Is That an Icicle or Are You Glad to See Me?

Found myself in New York City this morning, for once quite by design rather than the happenstance of past years. And found myself there to be cold, quite cold, really fucking cold to the point of gulagian discomfort.

Last night I played some Lewis Black, ranting on about cold so from that perspective I am not going to apologize for the use of colorful invectives. Particularly against this fucking weather.

Mothers, put your children away, lest they Twitter that Mom's reading a blog that talks like they heard teacher when someone opened a door right into her new Corolla.

But to the cold: I laughed at Black's archetypical rant against the weather last night but somehow, although the words and vocal intonation played in my head this morning, it wasn't so funny after all.

FUCK ITS COLD!!

Somewhere around nine I was walking through Times Square waiting for a ball to drop. One would do although two would take some of the additional discomfort of walking out of the picture. I gave in around fiftieth street to barrel into a sporting goods store (they were open) and bought a N.E. Patriots wool cap.

Coupla' reasons. One, I'm a Pats fan. Two, I'm not a not a New York fan of any stripe but thats beside the point. The point being that the Giants are truly, like the Yankees, a team of the Devil. Anyone with the audacity to rob someone of a perfect season just to claim a silly little Super Bowl ring has to be in the employ of a certain B.L. Zebub.

The season was such big news that it even made NPR, not normally known for sports reporting outside of U Penn sculling. I remember Carl Kassel announcing an almost perfect season for the New England Pahtroyuts. Remember, this was NPR. Patriot is a foreign word.

Then the New York Devil-Worshipping Harbinger's of Hell win the Super Bowl.

I think that may have a lot to do with weather today.

At least to my Foxboro state of mind.

Bunny on.

Excuse Me a Moment, I Think the Cat's Lost It

The cat (who I
adore) but not without unregarded eye
is kept close watch on at night.

Is nuts I fear.

Off her perch she
between the front door and the tree
is running like the mouth on a gossip.

She's gone insane.

Window to couch
again to same then tuck and crouch
to pounce upon the fleck of dust she just killed.

ADD's got nothing on her.

Fuss and worry
the last lost ornament the furry
macrame Santa from the pine she shimmied up last week.

Like Axemen on catnip.

Open the door for puss
but when her paw hits that first frozen step the wuss
makes a sound like "Gneeeiiigh!" and darts back for the rest of Shark Week.

Might be the weather.

No surprise its as cold
as a snowman's convention in an old
but functional freezer in the Antarctic in the middle of June.

And it ain't getting warmer.

Add to that the light
Of which there's none its been straight night
Sun's been scarcer than a lawyer's ethics since last Tuesday.

I've been a little edgy too.

Cooped up in the house
Chasing down a blue flannel mouse
While Mick and Keith, the squirrels, raid the feeder with abandon outside.

Talk about wasted potential.

If the weather doesn't break
And the sun don't come out to melt the top cake
Of ice of the thousand pound block that once was a well running car.

I'm gonna join her naked and furry running around the house.