The Deep Freeze

Not leaving your house when it's really cold is an art form. Any yuhtz can sew a couple dozen dead geese together in the shape of a parka and head out to brave the elements. It takes a real man of character to exist for days, even weeks in the dead of winter without even putting on underwear. And Omar Bricks has character gushing out every orifice in his body.

As anyone who's ever survived a weekend blizzard knows, the first few days are easy. The fridge is stocked, the cable bill's paid for, and the dog doesn't mind holding it. Then around day four things start to get interesting. Suddenly you're out of Frito dip, and things to dip in it. That's when you have to start tapping into whatever store of canned goods you've wisely packed away for the long, cold winter. And if you're like me, that means you'd better be in the mood for six cans of cilantro and an eight-year-old tin of sardines that's bulged out on one side like a pregnant Gobot.

Before long even those well-thought-out provisions have been exhausted, however, and you have to start getting creative. Sure, there's always pizza delivery, but it takes a unique persuasive ability to convince the Dominoes guy to stop by Walgreens and pick you up some toilet paper on the way over.

Some Chinese places deliver, which is handy, but nobody's come up with the brilliant idea yet for a service that will run to the ATM and get some cash for you so you can pay for Chinese food, and so you end up having to barter housewares with some guy who learned English from watching Iron Chef.

After about a week the mailman stops trying to cram any more crap into your jam-packed mailbox, and you begin to run the risk of your lingerie catalogs getting ruined by the snow. What happened to the days when mailmen went door to door, dropping your mail right into your nice warm house through a slot? Now that was convenience! Not that I was alive back then. But now those lazy fuckers can't even be bothered to lean out of the truck a little to stack your mail in a neat little Jenga tower on top of the box. I think that says something about society but I'd rather not go into it right now.

So then you have to train some starving neighborhood dog to go fetch your mail from the box, because your own dog is too smart to fall for any of those tricks. And you've got to do it all without going outside or letting a possibly-insane dog into your house. That involves a lot of clever gestures from the window, and most importantly, a Supersoaker full of bacon grease.

By week two you find out what kind of survivalist you are, hunting for wild game from the upstairs bathroom window and heating your home by burning yesterday's fashions. Both go hand in hand more than you'd expect, since polyester fumes are a powerful appetite suppressant. That's what the Native Americans used to use before they had Dexatrim.

Of course all of this hasn't even scratched the surface of one of the biggest challenges of winter living: getting paid without going to work. Sick days eventually run out, even if you've managed, through a cornucopia of fake voices and accents, to weave a complexly plausible web of lies explaining why you haven't been to work in three weeks. Then it comes time to elevate your game to the next level, which involves convincing people that you're actually calling from work, but have been quarantined to your office and won't be coming out possibly until spring. If you can find a patsy to stencil-paint QUARANTINE on your office door without peeking inside, you're home free. Your mileage may vary in your own place of work, but personally I'd recommend working for the commune in that regard: this place is like a patsy farm.

Bricks out.

Eat Shit, New Year's
New Year's: the holiday, the spectacle, and the brand of adult diapers, can all kiss Omar Bricks' cherry red ass. That's not a threat—it's a promise. Actually, come to think of it, it's an invitation, but that doesn't sound nearly as menacing. But... (1/16/06)

The Red Badge of Adulthood
There comes a time in every man's life when he must become a man. Except for Pee Wee Herman or Michael Jackson. (Owing to weirdness.) Or Gary Coleman, owing to shortness. Or unless he becomes a woman first, like RuPaul. But everybody else:... (12/12/05)

God's Hands
Omar Bricks has never been afraid to get his hands dirty. On the contrary, more often than not it looks like I've been playing patty-cake with a tar baby. I consider it a badge of honor that I've always been willing to roll up my sleeves and get... (11/7/05)

Nostalgiac
I've been working at the commune for way too long. Sure, this was true after about day three, but now it's way beyond true. Some office skinflint just reminded me that this week is the fourth anniversary of the commune publishing on a regular... (10/10/05)