31st Jan 2004
Winter Splinter
A snowplow bears down on an intrepid reporter, promising a one-way trip to painville. Be agile. Fleet of feet.
New Yorkers are potentially the best base runners in the world. Even when streets are covered in ice and snow, they will lead off from a crosswalk for the first lane and a half. It doesn’t seem to matter that cars can’t STOP in these conditions on any coinage (forget stopping on a dime, we’re talking large commemorative coins here - 1000 of them end to end ….) The hardened pedestrians here seem to assume they can jump up on the hood, and perhaps soak up a little engine heat in the process. 7 New Yorkers leading off amounts to a quorum - they can cross no matter what the light says (unless there are Taxis involved, in which case it is safest for everyone to get 5 feet back behind the curb)
A wind blows, and the chill factor kicks in. Cheeks burn. Peds give a “yeah, I’m out here, and I’m going to get something done, and this won’t stop me!” look as they hurry by. Lots of very determined looks.
The brown Timberland boots are useless in the ice and on slippery subway stairs. The soles evidently designed by someone who lives in the sun 360 days a year. Fashion without function. Speaking of which: Businesswomen are, for the most part, well-prepared for their trek from subway to office. You do see some occasional high-heels in the snow, though - what the heck are they thinking?
Let the old lady take up the sidewalk for a while. This is hard for her. Give her the well-salted path. Go around. Be patient.
Didn’t clear the walk in front of your building, and everyone else did? Ok, now you’re on everyone’s SHIT LIST. Don’t expect to be invited to anything for the rest of the year.
Central Park squirrels with attitudes. “That’s my fucking acorn, sparrow, and you can go fly up to 110th street for all I care! I stowed it, I own it, and I’ll chomp it” Scampering in the snow. Always alert for that next bit of pretzel, that next hot dog bun. They have a secret underground lair, an underworld beneath Sheep Meadow. Little squirrel golf carts buzz to and fro, led by a hardened, wizened rodent with an eyepatch.
Dogs with booties. Dogs with shivers. Cats looking out from well heated windowed spaces, enjoying their furry lot in life. The dog point of view is: The snow is over my head everywhere, I don’t want to be here, my owner is clueless, and I just want to go home. Oh! Look! Another dog! Oh boy, let’s romp in the snow! Can we stay, huh? can we can we can we?
Delivery trucks (filled with pet food, no doubt) slip and slide. Nowhere to park. Nowhere to unload. No sympathy. Pressing on. Getting on with some of the toughest jobs in the city even though taking the day off seems like the sane course.
Specials. Beef Stew. Hot this and that. Cider. Stuff to burn the insides so that the outside thaws. Every restaurant is an oasis. Every meal an experience. Manhattan Diner. West Side Cafe. Unbundle, sit down, eat, relax, tip, rebundle, head back into the cold. Repeat daily.
A snowplow bears down on an intrepid reporter, promising a one-way trip to painville. Be agile. Fleet of feet.
New Yorkers are potentially the best base runners in the world. Even when streets are covered in ice and snow, they will lead off from a crosswalk for the first lane and a half. It doesn’t seem to matter that cars can’t STOP in these conditions on any coinage (forget stopping on a dime, we’re talking large commemorative coins here - 1000 of them end to end ….) The hardened pedestrians here seem to assume they can jump up on the hood, and perhaps soak up a little engine heat in the process. 7 New Yorkers leading off amounts to a quorum - they can cross no matter what the light says (unless there are Taxis involved, in which case it is safest for everyone to get 5 feet back behind the curb)
A wind blows, and the chill factor kicks in. Cheeks burn. Peds give a “yeah, I’m out here, and I’m going to get something done, and this won’t stop me!” look as they hurry by. Lots of very determined looks.
The brown Timberland boots are useless in the ice and on slippery subway stairs. The soles evidently designed by someone who lives in the sun 360 days a year. Fashion without function. Speaking of which: Businesswomen are, for the most part, well-prepared for their trek from subway to office. You do see some occasional high-heels in the snow, though - what the heck are they thinking?
Let the old lady take up the sidewalk for a while. This is hard for her. Give her the well-salted path. Go around. Be patient.
Didn’t clear the walk in front of your building, and everyone else did? Ok, now you’re on everyone’s SHIT LIST. Don’t expect to be invited to anything for the rest of the year.
Central Park squirrels with attitudes. “That’s my fucking acorn, sparrow, and you can go fly up to 110th street for all I care! I stowed it, I own it, and I’ll chomp it” Scampering in the snow. Always alert for that next bit of pretzel, that next hot dog bun. They have a secret underground lair, an underworld beneath Sheep Meadow. Little squirrel golf carts buzz to and fro, led by a hardened, wizened rodent with an eyepatch.
Dogs with booties. Dogs with shivers. Cats looking out from well heated windowed spaces, enjoying their furry lot in life. The dog point of view is: The snow is over my head everywhere, I don’t want to be here, my owner is clueless, and I just want to go home. Oh! Look! Another dog! Oh boy, let’s romp in the snow! Can we stay, huh? can we can we can we?
Delivery trucks (filled with pet food, no doubt) slip and slide. Nowhere to park. Nowhere to unload. No sympathy. Pressing on. Getting on with some of the toughest jobs in the city even though taking the day off seems like the sane course.
Specials. Beef Stew. Hot this and that. Cider. Stuff to burn the insides so that the outside thaws. Every restaurant is an oasis. Every meal an experience. Manhattan Diner. West Side Cafe. Unbundle, sit down, eat, relax, tip, rebundle, head back into the cold. Repeat daily.
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