The Best Thing That Happened This Week: The Weather Sucked
Every once in a while — not often, but sometimes — we get the feeling we might be doing it wrong. “It” being life as it’s lived here in Philly, our East Coast neither-Northern-nor-Southern town. What, we wonder, is it like for our cooler, hipper brethren living out on the West Coast, in those nirvanas we can only imagine — Portland, say, or Seattle, or Corvalis or Redmond or those other mysterious paradises that regularly appear on lists of “The 10 Hippest Places to Live” on the Huffington Post? Maybe we should kick our Philly habit, yank up roots and move to one of those places, become kinder and gentler, listen to better music, quit smoking and cursing and drink only yerba mate, whatever the fuck that is.
And then we have a week like the one we just lived through, when the only change in the skies is from gray to grayer, when the sun never shows its face, when the chill in the air seeps into our bones, when the steady drip-drip-drip of rain becomes such oppressive torture that we clap our hands to our faces and emit an Edvard Munchesque scream. Which is when we remember: This is Philly, not the Northwest. We have four seasons. The weather’s really pretty nice most of the time. Gee, we’re lucky. And we warble, with Philadelphia’s own Andrea McArdle: “The sun’ll come out tomorrow.” Which it will.
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