our currency is coffee

the air is heavy here

with dew drops and music

we are used to

the fragrant tint of green

our landscape maintains

anyone with an umbrella

is from out of town

or just a weakling

All of this should rest under thirty feet of water,

Washed down and waterlogged for all time,

This bountiful valley would be a roaring river,

Ripping the earth from itself and twisting and turning where it will,

With only mountainous sisters on each side to hold it in.

This place should be underwater,

Where the riverfins cut quick,

And glide in perfect unison.

Rain. Rain. More rain. Reckless teenagers hydroplaning. Fights between bodies of water influenced by the moon and flying sea chickens. On the edge of the sound and near what we locals call a spit. Not the red neck county, and not across the bridge but in our own little world of old people.

Sagebrush valley once dry and dusty,

Now greened by mountain snow through sweat and toil of pioneers,

Apples, grapes, cherries, hops, wheat, asparagus, we have it all.

Not all of us live in cities,

But all of you are welcome,

Come, enjoy, our homegrown, locally made, world famous wine and beer.

Just please oh please, don't fume and fret,

When on the road, your Prius gets stuck behind my tractor!

Snow capped mountains give way to sullen green hills, completely covered in tall evergreens, the hills roll until they meet a small harbour, along this harbour's eastern shore lies many rows of glass buildings reflecting the the water beneath. Dark red cargo cranes scatter the sea wall, loading cargo into the ships docked at the port, in the distance you can see the mountain ranges that surround the city on all sides, but the most breathtaking sight is the lone peak that dominates the southern skyline. Brand new airplanes, fresh from the factory, dot the sky while the seagulls circle the snacking tourists on the Ferris wheel along the board walk. Across the water you can see the ferries making their hourly route to the other side of the small inlet. But probably the most recognizable landmarks of my city stands bright white, an odd 600 feet tall, and seems to balance on a large pedestal. Can you guess my city?

We were labeled "weird"

Announced by the bumper sticker on the back of a Toyota Prius

And when we are not being eco-friendly

we are smoking pot

Our bodies are plagued by weed and portentous thoughts

There is so much green

I am not talking economically

Although we have money

We shopped at the thrifts before Macklemore hit the top 100

Here we are in the city

Drawing faces into donuts and

wearing flannels in summer

At least that's what I observe

Because I try not to be a mainstream hipster

Call us weird

We'll keep it that way

Everyone knows everyone. Secrets are kept only if they are never spoken. Sports come before school, yet you are punished more severely for failing the latter. Small businesses make up Main Street. In the winter, it's akin to Hoth. In the summer, Mordor. For many, camo is the preferred color, and it's ok to skip school if you're going hunting. If you haven't been kissed by 12, you're considered a weirdo. If you haven't fucked by 14, you're an outcast.

Ah, yes. Gossip Hick Central

Redneck cowboy, shit-kicker boots.

Pickup trucks... The bigger the truck, the smaller the dick.

Southern drawls on heavily make-upped women, fake salutations and greetings met with condescending glares.

Po-Po doesn't have your back unless you are white, Republican and rich. Boy, am I in big trouble.

The music, Jesus help me, it's every where; that God awful new pop country garbage on rotation... Where is my ole friend

Willie Nelson? On the Road again?

149.4 miles to Crawford, Texas Nazi death camp.

Damn... I gotta get outta here.