Respect Authority

The weather in the Windy City of late has been reasonably tolerable, which means little in a place where a few short months ago we were graced with -20 degree icy farts that Jack Frost routinely blew in our faces whenever we stepped outside. Nonetheless, it’s still a bit too brisk to convincingly call it “Spring” — in fact, I feel almost as if Winter is sadistically dangling its successor in front of my face, a juicy morsel of hope hovering just out of a starving man’s reach.

Fuck the April showers, just gimme my mother fucking May flowers.

Here’s the simplest Q&A ever conceived:

Q: Should I live in Chicago?
A: No.

On any given Sunday (not to be confused with the overly dramatic football movie) I find myself lounging on the loveseat, talking absently to Godzilla and watching all manner of awful television. During the cold winter months, when snow or even the mere threat of it was enough to keep everyone indoors, this sort of sloth seemed at peace with the greater population’s proclivity for, you know, DOING things on the weekend. I could claim exhaustion, or illness, but most rewardingly I could just say - to my friends and indeed to myself - “Fuck that, it’s just too fucking cold.” In other words, winter is one big scapegoat for homebody potheads.

Yet these days, as the temperatures inch up and there’s not a cloud in sight I find myself anxious about the climate’s good fortune. For how long can I justify sitting in flannel pants and a clashing sweatshirt, munching on leftovers and lowering my cinematic standards with every new Lifetime movie? The answer appears to be - approximately one hour, after which the sounds of wildlife outside (my rambunctious neighbors included) begins acting as a 50-degree guilt trip over my inability to get out and appreciate the much-anticipated change in seasons.

I don’t even have any particularly riveting activity ideas, or wads of cash with which to spend a day on the town, but spring has the power to make even my refusal to  just go for a walk — among the overflowing trash bags and halfhearted stoop parties of Bed-Stuy — feel like an affront to Mother Nature. I get it, bird chirping right outside my window, it’s not quite winter anymore. The onus is on me to get up and out and enjoy these beautiful days before summer sneaks in and makes it okay to lounge around at home again, sipping ice-cold beers and saying things like “Nah I can’t go out. It’s just too fucking hot.”