There is. No. Place. To Put It.
Many years ago – it must be very many years ago, because this happened with Island Girl, the woman who was gracious enough to precede my wife, She Who Must Be Taunted – we were in San Diego, for slightly longer than we’d planned, because there was a snow storm to end all snow storms here in Boston. I remember coming home and getting out of the cab and walking down a carefully manicured path between snow drifts that came up to my chest.
So this all seems somewhat familiar.
I hate January. I’ve always hated January. Sure, it’s after December, which means that the days are getting longer and we don’t have to listen to the Muzak version of “Little Drummer Boy” until we’re tempted to pick up that rifle off the counter in the firearms department of Modell’s, where we’re shopping for just the perfect pair of snowshoes for little Marie, and just go postal. But I’ve still always hated January. And the ways in which I hate this particular January, the deep and florid dimensions of loathing which I seldom explore except – well, let’s be honest, it’s not that infrequent, but still – I really, really hate this particular January.
For instance.
We live on the third floor of a triple-decker. Our roof is relatively flat, and, my second floor neighbor pointed out earlier today, relatively full of snow. So we climbed up my spiral staircase to our roof deck and started shoveling. Off it went, over the edge, landing on the driveway with an explosive thud that reminded me of the fireworks on the Fourth of July, down onto the bushes, down onto the sidewalk. We shoveled for most of an hour. And got it half done. And then we had to go downstairs and shovel it off the sidewalk we’d snowbombed, and, well, it’s amazing how snow can fall ten thousand feet and be light as a feather, and then fall another thirty-five and be the consistency of a slab of beef. And then there’s the bad shoulder I have from all this shoveling. And then there’s the leak in our gutter – the one that we have because it’s full of ice, which means we can’t patch it until it melts – sometime late in the Palin administration, at this rate – the leak that’s dripping on the roof of our rear basement entrance, the roof that needs to be replaced – you know, the one that’s leaking water into the basement? That roof.
Now, none of this has anything to do with music. Sort of. See, January just saps my will to do, well, anything. Shovel, go to work, make dinner, watch the Celtics, go to sleep, lather, rinse, repeat – somehow, that seems to be all I have energy for. It’s kind of annoying how four feet of snow and a bum shoulder would be enough to distract you from your life’s calling, but, well, there it is. Now, it’s not like I didn’t do anything at all this month – I had a great, great house concert, thanks to one of my long-time fans (hi, new people!) – but that was pretty much it. Since then, it’s been food, snow, and basketball.
This will change, soon enough. The spring will come, and the snow will melt – we think – and I’ll peek out my door, sort of like the groundhog – we’ll call it Troubador Day – and if I see my shadow, we’ll have six more weeks of Adam Lambert. Or something.
Don’t worry. I’ll be back.