Confessions Of A Blizzard Junkie

       I’m writing this from the Holiday Inn in Salem, New Hampshire. What am I doing up here? Simple. I’m an addict. And this is where my fix is.
        No. I’m not chasing the dragon. I’m chasing the storm. Hi. My name is Clint. And I’m a blizzard junkie.
        Admittedly, this is an peculiar addiction. There aren’t any meetings for it, anywhere. I’ve never met another member, and I’ve never even heard anybody else cop to it. Even the twelve steps are inapplicable.
        But this is an addiction. And I hope I never kick.
        Like every kid, as a boy I found the snow to be absolutely magical. Most people lose their fascination and excitement for the snow as they get older. Not me. My wonder and passion for it has actually deepened.
        I understand why people don’t like snow storms. They’re another disruptive element in an already hectic life. They screw up plans, throw a wrench in the schedule, take up precious time, and often have detrimental financial implications.
        There are a million reasons to hate the snow. And only one reason to love it. But that one reason, well it’s a whopper.
        The snow changes my experience of life.
        Whenever it snows, I experience life on a whole new continuum. It’s like being on a different planet, or existing in some strange fantastic parallel universe. Everything looks different. Sounds different. Smells different. Feels different. Both physically and metaphysically, the landscape is radically altered.
        Whenever it’s snowing, I’m certifiably happy and positively joyous. All because of some white stuff that falls from the sky. Tell me that’s not magic.
        This latest run to inject snow into my life was a rather impulsive decision. Although I contemplated chasing this storm for a few days, the actual decision to get up and do it was made on the spur of the moment. Cape Cod had just received a healthy dose of some premium product on Friday. I figured that I’d be satiated. But when I woke up on Sunday, and the forecast was rain, I started jonesing. I could feel the gremlin on my shoulder saying “Just a few short hours away, there’s a winter wonderland. You have to be in Boston on Monday anyway. Go on. Do it.” Within moments of hearing that voice, it was Gee-Oh. Game Over. I was gone within an hour.
        I realize that this sojourn into white may seem totally ludicrous to most. And I’m well aware of how illogical it is. But thankfully, I don’t base every decision on logic.
        Is storm chasing an efficient use of resources? Nope. Is it certifiably crazy? Maybe. Is it inspired action? Oh Yeah, Baby. And whenever I live from inspired action, I’m lead to life’s treasures. One way or another.
        I like to think of myself as a big picture sort of person. And the big picture is that whatever I could have gotten done by staying home can get done another day. It’s still going to be there. But the snow storm is ethereal. Transient. Weather Witchcraft. Like lightning in a bottle. To catch it, I have to operate from a sacred place. From an artist’s place. Where imagination is more important than knowledge. Where my heart and soul lead my mind and body. Where inspired action is far more valuable than reason or logic.
        So I chased the storm and entered my whimsical world once more. I’ve been here all day. I never regret doing that. Especially this time of year.
        Snow. The other white drug. Want a hit?

©2008 Clint Piatelli. All Rights (and a snow storm worth of Wrongs) Reserved

Mall Mayhem Day

       Tomorrow, Friday, December 5, is a very special day. For twenty years, a few friends and I have honored the first Friday of December as faithfully and festively as the pagans honored the winter solstice. Indeed, part of the definition of “pagans” reads as follows: “ones who delight in sensual pleasures and material goods; hedonistic”. And that’s a rather apt description of how we’ll behave.
        Tomorrow, we’ll descend upon countless retail shops to sample, enjoy, and purchase their wares, feeding the material beast. We’ll clandestinely indulge in the mind bending consumption of alcohol. We’ll carry on and frolic about in a suburban holiday fantasy play land. Tomorrow, the first Friday of December, is Mall Mayhem Day.
        Since the late 1980’s, virtually every major mall in Eastern Massachusetts, New Hampshire, and Rhode Island has been sacked by our merry band of holiday revelers. Fueled by deep friendship, holiday spirit, and a water bottle full of Sambuca, we immerse ourselves into the land of Christmas make believe. And we shop. Inevitably, we end up buying as much for ourselves as we do for anybody else. But that’s part of the fun. Picking out things for yourself with friends around makes the gift...more festive. More communal. More memorable. Virtually every gift I have ever purchased on Mall Mayhem Day comes with a story. And with a memory of who I was with when I bought it. That makes the gift very special to me. Because while the gift may be the physical manifestation of the experience, the experience itself is worth infinitely more to me than whatever I bought.
        Mall Mayhem Day is not a foray into what some would describe as a decayed suburban wasteland. It’s a chance to get together, for a WHOLE DAY, with people I love and who’s company I feel blessed by. It’s a day of festivity and fun, as we create new experiences and new memories. It’s an opportunity to totally immerse oneself in the holiday spirit. With over the top decorations, Christmas music, bright lights, shiny things, and yes, Santa Claus. It’s one of the few days of the year that I would ever dream of having a belt by 11 AM. And I end up with some new stuff as well. What’s not to love?
        This year, we’re returning to the Natick Mall, in Natick, Massachusetts. The new part of the mall, the part that houses stores like Needless Markup and Sex Fifth Avenue, is called the Natick Collection. I suppose they felt as though they had to differentiate the stores that charge $400 for a shirt from the stores that sell the same shirt for $39.95. If your store is part of the “Collection”, and not the “mall”, the cache justifies the absurd price differential. It doesn’t matter, though, because we have fun no matter what store we’re in. Or what store we get kicked out of.
        Shopping with friends on Mall Mayhem Day is a luxury that I am fortunate to enjoy, especially these days. As much fun as it is (and man, is it fun), it is also a day in which I experience profound gratitude. I’m grateful that I have such wonderful friends to spend time with. Grateful that I have the flexibility to take that day and do exactly what I please. Grateful that I enjoy this time of year, when so many do not. Mall Mayhem Day is one of those days that honestly reminds me of how blessed I really am. Another reason I love it.
        Now dude, please pass the "water". I thirst.

©2008 Clint Piatelli. All Rights (and a mall full of Wrongs) Reserved.

The Sobchak Channel

       This is just a quick observation, because I want to post something today, but I haven’t had time to edit any of the two dozen pieces that need it before being published.
        I saw a show in the History Channel last night called “The Brain”. I like the History Channel, but there’s a big problem with it. Their programs always seems to find a way to relate to war. They should just call it “The War Channel”. Their message seems to say that history and war are synonymous.
        They find a military angle to everything. I think I remember watching a show about fall foliage in New England, and they found a way to reference the battle of the bulge. Sometimes watching the History Channel is like listening to Walter Sobchak in The Big Lebowski. On second thought, maybe they should call it “The Sobchak Channel”.

©2008 Clint Piatelli. All Rights (and Wrongs) Reserved

Mind Crisis

        Bringing down the recyclables this morning, two women walked by me and said hello. I said hello back, and one of them slowed down. Maybe the screaming florescent lime green sweat pants I was wearing emboldened her to ask “Do you live in this purple house?”. “Sure do” I replied. By this time her friend had stopped as well and smiled at me. I smiled back. There was a friendly, immediate sense of ease between the three of us, the kind you often get when you see people just after sunrise. That feeling that the whole world belongs to you at that early hour of the day fosters an instant, impermanent bond. The first woman then said “Can I ask you a question?”. I replied “You already have, but you can ask another one”. All three of us laughed. She continued, “Were you in an eighties hair band or something?”.
        The rumor that has persisted around my little town is that I was a drummer in an eighties hair band, went a little crazy, bought this house, and painted it purple. Well who the hell am I to get in the way of a good rumor? I don’t go around propagating this nonsense, but I’ve never actively dissuaded it either. And I wasn’t going to start now. It’s a great story, a harmless bit of misinformation, and lots of fun to play with.
        So I said to the women “Yes, I was. I was in a band called Mind Crisis.” Sometimes I’ll say that I was a member of “Whitesnake” if I’m approached by people who look like they know something about heavy metal. This is because Whitesnake is a real band, and they’ve had lots of drummers. And very few people know who those drummers were. I do, and now you will too: Ian Paice, Cozy Powell, Ansley Dunbar, Tommy Aldridge, and Denny Carmassi. All incredible players. My only twinge of guilt when I bullshit about this is that I am absolutely not worthy of being mentioned in the same sentence as those monsters. But if I ever met one of them, I think they would find the whole story amusing and forgive my indiscretion.
        I’m aware that this may all appear hypocritical. After all, I’m pontificating about the values of being yourself, and here I am pretty much lying about who I am. That’s one way to look at it, and not necessarily wrong. But I make this distinction: sometimes being myself means playing a part, just for a little while, just for fun. I’m not kidding myself, and all I’m gaining is a good story. I would never manipulate somebody into believing this tripe in order to get something. And if I got to know these women at all, I would ‘fess up to this little charade as soon the joke had run it’s course.
        Anyway, I went with “Mind Crisis” because that’s a fictitious band that sounds like a hair band from the eighties. The woman nodded and said “Oh wow.” Probably because we had developed a rapport, she blurted out “Why did you paint your house purple?”. I get this a lot, and my response is always the same. Without skipping a beat I said “For the only reason that matters when it comes to what color to paint your house. Because I wanted to.” No jesting there. That’s as authentic as it gets. She looked at me, wearing these florescent lime green sweat pants, standing in front of a purple house, laughed, and said with no malice in her voice whatsoever “That’s not what we heard!” I replied, smiling from ear to ear, “I know what you heard.” She laughed even harder.
        Sometimes my life is a lot of fun.

 © 2008 Clint Piatelli. All Rights (and Wrongs) Reserved

Cycle Chant

       Recently, I took up chanting. Whilst riding my bike. Whenever I pass a fellow exerciser, even though I’m chanting, I smile and wave. This induces a bewildered look from most people. The audio-visual dynamic of a man chanting while cycling as he waves at you is probably a little strange. Maybe people aren't used to a guy on a bike being friendly. Or chanting. Or both.
        For some reason, cyclist, the kind who dress like they’re doing the Tour de France through your neighborhood, can come off as the unfriendliest exercisers ever to break a sweat. “Unfriendly Cyclist Syndrome”, or U.C.S., afflicts thousands of people around the country, especially in affluent areas like mine. Cyclists with U.C.S. rarely acknowledge any sort of greeting. They don’t even grunt at you. Why the attitude? Is this because they’re in “The Zone” and can’t come out of it? Are they resentful of people who drive and take that out on everybody, even pedestrians? This is not a rhetorical question. Any avid cyclists out there who can help me with this, please respond. I want to understand.
        Cyclist rarely smile at me when I’m riding because they probably think I’m completely bastardizing the sport by combining chanting with bike riding. Or maybe it’s because I never wear a helmet. Ever. I hate the damn things. Yes, a helmet could save my life if I fell. Yes, it’s foolish not to wear one. So I’m a fool. A dangerous fool. I’m okay with that.
        Chanting as I cycle gets me my cardio while I practice a spiritual pursuit. Eventually, I want the chanting to help me quiet my mind, which is one of it’s benefits. I haven’t gotten there yet.
        Maybe when I do, I’ll become one of those Unfriendly Cyclist because I’ll be in a place where I don’t know there’s anybody else on the planet, never mind somebody coming the other way waving at me. If that’s the case, I’d better get a helmet as well. Because if I’m that out of it, my chances of being hit by a car increase from unlikely to unavoidable.
        No. I can’t accept that. I trust that, when I get to the point where the chanting quiets my mind while I’m biking, I’ll still be aware enough to be friendly and appropriately alert. That has to be way. Because I’m always going to smile and wave. And I’m not wearing a helmet.

© 2008 Clint Piatelli. All Rights (and a cataclysmic amount of Wrongs) Reserved