It is winter. February, in fact. And not the good, magical, snowy kind of February… this is the dreary, monotonous, get-out-of-bed-and-look-outside-and-then-want-to-punch-yourself-in-the-face-it’s-so-grey-dismal-and-useless kind. Adding insult to injury, next month is March. And March, as you know, sucks. Have I depressed you? Or are you, just like everyone else, already super-duper depressed

This Sunday, you can pretend you’re down home in Mississippi again — barefoot in the sunshine by the river, barbeque sauce all over yer smilin’ face, strummin’ a gee-tar an’ tappin’ yer toe. Wait, what’s that? You’re from Connecticut, and you don’t know how to play, or eat? That’s alright!

  Just when you’d decided never to leave the apartment without utter life-or-death necessity again this summer (the city’s a freak show! It’s hot as balls! The line in Duane Reade is anxiety attack-inducingly long and the whole damn town is crawling with tourists who stop at random in the