The weather was a lot different and Hawthorne Boulevard was a lot different.
I’ve finally indulged in a Moleskine in hopes that having a fancy notebook will actually get me writing again. This particular one is the perfect size for the purse I bought at Last Thursday.
Today there was an unusual thing in Portland, summer rain with a rumbling threat of a thunderstorm. Portland is no stranger to rain, but definitely unfamiliar with warm summer rain with thick droplets.
Going up Hawthorne, I heard two unusual renditions of “Raindrops Keep Falling on My Head.”
The first came from the male portion of an attractive young couple. The girl was wearing short, tight denim shorts, but she had the hips for them, and a spaghetti-strap top, despite the lack of sun and the definite possibility of rain today. As they passed behind me, I heard the boy cheerfully singing, “Raindrops keep falling on my head, but that doesn’t mean my eyes will…” and when he got to “soon be turning red,” he dropped to a threatening death metal growl.
About a block later, I passed a couple of homeless men, sour smelling, missing teeth, making their way past Fred Meyer. A tall, thin Latino-looking man with long hair and a scruffy beard was pushing his fat, tanned Asian-looking friend in a wheelchair. The homeless man in the wheelchair was panting in a hoarse voice, “Raindrops keep falling on my head, but that doesn’t stop me from turning red.”