Bob Odenkirk's Ode To Winter

Cold....

Winter in Chicago can just be a mean, mean honesty. Cruel, low-down—a brittle, impossible wall of metaphysical truth encircling you and pounding away. And at night it’s worse, if you’ve got to take the garbage out, or head home from your crap job at midnight (I wasn’t always in show biz) or after breaking up with someone and riding your bike to your lonely apartment at 2 a.m. over 15 inches of craggy, frozen snow that crunches with that dry, chalk-on-chalkboard squerk that makes your spine shake its fists at your brain