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Here's a sure sign that you've turned the corner from the starry-eyed optimism of youth, into the spiny, dispeptic, disagreeable decline: awaking to a beautiful snowy morning... and greeting it with a hail of curses like a drunken sailor. Well, it was a bit unexpected. At least, the local voodoo witchdoctors called "meteorologists" had it bite them on the ass. Late last night, when I was giving the Hillbilly a ride to his place, the signs were there. Scrotum-shriveling cold (trust me... those rascals want no part of single digit temperatures--it'll turn your "outies" into "innies" right damned quick). Low, thick overcast, tinted in the vile orange/violet of mercury vapor lights. And the silence... like having your head burrowed in a thick quilt. And there it is. Truth told, it was pretty... after I'd had the chance to brew up some high-octane coffee and throw on about five layers, I watched the cascade from the balcony with the morning's first cigarette. Almost weightless flakes, some clumped together like fleecy chunks of asbestos (or that's how I recall the ceiling tiles in the campus center, many moons ago). Really, not amounting to much on the ground. Certainly, not worth the hail of damnation that I spewed as my first words of the day. The payback for three-day work weeks... no allowances made for snow days. Just like the deal, last week, with the studio. The show must go on. Meanwhile, I mutate into a turkey-necked, skinny-socks wearing, negatively-charged old bastard. But, I am optimistic about Springtime. Perhaps there's hope. |
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