The Perfect Storm

I apologize in advance for the length of this post, but several metric tons of frozen bullshit went down this weekend in Springfield.

1/17/07

Civilization has been restored! Yes, ladies and gentlemen, your friendly, neighborhood scrivener has come through the worst ice storm in some 20 years with minimal mental scarring. Missouri has been crippled in the wake of this bitch, in a line of damage running from Springfield through St. Louis and Illinois. The New York area is getting this band of demonic weather as we speak. The whole horrible debacle started Friday night.

Granted, I may have underestimated just how bad the icy spanking some vengeful god delivered to us was going to be. Our apartment went dark around midnight. We really had no worry about the cold; we’re on the bottom floor and sunken in the ground; we retain heat like a 300-lb menopausal woman. There are, however, few things quite as boring as sitting in your house in the dead of night, ice pinging off every surface outside with your upstairs neighbors apparently doing some interpretive boot-dancing. By the way, I don’t recommend trying to read by candlelight; there’s something depressing about getting drunk on a Friday night when you’re rocking it like the Pilgrims. It’s about as pleasurable as trying to watch a movie through the hole in a toilet paper roll while someone beats you about the face with a sock dampened with something that smells dangerously un-like water. And don’t even get me started on attempting to accomplish masturbation under such circumstances.

No cable. No computer. No internet. Not even any ability to distract myself with cooking. The time before Christ, in a nutshell. Technophile Ryan was sad, dear readers.

Saturday morning the homestead was still a respectable 68˚, but after taking all the perishables out of the fridge and freezer and socking them away in coolers on the porch Hanni and I were left with precious little to actually do. The outside world looked as if a tornado had torn through all of Springfield leaving savaged trees encased in ice in its wake. It was all quite beautiful, actually, if you ignored the carnage. It’s difficult for me to even describe the devastation; branches the size of Cadillacs were absolutely everywhere and no tree was undamaged. Telephone poles were snapped in numerous places and we saw one that had punched straight through the roof of a warehouse. 65,000* people in Springfield alone were without power. At the worst of it some 80% of the city was dead. Nixa, Billings, Clever, Republic and more were out, too, plus parts of St. Louis and Illinois.

Around the time Gov. Matt Blunt was mobilizing the Missouri National Guard, we decided to pack up and migrate to her parent’s house in Billings because at least they had a wood burning stove for heat and gas range for hot food. We’re in full-on apocalypse survival mode because word on the street was the worst of it hadn’t hit yet; Sunday was expected to carry another 1-2” of freezing rain.

On the way Hanni and I stopped at the Wal-Mart Supercenter in Republic, which still had power at the time, for a few food staples. The aisles looked like a war was on:

Our “Survival Kit” shopping list included such necessities as Vienna sausages, sternos, whiskey and champagne.

I can say without exaggeration that her parents’ yard looked like it had been the site of an artillery bombardment. Just when I thought I’d be forced to interact with people, Hanni’s dad got a line on a portable generator. I think I actually got an erection when we cranked that puppy up and basked in the tender glow of satellite television. I didn’t even care that we were watching possibly the worst rip-off of the already questionable Top Gun, Firebirds. (That’s another blog.) I drank 7&7s and watched several episodes of Iron Chef America after everyone went to bed.

Sadly, the gods would not smile upon us for long. Sunday morning the mighty generator fell quiet and nobody could discover what was wrong with it. Her family is perfectly nice, but I can scarcely go more than 5 or 6 hours with anyone if I don’t have a few hours to detox and recharge alone. Huddling around a wood stove with six other people, 3 of who remember the Truman Administration and clearly believe themselves to be amateur meteorologists, is a special type of hell for an introvert.

What was it like overnight on Sunday? Imagine a darkness so pure it’s as if a sleeping bag has been wrapped around your face, and all around you are sounds like unseen, crackling gunshots every 30 seconds, shortly followed by a phantom chandelier slamming into a concrete floor as trees gave up their limbs to the irresistible power of gravity.

I called into work on Monday and for lack of anything else to do, Hanni and I went over to her grandmother’s house and, sporting axes and clippers, hacked through the jungle of fallen wood to clear her driveway. It took 3 hours but was actually pretty fun because everything sounded like breaking glass when we hit it.

Threatening Hanni with the fact that the police would find a 29-year old functional alcoholic trying to stuff 6 people-worth of body parts into a wood stove if we had to stay there another night, we headed back to Springfield. Our apartment was still out of power (and down to 58˚) so we went over to stay the night at our friend’s house who was lucky enough to get power back Monday. It got down to 6˚ that night. Ye gods.

I came to work yesterday morning as people are finally getting the hang of dead stoplights that have become 4-way stops, and Hanni informed me that THE JUICE IS BACK ON AT HOME! Not only that, the delicious cable TV was waiting for me, wagging its tail when I got home. Full power hasn’t been restored; we have dim lights and no major appliances, but TV, man! We’re one of the lucky; 35,000 residents were still without electricity.

Worst MLK weekend ever. I am so ready to watch TV, use my computer, and not be talked to I can barely stand it.




*There are approximately 160,000 people in Springfield. That’s 40% of the city dark, for those of you keeping score at home.