Tomorrow is a new day, if we make it.

We are in the midst of the mid November Snow storm, an early variation of the polar vortex.  There was concern that this could be the end, so hauntingly depicted in the classic Doors so fittingly named The End;

"This is the end, beautiful friend,
This is the end, my only friend, the end
To our elaborate plans, the end,
To everything that stands, the end."

Thank you, Jim Morrison.

Local meteorologists were scrambling yesterday to find imagery raw, and terrifying enough to depict the coming apocalypse.  It was an afternoon spent warning people that we were in for a rough commute this morning, possibly heavy snow, and potentially, the end.

Stores were packed with combative, frightened shoppers, laying in supplies, bottled water, canned food, candles, batteries, ammunition (to shoot the roaming bands of looters, ravenous packs of timber wolves, and occasional polar bear), and bleach.  Why do they always buy bleach?  Some sort of bizarre need to keep whites white?  Nobody wants to face the end in a dingy, stained t-shirt.

This morning, stations were trampling all over the peaceful, virgin snow, each other, and poor slobs who just wanted to get to work, to bring you the latest, frightening video of snow falling, gently and lightly on a gas station parking lot somewhere south of town.  Local networks called every available reporter, and cameraman into work, for the "team coverage."  They were almost cruel in their capture and interrogation of motorists.

"What do you think of the snow, and driving to work in such hazardous, deadly conditions?"  The reporter asked, pointedly, accusingly, with a scornful, wicked smile.

"Well, people just need to slow down, you can't be in a big hurry."  The older gentleman, who looked as if he would never be in too big a hurry for anything, he was probably a grandfather, wearing a hand knitted stocking hat, and matching scarf, said softly, and politely, leaning into toward the microphone.  He probably did not want to inconvenience the reporter.

"So, you think slowing down, and being careful are enough to save us from the Snowpocalypse*?  Do you really think caution, and common sense will save us from this?"  The reporter asked savagely, with a sweeping, angry swing of his free hand to indicate the falling snow.  Since the older gentleman had moved closer to speak softly into the microphone the pronounced, emphatic arc of the reporters arm hit him right in the forehead and knocked him onto his back, in the new, wet, soft snow.

Thinking quickly, the dedicated journalist stepped over the prone, fallen older gentleman and interviewed someone who was coming out of the gas station with a two liter bottle of Mountain Dew, and a bag of powder sugar donuts.  He was "worried sick" about getting to work on time.  This made the reporter happy, and he patted the person on the back.

Of course, I could only watch so much, I had to get to work, and traffic was heavy, and slow, people were worried, and the freeway just inched along, but, I made it.   I hope you are safe, and warm, and somewhere with coffee, because I care about you, as a person.  Let me know if you had any problems, I will alert the stations.




* Snowpocalypse, much to my surprise, was not flagged as misspelled, neither was snownado.  It just struck me as odd.  Such is the evolution of English.