I sort of have a guest blogger today. With permission, a friend of mine, who requested I withhold his name, has allowed me to post the note I received from him following the big blizzard. There had been an intimate gathering at the home of friends in the Village, and we all departed relatively early (after copious amounts of awesome Chinese takeout, wine, champagne, Waterfront Alehouse Sam's eggnog and whisky) to make it home in the snow. My F train ride was somewhat eventful, diving through snowdrifts on the walk home and clawing my way up my stoop to get into my building. But the following story about my friend's journey home in Westchester is epic. And an impressive recounting considering my friend's state when he was writing it on most of a bottle of Van Winkle 12 Yr, hours after that big boozy dinner. Enjoy.
P.S. He's way too old to play my friend by decades, but I somehow picture Steve Martin in the movie version.
Little after 2. Just got in. Had a bit of an adventure getting here. The train doors didn't open at my stop. Stood there pounding on the glass, pushing the emergency call button, watching my snow covered car getting smaller as the train carried on to the next station. Went back through four or five cars to finally find a conductor who was no help at all and by that time we were at the next station about six miles from my car and home. No trains going back the other way until morning, no cabs in the blizzardy soup and no kind fellow travelers to bum a ride from. So I walked down the middle of the main road in a rather grim parody of Jimmy Stewart's George Bailey on my slow, cold way to Bedford Hills, not Bedford Falls.
Whiteout conditions up here, I walked a ways, trying to flag down the occasional plow or sander going past to no avail. Got about halfway and wondered if I shouldn't just sit down in the snow and crack open the Van Winkle. Then decided I could walk and drink at the same time. When I was about a mile away from the station, about five miles and a good four fingers of fine Bourbon down, one of the big department of transportation plows pulled over and took pity on me. I explained the situation and climbed aboard, saving myself a little walking. To his credit, the driver refused the drink I offered him and wouldn't take a dime, but dropped me off next to my car. Then I just had to slip and slide in low gear up the lousy hills of Bedford frickenfracken Hills. And here I sit, pouring some more fine Bourbon into a little tumbler of Lactaid eggnog and typing out this long stupid note to you all. Which has oddly enough made me feel much better. That and the fact that "Mansquito" is on the SciFi channel in the background... truly awful in a so awful it's good way.
Thanks to you all for the presents and booze and company tonight. It's good to have good friends, and after my lovely trip home I'm more determined than ever to move closer to the lot of you. Happy Holidays and safe travels to those traveling! Right. Shoveling snow and then bed. Joy.