A Long December

Since the days leading up to Thanksgiving, the Twin Cities have resembled a rugged winter scene reminiscent of Jack London's Klondike stories, with mountainous snowbanks created by plow trucks, smokestacks on the river waving endless puffs of thick gray ice cream scoop clouds, icicles as long as hockey sticks, treacherous driving conditions, and, most recently, wicked subzero temperatures. One blizzard after another made the month drag, making it feel more like January or February than early December. Driving to work this past Thursday morning, it actually rained despite below-freezing temperatures; the dashboard in my Jeep read 13 degrees, in fact. How could that be? Upon hitting the windshield, the rain froze, obscuring my vision and forcing me to blast the defroster at max capacity for the duration of my commute. It was already that kind of winter, the kind in which you saw things you'd ever seen before. Then, of course, the Sherrone Moore scandal blew up, bringing on a cycle of emotions that repeated for 48 hours, draining me. All I really have to say about the whole thing is I'm heartbroken, but what the fuck am I supposed to do about it? I'm tired of being embarrassed by my alma mater and the various scandals associated with it. All I want to do is cheer for my team. The prospect of ending my relationship with the team is a ship that sailed decades ago, probably sometime during the Lloyd Carr era, so onward, because I'm stuck with it, like a mole or wart. It's been a damn long December, but perhaps -- as the Counting Crows once suggested -- perhaps there's justification for thinking next year will be better than the last one. We've got Dusty May, after all.