Like most other good New Yorkers, I used this weekend's snow-splatter as an excuse to spend three straight days half-naked and fully hungover. By the time cabin fever had set in, I was full of chili and ideas. Namely, this snowstorm was no accident. I explored my theory yesterday afternoon, at Bullett.
As last week’s blizzard bore down on the northeast—and by the way, have you ever noticed how storms are always bearing down on places in news ledes?—New York City hunkered down, Broadway auctioned off tickets in a firesale, and Weather.com turned into Kent Brockman. In the city’s media landscape, fear reigned. But somewhere in the shadowy land of Los Gatos, California, the overlords of Netflix were smiling. For them, everything was going to plan.
Essentially, I think the entire thing was a Netflixian plot to make sure that everybody gorged on House of Cards. And I think that entire show is a plot by the pork farmers of America to make sure that the nation buys more ribs. Seriously, the ribs in that show look goddamned amazing. Pork barrel politics in the most literal sense.
In short, I am issuing a plea for ribs. Please cram as many as you can into your USB ports and email them my way.