It's Official.

It’s Official.
Current mood: drained
Category: Travel and Places

If one more morsel of snow befalls the City of Chicago, I will personally stick my head into my bass drum and let whomever wishes to pound the pedal until my gray matter explodes. I'm freaking serious.

Last night's snow was more wispy irritation (flurries, let's say) that causes even seasoned Chicago drivers to tread wimpily down the streets (myself included). Today's snow was sloppy/slippery yuckiness, which, if nothing else, allowed me to become best friends forever with my fellow snail-paced Kennedy Expressway travelers. I was ready to suggest we break into a round of "Michael, Row the Boat Ashore." Lord knows we had the spare time. And the newly fallen snow does help pad the 18" of solid ice in the driveway, which helps out those guests of mine who don't have the bitchin' all-wheel drive that I do, not that it prevents my van/SUV/station wagon (depends on which man you ask as to the species of car I drive) from slip sliding away around every snowy corner and getting stuck on a daily basis. Pfft, fuck winter.

*RANDOM NON-SEQUITOR ALERT!*

I'm reading Eric Clapton's autobiography. I'm also reading Pattie Boyd Harrison Clapton's autobiography (both of which are now a day late at the library, but whatever). So far, the only points on which both agree are that 1) George Harrison was an incredible man of excellent character and full of love, and 2) Eric Clapton is a douche bag. But a good-looking, talented douche bag, who's been in the top 10 of my celebrity crushes since I was about 14.

In the mid 1980's, Clapton and Pattie's marriage was totally headed for destruction, exacerbated by the fact that he, whoopsie, impregnated another woman, while Pattie was chronically barren. And he was a raging alcoholic, et al. So long story short, some schlub got some hot intel on Clapton, and got his home phone in England and rang him up, claiming to be a mystical healer who could rid him of his addictions, repair his relationship with Pattie and engulf his soul with happiness. She told Clapton that a spell had been cast on him, and prescribed various detailed cleansing procedures he would need to do to rid himself of said spell, which he did, because, well, he was drunk at the time.

Clapton writes:

"She lived in New York, where I would be soon, so I agreed to meet her. I knew it was madness, but my rationale was still, 'What harm can it do?' She was an extremely strange-looking woman, quite fat with bright red hair, and she told me that sex with a virgin would be necessary in order to complete the spell. 'Where do you find a virgin in New York?' I replied, and she said, 'I'm a virgin.' God knows why I didn't just run then. I wish I had, but I was drunk and desperate, and still under the illusion that a reconcilliation with Pattie would solve everything, so I went through with it. It was humiliating, and I did run, but only after the damage was done."

File under "Why didn't I think of that to land Clapton in the sack?"