:: Climate controlled ::
Thursday, March 06, 2003
Wow, this weather is sweet. It's so cool how it was really, really, cold and then, right at the first hint of calescence, it started to snow again.
I've got an idea that would help: let's forgo this whole 'weather' thing. There would just be a box, 50 feet long x 50 feet wide x 20 feet high, with a bunch of people and halogen lights. One guy would be wearing a denim jacket, and there would be a little private partitioned area off to the side where you could play checkers. There'd be Sal from Brooklyn, Dewey from Mississippi, and Nyamsuren from Mongolia (whose name roughly translates to 'Saturday Power') amongst others. All the members of this rag-tag ensemble would seem aggravating at first, but they'd grow to be far more endearing that you would have first anticipated.
Capitulation to the elements would not be tolerated. If anyone allowed a drop of rain to fall, or even a gust of wind to kick up, they would be ejected from the box and replaced via in vitro gestation with a 'team player'. Deviating from our initial state of solidarity is what got us to this point, and only a stalwart, unified front can unshackle us from indentured servitude to this cruel tormentor.
There would be a drinking fountain in the box, but only for drinking - not precipitation.
Every night, we'd dim the lights, and sit around and ceremoniously discuss life without weather. We'd revel in our utter dominion over climate and climate-related matters. Sal would regale us with tales of his 8 brothers and their antics, while Dewey would quietly chew tobacco and Nyamsuren would tend to the horses and archery equipment. On occasion, we'd grow beards - not because we needed added insulation from the frigid temperature, but as an expression of independence, and an assertion of our micro-ecological hegemony.
Open wounds would be a no-no. We'd have kindly on-site staff to attend to that sort of thing, but if you were a hemophiliac, that would be grounds for 'dismissal'. There just wouldn't be enough resources to keep cleaning up all that blood. After laying out newspapers and readying garbage bags the other members of the box would encircle you and work themselves into a frenzied trance set to John Philip Sousa marches until someone snapped and bludgeoned you over the head with a lead pipe. The rest of the circle, nigh as enraptured, would then hoist you up and forcibly eject you from the box.
The rest of the world's suffering would be signaled to us by a series of minimalist clicks and whirrs produced by a set of expensive high-fidelity speakers suspended from the ceiling. Every time a blizzard incapacitated some region of the globe, a perfect sinusoidal tone would sound, and we would rejoice.
When the evil greedy land developer wanted to buy the box and turn it into a four-star hotel, we'd display an impressive amount of moxie and gumption, refusing to accept his initial terms, claiming it wasn't about the money - it was the principal of weather avoidance that brought us together. Then he would up his offer by about 15%, and we'd sell.
Posted by morland @ 02:30 PM
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