January Wanderlust

January is my favorite. It's big, it's cold, it's boring. January is the cinder block of months, which makes it a primo time to hit the road, have a little adventure, give yourself something to remember fondly during those annoyingly long, warm days of summer.

This one time? My best friend Mean Vick and I? We drove to the Cowboy Poetry Festival in Elko, Nevada in mid-January. It was raining when we left the bay area and as we drove I-80 east towards the Ruby mountains, pewter skies pissed rain, the rain turned to sleet, sleet turned to snow by Elko, with temps hovering above booger-freezing. It was perfect. At the Saturday night Chicken Scratch dance, Vick downed a Bud and screwed up enough nerve to talk to her Native American Poet-Hero-Heartthrob, let's call him Jim Blackfeather. Things went fairly well through introductions—she didn't snort or stutter. But actual conversation jackknifed like a semi on black ice.
"How do you like your job at the college?" she asked him.
"It was OK until they fired me."
Crap. "Oh, sorry. Did that happen recently?"
"Yesterday."

In the spirit of full disclosure, Vick stopped me from accidentally walking into the motel parking lot at 5:00 in the morning wearing nothing more than my Timex. But that's for another post.

So you see, these memories keep my spirits buoyed through July, when the stupid sun is shining well past 9:00 at night, and the birds won't shut up, and I miss bundling up in some great polar fleece and a goretex rain parka.

That's my story and I'm sticking to it.