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There's no such thing as cold, the Scandanavian saying goes, only the
wrong clothing.
Sunset weather gets a bad rap-everyone's down on the grey skies, the
buffeting ocean winds, the sunless mornings. I, however, revel in this foggy
blanket with which the west side is blessed. Heat is very, very
overrated.
Sometime between my morning shower and my departure for school, I
usually put on pockets. Being a man, I like to have tools on hand for every
occasion: the closer, the better. Being able to don heavy denim, full of
handy compartments for the storing of Stuff, is all I could ever want. My
keys, phone, wallet, pens (blue, black, and red), pencils, palm pilot, and
other essentials right there in my pants and coat, I'm ready to take on the
world.
Walking out into the dark grey morning, I feel sorry for those
suckers in Hawaii, or, for that matter, Marin. Waking up to sixty-five degree
sunrises, they're cruelly deprived of heavy coat, and sometimes even pants
themselves. To go through one's day in lightweight nylon, with nary a
receptacle for one's tools, would be hell indeed. I can picture it now; I'd
come face to face with a nuclear laser plasma bomb, ten seconds on the
timer, and would have to take off an armstrap and reach into my bag
in order to get at my defusal kit. I suspect a lack of pockets is to blame
for Pearl Harbor-somebody got advance word of the attack, but, because he
didn't have his ham radio in his pocket, was unable to get the word out in
time.
Pedaling my bicycle through the thick fog, I feel no fear. The cool
air stops me from sweating as I head off to school, and my
corrugated-steel-grade jeans protect the essence of my manhood from wind,
cold, and small flying objects. How do you ride a bike in Texas? You'd have
to have both hands ready to snatch dust, flies, and the occasional bb out of
the air before they got up the leg of your shorts. You'd clearly crash and
die.
Cold saves you from dangers to more than just your lower crotchal
area (as the scientists say), however. Able to comfortably ride in bike
gloves, hiking boots, and on particularly good days a ski jacket, I am
invulnerable to water, broken glass, electrified floors, and mild ice ages.
Try going up against one of those in the Caribbean.
Some say 'bad weather,' the term many use for the Sunset's unique
climate, is depressing and emotionally draining. Feh! For academically
inclined, sleep-deprived intellectuals like myself, a grey day is a ticket to
productivity. Never do I worry about the joyful outdoor wonders I am passing
up by doing schoolwork; indoors is clearly the most pleasant place in the
immediate vicinity. The dismal scene outside my window is beautifully free of
distractions. No rambunctious children bounce balls outside this home
(Malignant melanomas imminent, of course, because of sun overexposure). No
wild college kids tear up my beach over spring break. In my black
starving-poet turtleneck, eyes glued to a computer monitor, the melancholy
downpour a beautiful countermelody to my spastic typing, I'm happy.
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