These days I find myself humming a mantra under my breath. Fort Reno. It has become a little prayer for me. Fort Reno. It is a pledge that one day I will once again ride my bicycle up Rock Creek, haul it up the hill in Tenleytown, and enjoy a frosty margarita on the porch at Guapo’s. It will once again be brilliantly, obscenely hot outside. Fort Reno. I will have two (okay maybe four) drinks and then I will join my friends, my favorite people, for a picnic in the glow of the setting sun. There will be rock music and there will be sliced watermelon. And there will be no snow. One day this snow will be gone and gone with it the bulky coats, the sidewalk slipping, the crowded stations. Frozen drinks, humidity, mosquitoes, and biking Embassy Row home on a balmy night. These things are promised to us. Fort Reno.

» No one — not this reader, not the Awl’s shadow editors — can make any sense of the Washington Post’s Sally Quinn. In her latest column, she has deemed it newsworthy that something got messed up and her son’s wedding is scheduled on the same day as her step-granddaughter’s wedding. “People often ask me how to make conversation at dinner parties,” she writes in her lede. No, Quinn, they really really do not.

» Apparently WTOP hasn’t had enough snow, so they dispatched a reporter to Buffalo to get some advice from the city’s flinty, snowbound residents on how to handle the snow. Click through to read some extremely aggravating Schadenfreude from upstate New York!

Photo by annascialli