Winter Wonders
In the northeastern United States, where I happen to live, there’s an annual climate-change event. It’s called winter. During this event, the temperatures fall, as do little white flakes the natives call snow. We’ve already had seven or eight inches of the stuff fall this month. And there’s more to come:
After a mostly calm and mild December across much of the U.S., Mother Nature is making up for it with a stormy and cold January, and there’s more wild weather on the way. The deadly storm that’s raking the eastern U.S. this week is the opening act for what’s to come over the next week: A potential “bomb cyclone” blizzard for the Midwest, an arctic blast courtesy of the polar vortex, and possibly the first real East Coast snowstorm in years.
In case you’re not aware, a bomb cyclone is a storm blown hideously out of proportion by climate-change hysterics and their pals in the narrative-peddling mainstream media. That’s why, as soon as the first flakes fly, there’s a panicked run on milk, bread, and eggs, toilet paper, solar panels, and wind turbines. Vegans, of course, don’t buy eggs out of concern for the hens’ asses. (Who needs all that protein, lecithin, biotin, zinc, iron, phosphorus, folate, iodine, selenium, choline, and vitamins B2, B5, B12, A, D, and E from a single source anyway?) And some of them won’t eat anything that has a brain, which is why there’s no chance of their ever cannibalizing each other. Solar panels are useless because the sun doesn’t shine during snowstorms. And wind turbines have to be shut down once the temperature drops below a certain point because the blades will break. But all that pales in comparison to the lunatic alarm induced by bomb cyclones.
I’ll admit I’m not the biggest fan of snow. After it falls, it has to be cleared from roadways, walkways, steps, and other areas of vehicle and pedestrian traffic. And I’m not a skier, a snowboarder, or a fan of frostbite. But to be fair, I have to say it’s wondrously beautiful when it’s falling.
During the winter of 1971, when I was younger and even crazier, a high-school friend, Tommy Roberts, and I went to the home of another friend, Floyd Bennet, on a Friday night to listen to music and do what high-school students did in the late ‘60s and early ‘70s. (I’d specify what that was, but I don’t remember.) At some point during the evening — I also don’t remember if it was before or after Tommy and I got to Floyd’s house — we each dropped a barrel of Orange Sunshine.
I only have two clear recollections from the time we spent in Floyd’s room: One was listening to the Traffic album, The Low Spark of High-Heeled Boys. (The title song still makes me feel like I’m tripping, even though I’m not that young or crazy anymore.) The other is pulling up the blinds in Floyd’s room as we were preparing to leave and looking outside to discover a blizzard in full force. (We didn’t have bomb cyclones in those days.) The bad news was Tommy and I had no idea a storm was coming, so we didn’t dress for it. The good news was, in our altered state of Consciousness, we didn’t care about much of anything, let alone the weather.
I was going to Sleep at Tommy’s house on Barberry Lane that night, which was a cross-lots walk of about a mile or so from Floyd’s house on Pasture Lane. We set off in snow that was already almost knee-deep, undaunted by the cold, the wind, the snow, and our ill-advised state of under-dress. Somewhere along the way, before we got to the field adjacent to the dead-end street at the end of which Tommy lived, we came to believe we could hear the snow falling. We were convinced we could hear it better if we got below the wind. And we decided to take off the shirts and the light jackets we were wearing and lie in the snow, the better to hear the flakes falling on each other.
Among the winter wonders of that night were the facts that (A) Tommy’s mother was asleep when we finally arrived at his house, and (B) neither Tommy nor I got so much as a sniffle from our psychedelic adventure.
Pick Your Hallucination
As I write this, we’re in the midst of our annual climate-change event. The temperature’s in the low single digits. But that’s about to change, apparently, because of a weather whiplash. In case you’re not aware, a weather whiplash is a change of temperature blown hideously out of proportion by climate-change hysterics and their pals in the narrative-peddling mainstream media. That’s why, as soon as the thermometer starts to rise, there’s a panicked run on milk, bread, eggs, toilet paper, shorts, t-shirts, swimwear, sandals, and sunscreen.
In this enlightened age, of course, it’s politically incorrect to refer to winter snowstorms and temperature changes in terms of climate. To sustain the anthropogenic climate-change narrative, we’re encouraged — at the risk of otherwise being canceled, banned, shirked, ridiculed, vilified, and called names like denier — to refer to snowstorms, temperature changes, and other atmospheric and meteorological phenomena as weather. And weather, according to the narrative, is unrelated to climate as is, to use USA Today’s term, Mother Nature. If that makes the slightest bit of sense to you, it’s a safe bet you’re firmly bought into the climate-change narrative. And you’re probably a vegan, too. If so, God bless you.
I know Tommy’s still around because he recently worked for the construction company that employs my brother, Keith. I’d guess that if Tommy and I were young and crazy again, our response to all this climate fraud would be to drop some Orange Sunshine, go to Floyd’s house, listen to The Low Spark of High-Heeled Boys, and laugh our asses off at the first-world, globalist lunacy for which so many have fallen so far. When we left Floyd’s, we wouldn’t care if it were snowing or not.
If it were, we wouldn’t call it climate change. And we’d probably think bomb cyclone was a drug we hadn’t tried yet.
Originally Published on https://www.bizcatalyst360.com/category/lifecolumns/notes-to-self/
