It's raining a steady rain in New York this morning and it's cold. The sidewalks and streets are covered with the leaf-equivalent of Custer's Last Stand. There will only be outliers left when this storm is over. Lone survivors of the onslaught, sure to regale their grandchildren leaves of their heroic exploits.
I like New York in the rain--even though it sometimes seems as if the subway system were designed more for San Diego or Phoenix, places without rain, than the precipitation we are greeted with today. Sometimes, it seems, a wet sneeze is enough to tie up the system.
It's still dark as I write this and my wife--still on disability with her hip--is still asleep. The younger daughter left yesterday, the older left ten years ago. Even Whiskey is in doggie dreamland.
There are things I'd rather do on this rainy Monday than head to the train to go to work. I am in the middle of A. Scott Berg's long biography of Samuel Goldwyn. It's a history of the American film industry at a macro level and Goldwyn's role in creating it. Sprinkled throughout--Berg is a good writer--are just the right amount of Goldwynism's. Like "Mussolini is tied down invading Utopia."
Yes, I'd rather crawl back to bed. Read my book. Watch a movie or two. Or just take a long walk along the water with Whiskey.
But that's ok.
I've got work, too.
And that's ok, too.