Once more, with feeling.

Okay. This is the last post for the night.

Really.

Unless something else gets me going.

But I stumbled on this article over at Arts Journal and it falls into that category of things I find particularly inspirational. I love those moments when we get to hear how a creative idea came into being. How something wonderful came into being.

How I now have a reason to highlight this absolutely brilliant book cover.

The story, which I kind of leapfrogged over back there, is about the death of Timothy McSweeney who was, according to the article, the inspiration for the name of Dave Egger's literary journal McSweeney's Quarterly Concern.

Think what you will about Egger's book A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius (1) but McSweeney's is it's own work of staggering genius. It's the kind of literary journal that makes you realize what a really great literary journal can be.

Huh.

Ironic that I'm going to conclude my praises of a fantastic literary journal with one of those circular sentences critics write that actually mean very little at all.

Right?

1. And I will either agree with your opinion that it is a wonderful and clever book or wish you all the best with your truck driver training school placement exam (2).
2. I know. First five year-old girl snow shovelers and now people in the long-haul transportation industry. I don't know what my problem is tonight. I have a great respect for people who drive big trucks. And also for people who travel with carnivals (3).
3. No. I don't know why.

Slow down, you move too fast.

Just in case there's any misunderstanding here I want to clear something up.

I love the snow.

I love winter.

I don't love the frustration that is dealing with issues caused by winter weather in this particular city, but I love watching the snow fall and the way the park looks when it's covered over, and watching the kids play and make snowmen and igloos and snow angels.

And this time around there's been an unexpected benefit.

I've been avoiding the grocery store like the plague. The very thought of it has filled me with dread.

Instead, I've been taking advantage of the small markets and butchers and poultry guys near and in D.C.'s Eastern Market. I got a big smile from the man who runs the butcher counter who always seems to remember me no matter how long it's been. The poultry folks had eggs and big, gorgeous bone-in chicken breasts (1). I chatted with the guy at the liquor store when I bought my wine and laughed with the two women there who said they had "gin and brandy, so we're all ready for the next storm." (2)

It's so easy when Leopold and I get running around for stocking the shelves to become this mindless task of getting it bought, on the shelf and into the freezer. But my little grocery excursion today was actually kind of fun and felt so much more productive. It really did feel good to patronize local people...knowing that my money was giving back to the community and not simply adding to the bottom line of a faceless corporation.

A corporation that probably wouldn't remember that I had been looking for bacon the other day.

D.C.'s new plastic bag text has already caused me to be mindful of how I bring things home from the store. I'm hoping the last few days are going to help remind me to think a little more about where it is I'm shopping.

1. Which not only means great flavor for the chicken but bones for stock...which means not paying money for boxed broth.
2. Which seems to be starting as I type this.

Money changes everything.

Yes. This is another snow post.

Sorry for that.

But here's the thing.

Since Leopold and I have both been unexpectedly off from work we've been taking Finkelstein out for one, long, walk with no destination whatsoever. We've gotten to see the snow turn colors as the sun goes down. Finkelstein gets to do some mid- to high-level frolicking (1) and we've gotten to engage in a pseudo scientific sociological analysis of shoveling habits in our fair city.

And here's what our study has revealed.

The care and consideration shown when shoveling the sidewalk area in front of one's house seems to sit in direct opposition to the value of the house itself.

In other words, people sitting in big expensive houses shovel like five year-old girls (2).

Which leads me to my larger point.

If you can afford a $1M+ home you can afford a snow shovel.

If you can afford a $1M+ home but lack the physical ability to shovel you can afford to hire someone to shovel for you.

Trust me. You can.

I can be there in 20 minutes.

1. She's very advanced.
2. Written with apologies to any outstanding five year-old female snow shovelers out there. I am merely trying to offer an illustration.

Copping a latitude.

Washington, D.C. is not the South.

This is a horrible thing to break to the city at large but, I'm sorry, this is not the South. You can fry as many green tomatoes as you want, drink bourbon by the barrel and pass around as many trays of ham biscuits as you want, but it's not the South.

Until, that is, it snows. Then, yes, we are way down south in Dixie.

As I have already used one post to rail against the lack of snow etiquette in this, the lap dance of democracy, there seems no reason not to add another.

Or a few.

Here in the "Snow South" they believe in leaving a few inches of snow on the ground "for traction."

There is the apparent belief that snowplows are magic so, if you shovel all the snow on and around your car into the street, the plow will make it disappear. Not, as logic and reason would dictate, plow it all back up against your car.

Here in the "Snow South" there's no need to shovel off your sidewalk so that people can walk past...that's what streets are for.

After all, you're safer walking in the street. The plows have thoughtfully left that inch or two of snow for traction.

You can take one. It's free.

Not that long ago I was wondering what it would be like to do a 'zine now that it's entirely possible to create slick, professional looking books and magazines with a laptop and a the right software (1).

Well, the other night I stopped in at one of my favorite comic shops and there, on the counter, was the 'zine of my dreams. It was photocopied and tacked together. The pages weren't even cut to the same width so the entire thing was kind of off-kilter.

And it's fantastic. I plowed through it last night with the book in one hand and a glass of wine in the other.

It's by Alex Houston and called Lookit! yet another diary comic collection woooooo and it's one of the most inspiring "go ahead and take it it's free" things I've ever picked up.

I have no idea how many copies of it are floating around our fair, snowbound city, but he has what he calls a silly blog hanging out at lookitlookit.tumblr.com.

1. Note, however, that I didn't put creativity on that list. There's a good distance between "exciting" and "professional".

Do I know you from somewhere?

When Percy Jackson & The Olympians first hit the scene I didn't really pay much attention.

I actually bailed out of the Harry Potter series when the last book arrived. I've still not read it.

But today, taking a short wander around the Internet, I found myself caught up in reading the rundown of the first book and I have to say, Rick Riordan came up with something pretty darn fantastic.

Especially for those of us who grew up being minor mythology geeks.

Or, major mythology geeks.

And not just the Greeks. The Romans. The Chinese. The Norse. The Egyptians. The ancient Latin Americans.

Show me a pantheon and I'll show you a good time.

Eating my words.

Even though we didn't have that much money when I was growing up, we were a restaurant kind of family.

Various members of my family owned or still own restaurants or work in kitchens or behind bars. My mother waited tables. I waited tables and tended bar. Leopold worked as a waiter and a host.

When certain combinations of my family gets together our table is bussed with the dishes stacked and the silverware sorted by the time a member of the restaurant staff arrives.

I have been known to go and grab my own ketchup or roll of silverware so as not to make our waiter or waitress make another trip.

I have never and will never use the term "waitron."

Leopold and I have been known to kill an entire afternoon or evening sitting at one of our favorite restaurant bars.

Despite all this I find that I'm very excited about Cathy Erway's book the art of Eating In.

It's not that I think she's going to inspire me to change my restaurant-going ways...but it will give me something to read next time I find myself out to eat alone.