Notes From
a Blizzard Shut-In.
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Saturday, January 22, 3:12 p.m.
The customers at Whole Foods, some of whom within the past week have asked total strangers if they were aware that their blue jeans were stitched by Laotian toddlers who have to eat defective zippers for dinner, are coping with the long lines in their own sympathetic, informed way. The snow will be upon us in three hours or so, and judging by the shelves, most of us will have to endure it without caramelized-onion focaccia bread. But I have a cellophaned bolus of pizza dough and a jar of tomato sauce in my basket, as well as a packet of shredded mozzarella in my refrigerator at home. I'll be just fine.
Saturday, January 22, 6:30 p.m.
The cheese I had been counting on has gone mostly taupe and intermittently green. Outside, the blizzard, with its blood-crystallizing windchill, has begun. Another trip to Whole Foods is out of the question.
Funny, my kitchen seems narrower than usual.
Saturday, January 22, 10:08 p.m.
I have a studio apartment, which means that once I get up from my chair, all there really is to do is sit back down. When I'm restless, I usually go for a walk, but the snow has already piled up to the equator of the hubcaps outside. I decide to organize my tax documents. I have one tax document. I move it from my bulletin board to the corner of my desk.
My cat, by the way, seems to be ignoring me. He never does that. Why is he doing that?
Sunday, January 23, 12:42 a.m.
According to the rebroadcast of the Ten O'Clock News, there's at least 15 inches of snow on the ground wherever you are in Greater Boston, with another foot, probably more, still on the way. Is it worth it to wrestle with the rabbit ears, just so I can tune in the reliably excruciating final 20 minutes of Saturday Night Live? It isn't. I log on to the Internet, via my incandescent 28.8K connection. I send a couple of e-mails to a couple of friends, most of whom, I realize, are probably getting through the storm by having sex with a significant other. I consider turning to pornography in self-pity, but with my modem, a visit to latinadildoqueens.com would just be too challenging. And pathetic behavior, if nothing else, should be easy.
I stand up. I walk to the bathroom. (I use the word "walk," though it's all of three steps from my desk.) I don't need the facilities here, but I gargle with Listerine to spare myself the cognitive dissonance.
Maybe I can draw something. How come I'm always the word guy, huh? Why does everyone want to put me in that box?
Sunday, January 23, 1:59 a.m.
I should be tired. I wish I could sleep. Well, at least I managed to sketch 50 eyeballs.
Sunday, January 23, 6:02 a.m.
Looks like I snoozed a few hours after all. The blizzard didn't. The snow is higher than most car door handles, and in one case—the case I have parked on the street—there's not much more than a sliver of red roof showing. The weatherman says the conditions outside will not only kill you, but also preserve the hilariously stricken look on your face. I am paraphrasing somewhat.
I eat a bowl of cereal. I take pride in completing the maze on the back of the box so expertly, no backtracking whatsoever. It is only then I realize I've actually been working on the front of the box, and that I've escaped from a magnified photo of Sugar Smacks.
Sunday, January 23, 8:14 a.m.
I find my eyeball drawings on the kitchen counter. These eyeballs need names, and I'm just the man to do it, for I am their creator.
Sunday, January 23, 10:42 a.m.
I take a shower. That's how normal people start their day. I'm one of them, so that's exactly what I do, too. I shut my cat in the bathroom with me. He loves lolling around near the radiator. Plus, it strangely occurs to me, it's an almost foolproof way to ensure he isn't communicating with my enemies.
Sunday, January 23, 12:35 p.m.
I organize my CDs by distance from the sun.
Sunday, January 23, 3:04 p.m.
I've got a handful of dry spaghetti. I'm trying to train it to stand on end and perhaps, with the right mentoring, walk. But every time, the bundle collapses. (This is taking place on the hardwood floor of the studio's main room, by the way. For obvious reasons, I've blockaded the entrance to my kitchen with most of my furniture.) This pasta doesn't know a thing about teamwork, and I can only motivate so much.
Sunday, January 23, 3:48 p.m.
I'm wondering why no one's called to check on me. That's when I notice that I've had my phone cord plugged into the computer since last night. I'm sure I'll have some voice-mail messages waiting once I disable the leprechaun trap I've got by the phone jack.
Sunday, January 23, 6:30 p.m.
The Patriots game is on! The Patriots game is on! Suddenly, I don't know why I'm breastfeeding my shoe.
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OTHER McSWEENEY'S FEATURES:
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Notes From a Blizzard Shut-In By Jason Roeder
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If Bush's Speech Had Rocked as Hard as His Inauguration By Wendy Molyneux
Dear Thrasher: Adapted From a Letter to the Editor Printed in Thrasher Skateboarding Magazine, April 2003 By Sonya Huber
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