New Yorkers, especially between the Village and the edge of Central Park, wear too much black. Why? Some guesses:

1: New Yorkers are obsessed with looking cool, but lack the time to figure out what colors look cool. Therefore a focal point color is needed; black is an accident of history.

2: Variation on 1. New Yorkers are obsessed with looking cool, but which colors are "in" changes too frequently for most of them to be able to afford to replace their wardrobes often enough, especially after paying New York rent. Black goes with everything, so provides a good blank template to adorn with plastic boots with hearts on them, ugly orange purses, or whatever else is in.

3: New Yorkers smoke too much, and black resists cigarette stains.

4: Variation on 3; New York is dirty, and black resists dirt.

5: Black is slimming, slim is cool, and New Yorkers are obsessed with looking cool?

A friend (of Crescat and otherwise) points out the Wikipedia entry on Pogo Stick:

The most famous pogo stick athlete is one William Heard. Heard has performed admirably at many high ranking contests, especially the World Trials in Bergen, Norway. Apart from being the subject of many movies, of which "In A Word, Will Heard" is the most famous, Heard also maintains a fierce rivalry with the ever envious Quintus "Mini" Acknem, who previously, out of envy, deleted this article.

Happy Veteran's day and Martinmas to everyone today. Poem/ballad of the day follows:

It was in and about the Martinmas time,
When the green leaves were a falling,
That Sir John Graeme, in the West Country,
Fell in love with Barbara Allan.

He sent his men down through the town,
To the place where she was dwelling:
‘O haste and come to my master dear,
Gin ye be Barbara Allan.’

O hooly, hooly rose she up,
To the place where he was lying,
And when she drew the curtain by,
‘Young man, I think you’re dying.’
And when she drew the curtain by,
‘Young man, I think you’re dying.’

‘O it’s I’m sick, and very, very sick,
And ’tis a’ for Barbara Allan:’
‘O the better for me ye’s never be,
Tho your heart’s blood were a spilling.

‘O dinna ye mind, young man,’ said she,
‘When ye was in the tavern a drinking,
That ye made the healths gae round and round,
And slighted Barbara Allan?’

He turnd his face unto the wall,
And death was with him dealing:
‘Adieu, adieu, my dear friends all,
And death was with him dealing:
‘Adieu, adieu, my dear friends all,
And be kind to Barbara Allan.’

And slowly, slowly raise she up,
And slowly, slowly left him,
And sighing said, she coud not stay,
Since death of life had reft him.

She had not gane a mile but twa,
When she heard the dead-bell ringing,
And every jow that the dead-bell geid,
It cry’d, Woe to Barbara Allan!

‘O mother, mother, make my bed!
O make it saft and narrow!
Since my love died for me to-day,
I’ll die for him to-morrow.’

I've been thinking pretty hard about (read: working pretty hard at) this recently and have yet to figure out what I think.

Comments and suggestions, of course, are welcome.