It will be a cold winter by the thermometer, a howling one by the anemometer, dim and onyx gray if the heliometer's to be trusted. And longer and colder still by looks of the polls. Only booze, grub, nostalgia, and sex save sanity, so as leaves fall along with collective hope, we keep in mind our old New Yorks of subterranean dives, where we might smoke, bars that have outlasted other wars (though not "nucular"), a time when the Family didn't mean the Bushes, and "the immigrant experience" wasn't a euphemism for cramped... More >>>