Cowards of New York:
Hi. I’m Dave. I live in Brooklyn, which is like Hoboken for people who aren’t stupid, or Queens for people who aren’t subcontractors. Perhaps you’re familiar; perhaps you live there too. If you live anywhere in NYC, you’re probably currently experiencing cold temperatures, freezing precipitation, and generally dismal weather. People are calling this an Alberta clipper, but there’s a simpler name for it: “winter in New York City”. Welcome to the party. Now, for the love of David Dinkins himself, kindly shut your talkhole about it. You’re making us look bad.
Look, sometimes NYC winters are cold. Sometimes you step out of the subway and get blasted with a gust of air so bone-chillingly cold, you have the immediate urge to pour a bowl of ramen down your pants. Other times, you are going to step shin-deep into a slush puddle wearing shoes you couldn’t afford to begin with. Everyone on the sidewalk is dressed like it’s a funeral at the North Pole. When it snows, they won’t pick up the trash; when it rains, the snow will turn into a slushie the color of human brains, and flow downhill into yet another puddle that’s successfully masquerading as a patch of pavement. You’ll step in that one too, and you will not complain, because who would listen? Not New York — that’s for sure.
You don’t live here for the weather.
Griping about this wintry onslaught NYC is currently braced against is like crying about how expensive your apartment is. “For this price I could have an entire house in Charlotte”, you wail, looking forlornly at the $2,100-a-month studio, furnished with your parents’ couch and liquor. True. But then you’d be in Charlotte, which, like, Q.E.D.
Bitching about New York in January is like bitching about all the lines in New York. It’s a two-hour wait for brunch? Go literally anywhere else. Trader Joe’s is mobbed? Go on a not-Sunday. The Supreme line runs down Lafayette and around the corner onto Prince, then around the other corner onto Crosby? Go f*ck yourself, then grow up.