The storm is over now. Welp, we lived through it. The weather apps and reports had folks on edge about this snowstorm that everybody was scared to death would be the blizzard of ’82 2.0. St. Louis weather is already about as predictable as a scammer psychic trying to give a tarot reading with Uno cards. But when you add inclement freezing weather to the mix, we will either get a light dust or an avalanche – regardless of what the forecast says is for certain. This weekend’s storm was somewhere in the middle. Actually it wasn’t that bad. The streets…well…that’s a different story. I’m not pointing fingers, just stating facts. I will say that I’m so glad that I got some practice keeping my balance on ice at Morgan Casey’s set, because I was hitting triple axels all up and through the North and West Side. I’m sure somebody trying to dig themselves out saw me gliding by and said, “When did Tai Babilonia move here?” But seriously, based on my experience out here, I advise y’all to stay off the side streets as much as possible. And keep main road travel to a minimum if you can – yes, all these days later.
The weather whisperers. Since we are talking about the snowstorm, I have a full-proof predictor of inclement weather severity – I’m talking with 98 percent accuracy. I’m not trying to put any of our beloved media personalities out of work, and my method will be met with some judgement, but hear me out. Follow the meteorologists and the Farmer’s Almanac if you must, but also pay close attention to the moves that “hobosexuals” are making within 48 hours of a severe winter weather alert. If you have one in the hall of shame, unblock him for 24 hours before the snow is supposed to hit. If he hits you with a late night “wyd” or “hey big head” message, know that the storm is on the way and he’s lining up his living situation options. I didn’t get any traction on Friday night, so I thought the storm was gonna pass us over. Then on Saturday I received an Instagram follow accompanied with a “Hey beautiful” message. I couldn’t get to the grocery store fast enough to stock up. Too bad by the time I got there all I had to choose from in the meat aisle was tripe and chicken feet. Fellas, y’all know y’all have that one friend you’ve been loyal to since middle school despite his life being an absolute mess. If you say to yourself, “Where’s Twan,” “Anybody seen Rico?” or “Man-Man done went MIA on a brother”– and said friend doesn’t owe you $50 at the moment – he is out seeking inclement weather intimacy. The storm is on its way. I will put hobosexuals against any world-class meteorologist when they are scheming to get a woman to allow them to use her house as their short-term warming shelter.
Giggling with Guy. Because I didn’t believe the snow was coming, I made my way to The Funny Bone to catch Guy Torry Friday night. The wintry mix hadn’t dropped, but those temperatures shole had (yes, I said shole)! By the time I made it from the parking lot to the building, I was almost frozen solid…as I watched the frat boys make their way to Trainwreck (I think) in shorts and slide ins. But I’m sure y’all want to hear about the show. I cackled, just like I thought I would. My ki-kis actually kicked off before Guy hit the stage thanks to opener Tony Tone. The way he roasted the woman with the Weezy Jefferson voice over an open fire – but in a friendly way – had me hollering. When Guy hit the stage in an Adidas jumpsuit and not a wrinkle in sight, I was like, “How Sway? I know he pushin’ 60!” I was right. He said he was 57, and the crowd gasped. He said that he looks so good because Black people age like “McDonalds cheeseburgers.” Am I the only news nerd who remembers that story about the Iceland hotel that had one on display for ten years and it looked like it was just grabbed out the bin? But back to Guy. I cackled, even as some aged out frat boys audibly grumbled anytime Guy said something positive about Black people. Help. You went to see a Black comic, what did you expect? I didn’t stay for the whole show, because I wanted to get home before the snow started. But I was glad to see while I was there that Guy gave them the attention they deserved – none.
Not a party? I couldn’t tell! Since I’m already talking about my folks aging like fine wine – or processed food loaded with chemicals – I might as well tell y’all I kicked it with my girl Jami Ballentine for her b-day at Ash. She kept saying it was not a party as she told folks to stop through on a Tuesday. She bamboozled us, y’all. Or was it a Jedi mind trick? Either way, she had us going up on a Tuesday. It was in a cigar bar, so I’m currently on my third hit of my albuterol inhaler, and I sound like Weezy Jefferson Jr. I’m gonna go ahead and say it was worth it! She had the STL heavy hitters in the house. I got a chance to see my beloved little brother from another mother (and father) Laurence Maroney as well as NBA champion Earl Barron, Mark Harris II, Tony “T-Luv” Davis to name a few. I would need this whole Partyline to name all the folks (and I’d still probably still accidently leave some folks out), just know that the power players were in the place as the connection broker herself cut a rug with a masterfully beaten mug. I have to admit that Jami was doing the Tameka slide while everyone else was hitting the Tamia. But hey, it was her party. She could miss a step – or three – if she wanted to.