Mr. Wow Contemplates The End of the World By Snow—And CNN’s Valiant Ice Pop, Don Lemmon.
“HE IS the type that makes mountains out of molehills, and then sells climbing equipment.” Ivern Ball.
THERE is nothing funny about a major natural disaster. According to all news reports on Monday we here in the New York area were on the brink of one, with a snow-storm that was “once in a generation.” It was “Snowpocalypse!” Store shelves were emptied and people spoke in hushed, nervous tones about “the blizzard.” (So unusual—snow in January.)
Luckily, most of the caution was pretty much standard “let’s-terrify-people-for-the-fun-of-it” talk. Lots of snow fell, there were some power outages, transit was cancelled overnight. (I didn’t have to appear at my office. Or downstairs at El Rio Grande, for a hot margarita toddy.)
But, all in all, the Medieval Black Plague language used, fell on impressive but not monumental snow banks. It is better to err on the side of caution, and Manhattan’s embattled Mayor DeBlasio was certainly obliged to come out swinging against a potential disaster. (I suppose one could opine that the blizzard turned its back on DeBlasio, too.)
The cable stations did their usual best/worst, putting the lives and health of their reporters at risk, at the point when it looked liked the snowfall would be far more daunting and dangerous. Not that I would mind most of these jerks being swallowed up in a snowdrift or swept out to sea or tornado-ed to Oz.
But the hoot of the night goes to CNN. They crammed the always dramatic Don Lemmon into something called “The Blizzardmobile” and sent him out, bundled up, wearing an unflattering ski-cap, to travel and report disaster as it happened. Oops! No disaster occurred. Aside from that ski-cap. When I checked in on Don late in the evening, as the snowfall had stopped, he was still looking for something epic, desperately attempting to engage un-panicked people about the last of the flakes. It couldn’t have happened to a more inept and annoying anchor. (I honestly kept waiting for him to personalize the storm because he is gay or because he is black.)
I can’t imagine that CNN’s coming “game show” hosted by the network’s giggling gift to New Year’s Eve, Anderson Cooper, will be nearly as much fun as Don Lemmon on the snowy tundra. (The only thing better would have been placing the twoof them in the Blizzardmobile. Girls on ice. But you know Anderson would have insisted they stop by Andy Cohen’s place for drinks and trash talk with some of the “Housewives.” And he never would have worn that ski-cap!)
Stay warm, everybody!
I’ve been putting off shoveling in front of the house. Where is an able-bodied neighborhood boy when you need one? Shovel optional. (No boys appeared. Mr. Wow was obliged to butch it up. This is never a pleasant sight. But there’s more snow on the way. Hope springs eternal.)
Love, Mr. W.
Yes—this is a crappy selfie I took tonight. After a good look at my holiday pic, I decided I’d made my point about aging without tweaks. Tweaks are okay, and maybe I’ll have some, soon. The neck, at least. NOT retouching your photos only hurts the one you love. Well, it hurts me, honestly. Actually, B. is the one who gets hurt. He has to listen to my screaming as I insist I certainly do not look “like that.” He is always too kind to respond: ”You are over sixty! What do you expect from a photograph now?” I loved having my picture taken when I was young. And B.– big surprise!–was an excellent photographer. (There’s really nothing he can’t do.) I’m like the classic old story that has been attributed to everybody from Pickford to Dietrich to Hedy to Crawford. After sitting for a session, one of the ladies supposedly said: “These are not as good as what you did the last time.” The photographer replies: “Well, Mary/Hedy/Marlene/Joan–I’m ten years older now.”
Yeah. I know. Whatever my issues, I’m not Dietrich. You just had to say it, right?
So this is how I prefer to think of myself. Kinda blurry, over-lit. In my cluttered room. 62.