Friday, February 26, 2010

Phil: I told you. I wake up every day, right here, right in Cleveland, and it's always February 27th, and there's nothing I can do about it.

True to form, art imitates life, life imitates art. This of course under the assumption that GHD is art.
My eyes shot open this morning to candid radio chatter, there's a full blown snowstorm, but it seems like nothing more than a couple of flakes.
I've finished packing my entire apartment, i rearrange everything so the move should go as smoothly as possible. I make a few final phone calls to ensure that everything is in order...
Around lunch time, I bundled up, headed to the local dive diner, ordered a BLT, a waiter proceeded to drop a tray of dishes...again I thought nothing of it.
I went back to the apartment, took a nap, woke up to a phone ringing...the flight canceled. I'm stuck in Cleveland.
I was supposed to leave and yet in the back of my head I hear Phil:

"You want a prediction about the weather, you're asking the wrong Phil. I'll give you a winter prediction: It's gonna be cold, it's gonna be grey, and it's gonna last you for the rest of your life. "

Tragedy, my chauffeurs flight is canceled, the flights the next day all booked,

Phil: Come on, *all* the long distance lines are down? What about the satellite? Is it snowing in space? Don't you have some kind of a line that you keep open for emergencies or for celebrities? I'm both. I'm a celebrity in an emergency."

And so I'm in Cleveland for another three days...if tuesday rolls around and I'm still in Cleveland I vow to learn how to play the piano, how to ice sculpt, and be a kinder, gentler Cole.

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