Dire news coverage, check. Mad dash for supplies, double-check. One to three inches of snow may or may not hit Charlotte tonight, and the town is abuzz with chatter. I’ve even heard talk of “thundersnow,” which may either be a natural phenomenon or a lost teevee series from the ’80s. With temperatures in the high 50s this weekend, though, both snow and ice are bound for the gutter. But the excitement’s there, you know? It’s my civic duty to share in it.
I stopped by Target on my way home from work for floss–along with a multitool, shotgun shells, and flares, of course–and it was bustling. Normally, there is an odd run on items like milk and eggs during the pre-storm frenzy–all the perishables a blizzard survivor would need, obviously, to cultivate the finest mold in the aftermath. Out of pure curiosity, I stopped by the dairy section to find it fairly well-stocked, which briefly restored my faith until I drove home in the pouring rain. There, on a side street, my headlights caught a generous patch of salt, ostensibly there to season the rainwater before it hit the storm drain.
There was one genuine casualty: my umbrella. I’ve wielded this thing for years now, a relic borne from Chicago to live out its days in my driver’s side door compartment. Automatic and compact, it bore the full brunt of a gust of wind, twisting in jarring directions. Thundersnow, be thou appeased. It’s an end of an era, truly. I bought the umbrella from Sharper Image. You remember that place? It was a fixture in fancier malls, brightly lit storefronts filled with all manner of gadgets seemingly on display for people to touch, but seldom to buy. There would always be a plush massage chair, too, the crown jewel of the establishment and throne to ten-thousand butts.
With flu season in high gear, I had resolved to lock it down this weekend and honor a strict regimen of social distancing to stay well. The forecast, however, quickly dismantled this plan, with reports of unseasonably warm weather in the 75-degree range. It was a limited-time offer I simply couldn’t ignore, so I threw a few essentials into a backpack, drove up the mountains, and went hiking. Made a day of it. I’m just fuckin’ with you. They haven’t released Hiking: The Experience on Xbox just yet, after all. No, I felt the warm weather when sunlight collided with my skin during the brief walk from the car to the cineplex.
It’s been a while since I’ve gone to the theater, and I figured I’d mark my triumphant return with a suitably epic matinee showing of The Hobbit in 3D HFR. Clearly my judgment was imparied. The HFR effect was grating, the pacing was interminable, but most of all, the magic was gone. The original trilogy entranced. This flick asked to be endured. I don’t know if I can watch another high-angled camera shot rotating around a hill, you know? And the most uncanny use of 3D happened, strangely enough, prior to the film in a Coke commercial. The frosty bottle was, like, right there, saying, “Drink me! Drink me, even though you look like a toolbag with those shades on.”
Call it $14.50 that went right down the recycling chute, along with my RealD glasses. Since we’re on the topic of questionable uses of money, I ordered five boxes of Girl Scout Cookies today, which is a record. It’s an annual ritual I find completely insidious, but perhaps my change of heart today was a kind of penance. A few years ago, I swore like a sailor in front of a Girl Scout while her father stood by, aghast. It was horrible, possibly more so than The Hobbit. I wasn’t swearing at either of them, to be clear, so much as an unfortunate chain of events that unfolded as soon as the front door opened. There were a few standard “fucks” and “shits,” followed by more exotic permutations with “goddamn” thrown into the mix. There may even have been a “shitfuck”! I can’t remember. I’ve tried to forget. Yeah, collecting that one box was pretty awkward. I hope she got a badge for that.
You’d think my tardiness would have set me on the straight and narrow, buying at least a few mornings of contrite 8 AM to 8:30 AM arrival times at the office, but no! No. Sure, I made up the two hours I lost–that same evening, in fact–and then promptly returned to my normal schedule, which calls for pulling into the parking garage around 9-ish. The spirit is willing, but the flesh is weak. Actually, no. Neither the spirit nor the flesh are willing, in this case.
I’ve clocked about two weeks on my Slim now, and it’s every bit as wretched as I described. It’s a $25 pledge in a $3 product, all told. Oh, it’s thinner than my previous wallet, to the point where I occasionally wonder if I lost it, even though it’s right there in my pocket. But half of the “X” is fraying a little bit already, though, as are the edges. I don’t think it’s going to last the year, frankly.
It’s all the more mystifying why I’ve placed a bet on yet another wallet. Second time’s a charm, right? There’s just something alluring about Kickstarter, that clearinghouse for promises. “Crowdfunding” is the generous term for this phenomenon. I think of it more as online busking, where you have artisan after artisan pouring their dreams to you in illustrated listings. I may be funding the showmanship more than the actual product. I’m four projects in now. $250 in the pot. Craftsman! Weave me some enchantment, so I may lavish upon you coin.