Bliznarok Day 2: Finding a Tribe

We are less than 24 hours since the White Beast arrived. 

She be constrictor, this Bliznarok. You can see her, plain as day, coming from the distance, yet she is upon you in a blink and you find yourself in her death grip. Mobility near impossible but your brain is still working while she slowly tightens her grasp. Soon she swallows you whole. 

Going it alone during the storm can sound appealing but there is safety in numbers, so my travel companion and I venture out into the storm in search of a tribe. 

The streets are empty as far as the eye can see. That which She allows us to see. We pass a lone worker shoveling snow outside the entrance to Peter's Restaurant. He's been at it a while, his face belying his lost cause. A brief "hello" and "good morning" and we are on the moving. His greeting more a chance to catch his breath than anything but else. 

At the Expo Hall we find our tribe. They've emerged from the drifts and snow banks seeking our same goals; a group, knowledge, and sustenance. The latter being the first we will lose in the coming days. 

Bliznarok Jonas, Day 1

There's a special kind of quiet in the city this morning. The normal hustle and bustle of the morning commute is absent. No impatient drivers rushing to jobs they hate. Tourists are missing; having cancelled their trips or are hibernating in their hotel room. That's my theory anyway--I still haven't left my room.

The end is near.

Bliznarok Jonas is nearly upon us and the City of Baltimore is looking forward to as much as Camp Rock 3.

It had been a rough night. The guy I'm traveling with is prone to conversations both laconic and verbose; he doesn't say much until he gets going. Sentence punctuation is optional. His sleep is very much the same; brief bouts of silence punctuated by rips and snores. Though maybe it wasn't the chainsaw symphony that kept me awake, but the thought of the impending storm. The blizzard's plodding approach has cast more concern and anxiety among Washingtonians and Baltimorites... Baltimorons... Baltimoreans... than rush hour traffic.

Breakfast is functional. Some sort of egg turnover with a slice of cheese in the middle and sausage patties that could be used as coasters. I go for a second serving.

Fox & Friends beats the storm panic drums in the background. A business traveler drones on the phone at the table next to me, while the rest of the Hampton Inn's guests enjoy what could be their last warm meal until spring.

I venture out. It's time to see what this storm has wrought.

What fools these mortals be.

The streets are distractingly... normal. Must be my imagination, or softened West Coast sensibilities. After all, our snow tends to stay in the mountains in a somewhat civilized fashion. Here, the chilled precipitation mixes with everyday life. Ironically bringing that same everyday life to a standstill.

But not here in Charm City, Not yet. Somewhere out there, a meteorological beast closes in on the hunt, seeking sustenance, with an insatiable lust for monochromacy and snow angels.

All we can do now is wait...

The Day After The Day After Tomorrow

DISCLAIMER: This is not a motorcycle posting, so feel free to pop that kickstand and gear up if it's not yer thang. However, I am flying from Seattle to Baltimore for the National Lacrosse Convention (#laxcon) for the weekend.

I have just one request for the weekend that goes out to the greater Washington-Baltimore populace: Can you please keep your scheisse together for one weekend?!

A supposedly monster snowstorm is headed toward DC and Baltimore at this very minute. Chaos is ruling the roadways and there isn't a gallon of milk or roll of toilet paper to be found in any store. Something about snowstorms turns all those meek policy wonks into survivalists

Baltimore Inner Harbor (Conceptual)

I just want to fly in, attend the conference, and fly out. So please, refrain from your snowgasms long enough for me to exit safely and securely, so I can return to Seattle where we have a civilized approach to snow; it stays in the mountains.