It’s been usually cold here in Tennessee. It’s been unusually cold in much of the country (see the video below), and in Europe as well. Naturally, the global-warming fanatics can’t bring themselves to admit that we’re seeing a cooling trend. Riiiight … three years in a row of record-breaking cold is just an anomaly, and never mind that Al Gore’s beloved computer models didn’t predict any of this. Frankly, I’m pretty sure nothing could convince them to give up their quasi-religion. Temperatures could drop for the next 20 years, and they’d still be insisting the planet has a fever and calling for more cap-and-tax schemes — especially Gore, since he’s set himself up to make millions from carbon credits.
After a decade in Los Angeles, I’m enjoying experiencing a winter that feels like winter. We’re even supposed to get up to three inches of snow tonight. My daughters are so excited, they had a difficult time going to sleep. Alana, my four-year-old, has already announced that she plans to build a snowman, have a snowball fight, build a snow fort and go ice skating, all in one day.
I think it would be more amusing just to drive around (carefully, of course) and see how the other drivers handle the snow. It probably wouldn’t be as much fun as in previous decades; too many people have moved here from other parts of the country, including the snow states. When my friend Bob moved here 25 years, he called me the first time it snowed — a wee little bit — to tell me he saw people abandon their cars and walk home. They couldn’t handle the pressure.
Some people can’t even handle the pressure of riding in the snow. About 15 years ago, I drove across North Dakota and Minnesota on a comedy tour, sharing my car with a young comedian from Seattle. Snow was a foreign substance to him. We had to drive through snow several times, usually on two-lane roads that hadn’t been plowed, and every time the wheels lost traction for a nanosecond or so, he gasped and grabbed the dashboard with both hands.
When it was no longer amusing, I finally said, “Lonnie, I’ve been driving in this stuff for 20 years. I’m not going to spin out. And look out the window, for chrissakes … there’s nothing for us to hit.” Then, since he seemed far too young for a heart attack, I jerked the wheel and fishtailed a bit on purpose, just for fun.
Not that winters have always been fun for me. Perhaps it was karma getting back at me for scaring Lonnie when, two winters later, my normally-reliable Toyota Camry started to die on me one night as I was heading to a gig in Green Bay, with the temperate on its way to -45 degrees. Yes, you read that correctly … 45 degrees below zero. I’d like to say the weather surprised me, but it didn’t — I had checked the forecast before driving up from Chicago. In fact, I called the club owner and urged him to cancel. He said, “Don’t worry about it. People up here are used to cold weather. They’ll still come out.” Stupidly ignoring my better judgment, I made the trip.
About 10 miles from the hotel, my interior lights started to dim. I began pleading with the car, calling it pet names, promising it all the oil and gas it could drink if it would just get me to the hotel. The lights continued growing dimmer, both inside and outside. I could barely see where I was driving. It occurred to me that people die in these circumstances. This was before cell phones, and there wouldn’t be much chance of flagging down a passing motorist — only idiots and comedians drive in -45 degree weather.
The car began to shudder and shake and finally quit on me four blocks from the hotel. I zipped my parka all the way up to my nose to form a peephole, grabbed my suitcase, and began running. By the time I reached the hotel doors, my shivers had degenerated into near-convulsions. I had to blink several times per second to keep my contacts from freezing.
I called the club owner and told him I needed a ride. He sent an employee to pick me up. When the show began, there were nine people in the club, playing pool in the bar. None of them had a ticket for the show, but the club owner said they could stick around and watch for free. Four of them wisely declined, saying they wanted to leave before their engine blocks froze. So I performed for five people.
On the local TV news that night, a reporter showed that he could toss a glass of water into the air and it would land as chunks of ice. The hotel had the heat all the way up, so it was several degrees above freezing in my room. I slept in my clothes, with both a sweater and a sweatshirt. I still woke up shivering.
The next day I called to have my car towed to a local garage. The mechanic told me it would be at least Tuesday before he could even look at it — there were dozens of dead cars ahead of mine. Lovely. The club would only cover the hotel for the two nights I was performing, so I would be paying for two or three nights from my own pocket. Meanwhile, it warmed up a few degrees, so we had nearly a dozen people attend the Saturday-night show.
My car wasn’t brought back to life until Wednesday. The damage was about $350, wiping out most of my paycheck from the club. The extra hotel bill wiped out the rest. I spent three days shivering in my room, watching TV and reading books. At mealtimes, I ran back and forth to a diner a few blocks away. The food was mediocre. I didn’t care.
A couple of weeks after I returned to Chicago, I received a notice from my bank — the club’s check had bounced. I tried to call the club, but the number wasn’t in service. They were out of business. Between the car repair, the hotel bill, gas, and the days away from my hourly-wage job, I figured it cost me about $1,000 to perform two shows for fewer than 20 people.
Now that’s cold.
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