Change is in the air, swirling through this dirty Burg, born aloft on the sweet treacley strains of dead vocalists crooning mournfully for snow and mistletoe.
The local city trees stand solemnly bare, encased in their concrete prisons. Their leaves must have headed south for the winter, one over-stuffed bag at a time. Perhaps seeking warmer, less cigarette butt and bubble gum laden climes.
The latest decorating trend seems a strange wallpapering of green and red crepe paper stained sooty black at the edges. I hope it's simply Calvin Klein Home's new collection. And when did large bellies and red suits with white fur trim become the rage? The "new black"? Or perhaps the city turning it's back on the spring collections already strutting self-importantly down exotic European runways?
Seems unlikely, at best. There was no mention in Vogue. Seems slightly sinister.
Strange little creatures have taken over entire streets. Dragging harried looking citizens from store to store, pointing at the windows while madly chattering in high-pitched voices. They seem especially prevalent around toy stores. Perhaps there is a revolt brewing that hasn't yet made the evening news.
Queer multicolored lights, illuminating windows and outlining fire escapes are spreading like wildfire. Blinking, always blinking, trying to signal, I worry, some imagined interstellar race supposedly zooming through our skies on Frisbee shaped discs.
I fear that the madness I am encountering has already spread to the southern reaches of this great land. My own family has gone insane. Frantic phone calls asking what I want or need have become almost daily occurrences. I assure everyone that I am fine, but they are not satisfied. In my desperation to humor my loved ones' mad interrogations, I've admitted my pathetic need for packs of soft new sweat socks, but still the calls keep coming. Frantic talk of gift certificates and Stephen King books seems to be all the poor folks can manage. I hope the CDC and the FBI soon get to the bottom of this.
There is, of course, one other possibility. I've heard it happens every year. Perhaps it's simply Christmas time again.
Does that somehow explain all the statues of strange winged beings and wise looking old men surrounding a young couple with their child? There's nothing about them in the New Yorker's arts and performance section. Definitely fishy.
Believe what you will, but as for me, I'll be reading the Times extra close 'til this all blows over.
Hope you make it through.