RTT3 The seats continue. I suck at blogging and other random thoughts

I want to post something really awesome. Because I have been on sort of a fail streak when it comes to new posts. There's been some dramafam (see also: sharing genetics with insane people), my best friend is flying in from LA and my aunt (single mom) and her 5 adopted kids (suck it Brangelina) are coming to visit as well. I've spent the last few days shopping and trying to get ready for the holidays. I have this epic post all about truffles that I probably should have finished a week ago in time for turkey day, but I just can't find the perfect photo of white truffles. So I guess it'll have to wait. You can get inspired for Christmas dinner.

I thought about posting a few of my saved drafts I've been plucking away at, but it just seems like a cop out to post something half ass. So instead of a half ass long post, you're getting this lame little wussy post.Updates from the week. The company that sold me the jenky car seat covers immediately responded and said we can return them. Of course I was insulted. As if they were all, yeh of course they aren't going to work for you, duh. So now I feel all rebelious and all "Hey up yours EBCSCM, I can make these suckers fit no matter what you say! dicks" I got back into it again and with my tools in Olympia I think I could have jerry rigged the covers to work (kinda) but I think I'm going to just suck it up and send them back and buy something that works, like this nifty hammock cover with dogs, (which is why I bought them in the first place)

On another note, the main reason that I've been neglecting this blog so much lately is that I've been pouring my time into a few new projects. One is The Red Picket Fence. you can see the basic set up HERE. Bascially It's a zin. Or a blog with several contributors ok. But I like to call it a zine because it makes me remember the good old days when I was an editor at X-Ray magazine in Pasadena. A jenky little underground rebel zine that was mostly put together using a 1985 xerox machine, scissors and scotch tape. I missed that little zine. I want to do something new. Ergo, RPF. check it out if you like, but it will be launching with several awesome articles in a week or so. Definitley after the holidays.

well I was gonna write more but The Wife needs me to carry The Bubs down to make yellow snow, oh yeah it snowed. Like, A LOT.  heh, ALOT of snow best creature ever.

I'll update this when I'm back to the calm little bubble that is our cabin. gobble gobble.

RTT: In which I go to war with the seat covers from hell

Another Random ass Tuesday. I'd love talk about all kinds of funny stuff, but the only thing I can think about is how much the seat covers that we bought on Amazon SUCK. The big one.

Living in the sticks means that we are mostly relegated to shopping at the Walmart in Shelton or online. Usually Amazon has great service and decent products. (If you do your homework) But this time? Epic seat-cover fail.

The Evil Bastard Car Seat Cover Manufacturers (Hereafter referred to as EBCSCM) really got me. Concerned that I might assume these were generic seat covers, roughly sized to accomodate anything from a Prius to a Howitzer Tank, they made extra special mention that these were CUSTOM fitted covers for the Toyota Matrix.

 In case I might assume they meant a year I did not own they even specified a "Made in" bracket. Our car was comfortably positioned right in the middle of the age range, being neither a shiny new penny nor a worn out old trollop. I researched, I shopped Ebay, overstock and various other interweb purveyors. I compared prices, features, textures, color options, seat descriptions. It took a while. Mostly because we have a weird ass back seat. A lot of cars these days come with what is known as a 60/40 split bench seat. That means the bench seat folds down one seat on one side and two seats on the other.  Therefore any seat cover you get has to facilitate the off-center split.

Three weeks later I made a decision and clicked.           

The wife released 12 white doves. A small but tasteful parade was thrown in honor of my prowess as both a hunter and gatherer of seat covers. All was right in the world. We awaited the Fed-Ex truck with bated breath.

Finally the package arrived. All rejoiced.

A few weeks later I got around to putting the seat covers on, because the arrival of products is always more exciting than the reading of instructions. This turned out to be only slightly less complicated than putting a man on Mars. (See also: Smashing face against wall)



Like the rest of my seat cover experience this started out rather encouraging. The front passenger seat went on without much drama in just under 3 hours, the driver side followed without too much complaint. Except from me, regarding my knuckles which had been sliced off by the razors Toyota uses to build the undercarriage of their seats. I found comfort by reminding myself that every scar is just one step closer to looking hardcore like Mickey Rourke. (Hopefully I'll stop before I go full Sin City)

Then it was time for the fated 60/40 split. I got out the three amorphously shaped nylon pieces. I read the directions. Then I read them again. I stood slack jawed...

But.... My seats... My Toyota... Matrix... seats. They don't "Lift up" or "remove"... Why is that crucial? I thought these were CUSTOM made for my car. Don't you know that my 60/40 split bench seat is welded directly into the very frame of the car? No lift. No remove.

Note: This girl is either a "Little Person" or these seats are out of a Semi-truck.

The EBCSCM mocked me from their ivory tower. The girl in the EBCSCM manual looked so happy as she placed the covers on these fictitious removable seats, even if she was a vertically challenged Goth. My seats would never be on a beautiful white seamless studio back ground. I would never smile as I effortlessly slipped the covers on. I would never smile again.

Maybe I could squeeze my hand under the seats and connect the loops the EBCSCM manual suggests. Fail. My Mickey Rourke syndrome advances.

These Toyota Matrix seats are not only so permanently attached that the bolts broke my wrench and stripped the nuts, but the clearance between seat and floor-pan is only wide enough to accommodate the hands of E.T. or a 12 year old suffering from advanced anorexia. There are no 12 year olds nor anorexics in Triton Cove. Shit Creek. No paddle. EBCSCM- "Muaahahaaaaa."

Successful installation of these CUSTOM seat covers relies solely on the ability to remove the bench seat in order to connect 123 elastic straps that hold the cover on to the seat. Seat no remove. Seat no lift up. Epic fail.

I tried hopelessly for what seemed like a few days to find a solution. Usually I'm a total McGuyver. And I today I had my tool kit and like tons of duct tape. Then I stretched the seat cover out over the bench seat.

The EBCSCM had failed to mention that these custom seat covers were also a full 12 inches longer than my bench! The excess flap hung limply off the end of the seat like a pathetic flaccid nylon emo kid. Not only would I never connect the elastic straps, but the cover would never achieve it's full, tightly stretched, rigid glory. I gave up and went inside to take my aggression out on lunch and slam some inanimate objects around to display my dissatisfaction to dogs and wife. Further parades were called on account of rain.

As of now, the struggle continues. I must decide whether to keep the front seats installed or attempt a return and go to email war with the EBCSCM. I think I might send them a link to this post once there are several comments proving I have a vast and faithful following in order to demonstrate my dramatic impact on the WWW's consumer base. Or you can go and tell them how pissed you are that they ruined your favorite blogger's day.


In other (and more awesome) news I've started working on a rebranding campaign for The Didactic Pirate. Updates coming soon. Here's a sneak peak you scurvy dogs.

RTT2

More coming soon, fear not. for now I leave you with the craziest Food network quote of all time.

Next Iron Chef contestant

"I'm having this seductive and romantic experience with my big slab of beef"

more coming soon, My epic battle and epic fail against the car seat covers from hell.

how many tweets would a twitter twat tweet if a twitter twat could tweet twits

Last night I had a fit of hysteria. I blacked out. When I regained consciousness I found myself signed up for the twitter.  Shame spiral. I despise and reject all that twitter stands for. That's to say nothing of that name. Twitter sounds like something that happens to 13 year olds when they see a Justin Bieber video. After I threw up a little in my mouth I collected myself. My ninja like reflexes generated several rationalizations to curtail further self loathing.

1) My two favorite blogs announce updates through twitter. I will be able to read posts 21% sooner.

2) The photo editor for Men’s Journal is on twitter, he could see my work and propel me to overnight stardom. Or maybe an assistant to an assistant of a secretary job.

3) There’s like, a billion people on twitter. At least 5 of them will probably like my blog, providing  me 53% more validation than current GAV quotient. (see also: Gross Artistic Validation)

4) I will join twitter ironically and then tweet about how twitter poses a greater threat to the free world than the nuclear arms race, global warming and oil shortages.

5) If everyone jumped off a cliff, I would totally do it too.

Rationalization exercise complete, I perused a couple  blogs, read a tweet or two and then realized that 4 hours had passed and it was 3am. I put my computer to sleep and then attempted to drift off myself.

As soon as I was asleep an angel appeared. He took my hand and pulled me through time and space to emerge sometime in the near future. I’m not sure how far in the future we were, but Kim Kardashian was running for president, and the debates were being moderated by Ryan Seacrest on the E! network.

My eyes were opened, I was given a vision of the future Tworld. I present to you the prophesy I was given.  True story, I really did dream this.

If the world continues to fervently embrace bedazzled cell phones, cologne soaked Abercrombie stores and Twitter things will spin out of control.  People everywhere will start talking like they are on The Jersey Shore and then forget how to speak English all together. Soon we'll all add definite articles to our names. Verbal exchanges will drop to 140 characters per sentence. A new language will be born and Webster’s will make dictionary additions including:

Biarbee: the expressed intention to return shortly and often not at all.
Ohemgee:  Exclamatory, expressing minimal to extreme surprise or interest.

Eloel: to express mild or polite amusement toward another’s topic of conversation.

Example: "Ohemgee The Happening, did I tell ya bout my new tribal arm band tattoo?"   "Eloel The Chad, biarbee..."

Twitter will consume society and all private life will become public. Results will vary.

We'll begin using twitter and similar programs for every part of our lives. Of course the ramifications are unimaginable. I couldn't see what else happened because I awoke, but before I faded back to our current reality I did learn that US elections were being held via text message (text KK1 for Kim and JS2 for John. Standard rates and surcharges apply. limit one vote per hour) and sponsored by AT&T, Old Navy and Taco Bell.

I'm sure Twitter isn't really that bad and i'm just being dramatic, however before I was transported back through space and time I did get several tweets from people that were trending "#Where did all these Locusts come from?"

P.S. Don't forget to follow me on twitter!

Friday Photo Flaunt: Scapes

My dad is mostly responsible for my debilitating addiction to photography. He was a freelancer back in the day. When being a photographer actually meant something more than being lumped in with a million talentless wannabes. Professional grade cameras weren't cheap, film cost even more plus developing fees. This weeded out most of the half-assers from really following through on any scheme to be a photographer.

My dad never really got serious about being a photographer despite his relative success. He actually sold some photos to various publications, including a poster maker who used a shot of his friend doing a handstand on the summit of Mt. Rainier with one of those slogans like "The harder the journey the greater the glory". By the time he met and married my mom I was 9 and his well appointed Nikon kit was mostly relegated to taking pictures of family holidays. He taught me how to use the equipment and eventually I became the primary shareholder in his Nikon toy stash.

The railroad track boat house ramp my great grandfather mysteriously built without any help.

 Since my dad really only shot landscapes that's what I learned first. I shot almost entirely still life's until I was a freshman in college and a friend of a friend asked if I would take some pinup shots of her for a boyfriend's birthday. Of course after that I realized that my passion was shooting human subjects. Although I never forgot that I got started and I still enjoy landscape photography, although I find it much more difficult than portraits. Even though i learned most of my foundational knowledge about exposure and lighting from shooting landscapes I still don't feel like I ever had any real talent for it. Marginal landscapery aside, this FPF I decided to drop some of my attempts at inanimate imaging. A lot of them are from before I upgraded to a digital camera pack. I shot for years on a 35mm rig and I still love film although it's not cost effective. You can often tell which images were shot on 35mm film because they have a much grainier, contrasty look. Can you pick out the film vs digital shots?

Salud.

Cactus in Joshua tree.

Cactus in Arizona. On the set of "Off season" with the Airizona cardinals.

These were both shot on the same day. Industrial studies around Manhatten Beach, CA.

Joshua tree is obviously one of my favorite locations to shoot. It's just one of the places that tends to be inspiring whether you want to be or not. 

Joshua tree

Grand canyon. The most photographed piece of land ever. Meh.

My dad actually took this photo on a climbing trip.

corn, yum.

My favorite landscapes are always the ones that somehow create a story even though there are no people. What better question than "How the hell did a pair of shoes end up on the metro tracks?"

Or what's all that stuff for? Little viles? Must be something sinister. People usually fill in the rest of the story for you.

 This was a friends 1951 Studebaker I shot for a classic car calendar in San Diego.

Taxco, Mexico. Favorite mexican town ever.

Indian reservation somewhere outside Utah.

Post modern civil comparatives (urban vs. rural)

Triton Cove is an eclectic mix of characters to say the least. Many of the cabins, like our family’s, have been owned for generations. If a house has been owned for only one generation, it is inevitably due to the fact that the resident can tell you what it was like when cars were invented.

new button yo!

Needless to say, people know each other (more on creepy friendlies here). In fact, my grandparents know pretty much every single person who lives on the cove, along with any associated children, pets, friends or close relatives (no really). When here, my grandfather goes for a daily walk around the cove and often stops and actually TALKS with the neighbors. I don’t mean he tells someone they need to cut their lawn or asks them to please not report his car abandoned so they can have his parking spot, (see also: LA neighbors) I mean they have real conversations, about real life, not just sports or weather either. It’s sort of creepy before you get used to it. They know every person in the neighborhood by name. Plus how their surgery went last week, if the dog's allergy medecine has been working, and since it's November, that Betty will be making her signature pumpkin pies.

Imagine that for a moment. Think about how strange it would be to walk around your neighborhood and every time you saw someone you went up to them and had a 20 minutes conversation.

By contrast, we lived for 2.6 years in  the sunny little beach town of Oceanside and when we left we didn’t know the name of a single person on our whole street. The woman who lived across the street from us for all those years came out as we were about to disembark and told us she was sorry to see us go because we were “quiet neighbors.”

The majority of interactions with our Oceanside neighbors involved a pack of teenage boys, lead by our 38ish year old, dread-locked neighbor, skateboarding off a plywood ramp at 4am on a Tuesday. There was also, picking up McDonald’s wrappers, beer cans, cigarette cartons and various other pieces of trash that were hurled over the white picket fence into our front yard by youths, housewives and marines alike as they walked from their cars to the apartments next door. Not to mention a woman across the street who let herself into the backyard next door to steal fruit from the trees while the residents were at work, the drunken lunatic who used a metal stop sign pole as a battering ram in an attempt to smash his way into his apartment after apparently being locked out by his roommate/lover or the people who would report our cars abandoned when they were parked for more than 8 hours outside our own house, the screaming abusive mother, the body builder marine who punched his girlfriend in the middle of the street at 9:15pm as I stood in the front yard watching, or the neighbors who would from time to time tug on our garage door, just to see if it was unlocked that night to afford an opportunity for easy larson.

I say all this not with the intention of bashing Oceanside, but to note that it was actually one of the safest and most pleasant places I have lived during my 18 years as a California resident (Before Oside I lived by Echo Park and South Central). There are better neighborhoods and better neighbors in Cali to be sure, but things have changed in America recently, and not for the best. The fact that this was normal life to me for so long is staggering now that I’m outside looking back.

There is a tragic loss that happens in the city when people live so close together. They push each other apart. We share so much space in the city that we become obsessed with walls and barricades. Finding any tiny little island of privacy becomes a consuming thought when you can't go more than 30 seconds without hearing the aural byproduct of someone’s rage/lust/entertainment/playtime/life. Humanity collapses in around us and so we retreat inside ourselves, trying to block out the miserable unwavering pressure of humanity around us. When things are quiet, when life is slow, when peace abounds, people seem to look outward, to reach for one another, to build community, in order to share and enjoy life together more fully. (They are also bored) These relationships, these tiny bonds allow people to treat each other better, with more respect and care. People don’t try to harm their neighbor, they live with more harmony, they act more decent, because word spreads fast. And a community of bonded individuals is the best social guidance mechanism on earth. We don’t need more laws and penalties for road rage, parking violations, and petty theft, we just need to get some community back.

Quilting is not for Sissies

I know that some of you are probably rolling your eyes right now after reading the title above. You're thinking "quilting is something old ladies do, therefore of course it is for sissies. Duh." Just days ago, I would have agreed with you wholeheartedly. And then I went to my first quilting class.

As you may know, we live in the middle of nowhere and the options for social interaction and activities involving other humans are pretty limited. Since I love to sew, a quilting class seemed like a great way to learn some new skills and get out of the house. If learning new skills and getting out of the house were my only two objectives, I am an outstanding success having done both of those things. If, however, part of my goal was to actually complete the project taught in this "beginning" quilting class, the jury is still out.

Quilting class doesn't just involve a bunch of old ladies drinking tea and bragging about grandchildren (though, there is PLENTY of that) it requires you to be a mathematician, a chart-diagram-blueprint-interpreter, a master of the rotary cutter, and have insane patience for tediousness. The sewing itself is the easy part! Actually, that may not be true. After the first class, I came home confident that I could cut and put together 4 squares that look like this:

I completed my homework and came back to class with 4 squares. Though, I must admit, I use the term squares loosely. Imagine if there was a mysterious invisible vortex in the middle of the square pulling the seams every-which-way and giving the "square" an hourglass-type shape. Sadly, my teacher was not impressed and I was immediately given instructions to start over. I spent the next 5 hours (no exaggeration here) of class redoing what I thought I had already done. 4 squares... less than a quarter of the total project. Curses.

What was impressive was 86 year old Claire who had finished 16 out of 16 squares (yes, hers were actually square shaped) and she had them completely sewn together. Like a real quilt. Claire is not a sissy. Nor are the other 4 lovely ladies in my class who are all old enough to be my grandmother. I don't know how they do it. You would think that my young eyes and sharp mind would get me somewhere. So far, all it has gotten me is a big fat start over.

Random Tuesday thoughts pt. 1

Zombie haiku:

I am a zombie
not the most usual kind
My brains are blogs- yum


Monday sucks goatballs, but can be redeemed through copious amounts of champagne and consumercrastination. (See also: Ross, Marshall's, Walmart)

New word:  Scareola 

Sca·re·o·la [Scuh-ree-uh-luh] 

–nounjective, plural -lae  /-ˌli/ Show Spell -las. Biology .

1. a mishapen or extremely large ring of color, as around the human nipple.

2. Having an inordinant follicle density. (see also: man forest)

3. sometimes lacking in pigment as to confuse one regarding the border of said ring. 

update: I'm not sure what disturbs me more about this dude. His nipple hole shirt, the fact that he is either running for a Madmen character or named Peggy himself, his oddly extensive collection of wrist wear and accessories or the fact that he is rocking a grocery store metallic balloon on his hat. There are a lot of layers to this insanity people.


If he bought two heart rate monitors, a gps watch, a step counter and sweat band, why didn't he spring for some nipple tape?

Metamophosis of the American Housewife. pt.2

So The Wife is now a bonafied spy show action junky (why doesn't spell check believe in "junkies"?) after just 2 seasons of Burn Notice. Who knew? I dropped the first disc of this guilty pleasure man-tertainment in our netflix cue so that it would arrive just as she was leaving to visit family. Expecting she would never want to watch a show centered around blowing the crap out of stuff.

She came back, I was still on my marathon and she became addicted...  Then it happened.

6:44pm, November 11th, 2010:

Me: Hey there's a third season of Burn Notice.

The Wife: REALLY? Holy crapstick OMG. Push that shizz to the top of the cue right now! Screw Life!

I should explain that I've listened to roughly 2,473 hours of animated explanations why we must watch National Geographic's mini series "Life". Every single minute. Of all four discs. I love animals and wildery stuff, but recently we've watched IMAX: Under The Sea, Shark Week, Blue Planet: films 1,2 and 3, Oceans, Earth, Babies, and a couple hundred other nature movies that I can't remember the titles of.

She likes her nature docs.

But today is a momentous occasion. Today is the day that The Wife abandoned her love of little baby penguins, narwhals, and awesome flying lizards, for a bunch of stuff getting blown up.

Addendum: Some lizards and narwhals are badass. Like Jack Bauer.

It should also be noted that although wifeyface is not one to generally like gore or action for the sake of action movies, she is by no means a "chick flick" chick. I think she hates them more than I do. "They should call them Stupid chick flicks. Just for stupid chicks. Not me."



Update: The wife has proofed this post and offered the following review. "Oooh exaggeration-husband" I think she means how I drastically increase the level of propriety in her vocabulary. I can't write what she actually says. It'd make your eyeballs sting.

Friday Photo Flaunt: Portraits

Well it's Friday again. Time for another warm slice of shameless self promotion. Yum.

If you aren't an aspiring (read: unemployed) model or photographer chances are you're not familiar with Modelmayhem.com. It's like Myspace for industry people. And by that I mean it was once a great place to network and meet people with similar interests but has now been overrun by douchebags and spammers and is slowly becoming an apocalyptic wasteland filled with man eating spambots. I've had portfolios on this site and others like it for years now. And I've actually picked up some decent shoots from it.

Copyright: Peter Vincent 2010

Belated halloween awesomness post.

It's good to know that frat boys are still doin it up big fat douche style. This is Matt, from smokinggun.com he got picked up for a DUI with twice the legal limit in his blood. He's also 19. I just want to point out a few fun facts.

Guest Postiness

Guest post by: Andy @ “Crazy with a side of awesome sauce.”

This past summer, I migrated from my place of origin, from the place of endless tans and ridiculous heat and fire season, from Southern California to quirky Portland, Oregon.

No, that's not fog, or mist, or morning haze, or cloud cover.

The story of why is long and tedious, but to make a long story somewhat shorter, I had hit my fill of the heat and smog. Like some people who live in snowy places hit their limit of snow and cold and whatever else people like that deal with in places like that and move their pale asses to Florida? I was done with 115 degree summers and not being able to run in my neighborhood because of the jungle of smog my lungs had to machete their way through just to get a little exercise. Done. Finished. Outta there.

And so I quit my cushy job, packed up my life, and moved.

Southern California isn’t all bad, though. There are two things I miss (besides my friends and family): greasy taco stand burritos smothered in sour cream...and In n Out. I would kill a small child for a Double Double animal style right now.

Excuse me, I need a moment to imagine that for a bit.

mmmmm.

For those sad people who haven't had the honor of beholding In n' Out. An "Animal Style" burger or fries means it's smothered in caramalized onions, extra sauce pickles and cheese. You're life is not complete until you have tried this joint.

Okay I’m back.

The weather thing is a huge difference. If it rains in So Cal, you get Storm Watch 2009 and the whole state goes into DEFCON 5. Libertarians hunker down in their fallout shelters. Freeways come to a complete standstill (that’s down from the slow crawl that occurs between 6am to 8pm every day of the week). And dorky girls like myself go dance in the rain because it’s such a delicious respite from the fire of a thousand suns that is summer down there.

Granted, I did grow up in a desert so flash floods were a very real thing. It didn’t rain often, but when it did, you’d better have fisherman’s waders and sandbags. Or, like me, have a fireman daddy. We got special treatment in situations like that. But for most of the state? Calm the crap down, people. Rain will not kill you. Will not melt away your plastic noses or highlights. It might melt off that spray tan though; we can only hope.

But not to let Portland off the hook. The week before I moved here, there was a heat advisory. It was only 90 degrees. Dude, where I come from, 90 degrees in July is a relief. That’s like 20 less that usual. That’s a freaking cold snap. But once I moved here I realized why it’s a big deal. No one has air conditioning! What? Seriously? I quickly learned that on the hot days, you go to the river. That’s ac for ya.

Now, I lived in a very big city in So Cal (Los Angeles) and very small towns there too. People vary everywhere you go even in sunny Californai-ay, and I am glad to be back in a very diverse place as far as cultures and languages go. What I love about the Portland is how it feels like a big city but the people are friendly.
But the one thing I’ve learned thus far? People drive like shit no matter where you go.

I knew a guy from Portland back in CA who made fun of my aggressive driving. And I’ll grant that drivers from Los Angeles are a different breed. It only seems aggressive if you don’t know the rules. When I first moved to LA, I thought I’d die on the road. There is so much traffic that you just have to know the rules and jump right in. If everyone does what they need to and keeps moving and doesn’t hesitate, then traffic can keep flowing. If you stall, good effing luck. You will get mowed over. And called very bad things in all sorts of languages.

Driving can literally drive a person insane on the streets of Los Angeles (please say that with a Spanish accent). We invented road rage. It’s not people who get in a car angry. No. Driving simply causes you to lose your ever-loving mind until some jackwad cuts you off or doesn’t turn left even though he had an opening and OH HELL NO and then you want to find a clock tower because someone is going to die today! Road rage. Oh yeah. It’s real.

I haven’t seen the road rage up here much. Except from myself that is. Traffic isn’t that bad. Rush hour is actually an hour (not all day).

Thus far? What makes me crazy are just wacko drivers. People doing all sorts of weird shit. Not using turn signals. Driving like they’re permanently cracked out (Actually, everyone’s probably just stoned. It is Portland.), weaving and/or driving down the middle of two lanes. Parking on the wrong side of the street so I turn and think I’m going down the wrong way on a one-way street. That last one has caused me several heart attacks in the last several months.

Exhibit A: shot in P-town

I’ve yet to figure out the bus system but I’m more than ready to because driving is a pain in my big ass.

Moral? Drivers suck everywhere. Public transportation rocks.

I complain. But I love The Portland so far. I’ve loved the quirky people and the neighborhoods and the coffee shops. I love the hiking between mossy trees and discovering misty waterfalls. I love the fall colors and the way the rain mashes the piles of leaves into a carpet on the streets (That’s probably unsafe, but who cares! It’s purty!). I loved Halloween here where you weren’t sure if someone was in costume or not because plenty of people dress like that on a daily basis.

I’m glad Portland welcomed me so sweetly. Because I was so ready for Portland.