The Worst Weather on Earth, Right Here in New England

Looking Northwest atop the Research Observatory

A surprising fact about my beloved New England is that, in New Hampshire, atop Mt. Washington, is a place considered to have the worst weather in the world. In the world. While the height of the mountain is a mere 6,288 feet (second tallest mountain in the eastern US, with Mount Mitchell in North Carolina beating it by 175 feet). But it's not always about size, you know. A unique confluence of odd meteorological placement combines to create a very strange place, indeed. The highest wind speed ever recorded on Earth was clocked here, in 1934, at an almost unbelievable 231 m.p.h. (a hurricane qualifies as a Category 5, the most severe, at a mere 156 m.p.h.). 

Observatory in Springtime

Mount Washington's horrific weather is pretty much an accident of geography. It just so happens that if you plot the tracks of storms as they move across the U.S. from west to east, they all converge, thanks to prevailing winds, on northern New England. The White Mountains, meanwhile, focus things further, turning already bad weather to flat-out hellish. The range stretches from southwest to northeast, pretty much at a right angle to winds sweeping down from Canada. As they run into the solid wall of peaks, the winds stream up and over the top, accelerating all the while.

That direction of flow also compresses the winds between the mountains and whatever air masses lie above, squeezing them like a stream of water rocketing through a narrow nozzle. And just for a little extra oomph, two spurs of the range angle off in just the right configuration to funnel everything right at Mount Washington itself. A calm day up here is almost unheard of.

The temperature last week was -16°, and the winds were at about 60 m.p.h., gusting to nearly 90. Temperature wise, it gets worse. Mount Washington's record low of -60 degrees Fahrenheit was recorded on January 5, 1885. More recently, on January 16, 2004, the summit weather observation tower registered a temperature of -43.6 degrees, with sustained winds of 88 mph, resulting in a wind chill of -103 degrees. During a three day stretch between January 13 and January 16, 2004, the wind chill never went above -55 degrees.

Snowstorms have been recorded in every month of the year. Snowfall averages 311 inches per year, and a temperature above 72 degrees has never been recorded at the summit. Ever.

In Summer, ascending can be done via the Cog Railroad

Not that Mt. Washington doesn't have appealing features, like the Cog Railroad and Mt. Washington Hotel (which reminds one of The Overlook Hotel in The Shining). It is quite beautiful, however, and located far from the inhospitable summit.

If you're of a mind to visit this profoundly interesting place (I'd stick to the hotel, not the observatory at the summit), here's a lovely map. Cheers!

That's it.

Of Bulldogs and Man Boobs

Nancy and I approach Massachusetts General Hospital, the Eye & Ear Infirmary, the luxurious Liberty Hotel, and Charles Street as our Red Line "T" subway car galumphs along the center of the Longfellow Bridge, which spans the Charles River. The Charles is half frozen over with very thin ice. A rare sight that speaks to the cold weather we've been having. A computerized voice over the PA system, not unlike the Hal 9000 from the film 2001: A Space Odyssey, informs us that we were approaching Massachusetts General Hospital. We knew that because Nancy and I spend a great deal of time at MGH. It is something of a second home for us. While it is unfortunate that we are qualmish and quite delicate regarding our health, we're lucky to live a mere 10 minutes away (via the"T") from the best hospital in the country. And there is a dandy of a view of Cambridge and Boston as we cross the bridge.

We enter the Charles Street/MGH "T" Station and fight the exiting crowd along the platform, down the stairs, past the turnstiles, and out the door. It's a large station with a lot of people, and that makes us nervous. Outside, Nancy clearly considers smoking a cigarette before crossing over to the Wang Building, but decides against it. My pipe is in my pocket, and I'm tempted myself, but being within 100 meters of the hospital and 10 meters from the "T" station makes smoking a very dangerous enterprise. We both decide against smoking without saying a word to each other, and fight the traffic across Charles Street. In the distance, a street musician is attempting to sing Edith Piaf's signature song, La Vie En Rose. While I appreciate the effort, it annoys the Hell out of Nancy. She is unforgiving of street musicians, and is certainly not a fan of Edith Piaf . To me, it speaks to the artistic vitality of a large city, to a diversity of experiences that make city living superior to living in the woods or suburbs. To Nancy, it's just a person singing poorly and trying to convince a rube to cough up some money. In addition, she simply appreciates the aesthetics of silence, the calming affect of a void of reverberating silence. I understand that, but I still enjoy the amateurish attempt at singing. As we stride past the Liberty Hotel ($250-$900 a night) a man is talking to himself, the screeching of a subway car yowls like a feral cat in the distance, a taxi driver is yelling at a bicyclist, a very tired and spent looking man is selling soft pretzels, a packed double decker tour bus passes slowly by and I wave to help create the illusion that Bostonians welcome the tourists who pour into the city daily, and there are 1,000 other background noises. It is music to my ears, not unlike jazz. No melody, just people playing off of each other and they don't even know it.

Nancy want to slug this guy

An hour later, after a consult with my endocrinologist (which involves a prostate exam, which I do not enjoy), I find out some fantastic news. My thyroid does not need to be removed, despite all of the various and sundry problems it exhibits. As he tells me that I feel like jumping up and dancing like Snoopy.

We talk about my penis, libido, erections, coming, ejaculations, my sex life, and prosthetic testicles. The idea of prosthetic testicles causes me to bust out laughing. Sure, I'd like to have balls and feel normal after losing them to cancer, but it is just not on my mind. And naturally testosterone, and then another bit of great news is dropped in my naked lap (endocrinology exams are rather thorough). The news? I qualify for breast reduction surgery because it is not cosmetic. I have a condition called gynecomastia that developed as a result of a lot of hormone problems. Basically, gynecomastia is something that I should be too embarrassed to talk about, but I'm not because it's a real problem that makes a lot of men miserable. So, to Hell with it. I have man-boobs, and they need to go, as they are not the result of a weight problem but a hormonal problem. Together with the testosterone I'm taking, I could easily end up with breast cancer. With this condition, I'll likely have the surgery before the spring. Today's consultation made me a happy man indeed. A word or two about it here:



That about covers the news of the day. We made it back to Somerville in good time, and Nancy is at a friend's flat, and I'm going to eat some sharp cheddar on a cracker watch The Fugitive, or perhaps Trollhunter.

One last matter that needs to be mentioned. Matt Oresko, a friend of mine, is a huge Atlanta Bulldogs fan (or "Dawg's.") As a friend of his, I decided to share his enthusiasm for his favorite team. Not just a college team, either, his favorite sports team, pro, college, or otherwise. Here you go, Matt...



Just remember, my friend, to get a Red Sox jersey or T-shirt in the spring!

Of Diversity, My Sexy Therapist, and Banjos

The traffic on College Avenue makes it difficult to dart from one sidewalk to the other unhurt, or squashed beyond recognition. A biker annoys me particularly, as she pisses on by me. Davis Square bikers are assholes. The point of my being out of the house at all is to attend my therapy session and stir my mind, loose some thoughts, and address the emotional discord that is making the adventure of living a more arduous undertaking than it needs to be. Like the grounds that inevitably free themselves after poorly made coffee in a French press. The little grounds represent all sorts of issues.Therapy is the time and effort spent to pick those little flakes of coffee out. After all, the flecks could be bugs. Get it? I want that metaphor to be clear, especially since it sucks.

So far, therapy has been efficacious, but I'm milling about outside the door to the clinic, which looks like a large house. My therapist has a good sense of humor, puts me at ease, and is the first therapist ever who is actually helping me. Every so often I imagine kissing her, but that's true of every woman. It made watching the London Olympics awkward...but I would lay one on the Queen, and that's the truth. Truth be told, I imagine my therapist in the buff, but I understand that's common.

People are coming and going into the clinic, which has a large, "GLBTQ Friendly" sticker on the front door. Inside, in the waiting room, are copies of Bay Windows, Boston's gay as all get out newspaper. The reason for all this is to make it very clear to clientele that this particular clinic is not only gay friendly, but friendly to all sorts of minority groups; Malaysian pickle vendors and Native Americans and beet farmers and hoarders and poor people. You know...diversity.

There is a woman coming down the street. At a distance, she looks like a fuzzy ball of womanhood, a stick figure of womanhood, anyway.But as she gets closer and passes the man nearby holding the leash of a shitting dog, the more I admire her cashmere ruffle coat. I'm also waiting to look at he ass when she passes by. Then it hits me like a polo mallet...it's an ex girlfriend. Sadly, she and I did not break up well. My eyes are locked on her, and when she sees me (my black Fedora gives me away, I think), she looks up and sees me and smiles, her eyes get wide and she conveys a modicum of adorable amazement. She speaks and I listen, my eyes widen and I smile. My teeth make me self-conscious...an upper and lower incisor are broken. My anxiety blooms like carrion flower. My affability is wretched and rarely opens, not to mention, it stinks, but it speaks to a change of disposition...I look happy to see her, although I can't imagine why. We hug, our unpleasant break-up, now 14 years old, seem to have been forgotten. She hasn't changed at all, but I have. I've lost some hair and I lost about 250lbs. But I still feel fat.

As I said, she speaks. "Darren, what have you been up to? It's so good to see you!" I balk. I'm stymied. What do I say to that? The last time we spoke, she chalked up our 18 month relationship to us being under the influence of rum and marijuana. At the time, it was an offensive take on our time together. Now, it seems accurate.

Finally, I find some words. "Well I'll be damned, it's good to see you!" Not entirely a lie. The last time I saw her, the very last time, was at a Thanksgiving dinner among Somerville artists the night before they all had to go home for real Thanksgiving dinners. The last thing I did to her was throw a dinner roll at her, playfully. It was fun. Although I wish I had a hard loaf of stale Scali bread to hit her with at the time.

As we spoke about nothing, and I kept catching glimpses of her face and body, I realized that time wasn't as kind to her as I had thought. Not that I could put my finger on it, but time was somehow cruel. It is to all of us. Then I thought of the first time we met. She was 21 and I was 28, and within a few minutes of meeting her, before we knew each other's names, she showed her ass to me. Specifically, she showed me a very red and painful looking tattoo of a butterfly on her right ass cheek. Sure, we were drinking, but it shocked me. It was like, "Hey! Check out my ass tattoo, I just got it!" Then boom, ass in my face. A bit like this,except different tattoo, and less swollen, red, and new.

I have to admit, it's a fine way to meet a woman at a party. All those years ago.

We spoke for 6 and one half minutes. She was taking the banjo when last I saw her, and was still taking it. It occurred to me that she must be a master at that instrument by now. I keep thinking about that banjo, although I don't mention it.

After that, I told her that I had a therapy session I had to get to. She looked a little sad, and that pissed me off a bit, I'm not sure why. What I was sure of is that she walked away finally, waving, and I saw her ass in those tight jeans. I sighed, and felt a little guilty. After that, I kept looking at her ass and almost walked into a very "diverse" client of my clinic who looked like the woman one the covers of, "Confederacy of Dunces."

Ten minutes later, I sat in the office of my therapist. She asks me how I'm doing and I say, "Banjo, I got a banjo on my mind." A banjo. No two banjos are exactly alike.

The Cats Who Use Fuzz Tower

My apartment is a very different place than it was just a week ago. Specifically, it's the living room that has changed and energized this sleepy little flat. The election is over, so it's not us screaming at the television set during the debates or endless campaign commercials. For the most part, we don't give a rat's ass about Christmas, Kwanzaa, Hanukkah, the solstice, or the limitations of the Mayan calendar, so it's not that, either. Mental illness hasn't led to any dramatic episodes of screaming, suicide attempts...that sort of thing. No, it's been rather peaceful around here.

Except for the cat tree that I purchased for the four cats, which looks like this:

It's hard to see, but there are already two cats on the bottom of the kitty tree. Perhaps I should name this tree. How about the, "Tour de Duvet," which translates to, "Fuzz Tower." Everything just better in French. How about this as another example, "Arme à feu de mamelon et canon de pet" translates to, "nipple gun and fart cannon." What a language!

But I digress, as I'm oft wont to do. So the cause of all the recent excitement at the House of Four Cats is the Tour de Duvet, where all the cats have, at one time or another, flopped over and basked in the glow of indolence. Either that, or they've fought like maniacs over one spot or another. While this is going on, the resident humans have watched like parents watch their children at the playground. A bit of fear, but mostly just smiling and joyful at how damn cute are their kids. And our cats are cuter than your kid or kids. 

It gets particularly exciting around here when one of the cats climbs Fuzz Tower and tries to summit it, which means flopping over on one of the top two landings, which are 6-8 feet off the floor. There is a lot of cuteness, but the element of fear escalates. A sleeping cat can easily roll off one of these platforms and fall, and possibly not wake up until it's too late and subsequently smash into the floor. We watch to prevent this, but every so often there is a, "Whap!" in the night, and we know what it is, sadly.

The personality breakdown goes like this, when it comes to who gets to use Fuzz Tower, what part, and when. Some cats are not nice and do not share. In no particular order...

The Cats of The House of Four Cats

Fluffy - We all love Fluffy in this apartment. Many years ago, I discovered her giving birth under my back stoop, in a torrential rain. She produced 3 live kittens, all of them beautiful. Impy looked at me and it was kismet, I had to keep her. The problem with Fluffy is that she was once a feral cat, and knows what it is to be homeless. She's a fighter. She is the lightest cat here, very skinny and small. She also happens to be the cat that all the other cats fear. A lot. Fluffy will, during a fight or just when she is defending her spot on Fuzz Tower, swing her paws at her opponent so quickly that all one can see is a blur. And at the end of those paws are razor sharp claws. Annie the dog got her nose clipped once by these furious claws, and yelped. When Fluffy, so cute and so small, breaks out the blurry claw defense, you shall not pass. You'd better run. If Ghost or Panther aren't on Fuzz Tower, the reason, invariably, is Fluffy. When she is on the tower, it is hers.  You got a problem with that?

Impy - This cat rules me. Our eyes first met when she was hours old, and I may be the first living thing she saw. She has two siblings, both of whom look like Fluffy. Their eyes are deep blue, like Impy's, but the rest of them are black and white. They were both put up for adoption and are happy out there somewhere. Impy and I, however, were bound together for life. Also, Impy's brother, who did not survive being born, had the same markings that Impy has; sort of gray, with black highlights here and there. Very unusual. She got her father's markings. I'll never forget the day I pulled Impy, Fluffy, and those four kittens out from under our stoop in that rain...all goopy and newborn. Impy has become my familiar, and I'm her human. She's the boss, and I'm fine with that. What a cat. She is also very vocal, like Fluffy. She'll peep, chitter, rowr, meow, and make other odd noises a lot. She's trying to pick up English, both Nancy and I are convinced. Fluffy's noises are more like, "Rowrrrrrr!" An unusual noise she only used against other cats. Very effective.

Impy sleeps with Nancy and I every night. While getting undressed to take a shower, or before I get into bed, she'll scream at me and pace back and forth on the bed. Once in bed, she'll curl up between my legs, or next to them, purring away. She is skittish (a cough or sexual vocalizations may send her running) but if I call her back, she comes right back. I LOVE this cat.

Ghost - What can be said about this magnificent cat among cats? She is a polydactyl cat, also known as a, "Boston thumb cat." The folklore states that ship's captains leaving Boston would like to have a Boston thumb cat on board, for good luck. If you don't know, a polydactyl cat is a cat with at least one extra toe. A Canadian polydactyl cat broke the record with 27 toes! Cats normally have 17. Ghost looks like she has a large thumb, and would make a great hitch-hiker. It's impressive, and if she is playing with you, you'll feel that extra toe or two ripping into your flesh. These cats are also called, "Hemingway cats," because Ernest Hemingway loved them, and owned many. Most are found in New England down the east coast to Florida, with some in the United Kingdom.

Ghost also has a magnificent personality. She'll play with a toy by herself, she loves to chase fingers and curl up anywhere on your body. Always a ball of energy, she'll happily pick little play fights with anyone, human, dog, or cat. A very happy cat who loves to play and is a joy to watch on Fuzz Tower. She isn't mean at all, and if you scratch her itchy back, she'll lick you clean...that includes your shirt or pants or face or whatever. Frisky, funny, and a little wacky. Also affectionate and adorable as all Hell.

Panther - Panther owns my father, who is 80 years youn...no, old. He pushes him around, hisses at him, takes up most of his bed, tries to trip him when he goes into the kitchen for coffee, and can make an awful, "Rowrrr!" sound if my father doesn't do what he wants. It's an abusive relationship. If Panther were a human being, he'd be in jail for elder abuse.

An expose about Annie the Hound soon to come!

Ghost

My Darling Little Impy

Fluffy

Annie

Panther

The Protector? Nude Ballet?

The Protector

As an INFJ, your primary mode of living is focused internally, where you take things in via intuition. Your secondary mode is external, where you deal with things according to how you feel about them, or how they fit with your personal value system.

INFJs are gentle, caring, very complex and highly intuitive individuals. Artistic and extremely intelligent, they live in a world of hidden meanings and possibilities. 

Less than one half of one percent of the population has an INFJ Personality Type, making it the most rare of all the types.

INFJs constantly define and re-define the priorities in their lives. On the other hand, INFJs operate within themselves on an intuitive basis which is entirely spontaneous. They know things intuitively, without being able to pinpoint why, with or without detailed knowledge of the subject at hand. They are usually right, and they usually know it. Consequently, INFJs put a tremendous amount of faith into their instincts and intuitions. This is something of a conflict between the inner and outer worlds, and may result in the INFJ not being as organized as other self Judging types tend to be. Or we may see some signs of disarray in an otherwise orderly tendency, such as a consistently messy desk.

INFJs have uncanny insight into people and situations. They get "feelings" about things and intuitively understand them. Consequently, most INFJs are protective of their inner selves, sharing only what they choose to share when they choose to share it. They are deep, complex individuals, who are quite private and typically very difficult to understand. INFJs hold back part of themselves, and can be secretive.

But the INFJ is as genuinely warm as they are complex. INFJs hold a special place in the heart of people who they are close to, who are able to see their special gifts and depth of caring. INFJs are concerned for people's feelings, and try to be gentle to avoid hurting anyone. They are very sensitive to conflict, and cannot tolerate it very well. Situations which are charged with conflict may drive the normally peaceful INFJ into a state of agitation or charged anger. They may tend to internalize conflict into their bodies, and experience health problems when under a lot of stress.

Because the INFJ has such strong intuitive capabilities, they trust their own instincts above all else. This may result in an INFJ stubborness and tendency to ignore other people's opinions. They believe that they're right. On the other hand, INFJ is a perfectionist who doubts that they are living up to their full potential. INFJs are rarely at any level of peace with themselves - there's always something else they should be doing to improve themselves and the world around them. They believe in constant growth, and don't often take time to revel in their accomplishments. They have strong value systems, and need to live their lives in accordance with what they feel is right. In deference to the Feeling aspect of their personalities, INFJs are in some ways gentle and easy going. Conversely, they have very high expectations of themselves. They don't believe in compromising their ideals.

INFJ is a natural nurturer; patient, devoted and protective. They make loving parents and usually have strong bonds with their offspring. They have high expectations of their children, and push them to be the best that they can be. This can sometimes manifest itself in the INFJ being hard-nosed and stubborn. But generally, children of an INFJ get devoted and sincere parental guidance, combined with deep caring.

They have a natural affinity for art, and many excel in the sciences, where they make use of their intuition. INFJs can also be found in service-oriented professions. They are not good at dealing with minutia or very detailed tasks. The INFJ will either avoid such things, or else go to the other extreme and become enveloped in the details to the extent that they can no longer see the big picture. An INFJ who has gone the route of becoming meticulous about details may be highly critical of other individuals who are not.

The INFJ individual is gifted in ways that other types are not. Life is not necessarily easy for the INFJ, but they are capable of great depth of feeling and personal achievement.

And now, some nude ballet. Life is a nude ballet, just the people are not as attractive, and the dance move suck. Click here--->  NUDE BALLET!