Six days ago, a lovely, charming, postcard New England snowfall turned into the nor'easter from a hell that had frozen over. Around my new hometown in central Connecticut, I drive through an obstacle course of downed limbs and dangling power lines. Stoplights are out; streetlights are out; house lights are out. It's eerie and reminds me how much ambient light and sound make me feel cozy and safe -- as does, you know, actual heat, which I have not had in my house since that fateful snow day last weekend.
In the morning, I wake up to the smell of wood-burning fireplaces and half expect a man in a coonskin cap carrying a musket and a bushel of squirrels to be jumping out of the woods by my house. I can think of only one phrase that properly describes the full-on incompetence that is taking place among the politicos and utility companies in Connecticut: This is whack. A frontiersman like Davy Crockett would not stand for this.
But I don't have a musket. Or a cool, dead animal hat. Come Sunday, I probably won't have DirecTV, Internet access or any way to really engage in what matters most every Sunday: the vital exchange of information regarding public and professional opinions concerning NFL games. In other words, point spreads.
And that is disappointing to me. These weekends are precious. The lockout is closer than it may appear in my rearview mirror, and yet we are at the midway point of NFL 2011. We are running out of chances to look very, very smart (or maybe there are just fewer chances to look stupid).
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