The Birth of Cool

We're at that time of the year where I like to mess with peoples' heads - the dead of Winter. Actually, that's a bit of a misnomer since the first day of Winter is tomorrow (Sunday)...

(A little aside here. As I was typing "Sunday," I actually typed "Sinday." Just thought you'd like to know that. Anyway, back to your story...already in progress)

Either way, folks appear to claim the start of December as the beginning of Winter by default. For those who worship the sun and carry an incandescent, nuclear glow year-round, Winter begins the day after Labor Day. For those who live at the Equator, they're too far away to matter for this story and aren't my target audience anyway. You see, I hate wearing pants. I'll pause while you think disgusting thoughts. What I mean is I love wearing shorts - year round, no matter the weather. Yes, I'm one of THOSE guys. We're usually single because we're insane. Friends, strangers and various domesticated animals give me the ol' wonk-eye when they see me easing my way into Best Buy or cruising the produce section of the supermarket in shorts while a Himalayan nightmare was piling up outside so fiercely the Abominable Snowman would be pounding on the store windows yelling, "Someone throw me a freakin' sweater!"

It's not like I'm trying to prove a point. I'm not one of those drunken chuckleheads you see at a Chicago Bears home game, shirtless and painted, with his 1970s-era sunglasses and wooly bear mustache boldly announcing "Bon Voyage" to his sanity for millions of us unfortunate viewers. For me, it's all about comfort. If I felt more comfortable wearing an admiral's hat and Buckingham Palace guard's jacket, I'd flit about town in that, but I can't pull of wearing red and I'm not much of a hat guy, anyway. My friend, Tim, is incredulous about this fact and continually tries to convince me to stop, which, of course, will never happen. As you know, I include my non-work friends in my stories, so if you're not familiar with Tim, consider this a primer.

Tim was a roommate of mine here, in Delaware and previously, in Cleveland. A relentless social dervish, Tim is easy to like, and if you don't like him, he'll eventually make you like him. When we lived in Cleveland, the Lake Effect Snow (capitalized, for your pleasure) was as unpredictable as a schizophrenic in a Hall of Mirrors. I recall driving to work and there being about six inches of snow on one side of the street and the other side of the street looking like a Frosted Mini-Wheat. I half-expected my alarm clock to go off after a purple tornado of vampires touched down in one of my tamer dreams. One fine March Sunday, we went down to the waterfront to listen to some bands and grab a bite to eat. It was in the mid-70s, I wasn't the only person in shorts and one could almost detect the faint smell of cocoa butter. Tim had a Jeep and put the top down, and for one glorious day in March, we were kings of the world.

Then came Monday. It snowed. Tim, rushing to get to work that morning, didn't have time to put the top up on his Jeep, and it was coming down pretty hard. Tim, in his suit, was struggled to keep hold of his Cool Points and by the time he arrived at work, he looked like a Sugar-Coated Businessman (again, capitalized, for your pleasure). This was back in 1994 and they're still thawing him out today. I'm just hoping he doesn't come back as Encino Man. If you haven't seen the movie, I'll save you the trouble of looking it up on Netflix and suggest you watch mold grow on your bread. Better plot, funnier and better acting.

Taking the Mind Shuttle (again, capitalized...never mind) back to Delaware. In Cleveland, and other snow-encumbered places, they're prepared for snow. As the first flake is about to hit the ground, the snow plows are already shifting out of first gear. Here, in Delaware, when one of the local Weather Guessers predicts snow, there is an almost biblical charge to the hardware stores and supermarkets. Everyone takes a large swig of Stupid and has a Dagwood-sized bite from the Irrational Overreaction Sandwich (...), it makes an 1800s cattle drive look like an Elementary School Halloween parade. In fact, I recall the Four Horseman of the Apocalypse hanging out in the parking lot trying to get anyone's attention:

War: "Um, hello! Excuse me. Can I just get your atten..."

Death: "Forget it, we can't handle this."

Famine: "Why are we in front of a grocery store? I'm FAMINE, remember?"

Pestilence: "Who's the idiot in the shorts?"

Weather does that to people. It turns relatively insane people more insane. People fighting over snow shovels, rock salt and canned peaches, everyone losing their minds and mentally filling out their wills as another Winter storm front lurks several hundred miles away. Survivalists laughing themselves silly from their rural fortresses, yelling to the television, "See? I TOLD you! But you wouldn't listen!" Meanwhile, I'll be home, kicked back in my shorts, eating whatever I can jimmy free from the sides of my refrigerator, completely oblivious to the pandemonium outside. When I'm hungry, I'll hitch up my shorts and start the car, secure in the knowledge that, since everyone else is bunkered down, I won't have to wait in line anywhere. You just have to keep your wits about you. See, it's one thing to be cold.

It's another thing entirely to be cool.