Or Snowpocalypse 2008, if the thought of a snowgasm leaves you a bit queasy and desirous of a shower. Both have been bantered about on Twitter and used with equal frequency. The media is calling it Arctic Blast 2008, which is nicely non-sexual and unhip and with just the right amount of gravitas to sound really bad. You can say it really fast in a deep voice: Arctic Blast! The exclamation point is thrown in for free. I’d caution against the use of jazz hands as you say it, though. You’d just look stupid.
Regardless of what you call it, the simple fact is we are in the third solid day of snow and freezing rain. The third contiguous day of a string of days stretching back to Sunday last, when the first round hit with cold, dead fingers. Since then, I’ve worked from home three days, four counting today. There is a bit of symmetry to it; I was able to get into the office on Tuesday and Thursday and stayed home Monday, Wednesday and Friday. The pattern would seem to repeat itself this week if I wasn’t already off the 24th and 25th. Although I seriously doubt I’ll be going anywhere tomorrow. The Boy gained an extra week of holiday because of this mess, for which he is thankful. Not so much in June when he finds he has to go to school an extra couple of days on the ass end to make up for now. Like he cares, he’ll take what he can get now and let June worry about June.
It’s pretty and all, but honestly I could do with a respite. The Fetching Mrs. and I were able to get out Saturday and I’m grateful, but our entire neighborhood is covered in at least a foot of snow. We tried to get out in the Mustang yesterday to stock up on foodstuffs, but that had folly written all over it. Even with chains, I barely made it to the end of the street and got stuck in my driveway coming back.
I’m getting a little bit of cabin fever. I suspect that may be partly due to stuff happening at work. None of us can get out of our various neighborhoods without herculean efforts and or a giant hair dryer to melt the snow, so we all remote into our desktops at work and ignore the fact that Windows Messenger does very little in the way of providing the visceral feedback you get from being in the same room with the people you work with and with whom you are currently engaged in solving nasty, business-stopping bugs.
Chat is a weird medium to communicate in. When I read what my co-workers write, my brain automatically uses their voices, but it’s soft and spoken as if from a distance. Almost like having an out of body experience or waking up from a coma or serious accident in the ICU where you hear the voices talking about your lost limbs or that big hole in your chest from very far away. Right before you open your eyes and it all crashes into your experience in that instance before the morphine kicks in. But with chat, you never wake up.
Not that that’s ever happened to me, or anything. Anyway, so, things are white all over and very, very cold. The source I have on my browser states 25.2 degrees Fahrenheit, before wind chill is considered. If I do, I’m sure it’s colder than a witch’s tit in the arctic.
Here are some pictures taken earlier today, documenting proof that Al Gore was right and the world is getting warmer :
This is looking out the front door. Notice the gate isn’t closing anytime soon.
Closeup of the bush in the previous photo. The gate gives some perspective of how deep the snow drift is in our front lawn right now.
Here’s the backyard deck. Know that the top of the deck is at least 2 feet higher than the ground.
Another angle on the backyard. It’s almost like a giant snow lake.
A shot down the street we attempted to get out on yesterday. What road?
A winter wonderland in the Pacific Northwest. Where’s the horse drawn sleighs and eight shinny reindeer pulling old St. Nick? I forgot , he doesn’t arrive until Christmas Eve. Rog, you need a snow plow for this stuff. Just have to curl up with a bowl full of popcorn and a good book and tough it out. As long as your warm and cozy the days will wheeze by. Love You, from rain soaked Southern California, Dad
Your Dad’s stretching the truth…we are hardly soaked. Parched is more like it…water is just sucking into the ground much like the dispatch of the wicked witch of the west by the same medium.
You, on the otherhand, are probably missing the generally balmy southland wright about now, huh?
Oops, make that right about now. Spazz fingers.
Actually, I’m not, for the most part.
I really like it in general. What I don’t like is that we aren’t completely prepared for weather like this, so the only thing we can do is hunker down and wait it out, which leads to mild cases of cabin fever and fear that we won’t be able to get Matt when he arrives on the 25th.
I’ve already seen that I need to get a snow shovel and a good pair of boots that can take getting wet. Since Ian is almost driving age, we’re thinking we should buy a truck and let him drive that. The Mercedes is useless in weather like this and the Mustang is too low profile to make it through big snow drifts.
I wish to offer my warm thanks for your blog about Johnny Horton and his non-connection to those racist songs. I am a middle-aged Black man who loves Johnny Horton. I heard his songs as a child and while the tunes and lyrics were simple, or as you say corny, I really enjoyed them. When I got older, I scoured oldies record shops until I found 45′s of his recordings.
Of course, now, I download everything. Which is how I came across “N-word hating me” by Johnny Rebel. I was aghast. And still was until just a few moments ago when I googled and found your blog. I just couldn’t believe Horton was a racist. This is a guy who wrote about wanting to fall in love with a Eskimo woman and heralded Britain’s Royal Navy. But, then, this is also the country that made millionaires of folks like Rush Limbaugh, so anything is possible, I guess.
Thus, it is with profound gratitude that I thank you for thoroughly researching this subject and giving it the death knell it so richly deserves. In a just a few moments, I’m deleting that Johnny Rebel song and I am going to play Horton’s “The Battle of New Orleans” so loud from my Brooklyn. N.Y., apartment, that folks in New Jersey will hear it.
Thanks again.
Wow, thanks for your thoughts, Greg. Have a good one.