By now, you probably all need something new to read, having burned all your books for fuel.
Three weeks ago, it snowed over the weekend, and my producer let me know on Tuesday night that he wasn’t going to be dug out for our usual Wednesday session, so it got cancelled. Two weeks ago, it snowed over the weekend, and my producer let me know on Tuesday night that he wasn’t going to be dug out for our usual Wednesday session, so it got cancelled. Last weekend, it snowed, and I looked at the calendar and wrote my producer and told him I’d see him in March. And then I called my mechanic and cancelled my Friday tune-up, because, really, who could be bothered?
And then I was driving home from work on Wednesday evening, and my temperature gauge went bonkers, and I babied the car to the nearest gas station and bought some radiator fluid, and came home, and discovered that my kitchen ceiling was leaking. So the condo mates joined me on the roof of our triple-decker and we shoveled off most of the snow, and then went downstairs to shovel out the four-foot mound of snow we’d deposited on the sidewalk. And by now it was 11 PM, and my ceiling was still leaking. And my radiator was still dead.
So Thursday I called my mechanic and begged for my slot back, and then my insurance company, and then ten roofers, one of whom actually made it out to remove the dozens of square feet of ice that were resting on the exposed lag bolts in my rubber roof that were failing to execute their appointed tasks, and then Friday I took the car in and got my radiator replaced, and the roofer came back to patch the roof, and now, in case you’re wondering, it’s the weekend, and it’s snowing again.
@&$@#$* this winter.
Some people – I know you’re out there – are not swayed by this. They’ll swaddle their guitars in blankets and whip out their snowshoes and play for empty rooms, but I’m thinking, hell, who comes out to see live music in this apocalyptic hellscape. On the other hand, my wife, She Who Must Be Taunted, and I were scheduled to go with friends to see Susan Levine and Doug Kwartler and Mark Mandeville and Raianne Richards at Passim last Sunday, and SWMBT and I began to produce various unspeakable bodily fluids as the snow started to fall, so we stayed home, but our friends went, and the room was not empty, so goddammit, maybe I need better snowshoes.
In any case, I am not one of the snowshoe people. My last month has consisted almost entirely of trying to figure out how to work enough hours so I don’t dip into my vacation time, and shoveling out the car, and the sidewalk, and the roof. I have not written; I have not sung; I have not done anything except swear at the snow, go to work, and sleep. I am not proud of this. I view it as a moral failing. And perhaps, when the snow melts, sometime in August, I’ll be able to put down my shovel and do something about it.