It has been cool in the city, what we used to call Indian summer.
I suppose now that everything is sanitized and made politically correct, I should call crisp weather in early October 'Native American Summer,' but I can't. It's not in me to bleach things so clean. So if any Cherokee, or Cree, or Iroquois, or Seminoles are reading this, I apologize. The last three days have been beautiful Indian summer days.
The leaves are beginning to turn outside New York. And even in Central Park, where the summer colors of the foliage sometimes lingers into November, there are ambers and umbers and numbers of fallen leaves.
The squirrels are working overtime too. When Whiskey spots one and chases it up a tree, you can see by the tree's base a veritable compost pre-heap of cracked acorn shells. Despite global warming, New York's famous furry-tailed rats are bracing for a winter that likely will never come.
The seasons barrel along. We are all a few months older. Soon, the hipper among us will be wearing $79 wool pullover caps indoors, seemingly not cognizant that the weather has shifted again and it's 83-degrees out.
It must be hard to accessorize every aspect of one's life. It would be so much easier just to live it. But once again, I repeat, I am not and never will be one of the cool kids, so I can't hope to understand the ineffable something that comes from the aforementioned pullover.
Clients march on as well. Seeing bogies where none exist. Making proclamations that bear no relation to reality, except the reality you can find on tiny cells on an Excel spreadsheet.
When I was 21, my mother was trying to force me into law school or business school. I should do anything but that which would make me happy. As a consequence I took fill-in-the-bubble entry exams for each pursuit and fairly scored off the charts. I suppose if I had chosen MBA school I would have mastered the classes they must teach in monkey-wrench-throwing. How such people can spot the smallest grains of life in a piece of work and plutonium blast it out of existence.
We march on, like the mutated seasons and do our jobs. We try to fight the fight, but the CO2 in the client atmosphere has risen inexorably.
We are choked by it and can hardly breathe. The sea level of nitpicking and stupidity is rising. We can build sea walls.
But the water is lapping at our souls.
...and the sand is shifting under our feet.
...and we have engine blocks chained to our ankles.
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