It's Groundhog Day and, per the forecast of Punxsutawney Phil, we are in for six more weeks of winter. Not exactly terrible news for us here in South Florida but surely a hellish prognosis for much of the rest of the country. Yesterday, the Northeast was hit by a massive winter snowstorm that is ongoing even as I type these words. They're expecting 9-15 inches of snow and it isn't expected to let up until tomorrow. Furthermore, there are already electric power outages, and tidal surges flooding the streets in some areas of Queens, among other places. It's bad enough being in the swampy chowder of South Florida when a hurricane knocks out the power in mid-August but I can't imagine losing the heat when the temps outside are in the 20's and 30's (or below)! Can I?  

Actually I can.

Once, many years ago, I was living in a house in Oklahoma City with a good friend who was a shy,  mild-mannered banker by day, Brobdingnagian drag queen by night (towering 6'4" in his bare feet, he transformed into Attack of the 50 ft. Woman after donning stilettos). Anyway, a blizzard hit one weekend and, ever the trooper, my roomie decided that the show must go on: the fans were willing to brave the elements and so, Stevie declared, would s(he). As the snow moved in hard and fast, I shaved Stevie's back and helped strap him into his girdle before he disappeared behind the door of his attic bedroom. An hour later he emerged as the fantabulous Shavonne. I don't recall what he wore on this particular evening--it certainly wasn't the sheer, pale yellow, flowing evening gown he'd worn in the Miss Gay Oklahoma Pageant the summer before. Most likely, it was one of his cow-gal outfits with fringe and a bandana tied around his neck. He was, after all, performing at the local western-themed club where most of his fan base congregated. His hair--okay, his wig--would have been flawlessly tormented into a massive, hive-like structure, carefully sprayed and molded into place, a precise and immovable construction impervious to wind, rain, snow or the occasional Oklahoma tornado. Once Stevie split, I then had to consider if it was really worth the effort of getting myself gussied up for a night on a town likely to be empty on such a dark and stormy night. 

Then, the electricity went out. No television meant no MTV, no SNL, no Rhonda Shear chirping "Up! All night!" No, that simply wouldn't do at all. I was going out. Lighting some candles, I quickly showered, using up the little hot water Stevie had left behind. When I exited the bathroom to get dressed, it immediately came to my attention that the house was freezing! What the absolute fuck? Perhaps I should have strategized a little longer on plans for the immediate future: what if I returned home in the wee hours of the morning and the electricity was still off? Throwing on a jacket, I shrugged and left the house. 

Later, in the actual wee hours of the morning, I did return home; the electricity was, of course, still out and I could actually see my 80-proof breath billowing out into the living room when I spoke. What to do, what to do? After going upstairs to chuck my jacket, I noted that it was moderately warmer than it was downstairs in the living room. It became clear, at least to my foggy, vodka-soaked brain, that I needed to seal off the upstairs from the downstairs. So, with a little help from my new acquaintance--oh yeah, I forgot to mention him--we piled sofa cushions, old pillows, blankets, and anything else having mass and weight in the space leading to the staircase. In effect, we constructed a thick, cushy wall of household linens and things that, along with the sheets and blankets on the bed (as well as a lot of body heat) kept us warm enough for the duration of the night. Meanwhile, Stevie/Shavonne had found his own port during the night's storm, and by the time he returned home the following afternoon, the sun was shining, the birds were chirping, the amazing wall had been dismantled, its constituents redistributed throughout the house, and, most importantly, the electricity was back on. 

Stevie's query, "Why didn't you guys just go to his house?", which possibly did have electricity, only occurred to me once I heard it from Stevie's lips. Of course, that would have been the logical thing to do. Unfortunately, logic, vodka and unbridled lust seldom mix. But, with the able assistance of my swashbuckling guest, my blizzardly night without electricity passed like a Jack London adventure novel with a liberal dose of 50 Shades of Gay  thrown in for good measure. 

By the way, I changed Stevie/Shavonne's name(s) for the purposes of this post, just in case (s)he's still a banker in Oklahoma City and should somehow stumble across this, at approximately the same time hell freezes over. I also often wonder if Stevie decided to become Shavonne full time and if (s)he prefers he, she or they as his/her/their pronoun. Stevie was he when we were roommates but that was in 1980-something so there could have been some big changes since then. At the time, he embraced his Shavonne persona with a great deal of enthusiasm

On the other hand, it soon surfaced that my unnamed blizzard guest (my choice, he actually did have a name) had an unmentioned wife. A month or so after the aforementioned events, I was in the passenger seat of his car when a cursing madwoman ran us off the road. Her shrieks of anger punctuated his name in exclamation marks so I was fairly certain that they weren't just passing strangers. Uh-oh, he said from the side of his mouth. My wife! I can't imagine how she tracked me here. I couldn't imagine how he forgot to mention that he had a wife. 

The words that slut shot through the open windows of two cars, in one side and out the other, and I knew they were directed towards me. As a man, I'd never had that particular epithet hurled my way, much less by the wife of someone that I was, um, seeing (a stupid euphemism but better, I think, than "dating"). At that point, I threw open the door and exited the vehicle with what little dignity I could still summon. That's okay, I said through the window, I'll walk home. And walk I did. Six city blocks, dark as midnight--probably because it was midnight. Anyhow, I now knew why we hadn't gone to his place during the blizzard. Never saw the guy--or his lovely wife--again. I wonder what I'd have done if he had been upfront with me about his marital status. I mean, I like to think I'd have told him thanks but no thanks, and ridden out the blizzard without him. But, oh, that guy. Handsome, muscled-up, cornfed, blonde, prodigiously blessed, with a surprising hint of kink. I can't honestly say that I regret it. But I was a 20-something-year-old useful idiot then, and a slave to my own licentious impulses; I moved on with nary a backward thought for either of them. 

Last night and tonight, it has gotten very cold here in South Florida, cold being a relative term since 40's and 50's for us is downright arctic. The flannel sheets are on the bed, with two wooly mammoth-like throws piled on top of the bedspread. The heat is set on 75. Finally, it has come to this. What a difference 40 years makes. Punxsutawney Phil can go back to his den now. In the meantime maybe I'll try and find my fur-lined house shoes.