I may be sad I will never run the European champions ragged for 180 minutes. But I’m far, far happier knowing that someone, somewhere, can.

On Monday, a blizzard debilitated New York. Three-foot drifts cover the street outside my window; a desolate area of Brooklyn scheduled to be plowed eventually, days after commerce resumes elsewhere in this great city. Some kind soul shoveled a path to the next street over, one deemed important enough to merit a halfhearted pass from an overworked plow.

Last night, we stumbled through the snow banks to a normally packed restaurant where we were seated immediately. The waiter apologized for the lack of specials, saying the delivery trucks never arrived that morning. For that matter, neither did my mail. Not that I can blame the postman. “Neither snow nor rain nor heat…” never was the official motto, anyway.

The MTA, citing the “unprecedented severity of this storm,” feels it cannot be blamed for service interruptions. Which is fine, except that Monday’s affair was only the sixth-worst in history. In February 2006, we walked through tunnels to work after 27 inches fell from the sky. Neither the storm nor the MTA’s incompetence is unprecedented; one, however, is predictable.

In Alberta, they worry about Chinook winds, a warm breeze that blows off the Rocky Mountains. The temperature once rose from -2 to 38 in an hour at Pincher Creek. First Nations people called Chinook “Snow Eater.” We sure could use one of those right about now.

Can Women's Soccer Survive In America? →

2,300 words about women’s soccer in America? Welp, okay.

Can you have a chip on your shoulder if your shoulder isn’t really there?

Gordon can remember when his mind broke.

When I graduated from college, my friend’s mother gave me a pen, 10 monogrammed cards, and the advice that a handwritten message was the most important form of communication. At the time, I nodded in that way you do when you’re 21 and too overwhelmed by the future to comprehend any significance in the moment. Now, however, I’m inclined to agree with her even though I posses the penmanship of a sugar-bombed toddler.

I suspect Win Butler would also nod, but in a genuine way. He overstates the case – “Now it seems strange / How we used to wait for letters to arrive / But what’s stronger still / is how something small could keep you alive” – but less so than you might think. Think of the emails you could whip off in the time it takes to relay a charming anecdote or express sincere appreciation, then to track down an envelope, a stamp, a physical address. Love in $.44.

This isn’t a rant against technology or the pace of life or alienation in the time of Wikileaks. Electronic communication works wonders; I’d rather run than walk; transparency is vital. But Arcade Fire wrote the best album everyone heard in 2010 (sorry, Kanye) because they set out to achieve simple goal. “2009 / 2010 / I want to make a record for how I felt then,” Butler sings on “Month of May.” They succeeded in taking What It Means To Be Alive Today and transferring that onto a record that’s desperately urgent.

“We Used To Wait” is a vital track in the persuasive appeal of the 16-song whole. But when taken in a vacuum, it’s much closer to timeless. It’s a letter that reaches you eventually, not a time-stamped packet of zeros and ones that demands an immediate response. Take a second, uncross your arms, and write back.

So you want to be a journalist?

"Concepcion, a very standard fighter but no fool, simply punched Byfield in the face, since Byfield’s lead hand wasn’t up.”

Who knew boxing could be so interesting? Thanks Hamilton.

Yes, it's horribly vain but...

…the discovery of my name on The O.C.’s Wikipedia page absolutely made my day week month life (even if I do sound rather negative about the entire ordeal):

Noah Davis of PopMatters.com criticised the show for neglecting plotlines and replacing them with “the gang’s countless trips to the Bait Shop”.^[49]

Eddie Vedder on his friendship with Kelly Slater

"If you’re up in the clouds on this ladder that leads to nowhere and it stops in the middle of the sky and there’s no one else around, and you look around and see this other guy 50 yards away and he’s got a ladder that’s popped up through the clouds and he’s up there looking around, it’s like two guys waving: ‘Hey, how’s it going? Are you doing okay? Are you going to say up here? You want to go down? Let’s go down. Let’s go surf, let’s play.’"

That always struck me as a lovely way to express fame. Anyway, go read Slate’s article on Slater. (And probably Outside’s piece on Andy Irons if you want to get emotional.)

Everclear – Nervous And Weird (Live)

Everclear first tasted true fame and the fortune that came with record sales in the mid-1990s by convincing waves of disaffected teenagers it would be romantic to swim out past the breakers and watch the world die.

But in 1993, Art Alexakis wasn’t there yet.

“Nervous and Weird” finds band’s lead singer having kicked heroin and departed San Francisco for Portland, Oregon. He’s broke, married, and trying to support an infant daughter. He’s paranoid, scared, and lonely. He’s struggling to take control after a life spent rolling with the tide.

Alexakis prepares for the confrontation by looking inward, able to do so because he’s anchored by “his blind Electra in drag.” He’s okay without her, but only just. Now I sit alone when you’re not around / I’m breathing loud just to hear a friendly noise. New Art is bracingly honest, self-aware, and facing his flaws with the help of his future ex-wife.

He’s started down the right road after a quarter-life of false beginnings. I think it’s better here / than where we used to be sounds positive until you realize it doesn’t mean that life is good, only that it’s improving.

You can’t see the view from inside the break. But sometimes all you need is to know it exists.

"I think there is a space in our culture—in the living memory of people over 40, and probably in the collective memory of people under 40—for the American novelist.”

In its past four games, New England has scored 39 points at Pittsburgh, 31 at home against the Colts, and then hung 45 on the Lions on Thanksgiving and another 45 on the shell-shocked Jets.

Brek Shea isn’t the smartest dude or the best tour guide. Still, this is kind of wonderful.