There’s a rhino-sized mound of snow outside my front window. Peering over it, I can see that my automobile is completely encased in a parka of white ugly. I refuse to dig that sucker out. The Corsica is now in full hibernation mode until the rain or sun arrives in full force, sans Lisa Lisa and Cult Jam.

The recent blizzard has made it even easier for me to stay submerged in the Sellers submarine, which was christened Goodge a few years back and now patrols Park Slope, Brooklyn, with the laziness of an M-class solar flare. I’m bundled up and getting nostalgic while listening to Prisoners of Love, the new three-disc greatest and rarest collection from Yo La Tengo, and I’m also thinking about snow angels. Specifically:

Number of snow angels I’ve made this blizzard: zero.

Number of snow angels I plan to make this blizzard: zero.

The snow onslaught tacked an extra day onto my mom’s two-day visit. Every knows I hate playing host, but hey, she made eggs and washed my windows and sills, so I can hardly complain. Plus, she unleashed the following corker: “I want to be young again. I think about it every day. I’m on my way out, man, and I don’t want to leave.” I feel the same way, and I’m only 34. But if we try hard enough, maybe we’ll get younger before we get older.


I just spent five minutes explaining what parentheses are to a nice Korean woman with a shaky hold on the English language.