Saying 'This is paradise'

Admittedly, I haven't heard this one in a while. Probably not since, oh, last fall. The reason for the paradisus interruptus is WINTER LASTS UNTIL JUNE HERE.

Whether native or newcomer, the idjits and beardos love telling you this is paradise. They say it again and again and again, then once more for good measure. They say it so much, with a glint (yes, crazed glint) in their eyes, and eventually you start to question their thinking, and possibly their motives. Are they trying to turn around the real estate mess by blurting out propaganda about paradise so that a visiting passerby might be convinced something that is not true IS true, and buy a still overpriced home?

Worse possibility: They mean it.

A year or two ago, I was talking to a guy who owns his own business in Bend. He'd moved here from Portland, I dunno, three years earlier, let's say.

"Why'd you pick Bend?" I asked.

He made that universal quick exhalation of derision and/or disbelief, "Pff," spread his arms, and said "I mean, look around" like I was the moron here.

That holds no weight for me. (The one about this being paradise; the one about my being a moron has potential.)

If I had any testosterone, I would have said, "That -- can I call it an argument? -- holds no weight for me. Please give me some actual words, brainchild."

It was a sunny day in probably August or so, but unlike the ardent (and forgetful!) fans of this supposed paradise and their head-ringing endorsements, I know another 7-month winter looming when I sense one.

Now this is paradise:



I've actually had the pleasure of living in the continental U.S.'s actual paradise, or the closest thing to it: Miami, Fla. No, not the one you know from TV shows and movies. Well, actually, sorta that, but in addition to gorgeous women, overdevelopment, hurricanes, bugs and mayhem, there are virtual jungles to explore, banyans to climb, mangrove trails to paddle down, and most importantly: all the oranges, mangos, grapefruit and coconuts you'd ever want to pick off your backyard tree and huck at Oregonians who would tell you this place, where the women have hairy legs, is paradise.

Yes, Oregon has mountains and forests and desert. A whole lot of barren-ass desert. Like, at least five times more desert than a place people widely call "paradise" should have.

Brainchild please, don't even talk to me about "the coast." The reason people call it the coast instead of "the beach" is because you don't swim or loiter on the beach. There are frigging seals and sea lions there, people. You don't see that shit at real paradises.

Oregon is so far north and, the part I live in, situated at such a high altitude, that it prevents paradise's prerequisites: Warmth, strong sun and the sonorous sound of palm tree fronds blowing in the wind.

Three other reasons this is not paradise, in case you're not convinced: 1) March, 2) April, and 3) May.

Enjoy the snow, rain and cold, beardos of paradise. The fleece looks great on you.

(Photo of the Miami skyline by BryanSereny via Flickr.)