Don't let him hear you say that aloud, Monet. He's put a lot of thought and care into the costume, from the faint sheen to the eye-popping colors that grab the attention of anyone in a hundred-foot radius. That's the whole point of them, after all. But he lets her inspect, not particularly concerned with whether his sculpture passes or fails her mental examination.

"A bit of both, though more the latter than the former," he admits. His patience is pretty good—though only when compared to other speedsters. By itself, it's nothing impressive. "I thought the streets could use some more decoration."

And the snow won't last forever, something almost saddening for a Midwestern boy used to all four seasons. At the question, he shakes his head.

"No, but I'll remember for next time. I'm sure they're all far more creative than I am." Here, he spreads out one arm in a sweeping motion. "You're welcome to add to it, if you like. There's plenty of snow left."