Frozen Semi-Solid

In and of itself, I doubt anyone really likes the cold weather. Some people prefer it to boiling-hot, sweat-inducing temperatures, and that's understandable; but when the temperature is hovering in the low 20's -- the kind of cold weather that this winter has gifted us -- it's hard to make a case for enjoying the frigid, skin-burning cold.

I've got plenty of winter clothes, cold-weather outerwear and I've made a point to wear warm stuff in general (no chambray, light cotton or thin summer-weight slacks); I've made sure to pack and/or equip myself with 180s (the lame earmuffs that wrap around the back of your head), I've packed a scarf to be safe (even though all my winter jackets have zip-up neck protection) and I've even taken to wearing gloves welcome at an Alaskan lumberjack convention.

And yet I still freeze.

In either case, this shouldn't be taken as an anti-winter diatribe, nor is it an extended whine about the evils of awful weather. Rather, what I've found interesting is the fact that, like most New Yorkers, winter is a time for hibernation. I avoid going out as much as possible, and I make an attempt to avoid the outdoors as much as possible as well. These aren't the same thing; the former indicates that I'm aware of wanting to be out and about with friends, et al, and the latter suggests that I get where I'm going -- for work or play -- as quickly as possible. That isn't to say I dawdle when it's nice out; that means that I resist the urge to move slowly when I'm forced to brave the elements.

More importantly, in lieu of being social and spending time out and about with friends, I've spent a lot more time on the PC or watching movies then is typical. Aside from when I've got looming or soon-expiring deadlines at work, I balance my home-time; however, now that it's frigid, I'm spending more PC time and/or TV time than is typical for me. To that end, I've managed to watch two Guy Ritchie films (Revolver, with Kaia, and Rocknrolla) as well as Appaloosa (Ed Harris, Viggo Mortenson) and also managed to take in a viewing of Enemy of The State (the one with Will Smith and Gene Hackman). Part of the charm from extended viewing hours, so to speak, has to do with the new 1080p Samsung monitor, but the simple fact is that being a couch potato -- without remorse -- is not something to which I'm accustomed, nor is it really something I'm enjoying. I do like the fact that I don't need to wear eight layers to go to a bar or some other gathering place for shits n' giggles; but at the same time, staying in and being lazy -- the kind of malaise that presents having showered as accomplishing something -- is not my bag, baby.

Put another way (thanks in advance to Dr. Evil):

Very well, where do I begin? My father was a relentlessly self-improving boulangerie owner from Belgium with low grade narcolepsy and a penchant for buggery. My mother was a fifteen year old French prostitute named Chloe with webbed feet. My father would womanize, he would drink, he would make outrageous claims like he invented the question mark. Some times he would accuse chestnuts of being lazy, the sort of general malaise that only the genius possess and the insane lament. My childhood was typical, summers in Rangoon, luge lessons. In the spring we'd make meat helmets. When I was insolent I was placed in a burlap bag and beaten with reeds, pretty standard really. At the age of 12 I received my first scribe. At the age of fourteen, a Zoroastrian named Vilma ritualistically shaved my testicles. There really is nothing like a shorn scrotum, it's breathtaking, I suggest you try it.

In hindsight, summers in Rangoon could very well be an improvement.

Back to hibernation...

-B-