In December 2010 I was sitting at Frank's Lounge knuckling back a vodka tonic. I glanced out the front window and snow was crossing from left to right at an extraordinary speed. Homer, Larry LA, and I regarded the mounting drifts and Homer said, "Best we get home before the bar be our home."
The next day South Oxford Street was blocked by thirty-six inches of the white stuff.
Mayor Bloomburg was in Bermuda. He fired the Sanitation Commissioner, who had been shoveling snow from the streets. Someone always has to take the blame, but never the rich.
Yesterday a polar vortex escaped the Arctic and the plains of Canada and the USA were plunged into sub-zero Ice Age temperatures.
Minus 50 Fahrenheit in Chicago.
Meteorologists have forecasted the cold snap to last one day.
I'm well-prepared for this weather, especially since I have no intention of leaving the house this evening.
It's only 17 now.
Nothing really cold, because back in the last century we knew real cold.
That was when snow was really snow.
In the 1950s even more so.
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