1/15/13
For the elderly, it’s a brittle death wish. For Elvis, it was a ticket to societal disapproval. For marsh-dwelling African death machines, it introduces po. It takes two to precede Hooray. It is the main export of Portland. If the title wasn’t a big enough hint, it’s hip.
So it’s been about 4 months since I’ve “transplanted” into Portland. I must admit that I love it here but methinks it’s starting to show. I promised myself I wouldn’t become too hip, for fear of letting the city swallow me whole. If this were Twitter I’d end that sentence with #toolate, but thank god it’s not, so you have a couple paragraphs below that elaborate what can be explained in 7 letters on the TWITtersphere.
Last Saturday was sunny which is a huge deal because we rarely get old-world opportunities to imbibe vitamin D (I’ve been popping those pills like skittles). Normally I’d get out in the sun and streak around the neighborhood until a neighbor calls the police (again), but I found it hard to get out of hibernation mode.
Since the beginning of November, Portland's houses, cars, and hipsters are blessed with a constant coat of God’s heavenly urine. So much so that a layer of rainwater is the ethnicity of Portland. In these months the city is reduced to a giant moss-covered puddle with rusting fixies and recycling bins floating errantly in the mix.
When a sunny day comes around, a normal Portland citizen has to rifle through their pile of flannels and mustache combs to find their sunglasses; after two hours of sifting through the mountain of winter hipster gear, one tends to forget what they were sifting for in the first place.
Instead letting the seldom-seen sun warm my skinny white cheeks, I forfeited. My roommates convinced me to do as the Romans do, play Call of Duty Zombies multiplayer while listening to The Cranberries mercilessly repeat their 90's hit, “Zombie.”
Be not mistaken, this failure of character has been a long time coming. Since September I’ve done countless weekend trips and flown a couple thousand miles, the past two weeks is the first time in a long time this half ginger has stayed stationary and I’ve grown accustomed to it. The last place I went was Sun Valley to visit Lili for Christmas with Dad and Grandma Lynn.
Sun Valley is great but it’s no Portland, a thought that resurfaced all too often during my stay. I felt indignant with every purchase I made. Sales tax?! You’ve got to be kidding me. Walking down the street in Sun Valley I felt like one of those guys that TLC clearly don’t want (a scrub).
Holiday season in Sun Valley is basically a winter fashion show for the rich and the rich. Red board shorts and Xtra Tuffs in 20 degree weather will get you a hearty grimace whereas a mink coat barely warrants a glance. Needless to say Grandma Hansen had me beat in the style category. It was compulsory that I wore PJs all day upon my return to Portland and blended in with my fellow scrubs.
I had a startlingly Portland moment when I was sitting in front of my local coffee shop with a latte and an iPhone. My roommate’s dog, Matilda, was with me and wanted nothing more from the world at that moment than to play fetch. Doing my best to ignore Matilda’s pleas, I attempted to sip my latte and take a selfie to send my friend via Snapchat. Matilda saw an opportunity and knocked the creamy beverage onto my Carhartts. So I sat in front of the 100% local coffee shop, iPhone in hand, latte on Carhartts, mustache on face, and roommate’s dog wagging ferociously; the worst part is that I wasn’t even mad, I thought this is going to make a great tweet.
Yes, I’ve hit rock bottom and there’s no going back from this snarky oblivion. I am a writer that likes craft beer who floats on his road bike in a land with the most breweries and bloggers per capita. Just a half hour ago I was driving in my Subaru belting Dave Matthews. I’m a week away from losing all my distinguishing qualities. Here I go world, from relentlessly opaque to utterly invisible. Portl nd, a pla e ipst rs go t d e.
