A 330-foot-deep sinkhole killed two teenage siblings when it swallowed about a dozen homes early Friday and forced the evacuation of about 1,000 people in a crowded Guatemala City neighborhood. Officials blamed the sinkhole on recent rains and an underground sewage flow from a ruptured main. The two bodies were found near the enormous fissure, floating in a river of sewage.
Pocket Coffee is real Italian espresso enclosed in a praline shell, then coated in chocolate. A mainstay in Italy and with a cultlike following in America, this delicious candy was created in 1968 by Ferrero, the same company that invented Nutella. It's famously hard to buy in the States, but click on the title for a state-side vendor. Pop one in your mouth, close your eyes, and you're standing at a cafe on Rome's Piazza Venezia, watching the scooters swerve by. Seconds later the caffeine buzz kicks in. You can thank me later ladies.
I ventured out early in the morning after the latest snow storm hoping to witness the bliss of a uniform blanket of white. But upon returning home I was greeted by a less blissful sight. Panties was the theme and a string of cars the unsuspecting billboards. "Choke on my panties, sniff my panties, eat my panties, etc." The line of verbs continued for blocks, ending near my apartment. I paused, momentarily, wondering who spent their time doing this mischievous deed.
An interesting thing happened the other day when I rode my bike home. Now it is no surprise when you hit a bird in a car...well maybe a momentary--What the *!#@. But have you ever experienced hitting another living animal on a bike. The scale of your vehicle is much smaller and the object feels much larger. Feels is the appropriate verb here. I was commuting home on my bike, pedaling uphill. Uphill non the less. A seagull is walking across the street. I innocently think nothing of it. As I get nearer I notice a car approaching from behind. I fully expect the seagull to deviate from our shared course, but instead it frantically walks like some stupid pigeon, never in a strait line, never fast enough. As a collision seems inevitable, it takes to flight. Oh...too late my winged friend. I plunge into the fowl midair. It is thrown violently to the pavement, narrowly missing the front tire. It attempts to take flight again, but is harshly pinned between the asphalt and my sprocket. Bump, bump, my rear tire runs squarely over it. It emits a painful squawking noise. My head spins quickly around attempting to confirm this anomaly which my brain argues just occurred. Before I can make sense of it all, the car behind me finishes him off, with an absolute BUMP, BUMP...tire, gull, asphalt. Now each day as I commute home I witness this winged roadkill pressed firmly into the pavement like a cartoon character.
As many of you know I commute to work by bicycle. Now, this crazy devotion to environmentalism can more accurately be described as me being too cheap to pay for the bus. The commute is faster, cost less, and is good for my health as well. All convincing arguments for such a choice. But as mother nature has demonstrated, commuting in the winter can be a daunting challenge. Now the biblical flooding, incessant winds, and snow have done little to prevent my successful two mile trek. Mother Nature is tricky though. She makes you think you are weathering the storm, then pummels you when you are over confident. I had grown accustom to traveling to work. After completing what could be more accurately described as a triathlon, than a bike ride, I am greeted to the heroic cheers of my coworkers. Every time she threw more at me, the more determined I was to succeed. And then she throws the curve. 
Thursday was a beautifully crisp morning. I was flying down the waterfront at top speed--a magnificent view of the Olympics to the west and no sign of the normal head wind. What a perfect day to commute. As I flew through the last intersection before work, I noticed a small contingent of coworkers on the corner. I began to engage the turn onto the pier, when the ice beneath the tires snickered at my feeble attempt to maintain control. A silent skidding noise...and the smacking of flesh on concrete--ice cold concrete. The pain noticeable, but the humiliation crushing. I sit for a moment in my own self pity, strew along the side of the road like an unfortunate possum. Then a coworker yells out, "Hey Levi...are you ok?" Great, now everyone that didn't recognize me in my commuting clothes are all too aware of my current condition. He meant well, but how embarrassing. I yell back letting him know I am fine. The group crosses the street, eager to check on me and make sure all is in tact. The coworker trailing the group inadvertently walks over the same patch of nastiness, and Blamo!, another one bites the dust. She lets out a squeak, throws the coffee artfully in the air, and smashes solidly on her backside. Now there are two of us, victims of the same peril. I begin to laugh and manage to direct a thank you towards her. At least I am not the only one. What a spectacle for the motorist trapped at the light behind us.
Lately, I have felt that I reside on the frontier. Now, I am not arguing that Seattle has changed little from when Lewis and Clark first laid eyes upon this bay. Instead, I feel I live in what can be considered a frontier within the modern context. Of course, Seattle is a fully developed and modern place. But lately it has felt far more removed from the remainder of the country. Perhaps, this is the Alaska syndrome (where people from Alaska often feel more a part of Canada than the U.S.). The weather has been relentless, as it has been pretty much anywhere in the country. My apartment has been the victim of several power outages. When these occur, I find myself without heat, hot water, or lights. Of course this provides me an opportunity to enjoy a candle light dinner and read a book. This experience reminds me of living at some remote cabin, not within a metropolitan core. Then the Seahawks make the playoffs, and no-one around the country gives them a chance at winning. It is as if no good football can possibly come from this remote corner of the country, further reinforcing my notion of frontier. Don't get me wrong. I love living on an edge. People are free to be individuals, less influenced by the ebb and flow of national trends. You are free to challenge ideas and be more liberal in solutions...nobody cares if you flop. So the next time the lights go out, just remember how nice it is living on the edge.
The NASA satellite photo of Colorado taken last week pretty much sums up what has happened to my beloved state. It may look like cloud cover, but it is not. My hometown of Glenwood Springs, just recorded 16" of new snow in the last 24 hours. Powder Day!
