I don't need the Starks to tell me winter is coming, all I have to do is look out my window at, grrrrrr, more snow.
Now those of you who love skiing, skating, Malamutes, and other things that take you out into the cold (willingly!) may not understand how I feel about the white stuff. Here's a good analogy: The amount of snow that falls in New Jersey is in direct proportion to the intensity of my desire to move to the south of France. (Ah! La Mole. But that's another story.) I'd even settle for Florida despite my deep seated fear of alligators and men who wear white shoes and belts.
And what's with naming snow storms after Greek gods and Roman mythology? Oh boy! I can hardly WAIT for snowstorm "Maximus". (Hello, Expedia? When's the next flight to Tampa?). Perhaps I shouldn't be wary of Maximus; Wiley (thrown in there because there is no "v" in Latin) sounds like he might be a very tricky storm to deal with. Visions of Acme anvils of snow clobbering the Northeast fill my head when I hear that one.
Well, for some ungodly reason, my grandparents left warm, sunny Italy many moons ago, left the cactus fruit voluptuously falling to the ground, left the verdant olive groves and pregnant grape vines, and moved to...New Jersey? Sheesh, grandpa. When they changed your name in Ellis Island, they should have changed it to Stark.