A West Indian cab ride.

It's a pretty gloomy day out and I'll admit my mood matches the weather.

Some things I was expecting to happen either aren't happening or are happening at a pace I'd call glacial. Add to that the fact that New York's fairly freshly fallen snow is now a slurry of dog shit, bum urine, used condoms and carbon monoxide and the whole of my world, right now, is pretty foul.

It's enough to make you want to take a cab with a West Indian driver just so you can get in a screaming match.

"I said 83rd Street."

"No mon, you said 89th Street."

"Look, I know where I live."

"You said 89th, mon. Do you think I'm deaf in the ears?"

You won't win such a battle, you won't even be the loudest. But you will get some anger and volume out. And that's a good thing.

I guess there are times that life is like a cab ride with a West Indian driver.

You'll get tossed around along the way. Starting too fast and stopping too abruptly. With invective and general nastiness your accompaniment.

But eventually, with a little luck, you'll get where you're going.