Ok, I managed to drag myself outside after all. It's really hot out today. Did I mention that already? I wandered down to the tram tower to take a few photos (which I'll post when I get to a box that speaks Camera). I decided that was enough pointless, geeky exertion for the moment, so I'm on the streetcar now. The heavily air-conditioned, non-walking-about-in-the-sun streetcar. Mmmm.... Transit...
So a few days ago I was out getting rained on, taking pictures of roses for you people, and now I went out and risked a slim but nonzero chance of heatstroke on your behalf, and has anyone thanked me yet? Anyone at all? Umm, no. Maybe I ought to start just making stuff up and saying I did it, without leaving the comfort of my own home. It would probably work out just as well in the end.
The streetcar is full of tourists, plus the sort of locals who aggressively seek out tourists to yammer at. The sort of people who work really hard at cultivating their quirky local vibe, and want everyone on earth to hear all about it. If that wasn't bad enough, today's Oregonian ran another of those "You Know You're From Oregon If..." articles this morning, celebrating the fascinating folkways of our little tribe. I guess maybe some of us were slacking off in the smugness department and needed reminding about our truly special uniqueness, which isn't like anyone else's uniqueness, nosirree.
In reality, all these articles accomplish is to help rich Californians learn how to pass as natives. Well, they try, anyway. The cologne and gold chains are dead giveaways, and in all history no real Oregonian has ever used the word "babe" as a synonym for "buddy".
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1 comment :
Thanks for the hard work.
Speaking of those precious Oregon pecularities, Have you ever noticed how Oregonians don't know how to dress in when it's hot? All loafers and black socks, it's so embarassing. Give us a rainy day and we're slick, sleek, and ready to party.
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