I need to start by apologizing for my abhorrent lack of coverage of Denver's deep freeze. It's shameful, I know, but I have a reason. It's called gargoyling (see third entry). Some of you may call it twin fire. Whatever the preferred term, shitting lava while projectile vomiting into the bathtub is sure to take the wind out of the sails of even the most hardy blogger, and old Flip is no exception. Sunday night saw my body expel every last drop of its contents and then some which left me in a confused and semi-catatonic state for the next 24 hours. The only activities I could muster energy for was drinking Gatorade(TM), laying on the couch, eating pho and swallowing a vicodin. Things were grim and stinky around FKS headquarters. Luckily, I put my energy into the right activities and am mended as of today . . . just in time to go back to work and enjoy temperatures that would make a Canadian blush.
Yes sir, Old Man Winter came shuffling back to town like a crusty drunk - smacking us all on the knuckles with his cane as he wandered by. He also called us "sons of whores" and "daughters of juggalos." Dude's a crotchety dick. But he did remind us that we live at the bosom of the mighty Rocky Mountains. Denver can indeed be a cruel and unusual place to live in terms of weather. On Friday the high temperature was inching near 70. On Tuesday it barely tickled zero. But so what? Those saps back east would give a lot of cash and appendages for wild swings in temperature. Having feet of snow on the ground for months on end, unless you're in the mountains, is akin to having a cheese grater rubbed slowly up and down your thighs. You feel the pain every inch of the way.
But that's neither here nor there. This post isn't about us. It's about longtime friend of the site, popular action figure and all around bad ass meteorologist Jim Cantore. The exuberance, passion, bewilderment and unadulterated joy displayed by Mr. Cantore on Michigan Avenue last night was simply a sight to behold. I left the weather channel on all evening as I went about my chores (read: napping, masturbation, sighing, sitting in the sauna, sipping spicy Spanish wine) and would rush back to the television anytime they cut live to Cantore. I imagine, by now, you've seen his reaction to the bolt of lightning, but there was more goodness where that came from:
Mother Nature is clearly Cantore's mistress. Look for a Windy City Jim action figure in stores near you . . . coming soon.
And I would be remiss if I didn't give Coniglio some props. He eschewed the coattails of the National Weather Service and correctly predicted the snow Sunday night/Monday morning would be between 1-4 inches (NWS predicted 3-6). Way to trust your gut, sir. You have fortitude and that's all we ask for in our meteorologists. It's why Jimmy Cantore's so god damned awesome. Keep up the good work, Marty.