LIVING IN THE ICE AGE

Last night, Virginia Beach was plastered with a full two inches of the white 'n' powdery stuff. This change in the weather was enough for today's cancellation of schools, sporting events, and, quite possibly, the first known local appearance of Frankie Goes To Hollywood. FRANKIE SAY: SHOW UP DRESSED IN A FULL-BODY CONDOM IF YOU WANT TO SHAKE OUR HANDS! Uh...think I'll relax in the protective comfort of my own pleasure dome and watch two tribes (Yao Ming vs. Radio Shackquille O' Neal) go to war on the idiot box.

With all of the closings, however, my second home (AKA Kempsville Library) still laid out a welcome mat for snow-covered Cross Trekkers. The problem was wondering how to negotiate the trip. The explorer in me pondered hiking in temperatures ranging from damn cold to 35 degrees. Sir Edmund Hillary I'm not; 200 yards of whispering wind made me backpedal to base camp longing for a Swiss Miss cocoa kiss. My Chrysler sedan was draped with a thick coating of snow-ice on each window. The driver and passenger side doors were frozen shut, thus I 86'd the down-set-hike and down-set-drive.

Back inside, I sat down with two sausage sandwiches minus cheese (the pork bites were maple-flavored) and the entertainment section of The Virginian-Pilot. Page E3 gave me a refresher course on urban terminology - who knew that "jiggy" and "talk to the hand" were out...I still bid people good days with "Audi 5000." In the Two/Double-Oh/Three, "ghetto sled" is a car that's a piece of junk. "Come out your face" means to show your hidden emotions. "Don't wet that" is a substitute for the outdated "chill out." "Piece" used to mean a gun; now it refers to a cell phone. "A-G" is a shortened form of aggravated or upset. "Berry" translates to police car, due to the look of flashing lights. "Flossin'" is to show off. "E.I." is a term coined by St. Louis rapper Nelly for "bring it on." After thirty minutes of not wetting that in the crib, I dialed Moms on my piece and asked her about the road conditions. Sensing I was A-G due to cabin fever, Momma told me not to come out my face and suggested that I scrape the stickiness off my ghetto sled. She E.I.-ed me helpful hints regarding not flossin' and dealing with berries. Word up, Cameo!

Lacking an ice-scraping instrument, I MacGyvered around for an alternate tool. Hidden amongst leaves and slush were five decent slices of cardboard. With a dense paper product in each hand, I maneuvered in quick Daniel-sun, wax-on-wax-off motion. This glacial kata took less than ten minutes before Arlo came outta my radio asking a listener, "What you wanna hear, buddy?" The caller chose Focus' "Hocus Pocus." A fine instrumental from this one-hit-wonder Dutch outfit (take Cheap Trick's "Hello There," remove the vocals, build on the riff, add more drumming, insert Looney Tunes-like sound effects, and...Presto!), "Hocus Pocus" had been a favorite of one former co-worker named April. She has since disappeared. The fuel gauge flashed "E," so I pulled into Centerville Texaco. Until today, I hadn't noticed tables inside the food mart. WOW! "Gas, Food,
Lodging II": Gunther fills his tank with six dollars on pump #11, eats three hot dogs and two Krispy Kremes, and sleeps in the bathroom! Special appearance by J. Mascis as the guy who does nothing!

Making tracks along Kempsville Road, the New Yorker's speedometer maintained a steady 35 MPH (10 miles under posted limits) pace. No way I was going to hit a patch of black ice and damage my vehicle. Cars piloted by grammas and granpas were passing me repeatedly on the roadway. Green stoplights running in my favor, I entered the library's parking lot at the police station's entrance. A berry followed closely behind, but only my face (I'd forgotten to shave) was in violation. Finding a spot with little snowy residue, I prepared for the warmth of keystrokes. But Arlo dang did it to me again: The Ozark Mountain Daredevils (which would, to paraphrase Dave Barry, be a pretty good name for a band if it didn't exist already) piped in with their semi-lost classic-rock nugget known as "Jackie Blue" (Imagine a smooth Southern rock jam a la Atlanta Rhythm Section sung by a hard-to-figure-out-his-or-her-gender vocalist with Todd Rundgren-type production values). Whether I'm in a public place or in my car, I will freeze for a good song. Gordon Lightfoot, appropriately, from the Great White North, once forced me to spend another buck at the Dollar Tree when "Rainy Day People" poured through its radio network. Greg Kihn, from a place known for its cold summers (San Fran), gave me the shivers inside Zero's Subs with his songwriting lament "The Break-Up Song."

Nothing holding and nothing fitting, I walked into the cold with no smile on my lips. But I'm happy to have met you. Your warmness gives me the chills. Thawed and frozen inside the Kempsville Library...