if i wrote a memoir for this summer, i would entitle it "fuck you seattle, you broke my gaydar"

But I won't. Write one, that is. All in all, it's been sort of a tragically boring summer, with the exception of catching a few ungodly hot shows and meeting a few of my favorite journalistic celebrities.

Today, I feel such a sweet rush of optimism, it's almost enough to forgive the weirdness, poverty and social exile this entire summer has thrust upon me. Almost. Mostly, it has to do with saying goodbye to my mates at the Stranger(there are, in fact, a few of them) and getting free burritos for lunch, which I was quick to claim was all for me, a celebration of my messianic presence in the world of a slightly stalled Stranger. Or not.

However, if the girl from IQU comes and gives me a copy of their CD, my heart will explode with joy and all shall be forgiven. But she probably won't.

I was thrilled to welcome my brother and his ladyfriend into my home late last night. Their presence here means that instead of merely spending the night packing, I will be packing and drinking. Which really, upon brief reflection, is the only way to do it.

Also, I am feeling a sort of desperate need to go see Hero after work. Which may involve dragging the kids along, but I will force them to acquiesce, with cattle prods, if need be.

The Tuesday/Wednesday visit to Portland was really fun. I can't decide if I like Portland because it's not Seattle, or if I actually do like it. I will have to revisit with a clearer head. I was ready to settle the age-old Seattle v. Portland debate with the unilateral authority I so richly deserve. But I realized that I was quite drunk off of two-dolla whiskey cokes, and so I decided to meditate on the issue with a clearer head.

I got to take a trip to the Goodwill bins of Portland, which is one of the slimiest, most hilariously fun things you can do. Because the customer demographic breaks down to about 2/3 scary foreigners (optionally with children in tow, optionally opting to grunt loudly instead of speak) and /3 hipster/picker crew. They're the ones you have to watch out for. That, and the possible hypodermic needle/used condom that could be swimming 'neath a sea of clothes. Yech. The smell and the slight wetness that covers everything is really gross, but fairly easy to ignore. I found an Yves Saint-Laurent sweater that I quickly ripped the tag off of (it was pre-priced, instead of everything else, which is pay-by-the-pound ($.99/lb!!!!!)). I was thrilled to find it, and felt absolutely no remorse for the three or four dollars I was depriving global goodwill of. None, I say!

Tomorrow, I hit the road. Early, methinks, if I can. I have a six o'clock partying date to make.