Foto by tgw, "Evening Snowstorm," New York City, December 2009
"Bring It On"
Listening to the creationist scientist explaining how the Grand Canyon wasn't billions of years old. "Hah-hah-hah," he chortled as his eyes sparked up with God science, "you see, check this out, when Mount Saint Helens devilish power was released by Satan on that day way back in time, not that long in God's time--1000 years=1 year--or some say, 1000 years=1 hour--but who knows except God and he knows 'cause it says so here in this here Bible I'm holding here in my God-fearin' hand. And look here at this picture. You see that. That's the aftermath of Mount Saint Helens erupting...erupting, Hell, Praise the Lordy Lord...you see that canyon there? That canyon is in ratio-speaking terms just as deep as the Grand Canyon, Praise the Lard and His Holy Platter of Good Ole Hot-buttered Groat Clusters. In fact, the National Geophysical Society has dubbed this 'the Little Grand Canyon,' a name I gave this in a scientific article I wrote. You see this Little Grand Canyon? That was created in a matter of seconds. In fact, film of the eruption shows it only took about 55 seconds for that Little Grand Canyon to be created, Praise the Mighty Bucket of Holy Lard." I, thegrowlingwolf, spoof, of course, dear friends, but it is the jest of what this Christian jester was jingle-belling out as scientific fact. He continued, "...and now these oh-so-high-and-mighty men of so-called science, Darwinian deviltry, say it took billions of years for the Grand Canyon to be created. But I just showed you how a Little Grand Canyon was created in 55 seconds. Take that, ye unholy heathen scientists who base your findings on earthly facts; yet we creationists see God's holy facts...."
I suffered delightfully through this creationist's palaver--and I pause right here to say, I'm like Sherlock Holmes when it comes to storing facts in my brain's attic--Sherlock said it wasn't important to him to know whether the earth was round or flat--and I say it's not important for me to know whether the Grand Canyon is only 55 seconds old or 50 billion years old--what does that matter to me? Whatever the age of the Grand Canyon, there is still no God, there is no Yahweh, Jehovah, Allah, I Ching, Cargo, Tao, Buddha, Dalai Lama, Messiah, Boogerman--so who cares about the age of the Grand Canyon? Or who cares that a meteor once came ashore from the seas of space with a devastating bang to create our own Great Basin--and, yes, that only took a matter of seconds I'm scientifically sure.
And right after the God-fact-chocked creationist scientist had used up his paid-for air time, a weather bulletin came on. "A blizzard warning is in effect...." I usually don't pay any attention to our weather channel weather clones--but atop this blizzard warning ran a crawl that said "New York City under blizzard warning beginning at 6 pm and running through the day Sunday. Winds up to 30 miles per hour will cause blizzard conditions with a possible 11 to 17 inches of snow...." Whoaaaaaaa, that stopped my stampeding mind in its tracks. Seventeen inches of snow being dumped on Manhattan. Being dumped on me.
And just now the blizzard alertists are predicting a chance of maybe 22 inches of snow by Monday morning--that's nearly 2 feet of snow. The last time that much snow fell on Manhattan was way back in the 1980s when I was trying to make it with a knock-out beautiful Italian editor and theater reviewer who lived in the Heights in Brooklyn. It was a February afternoon and after work I boogied over to this woman's apartment bearing a gift and some wine and expecting some scintillating lovemaking on the big bear-like rug she had in front of her working fireplace. And, yes, it started on the bear-like rug and then continued up in her loft bed. And in the middle of the night I got the heebie-jeebies and suddenly wanted to be home and in my own bed. I shivered and flopped-around awake until the morning--and we got up and she was making coffee in just her panties and I was looking at her and suddenly not being turned on by her--and fickle bastard that I was--I suddenly up and decided I had to fly her coop. "Have you looked out the window," she said bringing me a cup of coffee. As she walked toward me her breasts were quivering in time with her footsteps, lolling nicely--but I resisted and turned and went to her front window. Wow. The front steps and the front sidewalk were gone--blanked out by a startling white tarpaulin of snow--even the street was gone...and the cars parked along the street were buried. Snow was everywhere. Pillowed in places. Blown into a barrier in other places. Everywhere. Clinging thickly to the trees--banked up high against the buildings's stoops. It had stopped snowing. In fact, the sky seemed to be clearing enough that some sun was coming through. "That's no hill for a stepper," I bragged, and turned to prepare to go out in the snow and head for the Court Street subway station--the F train back to my midtown Manhattan eerie.
She blocked my path by pushing herself up against me. "Come on. Build another fire and let's have breakfast." She was built and those breasts felt so good pushing against my chest and it was so easy to accept her invitation for a kiss.... By the time in a pool of sweat she rolled out from under me and ran for the bathroom I was again ready to venture forth into that lusciously white powdery snow. I wanted to be home so bad. I jumped up and sweaty and smelly I put on my jeans and shirt and sweater and when she came naked out of the bathroom I was putting on my socks and shoes. "You bastard. What's this, 'wham-bam-thank-you-mam'? Hell, you haven't even thanked me...." "Hey, I'm sorry...er-ah, I...ah...hell, I'm worried about my ceiling leaking under all this snow. You know my ceiling leaks when it snows heavy like this." "Fuck you, Wolfie. Go on and get the fuck out of here. And here, take your fucking gift back...." I didn't even try to make amends. Soon I was trudging (and I mean trudging, too) through this thick-deep crunchy snow, the bottoms of my jeans getting soaked, my jacket and my sweater not enough to keep the cold wind from penetrating their layers to chill me to the bone. At the subway station I soon saw the sign, "All trains to Manhattan are delayed." Three hours later I came up out of the 34th Street midtown Manhattan subway station and it was like Manhattan had been transported to the middle of Antarctica. There was absolutely no motor vehicles on the streets. Coming up Broadway toward me was a man on skis. None of the sidewalks had been cleared. The streets were solid snow from curb to curb up and over the curbs and the sidewalks to bank against the building fronts.
Finally I was home and contented. I sat and looked out my window at all the snow snowcapping all the numbers of water tanks I can see--and snowbounding roofs--and soon the sun flared full force out of the open-clearing sky and I raised the window and took a long deep breath of the final wafts of cold snowy air as the sun began to do its best to exterminate that lovely snow. By the next day the snowplows were barrel-assing around town clearing the streets, plowing the snow up 6-feet-high in the gutters--burying cars--locking us in until our doormen could shovel our sidewalks clean--that snow lingered in unmelted form piled up in our gutters for a week longer--and then as it melted it formed rivers of cold icy water where once the snow was piled to mountain-peak heights.
And as I raise up from typing on this...I glance out my window...and lo and behold, it is snowing.
There is no wind. The snow is fluttering down.
And there it is. The snow arriving in New York City...an exclusive photograph delivered to us via myself by sticking my old Toshiba digital out the window and letting it reflect back what it found--and it found snow...
And I have a lunch date with the owner's son of my fav Irish pub...they're cooking already...and I'm getting hungry...so I'm snowbound there...an answer to my prayer.
for The Daily Growler
On a Frostly Snowly Dawn
by Elmer Snowedin, The Daily Growler Poet Laureate
Snooding, grumpy, porcupinish Lum limping sledlike
to plough towards his fainting light, that held high by his
crying wife on a porch that is swaying as the snow dumps
itself blindingly between the man who'd gone a'fore and now
is coming back the vision of a holy ghost
on a snowy white apparitional steed unleashed from
God's open refrigerator door...yes, there is a light in Heaven.
[Mr. Ed: How the hell did this guy get to be our poet laureate, though, on second thought, he fits just fine...I'm all choked up...this is the one-horse-open sleigh season for me.]