Yesterday our tentative but steady march toward spring was knocked on its ass. The forecast said not to panic, it just wouldn’t be as warm as Tuesday and we might — just might — have “a light dusting” of snow. Do not be alarmed; go on about your business.
I did. At noon I looked out the window. Big fat flakes. At 2, it was a whiteout. The light dusting added up to about three inches.
Is it a coincidence that my throat began to hurt at the same time? That my sinuses swelled, my head began to throb? I think not!
(I love that phrase: “I think not.” It’s like the mark of a windbag, which is why you only see it on the letters to the editor page — “Do the politicians care about the taxpayers of Aboite Township? I think not!” It also needs that exclamation point, that fist on the podium at the town meeting.)
So now I’m sick. Went to bed at 9, slept badly, dragged my butt out of bed at 7:45. And I have three bathrooms to clean, laundry to do and groceries to buy for the holiday weekend. Which is to say, pbbbt on NN.C at the moment. In exchange for boring you to death, I offer bloggage:
When Jon Carroll appreciates you, it almost makes dying seem worth it. If we could ask Bobby Short, I’m sure he’d agree: It was December of 1977, and there was new snow blanketing Manhattan, and my new love and I took a cab cross-town and showed up at the Carlyle, dressed in what was apparently our finest, and they let us in anyway. We sat on the side, stage right, so we had a good view of the keyboard. We ordered champagne, which we had never done before and would never do again.
Bobby Short owned the room the moment he walked in; he made everything — his charm, his style, his singing — seem so effortless. He honored the lyrics, and invited us in to contemplate the mysteries of the reasons that reason knows not of.
Afterward, late at night, we danced in the snow on Madison Avenue, just like in the movies. We sang Cole Porter to each other. It was entirely magical, because magic was the whole point. We were not thinking a bit about the end of it; we were not thinking at all. The streetlight illuminated our white footprints as they slowly turned blurry and indistinct.
Richard Cohen makes the obvious point about the Democrats; i.e., that they no longer deserve votes, not that they aren’t trying for them anyway: Say what you will about DeLay, he is not afraid to state his beliefs and fight for them. Say what you will about the Democrats, they are. That’s why DeLay’s called “The Hammer.” What would you call the Democrats? Never mind. When they’re ready, they’ll call you.
And that, children, is all my feeble fingers have the strength for on this cold, cold morning. Laziness? I think not!