^Fuck that shit.^
There
are two-word phrases nobody likes to hear or read—except out of spite, perhaps.
For instance, it's indisputably bad when an ATM withdrawal climaxes not with
cash but with the conclusion: “Insufficient Funds.” “Incurable Illness” conveys
a similar sense of devastation. “Erectile Dysfunction” is arguably worse. To
those dubious pairings of words, this winter has inflicted on us a new
catastrophic phrase: “Polar Vortex.”
Earlier this winter, my mind had a
loony outburst as I fled in terror from work to my icy car in the parking lot.
Sometime in late-January, during a nasty resurgence of the polar vortex, I
silently cursed my ancestors for choosing to settle in Wisconsin. Admittedly,
this was petty and futile. Still, the bitter thought-process I had to match the
bitter cold went something like this:
“Why, this landscape doth transform
our testicles into frozen grapes,” one ancestor proclaimed. “What a marvelous
sensation! And it verily passes our 'so frigid we might perish test.' Yes
indeed, it's a sub-zero wasteland as far as the eye can see. I declare the
Oligs to be...Wisconsinites!”
(I'm not sure why my German lineage
would speak like people in a Shakespeare play, but please, just go with it.)
At the time of that mental outburst, I
was a disgruntled prisoner of the moment. Overall, when I take a moment to
recall that summer will arrive in due time, I'm thankful my ancestors fled
Germany long before the Third Reich rose and then chose to inhabit the half of
America that could get by without owning slaves.
Being an American descendant of both
Allies and Unionists is swell, but this Northern state we're in hardly seems
habitable when we read notices from the city telling us to turn our faucets on
overnight to give our pipes a fighter's chance of overcoming a depth of frost
that is nearing a record of five feet.
Under these frigid conditions, I'm
faring better than others. I'm handling the cold better than the guy from The
Shining, at least. Unlike him, I have yet to wield an ax and chase a
kid through a chilly hedge-maze. I'm not into that. Plus I can still write
stories that don't devolve into the psychotic refrain, “All work and no play
make me a dull boy.” Even the especially bad winters have quirks worth
appreciating on some level.
For instance, when I got inside my car
on the night of the cursed ancestors, I started the wheezing engine and then I
was greeted by an oldies deejay on the radio. His typical enthusiasm was
subdued as he spoke forebodings of unmerciful wind chills and temperatures so
negative they were downright nihilistic. The deejay then introduced the next
song. He suddenly sounded chipper.
“Now here's Foreigner with
'Hot-Blooded!'” he chirped.
I shivered violently beneath four
layers of clothing and smiled. My blood was about as chilled as that of an
Icelandic walrus, but with so many viruses floating around, I suppose I could
have easily had a fever of one-hundred-and-three.
Mark my words: This
warm-themed-music-on-cold-days trend has reoccurred on oldies stations during
this winter. The tires of my Honda were desperate for traction as I skidded
through sleet listening to the surf-rock standard “Wipe Out.” On consecutive
days that progressed from cold to colder to coldest, as I drove to work, I
heard “Summer of '69,” “Hollywood Nights,” and “Caribbean Queen.”
Side-note: What the hell is “Caribbean
Queen” doing on the oldies station, anyway? Billy Ocean has no association with
the golden age of rock and roll. Whoever gave the “green light” to playing
Billy Ocean on an oldies station deserves to go on a cruise to Jamaica and get
robbed and beaten by pirates before he gets there.
As of early February, still shivering
with gloved hands gripping the steering wheel, I've been hearing “Kokomo” with
great regularity on oldies stations. “Kokomo,” my ass, Beach Boys. I'm frozen
in Wisconsin.
For good or ill, oldies deejays are
subliminally sending us hopeful yet delusional messages via their playlists,
and this practice could be dangerous. They're trying to inspire us to don
Hawaiian shirts, Khaki shorts and sandals, but that attire could easily give a
man frost bite as he rocks out to “Surfin' USA” and approaches the limbo-stick he
has misguidedly set up in his snowy backyard.
I applaud you for spinning all of
CCR's hits, oldies deejays, but I have to call bull-crap on the
summer-music-in-winter diversionary tactic. Your heart may plead for
Foreginer's “Hot Blooded,” but the reality is “Cold as Ice.”
Elsewhere within the main topic, I
wish meteorologists would come up with a different term for “Bitter Cold.” It
just sounds so—oh, I don't know...Bitter. And clearly, exposure to such
language has had an adverse effect on me. If we've got to survive temperatures
far below what I have coined “Regular-Ass Cold,” here are some suggestions that
are at least better than “Bitter.”
“Witch's Teat Cold”: This is a
puzzling expression. While I do understand that witches are callous and unlikely
to exude emotional warmth, focusing on their teats is a bit odd. What's worse,
I just pictured a tongue-stuck-to-frozen-pole sort of crisis that might happen
to witch babies being nursed, and now that image is yours to cope with, too.
Anyway, Witch's Teat Cold is chilly, but we so often hear in slang that the
thermometer can plummet even further.
“Scary, Even for Penguins Cold”:
You'll know it's colder than a Witch's Teat when it gets to be Scary, Even for
Penguins Cold. Many of us have seen them march to the nurturing sound of Morgan
Freeman's all-knowing voice, and I for one got awfully peeved with Mother
Nature when I watched those flightless waddlers huddled and cowered over their
young during a deadly Antarctic blizzard. Scary, Even for Penguins Cold is no
day at the beach, but a lot of times, when we are scared, at least we come
together. When we are Bitter, however, too often we push each other away.
“So Cold Some of You Will Mutate into
Vile, Impolite Jerks”: At face value, this designation may seem as off-putting
as “Bitter Cold,” but it's really more of a public service announcement—a
reminder. I read a study which ranked Wisconsin as one of the least polite
states in America, and I'm convinced the prolonged cruelty of our winters
factors into that discouraging report. Honestly, I prefer coldness to the rude
behavior in incites in Wisconsinites. A grudge against Jack Frost is no excuse
for refusing to say simple and pleasant words like “please” and “thank you” in
public places. It's human to feel powerless against the weather, but it's
inhumane to ignore basic courtesy even a toddler can understand. No joke.
OK. Now let's all stay inside and
watch March of the Penguins until baseball season arrives.
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