Unless you're acclimated to it, Seattle this time of year can be miserably fickle. As I type it is overcast and gloomy, the ground resplendent with last night's rain, the air a breath of wet grass disturbed by crows guarding their nests. This sublime misery, as a local once stated it, is how isolationist Seattle prefers the world see us. It's terrible here, stay the eff away, and so on. That attitude takes some adjustment too.
Yet the sun doth shine upon these lands. Forsooth, tis not strange to see thither orb of honey gold appear as if by appointment Friday afternoon, coincident with happy hour, lofting hearts like boulders in a trebuchet into the very heavens. And behold, there is much rejoicing.
Last week the dodgy bastard showed up right when the World Cup was getting underway. Oh joy, oh love. We set out to see the US/England match at an early hour. It was like the planet turned benevolent, sky a blue blaze over the George & Dragon where it was already at capacity before 8am. Love a duck. You need more than a mob of Brits to deter the intrepid Seattle football fan, not least of all when it's been sixty years since the last match between our nations.
Brilliant match. We ended up at Murphy's to watch. Our team scored on an error (it's not easy being Green) but we'll take points where we can get them. Bob's your uncle.
A draw is better than a defeat, which is honestly what I had expected for our side. It was a rare day indeed when I was cheering for American interests abroad. Post-game, the mood everywhere we went was jubilant. The game played on screens in every conceivable format, from family dining restaurants to neon-lit dives, and streams of humanity took to the street afterward to bask in the pillowy afterglow with an attitude of hey, we didn't lose.
With the sun shining, we had nothing to lose. The city on golden afternoons is a fat slice of heaven pie. People smile and say hi. This is epic, believe me, for staid Seattle. We smiled right back and got ourselves some Sapporo and sushi at Issian, Japanese stone grill restaurant without equal.
Though it has resumed being crappy outside since those shining weekend days that now seem so long ago, our solar batteries have been tickled. They retain sufficient juice to see us through to the next bright patch. They have sustaining power for the week, which is spent primarily indoors anyhow. No big loss. Anything that drives me to the keyboard is a good thing!
The gal is also keeping busy. She has been working on her next manuscript and maintaining a daily regimen that is really admirable. Rainy Wednesdays may not be her idea of fun, but she makes the most of it. Case in point: she's into fuzz.
Fuzz is not technically accurate, but I can't say felting without feeling dirty. It sounds illegal. Nevertheless, the results are so damn cute, it doesn't matter what labels you want to use. That's the gal's handiwork on the left; the vampire bunny, which recently made an appearance at Vault of Story, served as inspiration.
She's hooked on Totoro. At the end of a tiring work day, I watched the gal rip open her newly-arrived parcel of felting materials and tools and set about crafting this sweet little piece of anime into a tiny wonder. It stands a few inches tall. It weighs as much as baby's breath on your palm. I suspect that soon her apartment will be teeming with these guys!
Spring is the occasion for renewal. How better to recognize this event then with a fresh lid? I was growing out my mane not truly from vanity but more along the lines of torpitude; also, I don't enjoy getting my haircut in public. If the gal would allow it, I'd be back to my clippers and shorn to the veritable scalp. However, she does not allow it. She might love Captain Picard, but she doesn't want to date him. Very well. Her wish is my hirsuteness. I got myself to Rick's in her neighborhood, a fine shop known around town as the Psychic Barber.
The story goes that a psychic once operated adjacent the salon. This isn't so unusual in West Seattle, where you can find metaphysical storefronts of all kinds, from gem-sellers to self-improvers, and someone with special sensitivity fits right in. Add the tonsurial element and you've got something special. The psychic left behind their neon sign which just so happened to look good with the barber's. Imagine my disappointment, even so, when Rick refused to confirm or deny if he knew what I would be doing in five years.