Last week, I had dinner with a good friend of mine who lives in San Diego. Sitting on the Southern California coastline near the Mexico border, San Diego is famous for its climate: 70 degrees Fahrenheit and a cloudless sky, 365 days a year. "I could never live in a place like that," I often tell him. "I like a place with actual, you know, seasons." I am now back home in New England. It's winter. The snowbanks by the sides of the road are mile-long scrapbooks that lovingly preserve two months' worth of trash, dirt, grit, oil, and the remains of various animals that have made a Darwinian contribution to the speed and cleverness of its species'gene pool. We're down to about forty minutes'worth of sunlight per day. And last Tuesday I slipped on some ice in front of a gaggle of really mean girls, one of whom filmed the whole thing on her camera phone.
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