Possibly it is just I, but maybe you are also familiar with that sentimental song about dreaming of a white Christmas. Funny how the crooning masses are mute about singing sappy praises for a nightmare blizzard after the calendar page turns to January. Consider this:
Crooning Masses: White Christmas — Yea!
Brooding Masses: White New Year’s — Nay!
But here we are, approaching 72 hours into 2014, and the East Coast is getting pummeled with a ferocious blast of winter. My Grind shuttered at 3:30 on Thursday. I will not return until Monday — in defiance of the rumor that mentally I vacated the premises in 2007 never to return.
On my way home, I made a pit stop at my grocery store for organic fruit and vegetables, even though what I craved most was a stiff 80 proof libation. Then I returned to my hovel intent on burrowing for the remainder of the evening that I spent emailing and texting my pal, Coco. As the hour approached eight bells and two stifled belches, I paused in the midst of a fascinating as watching water boil exchange about the ninth wonder of the world, antacid, to inquire if she could see what the weather was like outside her window? Oh, could she!
What follows is a series of images Coco shot in lower Manhattan south of Houston Street, a street that rhymes with mouse-ton to you non-New Yorkers. This area is commonly referred to as SoHo. Bundle up and enjoy the tour.
Since I am under self-imposed house detention, Coco and I might collaborate on a part two later today — if she is willing to don a face sock and brave the elements twice. I am confident that I can handle the heavy lifting of downloading and captioning her images in the confines of my warm and cozy uptown abode.