Chicago weather can fuck off and die. I don’t care about your weather–it isn’t as bad as ours. Except Minneapolis, 6 inches of snow on April 11th is poop. 40 goddamned degrees on April 12th. Rain. Rain all Martha Focking week (if you recognize that Meet the Parents reference, you rock). Rain all next fucking week. High of 46 on April 16th. Temperatures soar to a high of 48 on April 17th. I guess we get to play a little “just the tip, see how it feels” on Sunday with a 66 print, but it’s gonna be cloudy. Big mean looking cloud just staring you right in the tits for Sunday on the iPhone weather app. I actually considered throwing my iPhone into the Chicago River two days ago as furious, malevolent and cold rain pissed down upon me from a God-forsaken sky in torrents. After a moment of consideration I realized that this wasn’t the iPhone’s fault. It is Steve Jobs’ fault, but he is no longer here to feel my wrath. And here is the goddamned thing: This is going to continue for another 6-8 weeks. No spring here in the Windy City. Nosirfuckingree. 47 and rain one day gives way to 93 and humid the following. Just a giant shit sandwich and we all have to take a bite. Get in there, get in that sandwich and getcha a nice big chunk of shit, boy. You become this time of year, much like the weather; mean, gray, bitter and joyless.
“How ya doing Paul?”
“Freezing my nards off Larry, yourself?”
“Fuck you for asking.”
“Yeah, you go fuck yourself too.”
And so it goes. My neighbor Rob is my hero this time of year. You’ll see him on an evening such as this, outside with his kids in a pair of shorts and a tee-shirt. The wind whipping daggers of rain into his face at 43 degrees. Each year when I make reference to the fact that quite realistically he is at risk of hypothermia he defiantly responds, “It is spring, I put my winter clothes away. There is no turning back.” I wish I had Rob’s spirit and positive attitude. I do not. I’m one of those cold, cruel souls of whom Teddy Roosevelt spoke. In some ways spring is worse than winter here. At least in winter your body and your spirit know that it is time to be miserable–thus easier to adapt. Spring is but a mean-spirited dick tease who teases merely for sport and no personal gain. Your soul knows that pleasant weather is on the schedule but alas never shows. You wait each year like the little girl after soccer practice who knows that her single mother is at the bar in the middle of one of a litany of tail-for-vicodin negotiations, thinking this time might be the time she shows up before coach has to leave to go home to his own family, when only the onslaught of brisk rain announces that she must make her way alone powered by her own feet, a Gino’s Pizza Rolls dinner the only warmth she’ll experience this night. It’s a lovely evening. Get out there and enjoy the weather while it lasts–it will be gone by late June.