Man, it's nippy out.

Don we now our peacoats and scarves, it's Christmas time in the City.

That right, folks. It's the most wonderful time of the year, when streets and avenues become mighty, remorseless, cruel walls of bitter Siberian hate-wind. It's nostalgic. It's pointy nipples. It's romantic. It's frozen snot. It's lovely.

One may waltz over to Rockefeller Center to be witness to that exhilarating tradition of watching top-heavy tourists fall with an ever-satisfying thud on the ice. One may declare snowball fights in Central Park. One may enjoy the intricate window displays of Herald Square. One may complain about how the cold is causing a serious case of pointy nipples.

It's that time when certain holiday tunes dance through one's mind, "Ring-a-ling (ring-a-ling), Hear them sing (hear them sing), Damnit I've gotta get inside my nipples are so pointy it's so cold."

It's that infectious time of the year when you know that Santa's on his way, he's loaded lots of toys and goodies on his sleigh... and hopefully something to make my nipples less pointy because its so unbelievably, excruciatingly, grief-inducingly cold.

So grab that peacoat, that down vest, that scarf, that hat, those boots, and prepare for some cold.

Song of the week.

Until next time, I bid you a Christmassy, pointy nippley farewell.

-t