Between Those Cold Sheets … It’s Still Cold

There’s a cruel rumor being circulated that the next calamity to hit the Spokane area will be in the form of a sonic baby boom about nine months from now.

The theory suggests that those of us who plunged into the heart of darkness last week are enjoying more hanky panky than a John Wayne Bobbitt video.

I figure this rumor was concocted by smug people with power to burn.

I’m talking about people with VCRs and Christmas lights and blenders and stereos and electric nose-hair clippers. People who let the hot water run and don’t have the slightest clue what life is like for us Morlocks down in the dark, deep freeze.

Well, let me set this whole sex issue straight.

As self-appointed spokesman for the juiceless, I can state with frigid authority that there is scant panky going on and all the hankies are being used for blankets.

Frostly, I mean firstly, it’s difficult to generate the spark of romance when your body temperature is the same as a Swanson’s frozen dinner.

Secondly, privacy is an elusive premium for those who live in a meat locker.

The Clark family, for example, spends the Arctic nights jammed together closer than a rugby scrum. Even our two cats and my dog, Elvis, have joined our biomass.

We’re so thankful for our little pets.

Their bright loving eyes, their loyal presence, helps ease the tension of even these hideous times.

The Clarks are comforted by the knowledge that should our icy misery affect the food supply, we can always eat our furry friends.

Lastly, there is the matter of, well, stamina.

I’ve slept so poorly the last seven days that I’m beginning to look like a “Night of the Living Dead” zombie.

I get out of bed more often than an old man with a swollen prostate. It’s sleep an hour. Poke the fire. Doze another hour. Poke the fire. …

This is definitely not the kind of poking that made Don Juan a famous lover.

“You’re right. There’s no sex when you’re cold,” said an editor from the sports side of the newspaper.

“Power went off. It didn’t happen. Three days later, power went on. It happened.”

I have no idea why this man told me this, but it does prove my point.

Of course, there are exceptions to everything.

There are still some sights so titillating as to drive even a thoroughly powerless man into a lust-crazed froth.

I know. This happened to me Sunday while I was on yet another pathetic scavenger hunt for lamp oil.

There, on the corner of 29th and Regal, was the most gorgeous vision I’ve ever seen:

A man selling - gasp - gas-powered generators.

Not just any generators. Oh, baby. Oh, baby. These sweethearts put out 5,000 watts of pure, unadulterated power.

Enough power to light the house. Enough power to work the television.

Enough power, and I’m beginning to weep here, to start the furnace! I pulled into the parking lot, feeling testosterone surge through my chilled blood like supercharged antifreeze.

“How, um, how much?” I stammered through quivering lips.

“They’re $895,” he said, giving me the once over.

The man’s steely eyes narrowed. He knew he was talking to a junky desperate for a fix.

“But, but, I don’t have that much,” I whimpered.

The dealer leered.

“We won’t be here much longer,” he taunted.

I drove back to my three-story igloo feeling as impotent as a Ross Perot supporter.

Sex? Who can think about sex at a time like this?

All I want to do is curl up next to the fire, cover my body with hankies and beat my head in with a poker.

Editor’s note: Tune in Thursday to learn whether the Clarks have heat and a hot Thanksgiving dinner, or are forced to crack out a cold can of Spam.

, DataTimes