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I'm not sure of the cause... �temperatures nearing sixty �first sunshine in days �mid-week, with nothing to do �relief that the holidays are over... ...it seems that everyone has had an extreme case of diarrhea of the mouth, today. And in pleasant moods. Ordinarily, I'd be suspicious... this much mirth and well-being could only be the harbinger of bad tidings; the sweet nothings in your ear before the kick in the balls. Regardless... I'll take it as it is: a positive note beats a sour one (guess I'll have to look at the horoscope to see how it compares). I'll take it, Thankyouverymuch. And, oh, yeah... Happy Birthday, Elvis... wherever you are. Speaking of Elvis (and there' s major rambling, coming on here)... how 'bout that Weekly W0rld News this week? Cover photo of Der F�hrer... caption, "Wacky Predictions of Hitl*r: He Foresaw Internet Porn, and The Rise Of J-Lo." Kee-Rist. Yeah, he was "Wacky," all right. I swear, their creative writing is priceless, their grasp of diverse subjects, astounding... I consider my imagination to be quite fertile, yet even I pale in comparison. It was almost worth wasting $1.75 for the cover, alone, to illustrate the telltale signs of the decline. Just when you think there is no apalling humor to be found in the grocery store.... Final preparations made on the Miata, which should be in the driveway on Saturday. Time for the Blizzard Of 2003, I presume. In Hades. Meantime, my stomach is bubbling alarmingly... even before the miso-kimchee-sashimi-tofu infusion. Bodes very badly for my cloth seats in the wagon. No open flames, please... I may be propelled into the Upper Stratosphere. Might save on the 93 octane, perhaps, if I stick my butt out the window. Flowery poetry, from Yours Truly. And, a truly foul way to bring the entry full-circle. .............................................................................................................................................. Rewind to '79... Day one in Portland, on what would be my last day in a proper bed, for sometime to come... rousing to wakefulness before noon, in an unfamiliar hotel room, three thousand miles from home. With a mangled bike to resurrect, youth hostel to find, people to meet who would be my family for three months. I soon found there wasn't much I could do about the sad state of the wheel spokes, so a phone book and a gas station map got me to a sympathetic bike shop. To while away the hours 'til repairs were made, I jumped aboard a bus, and explored my first west coast town. And an eye opener it was: no burdensome humidity like the east (which is like Atlas carrying the World on his shoulders); spotless streets (nary a bottle or can to be seen... since the street people would gather them for cash); Craftsman-style bungalows festooned with stained glass at the doorway... each different from the next; block-sized ex-office buildings from the thirties and before, with foreign car parts stacked neatly behind the windows; and, not least... Mt. Hood looming over the north of the undulating city, cloven by rivers. If someone had told me that I couldn't go back home, I wouldn't have cried. Still wouldn't. Evening approached, repairs made, it was time to locate and define what a "hostel" was all about. |
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