Welcome to the Grey.
People don’t live in Seattle.
They soak in it.
The Sun, if you can call it that, hangs limply in the leaden sky like a steel slug.
When it’s not raining, which is never, the temperature drops like a rock dropped into the black quagmire that is Lake Union and a dreary fog hovers in the murk and then freezes as solid as a battleship grey brick of pure loathing.
Bridges don’t span the fetid icy sump that is the Putrid Sound, they rest on its surface like a log of sodden concrete, as a wet hell of traffic trudges ever so achingly slowly across the 520 Bridge like turds through an impacted colon.
The citizens of Seattle, these Denizens of the Damp that actually choose to live here, never make eye contact- unless they’re homeless- wear layer upon layer of brightly colored high-tech fleece and jaunty knit caps from Patagonia- the store, not the country- and stuff their pruny hands into the pockets of their REI special cargo pants, the pockets of which are stuffed with weed which they smoke incessantly to dull the reality of Seattle’s annual 5 month foray into nuclear winter.
“At least it’s a warm, dry rain.” They say between chattering teeth, sniffing ineffectually at the viscous streams of mucous that flow like green sludge from each Kleenex chaffed nostril onto their quivering multi-chins.
Meanwhile, teenagers sit in the cancer farms they call tanning salons that dot every corner and get sprayed mystic tan orange like used cars at an Earl Schieb outlet.
But your average Seattelite’s skin glows with an eerie blue pallor in the glare of the neon as they walk amongst the tourists at Pike Place. Even as reincarnated mass murderers do their penance in this life by hurling imitation sockeye salmon carcasses at each other, the fish flesh dyed as pink as the meth addled capillaries in their bloodshot eyes.
I thought KPLU was a popular Jazz slash National Public Radio station. It’s not.
It’s the sound of every footfall as your feet stew squishily in the soggy confines of your drenched Doc Martins, as your toenails slowly disattach from your toes, which are now the exact color and temperature of raspberry Otter Pops.
Kplu. Kplu. Kplu.
Besides Suicide, favorite Seattle activities include pouring gallons of steaming shade grown free market espresso like black crude into the pits in their faces inducing the “Caffeine Smile”, a horrifying grimace that displays the uneven rows of corn niblets that are their blackened teeth.
But its not all bad.
Sometimes the weather lifts into a stinging liquid mist revealing the Space Needle; the public monument that represents Kurt Cobain’s last hypodermic.
But then the 24 hour nocturnal haze returns,
The Guitar Playing Hipsters with their Myriad Facial Hair Stylings on Capitol Hill,
The Travel Cup Sucking Microsoft Programmers encased in their SUV’s,
The Alchoholic Rivet Welders at Boeing.
The Utilikilt-clad Millionaires in their “Artist Lofts” Downtown,
Everyone is slogging squishily through the wet flannel grey goop.
Welcome to Seattle.
You’re soaking in it.