Rain
See, Dad, it's funny because this guy is a South Korean superstar named Rain.
To live in Oregon, you have to be able to appreciate rain to some extent. It is, after all, the reason spring and summer here are so beautiful – people from other states come here between May and September and think that Oregon is a universally beautiful paradise, oblivious to the fact that between October and April the rain quite literally does not stop, nor does it even take an OSHA mandated fifteen minute coffee break. My high school gained and lost a California-born band director in the space of six months due to this phenomenon, which preys on Sun Belters like a velociraptor with a gun that shoots Rambo.
Some Oregonians, however, take this appreciation of rain and turn it into more of an obsession, to the point that they actively frown upon people with hoods and umbrellas, saying, “What kind of Oregonian are you?” as they stand, hair plastered to their head, sodden clothes clinging to their body, in the middle of a downpour.
For them, please allow me to clarify: Just because I live in a wet climate doesn’t mean that I enjoy being wet. I’m sure that people from Phoenix don’t enjoy dying of dehydration. People from Anchorage probably don’t like being eaten by bears. I doubt that the proud people of Utah particularly relish not seeing 90% of most womens’ skin. People don’t move to places because they have a particular affinity for the local hazards or inconveniences. They move for jobs or good schools or lenient policies on marrying second cousins – hence why the Capps family has been in Oregon for a good half century.
Over the years I’ve adopted various methods of keeping myself dry, a game that became significantly more high-stakes once I adopted my current hairstyle in high school. Laugh all you want, but it’s a well documented fact that I look like a child molester when my hair is wet.* Even when it’s dry I don’t necessarily look like the sort of person you’d want driving a van near a school, but it’s a noticeable improvement.
*For evidence, please see the picture of me that ran with my Oregon Daily Emerald column last year.
Walking to school each morning back in the day, I had pretty limited options for keeping my head dry. I was at the time fundamentally opposed to hooded sweatshirts, as I felt that they made me look emo, as well as umbrellas, because I didn’t need to give people another reason to think I was gay. This left me with a wide brimmed waterproof rain hat, an ugly, misshapen, and potentially special needs cousin to the hat Indiana Jones wore. I freely acknowledged that it made me look stupid, but when my choices were looking emo with a hooded sweatshirt, gay with an umbrella, child molestery with wet hair, or stupid, stupid won every time. At that point, I had already given up on the notion of getting laid in high school, so as far as I was concerned I had pretty much nothing to lose.
Now that I’m in college, the hat is no longer a viable option outside of the occasional rainy marching band rehearsal – because, once again, it’s pretty hard to out-stupid 220 people walking around in the rain. My opposition to hooded sweatshirts has ended, but they still prove somewhat ineffective at keeping me dry as they absorb rather than repel rainwater and stay damp all day, which was the sort of thing I was trying to avoid by putting a hooded sweatshirt on in the first place.
However, college is a very gay-friendly environment (outside of the recent actions of some assclowns with a spraypaint can in the student union), which means I can finally carry an umbrella without fear. As it is, my alcohol preferences are exclusively gay (Smith & Wesson, anyone?), so the umbrella is really the final fabulous piece of the sparkling rainbow puzzle. Best case scenario, I’ll be mobbed by women who think I’m sensitive and nonthreatening. Worst case scenario, a bunch of assclowns will spraypaint a swastika on me.
About a month ago I invested in a $3.99 umbrella at 7-11, one of the ones that shrink down so small that you can almost stick it in your jacket pocket. What I’ve found is that in spite of the umbrella’s low cost and shoddy workmanship, it has the remarkable ability to control weather.
A few days after buying the umbrella, I took it with me on my way to a party, on the off chance that it would rain. It didn’t, and after a few hours at the party I departed, thoroughly hamarettoed, having left my umbrella on the endtable by the door. The next few days were particularly rainy, and I spent a lot of time with the hood of my sweatshirt clinging, soaked, to my scalp. Eager to put an end to this, I went and retrieved my umbrella from the host’s house, just in time for a mild and dry week. That is, up until the day I forgot my umbrella when I left the house for class, resulting in a downpour of biblical proportions.
In The Tempest, Prospero created huge storms by waving a stick around.* It appears that I can do the same thing, only I just have to leave my stick behind.
*Thanks, Wishbone!
And when I say “my stick,” I’m referring to the umbrella, not my penis. Okay, admittedly one of my worst analogies, but it’s a real bitch writing an ending for a blog post.
Truman Capps hopes that his entire readership does not refer to rain as ‘liquid sunshine’.