January 31: Last Orders, Coldageddon, Flaming Rum Punch

So, Ford has finally convinced some of the people in the pub that the world will soon be coming to an end in a couple of minutes . . .

The man sitting next to Ford was a bit sozzled by now.  His eyes weaved their way up to Ford.

"I thought," he said, "that if the world was going to end we were meant to lied down or put a paper bag over our head or something."

"If you like, yes," said Ford.

"That's what they told us in the army," said the man, and his eyes began the long trek back toward his whiskey.

"Will that help?" asked the barman.

"No," said Ford, and gave him a friendly smile.  "Excuse me," he said.  "I've got to go."  With a wave, he left.

The pub was silent for a moment longer and then, embarrassingly enough, the man with the raucous laugh did it again.  The girl he had dragged along to the pub with him had grown to loathe him dearly over the last hour, and it would probably have been a great satisfaction to her to know that in a minute and a half or so he would suddenly evaporate into a whiff of hydrogen, ozone and carbon monoxide.  However, when the moment came she would be too busy evaporating herself to notice it.

The barman cleared his throat.  He heard himself say, "Last orders, please."

It has been a long week of Armageddon.  Actually, it was more like Coldageddon.  This morning was the coldest of the week.  Negative twenty-one degrees by my car thermometer, and that doesn't even take into account the wind chills.  With the wind chill, it was around -45 degrees.  It was enough for me to want to drive to a pub and order a round of drinks.  Warm ones.  As Clarence Odbody, the angel from It's a Wonderful Life says, "Flaming rum punch!"

I spent a good portion of my day putting the finishing touches on my annual evaluation narrative for the English Department where I teach.  It's one of those rituals required by union contract.  A hoop to jump through.  However, I can never just half-ass something.  I gathered data, highlighted student papers, updated my curriculum vitae, and did some serious self-reflection.  At 6:30 p.m., I e-mailed the finished product to the department secretary.  BOOM!  Done!

And now, I can relax a little.  Read some.  Make myself that flaming rum punch (or its Bailey's Irish Cream equivalent).  Kick back.  Start thinking about the next big project I have to complete.  I don't know what it will be, but I'm sure that it will present itself in the next day or so.  My guess is that it will be my plans for a poetry workshop that I'm running next Thursday.

In the mean time, the Polar Vortex is moving off, and the temperatures are going to be rising.  We are supposed to hit a balmy 38 degrees by Sunday.  That's about a 60-degree shift from this morning.  I'm sure it's going to feel like summer.  I think there's even a prediction of some rain.

For tonight, however, it's warm socks, a hoodie, and spiked hot chocolate for Saint Marty.

Vote for Marty Achatz for 2019/2020 Poet Laureate of the U. P.