Tuesday, January 30, 2018

A light snow in New York.

You can tell a real New York snowstorm because the dog-shit is already on the snow by the time it hits the ground. Today's frosting isn't much, really. By Vermont standards, or the standards of any less pampered place, it's veritably nothing.

Sure, it's a little slippery, and dogs are licking at their paws for the salt on the sidewalks. But, like I said, it's nothing. If people still wore, like my generation did growing up, proper galoshes, well, those would be hidden way back in a deep closet with the muck and the gravel and the city's detritus from the last storm still encrusted on their soles.

That said, though there's no more snow than dandruff on an old-man's moth-eaten cardigan, the city will, almost invariably, be tied up in knots.

Trains will be canceled. Buses will creep along at paces that would make a mastodon look like Usain Bolt. And people with breathe through their mouths and fulminate and curse, each curse being punctuated by New York's harshest imprecation, that is, the name of their current mayor.

So half the conversations this morning will go something like, 

"Damn, snow. Kids, school, trains late, missed two. De Blasio."

The rejoinder will be near universal, too.

"Fuckin' De Blasio."

And then like New Yorkers have since the days of the Dutch Pegleg, we will hang up our coats, swill our coffee regular, check to make sure the Knicks lost again, and get down to business, which is what we do best.

Well, second best.

Fucking De Blasio.

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