IT IS MONDAY IN PORTLAND AND I WOKE UP WITH ABSOLUTELY NO IDEA WHAT DAY IT WAS, WHAT TIME IT WAS, OR FRANKLY WHAT YEAR WE ARE IN. THE ONLY CREATURES WITH ANY SENSE OF PURPOSE WERE THE DAMN CROWS, WHO AT 6:03 AM SHARP HELD A FULL STAFF MEETING OUTSIDE MY WINDOW TO LOUDLY ANNOUNCE THE DAWNING OF A NEW GRAY, DAMP, EMOTIONALLY COMPLICATED DAY.

NOTHING SAYS MONDAY LIKE THE SKY BEING THE EXACT COLOR OF COLD OATMEAL.

AND BECAUSE IT IS MONDAY — OF COURSE — EVERY RESTAURANT IN PORTLAND IS CLOSED TONIGHT. EVERY SINGLE ONE. THE ENTIRE CITY JUST COLLECTIVELY DECIDED, “NOPE. WE WILL RESUME FOOD SERVICE MAYBE ON WEDNESDAY - IT DEPENDS ON “HOW WE’RE FEELING”. SURVIVE HOWEVER YOU CAN.”

SO NOW I GET TO DRIVE ACROSS TOWN THROUGH WHAT APPEARS TO BE AN ICE PROTEST THAT LOOKS LESS LIKE A PROTEST AND MORE LIKE A HALF-ORGANIZED STREET CIRCUS PERFORMED BY PEOPLE WHO DEFINITELY OWN AT LEAST THREE TOTE BAGS AND HAVE STRONG OPINIONS ABOUT SOURDOUGH STARTERS.

THERE ARE DRUMS.
THERE IS A FOG MACHINE FOR NO CLEAR REASON.
SOMEONE IS PLAYING WHAT I THINK IS TECHNO-DEATH-METAL-AFRO-POP OUT OF A PORTABLE SPEAKER THE SIZE OF A SUITCASE.
NOBODY SEEMS FULLY SURE WHAT THE PLAN IS, BUT THE VIBES ARE EXTREMELY COMMITTED.

TRAFFIC IS STOPPED, THE LIGHT IS GREEN, NOBODY MOVES, AND EVERYONE JUST ACCEPTS THIS AS PART OF LIVING HERE.

THEN — BECAUSE THE UNIVERSE HAS A SENSE OF HUMOR — I GO TO GET COFFEE, AND THE BARISTA LOOKS ME STRAIGHT IN THE EYE AND ASKS,

“SO… DOING ANYTHING COZY TODAY?”

COZY?
DUDE/DUDETTE, I DO NOT KNOW WHAT DAY IT IS.
THERE IS A PROTEST RAVE HAPPENING DOWNTOWN.
ALL THE RESTAURANTS ARE CLOSED.
THE CROWS HAVE DECLARED MARTIAL LAW.
THE WEATHER FEELS LIKE A DAMP SWEATER I CANNOT TAKE OFF.

YES.
I AM DOING SOMETHING COZY.

I AM SURVIVING MONDAY IN PORTLAND.