Fifteen Shades of Grey Snow, Or: How We Learned to Stop Worrying and Love the Snow
Pure as driven: The snow looks clean and innocent when it falls, but it is only temporarily hiding the filth we all carry inside.
Spiky: Some of the sharp edges waiting in a snow pile peek out.
Kneel: A city bus submits to the cold.
Bound: A ribbon sends a signal meant for a select audience.
Gloves off: You dropped something.
Blindfolded: A recent storm blots out Manhattan’s familiar contours.
A taste of freedom: Blue skies remind office workers of life outside MetroTech.
S&M: Snow and melted snow.
Not so vanilla: Trash, bulging out of its bags, succumbs to snow’s cold embrace.
Mistreat your vegetables: Someone was not happy with this head of broccoli, and let it know by dumping it in a snow pile. But not before thrashing it around a bit.
Filfthy, filthy, nasty snow: This may be some people’s thing, but the editorial position of this paper is that this snow pile is truly foul.
Undercarriage: Look at the bottom of this car in Bath Beach. You can’t look away, can you?
Spit out: Experimenters beware. A relationship with snow can leave one feeling like a chewed-up piece of gum.
Dirty, disgusting snow: At its heart, snow is putrid and reprehensible.
Heating up: But when it encounters a truly hot situation, snow, rendered suddenly powerless, melts.
We’ve all fantasized about being free of snow. But how many of us have truly given ourselves to snow’s filthy, piercing caress? We at The Brooklyn Paper can count ourselves among the lucky few. And as the film adaptation of the smut novel “Fifty Shades of Grey” shatters box office records and, possibly, marriages nationwide, we figured we would share some of the secrets to our tortured relationship with the substance so many take for granted as the root of all discomfort.
Before you accuse us of pouring salt on the wound that is this brutal winter, we’ll just say: Don’t knock it until you try it.
Updated 10:17 pm, July 9, 2018