Thursday in Portland

Walking to work from the bus mall after an off site meeting, I pass a man who is walking WHILE throwing up. Like it's part of his routine. Three steps, vomit, two steps, spit. Repeat. From what I can see it looks like he might have had a few too many orange circus peanuts. And wadded up waxed paper?

Three blocks later, a police officer is just beginning to get a statement from a hysterical woman who screams "No, YOU don't UNDERSTAND! I was just MINDING MY OWN BUSINESS and (unintelligible) OVER the HEAD and (unintelligible) RAPED ME! NO! You don't ...(Doppler effect of continued shrieking).

Now I'm being trailed by three teenage boys without shirts. All three are talking continuously, maybe to themselves, based on the fact that they're not saying anything other than what sounds like: "Seriously BIT-CHEZ! Get out the house, be-atch! Got-tamn mutha-fugga! Who said chill? Shee-it!

When I get back to work, open the doors and breathe in that excellent air conditioning and the smell of millions of pieces of paper, the fine semblance of normality is repaired, until I find out that two gentleman have been taken into custody after "defecating in the landscaping" outside the building.

Good thing I'm not a tourist, or I might sequester myself in my hotel's bar for the duration of my trip.