Winter Whine Count Up #7

I haven't surfed in weeks.  I haven't touched a soccer ball in weeks.  I haven't had a drink in weeks. Not even a paddle.  Not even a friendly post-work beer.  Ok, so the boy and I have been kicking around the little green mushy ball.  Gotta keep up the touch.  In New York, right now, it is desperate times.  Not so desperate you'd correct, and I'd have to acquiesce.  The flu we just got over was just the flu.  I can still take the subway to work.  I still have work.  But the snowiest January on record has taken it's toll.  Add to that a least surfy January and the toll is complete.  Just flat and fickle and flat and the when it's not the snowplows aren't doing their work and the clients are demanding I do mine and the sun only peaks over the horizon too late to justify the trek.  And the whole time the whole time, social media is popping up images of those intelligent sods who've had the ken to make a life in the right spot, so far yet so close.  The daily flow of images from Drug Money Art and Dalton Portella have this weird sort of inverse quality, something surfers from other environs may not latch on to quite like a surfer in New York might.  At issue is this magical effect of circumstances that make the freezing cold look downright tropical; downright pipe dreamish.  And so the drumbeat picks up.  The wife nudging west, but my mind, somehow drifting east...