Check it out. I'm blogging from the Pacific Northwest.

Last night (local time 11:45pm, body clock time 2:45 am) I flew into Seattle-Tacoma, spent a night sleeping as though drugged at the nearby Sleep Inn, picked up my rental car the next morning, and headed south on I-5 to Portland. The ride down was really gorgeous. Every time I'm out here, I'm just astounded how beautiful it is. The towering fir trees, the enormous sky, the meandering rivers. The leaves on the trees are just starting to turn here. Soooo nice. I drove into Portland, and found out that my directions, obtained from mapblast.com were good for squat. Why, there's no such exit off of I-5, and there's no such exit off of I-405. Eventually, I found my way into downtown Portland, bought a map at a Chevron Station, found my host's apartment, and settled in.

I think my host is secretly a canadian. His home page is the canadian broadcasting company. He subscribes to Maclean's, and not a few other odd things about. Why would he conceal that fact from me. Perhaps he's a canadian spy...

People are so kind and courteous here. And not in that way that they are in the South, where it's sooooo obvious that they don't mean it. If you listen, you can hear them whisper 'asshole!' under their breath after every saccharine pronouncement. "Well, Hi, Har ee-ew? (Asshole.). It's so good to see ee-ew (Asshole). Ah hope y'all will come bah 'n see us agin sometahm (Asshole). Bah now (Asshole)! Hinjaw yer weeek-ind (Asshole)" Drives me batty when I'm down there. Here, you feel that they mean it. The hostess who seated me and rang me up at the restaurant where I had lunch seemed like she was ready to drop everything and run away with me. Or at least co-sign a mortgage. Lost though I was, I didn't dare ask anyone walking on the sidewalk for directions as I know from experience that it would be a frozen zone for a three block radius while everybody stopped what they were doing and rushed to my assistance.

Very few people are wearing shorts as the weather is sort of brisk, but of course on those that are, you note my favorite feature of Portland, Oregon: Everybody has calves like honeydew melons. All that hiking up Mount Hood, I guess. Everybody. From toddlers to octagenarians.

My Host informs me that tonight at the Dirty Duck there's a 'gathering of the leather tribe' that takes place every Friday. That's how it's referred to, as the 'gathering of the leather tribe.' Isn't that sweet? It sounds like something you'd want to bring a hot dish to, doesn't it? Some franks and beans, or baked pineapple? I can't wait to 'gather' with my fellow members of the tribe. What rites might our tribal elders have planned for us this evening? In NYC, it would be called something like, Firday Night Sleazefest, and if you go there, it would be a bunch of guys in chaps standing around drinking beer and chatting with their friends. No sleaze. Not especially festive. But I bet that when I go to the 'gathering of the leather tribe,' it will totally live up to it's name.

I could move here tomorrow. Wait. No, I couldn't. I wouldn't want to live in a place without an ocean you can swim in.