You're Not Making Any Friends Here, Dave.

Today was the first bitterly cold walk to work I've endured this season. We've been lucky for a long time as the weather has been quite warm, quite late. But Old Man Winter has tightened his grip, and it's time to buy another Masque. A quick aside about that wonderful warmth inducing product - remember you're wearing them. Masques will make you look quite scary, and if you barge into a 7-11 wearing one, you might end up at the business end of a 30-30. If you choose to learn this the hard way, your next Kit-Kat may be your last.

But back to what's going to be my hugely unpopular observation for this fine Wednesday - Boston Common, North Station, Haymarket, Downtown Crossing - were all completely devoid of homeless people this morning. I'm not going to cop out and ask rhetorical questions like "Does it make me a bad person if I'm glad the bitter cold has driven all the carrion inside?" I'm going to make a few up front statements that you can take or leave. Or use as justification to firebomb my apartment (we are in Massachusetts, afterall).

If you have a friend, relative or aquaintence that's been struck homeless by mental illness or some other misfortune, I'm not referring to them. What I'm glad to be rid of for a few months are the rude, aggressive drunks that plague this city every summer. I walk back and forth from North Station to the Copley area to work every day, and am asked for money an average of 5 times a trip. Asked is actually not the best word. Beleaguered might be better.

Maybe living in the city for 5 years has chipped away at my empathy to the point where I no longer feel sorry for people who are passed out in the street, covered in their own pee. Maybe it's because that person is sometimes me. But guilt-trip myself as I might, I can't deny how noticeable and lovely the lack of a vagrant presence was this morning. No one held the door for me on my way into the Dunks, I didn't have to brave the park bench gauntlet past the Park Street T-Station and Krazy Kris Kristofferson and Slow-Motion Man were nowhere to be found.

I do actually hope they're all somewhere warm and cozy, being looked after by social services, getting a shower and sucking down some hot soup. But their numbers seem to be multiplying like tribbles - and I hope it's just my mind playing tricks on me. Or the mentholated schnapps.