From the Jill Schwartz Memorial Library here in the wilds of Connecticut, this is obscure season four in American tragedy.

I'm your host, your friend, your ear lover, and literary mansplainer in chief, Michael Ian Black, digging out from a

winter blizzard. It has dumped over a foot of snow here in the wilds and across much of

the nation as a whole. And I'm sitting here in my mid-century masterpiece, snowed in. The snow stopped,

you know, the heavy snowfall stopped around midnight last night. It is now 6 p.m. the following day,

and still we have not been plowed out. We got a nice guy who comes around with his truck and he plows out his clients from their

igloos.

And the only reason it matters that we have not been plowed out, well it's twofold.

Well, first of all, what if I was just some, you know, some average Joe who had to get into the office? How the heck am I supposed to, you know, if you don't come 16 hours after the snow is fallen, how am I supposed to get into the office? Well, as it happens, I'm not some, I have nowhere to be, you know, until tomorrow. And that has raised some concern because what if they don't get us plowed out by tomorrow?

Well, what am I supposed to do?

I don't know.

Also, my son is traveling up from the city and he's going to be joining us this evening.

And I don't know how I'm going to pluck him from the train station.

I may have to order an Uber for him to remove himself

from the depot and drive here at the mid-century masterpiece.

I love snow, you know?

I like when it falls and I like looking at it.

It's a darn delight when there's heavy snowfall, which is terrific.

The problem is dealing with it and that's not always so easy.

As anybody who lives in a snowy climb understands, the stuff piles up, it's expensive to

remove, it gets wet and sloshy and slushy, and you find yourself with cold little

piggies, you know, trudging through.

...