Snow Dope
Last night, I trudged the blizzard caked Brooklyn streets in my trusty Gore-Tex boots. The sidewalks were too tall to manage a foothold with sandpits made of snow. I scampered forward inside the zigzag lanes of plow truck tire tracks, from my next door neighbor's pot smoke infested cocktail party in Carroll Gardens to an after dinner birthday drink for a friend-of-a-friend in Park Slope, where half the people were zombified by chronic. I think the blizzard brought out the lazy hippie in folks. Marijuana is a benign drug that's not nearly as bad as tobacco but it still gets my goat. Either people like to engage or they don't. People who NEED weed to get by on a Saturday night should watch cartoons at home with their pot smoking pals and make out. Otherwise, leave the night life to real men and women who drink the rye and play the pool and do the dance.

Alas, the two events combined afforded me less than an hour of social banter and, so, I skipped the whiskey and walked the neighborhoods alone. I think I saw two cars and a bus my entire walk. A few brave city workers shoveled snow at critical junctures. I didn't want to go home. The blizzard was too divine to deny and I spent a good amount of time staring at the frost crystals swoop and flag around me in the center of an eerily quiet Gowanus Canal bridge. I got inebriated on nature before sliding back home.