PISSING VINEGAR Vol. 14: Old Man Winter -- Welcome Back, You Cock Eating Fuck
Written January 14, 2002

Okay, here's the situation...

We all know him. The old man with all the "when I was young" stories. Could be a grandfather, great-uncle, or maybe even the elderly gentleman begging for your change outside your local liquor store. Whoever it may be, they've all got similar stories, which seem to bring truth to the myths of a time, long ago, when the earth was doomed by fifteen foot high snow drifts, ice pellets as big as a bull's nuts, and walks to and from school that were uphill both ways. Oh, and don't forget the part about making that trek in sock feet. I used to laugh at their senility. Crazy old bastards. But now I see the error of my ways for I, too, will share a "when I was young" story years from now, when I am panhandling for hooch.

I think it's the Army or Navy or something that once used the slogan, "It's not just a job. It's an adventure." And, let me tell you whippersnappers, that phrase rang true for me this morning. Me, of all people. A lowly radio broadcaster getting paid to hock the wares of local merchants and pop/rock icons. And, not to say that I make good money or anything... hell no! But I certainly more than earned my keep today. Shall I tell my tale? Grab some cocoa, sunshine, we're in for a yarn of monstrous proportions.

Unless you're not from New Brunswick, I shouldn't have to tell you how lucky we were all winter. A little snow here and there, a little freezing drizzle now and again, but no real storms to speak of. Well, you could say that Old Man Winter served up quite the bitchslap yesterday (Jan. 13). You could compare what happened to our poor province to the asshole that inevitably shows up at your party. Everything's going great, the booze flows freely, and spirits are high. However, in the back of everyone's minds, it's known that eventually it's all going to hell. That asshole is going to strut through the door, throw his leather jacket on the floor, grab a beer bottle, break it, threaten innocents at random, maybe tell the girl you're trying to ask out about that nasty case of the clap you had in high school, then chug a quart of tequila and puke all over your brand new shoes. Well, it was kinda like that. Snow -- lots of it -- and winds howling like a rabid wolf strung out on crack. I was on Miramichi's east side when it began, and by 7:00 that evening, it was apparent just how fucking nasty Old Bastard Winter could really be. It didn't stop us from heading to Ben's for a burger, but then, we hadn't been outside before making that decision. After the burger, I headed for the west side, where I would be staying the night. The normally ten-minute drive became a trial of body, mind and soul, as the winds blew that snow harder than the most hardcore porn you've ever seen. I couldn't see shit in front of me, guiding myself along by placing my trust (and my life) in the hands of the tire tracks ahead of me, visible about three inches in front of my headlights. I knew that if the person ahead of me had fucked up and driven into the river, I would surely be drowning in no time. Mercifully, though, my excellent driving skills were matched by my predecessor, and forty-five minutes later, I was safely at my destination.

Then I got the phone call. "Hey, Willie."
It was Quinn, my co-metalhead and partner in crime at work.
"I need a favour."
I knew exactly what was coming next. See, I originally had to report to work at noon, meaning I would no doubt be all dug out, and presented with a clear path to the radio station's doorstep. But the phone call was going to change all that. Quinn is our morning guy, and as such, goes on the air at 6am. The favour? I was to play Quinn, so to speak. How could I refuse though? The poor guy lives a 20-minute drive out of Miramichi on a good day, and how could one expect him to risk his ass making the journey in such a fierce storm? Especially since the station was a mere four-minute drive from where I was staying. I accepted, much to Quinn's gleeful exaltion. It was nearly 11pm. I was going to need sleep.

But it wasn't meant to be. I was staying at my ex's apartment, where our two children also live. And my youngest, Ryan, is 9 1/2 months old. But he's got my father's temper. And, by God, did he ever use it. Screaming and crying until nearly 2am, I was destined for hell in the morning. However, after three hours sleep, when I woke up at 5:15, I had a different point of view. See, I had worked storm days at the station before, and to tell the truth, it can be rather exciting. Sure, there's the endless stream of phone calls, 98% of them wondering if school has been cancelled or not (and no, it doesn't matter if a read it live on-air seconds before). But it beat the living shit out of being tired AND bored. So, honestly, I was kind of looking forward to it. The operative word is WAS.

I dressed myself nice and warm (translation: I added gloves and my Adidas touque to my wardrobe) and went to clean off my car. But what I saw when I got to the parking lot brought that idea crashing down with a loud, resounding thud. Come to think of it, that was probably my jaw hitting the snow. Snow? You bet your biscuits, Batman. Nearly 40 cm of it. For those of you unfamiliar with the metric system, that's... a shitload of snow. But that wasn't enough. Did I mention the winds? Well, they caused some pretty major drifting. What's major? How about drifts five feet high? No exaggeration whatsoever. Hell, you probably had drifts that high in your yard when you woke up this morning. But this was no yard. This was the street. And this was seriously fucking up my day. Trying to get a Hyundai Accent through that would be about as effective as a fruit fly fucking a sperm whale. Yes, kids, here it comes... I was going to have to walk.

Now, let's put it into perspective. I was a mere twenty minutes away from having to be live on the air. And, being a snow day, I was going to have to be on my toes. Those five foot high snow drifts really threw me a curve. But I am a professional, and I was going to be damned if I were to let something as small as the Storm of the Year get in the way of me and my work. So off I went, chest high in snow, with twenty minutes to work with.

Once I finished the 100 metre trek to the main street, some five minutes later, the road was mercifully drift-free, and all that was left was a ten-minute stroll down the street to my place of work. But nothing is easy, and getting to the station involved bracing 90 km/h wind gusts, snow blowing in my face, dodging snowplows and service trucks, and of course, the terrible inconvenience that is walking. But things were looking up. I was practically home free. Then, finally, the parking lot was in sight. And it hadn't been plowed. Bastards! One final kick in the nuts before I was safely on with my day. I had the sensation that Old Fuck Winter himself was watching me make that humiliating climb over the snowbank, and laughing with Old Fuck glee as I trudged those final steps in his frozen dandruff. But at least I was here... and at three minutes to six, no doubt! Take that, assfuck!

I was now free from the storm's shackles, able to remove my boots, dumping a boatload of snow onto the carpet, grab a Pepsi from the machine and get ready for the phone calls. And I knew that no matter how many concerned parents and students called... no matter how many assholes wanted to know if their favorite store was going to be open or not... no matter how many punkass motherfuckers called me to find out what the weather was going to be (don't you fucking people have radios?!)... no matter what the rest of the day would throw at me... I beat you, Old Fart Winter. I fucking beat you. You tried to strike me down, just like you tried on December 6, 1994, when myself and a fellow Jamily member hitchhiked from Woodstock to Fredericton to pick up our copies of Vitalogy, only to be practically stranded on the Trans-Canada Highway late at night, in -40 windchills, that wind blowing so cold I literally pondered laying in a snowbank and letting you just fucking take me out. Well, my spirit prevailed then. I was going to listen to that fucking CD, and there wasn't a goddamn thing you could do about it. And my spirit has prevailed once more. Mind you, it's for nothing close to the value of a quality Pearl Jam album... just the knowledge that I am the most dedicated, resilient, and hard working motherfucker in radio... but the fact remains that I have yet again punked you out, winter. Now fuck off, I have to dig my car out of the parking lot. And, oh yeah... try to take me out again and I'm moving to Africa, biatch.