've designed for myself before hitting the shower--I'm in the job market, so I've got to groom for success.
After that, I check my e-mail and see if the iSkills Match has found a job that I'm qualified for. Hmm, no luck (relief masked as disappointment is part of routine). After my morning meet and greet with the cat, I grab the newspaper, shades and flip-flops--I'm Stumptown bound. If I've slept in--I mean listened to "World"--I'll get that quadruple iced Americano to go.
If I can find an outside table, I'll quietly do my crosswords and "people-watch." Eventually, alienation and my overriding sense of purpose will drag me back home for a little lunch. Now, for a while I was watching Perry Mason from noon to 1pm. But this proved to be too restrictive, schedule-wise, so I don't watch TV (except baseball) until the first Simpsons comes on at 6pm.
This is about the time that my schedule gets tight. Housecleaning and other projects usually take up the rest of the pre-ride afternoon. I've got to stay in shape, so the ride is soft-scheduled at 3pm. Often times I'll get a late start and not get on the road until 4pm--like today. When I'm done writing this bullshit, I'll have to kick it up a notch and/or shorten my ride, because now it's a mad rush to get home by 5:45pm, in time to fix dinner and have it ready by 6pm.
The day being finished, I can settle in for a much deserved night of Sanford & Son until mid-August when the cable gets disconnected.

Regrettably, road blocks occasionally appear on my horizon. This is where flex time becomes invaluable. Take today, for instance. It was time for coffee and I was out the door. Just as the door closed, I had that feeling that one gets when he's just realized that his keys are locked in the house. I had misplaced them during calisthenics.
My initial reaction was to panic, or erupt in a tantrum of expletives and foot-stomping. I was, however, able to keep it cool and gain access to the back yard through a sleeping neighbor's house. I'll save my comments on cleanliness for another time. I then proceeded to the basement to get a ladder. Yet again, fate would not smile upon Jefe, for the paranoid douche bag that lives next door had locked the (communal) basement door AGAIN. After some strategic swearing (NOT a tantrum) under said neighbor's window, I spied a long-dormant gas barbecue rusting in the bushes. It was a short drag to my bedroom window. The aged grill held my weight as I slipped, ninja-like, through the window.
Vindicated, I grabbed my keys, returned things to their rightful order, reapplied my flip-flops and headed for a well-earned Americano. Right on time.