Friday, March 4, 2011


Olohena Road Waterfall
(Photo courtesy of Silas K. Aqui)

The overhead palette for the Emerald City, consistent with the weather patterns of the last month or so, has changed about as quickly as a fickle television viewer flicking through expanded basic cable channels.

One minute, the sky is ash gray with the threat of busting loose in a torrential, okay, so it doesn't usually rain in torrents in Seattle.  Let me rephrase that.  The sky is ash gray with the mediocre feint of an aged pugilist's right cross. 

Then, as if on taped cue, the clouds disappear, and the sun comes bursting through like a Brahman bull on its virgin attempt to rip its rider from his saddle.  Okay, okay...the sun comes dancing from behind the smoky curtain like Richard Simmons in polyester striped shorts and shiny nude support hose.

Only to disappear--impotent, it seems, in the early March haze.  

In the midst of all this crazy weather, how in the world do most Seattleites keep from suffering from Seasonal Affect Disorder?

It would appear to be the coffee.  

I haven't conducted any formal research, but I'm willing to wager that the inhabitants of this city consume more java per capita than any other metropolis in the world, or my name ain't Joe.  (Sorry, I couldn't resist.)

So, where does Walter Mitty fit into this scenario?

Those of us on the senior edge of the baby boomer generation may very well remember the 1947 Danny Kaye movie, The Secret Life of Walter Mitty.  Based on a 1939 story penned by James Thurber and published in The New Yorker, the story is about a daydreaming pulp-fiction writer with an overprotective mother who spaces off frequently, imagining himself to be a hero who experiences fantastic adventures.  

Truth be told, and are in great part (comedic, more often than not) contemporary allusions to this wonderful tale.  

Furthermore, this writer would posit that most, if not all, men need to have this imaginary hero alter ego to maintain not only their sanity but also their sense of male identity, especially in a world where boundaries are transient and gender roles are almost non-existent.

So, the Starbucks where I post today's entry is really Olohena Road on the island of Kauai.  And the coffee counter is not an urban water hole but, rather, a miniature waterfall that conceals the hideaway of a notorious terrorist and his cache of plutonium.  And the barista--well, she's the leading actress, of course, and I had better determine in the next few seconds if she's my ally or just another clever femme fatale.

But right now, I'm waiting for the Head Prop Man upstairs to change the look of the theatrical sky from drab gray to Polynesian azure.  

He can do it, you know, because He owns an awesome iPhone 6!


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