There's nothing quite like a sweltering summer night in New York City, the town that makes its own gravy (Letterman's, not mine, but don't think I'm not jealous). The gravy was overflowing today, in fact -- I was taking a late train for an afternoon meeting and ignored news of thoroughly flooded subways, knowing like I know the 2 train that surely things would be back to what passes for normal in the B'gapple by my late arrival. Well, here I am on the 8:20 pinkeye home and the MTA appears to have decided to give up, go home and try again tomorrow. Seriously. Entire stations are boarded up, and once I found one with a set of letters to my liking, there was a definite air of subterranean doubt as to whether any trains were actually moving. But eventually a C train came, and even if it were to take on the characteristics of an A or an E, I was reasonably sure of being delivered somewhere beneath Penn Station, a distinct advantage over taxis, to my way of thinking.
Ahh, hot New York, where the most beautiful women in the world are all out in their lovely summer dresses, all sweating just as much as I am, if a tad more elegantly.