Man, it’s fricking cold
Blinding flash of “duh” moment: It is winter, January even, and it’s a) colder that a witch’s tit, b) colder than Kelsey’s balls, or c) so fucking cold that my goddamn brain is frozen, my teeth are chattering arrhythmically to even the most rudimentary of beats, my fingers are so popsiclized that I cannot bother to tweet every random little misery, and, oh, I’m fucking cold.
Were I a betting man, I’d go with c), because a) I once enjoyed the regular carnal company of a practicing witch, whose breasts were quite warm and heaving, and rather inviting, if I recall correctly, so that one’s a fallacy, and b) the only Kelsey I do know does not have outboard plumbing, and if she did, I would not be at all curious as to the temperature of her dangling junk, because I’m just that kind of guy.
Shit howdy. Did I mention that it’s fucking cold?
Cold, of course, is a relative term. I’ve hung out with Chicagoans who, upon mention of frigid and inclement for California weather, dismiss it automatically: “Aw, this’s nuthin’, man; shorts and tank-tops weather; you people are pussies; yadda yadda yadda.” STFU, Cubbies fan. And I’ve spent time around La-La landlubbers, the kind of folks who arrive at a Dodger game in the third inning and leave in the seventh, who whine about a hint of wind slightly cooler than a Malibu breeze.
As for yours truly, I’m the one who usually spouts the lines, “Ach, I’m Scottish. My forebears were fucking Vikings. I happen to like the cold, when it’s gray and overcast and barely gets above freezing. It’s good fer ya. Go warm yer frozen bones with a piping-hot bowl of porridge and quit yer complainin’.”
Which, at this moment, I will confess, is bullshit. I’m not liking this shit one bit. Riding over here to Cafe That Only Plays Radiohead, I felt a bone chill that set me to whingeing, and as my fingers unfreeze, the full measure of my wanh-wanh-wanh may unspool to an embarrassing degree.
But enough of that. It is indeed a beautiful day, isn’t it? I mean, there’s rain coming in, according to the prognosticators, which will make the plants happy; water, unlike electrolyte-enhanced sports drinks, has a beneficial effect on the future growth of flora, and the fauna that depend on that future growth of flora are made quite happy, too. Yes, the sky is gray, and the air is cold, but the knowledge that I can hitch a ride up the hill above the fog keeps me from sinking into any kind of fogbound torpor.
So perhaps my general happy frame of mind hasn’t been absconded by the seasonal affective disorder. Whenever I get twinges of that, a random Elvis movie clip or two can go a long way in pulling me out of that creeping funk.
So even just sitting here in this cafe, looking with heightened aesthetic appreciation rather than outright perverse leering at several quite fetching ladies who have graced my humble eyeshot, while fixing to look at more listings for jobs on craigslist before contacting a few editor types for whatever freelance writing jobs they may be able to throw my way (yep, I think the drought is over, both in my fingers and in the clouds), makes this a gosh-darned spiffy day.
I am at my core an optimist, believe it or not. Even when I struggle to scrape together money for coffee and chow, and then I can click on a web page and see that Snooki from Jersey Shore just got paid $10K to show up at some Florida casino to get fucked up and pose with a stripper pole, I still have the quiet confidence that life is going to get better — even on days when all the evidence seems to indicate otherwise. Even when it’s goddamn cold, and there’s no amber and toasty fireplace in sight.
So skål, ladies and gentlemen. —Jackson Griffith