New York got hit with the season's first snow last night, an underachieving affair that added up to under an inch. Still people, especially old people, are bundled up as if the city's grid were the steppes of Russia. And city buses, which are articulated and seem half a block long, are moving slower than usual, which is going some because nothing but nothing moves slower than a New York City bus.
On Friday evening I was on lower Broadway at a post-production facility and left the place in the rain and walked about a mile to bustling, burgeoning Chinatown. I picked up some soup dumplings, some bean curd with spinach, and some rice cakes and took the M101 home, hopping on at the Bowery and Pell. It took the better part of an hour to move the four miles, but somehow the food was still hot when I arrived in my warm apartment.
The year seems to be reluctantly coming to a close. Work is still busy but people seem even more eager than usual to make their escape at night. Maybe they have shopping they need to do. Maybe they've just had enough of 2013.
I've had enough of 2013, too. Even though I've had, as usual a good year. I've done a goodly amount of work, produced a dozen or so commercials and survived another year against the odds.
I've survived also a devastating turn as a sick man--prevailing over pneumonia and beating back aggressive and persistent pericarditis. My heart pains--herzschmerz--seem to be on the ropes. Over the next few weeks I will, knock wood, be weaned off of Prednisone, which is, surely, a wonder drug, but mostly because I wonder if I've been on it too long.
That's it for now. Sort of a lame post, I know.
Attribute it to the end of the year, the spitting rain, and the drugs.