Three feet of snow fallen already; it's a cold nuclear winter year, without the itch.

I’m exhausted and hoping it's just a transitional side-effect of living in Wisconsin, where these winters, I say without hyperbole, try to kill everyone who sets foot within them. The winters here are Italians, and snowflakes are their kids. You melt one, you in trouble, Paisan.

I miss the susurrus of the ocean, and the scent.

I miss the sand of the sea.

I miss the sun.

2/13

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Don't let's worry about the telekinetic rifle-toting reindeer, or the fat madcap dude in the caffeinated duds riding around town chucking metal-plated boxes at children; let's but focus on the most important of things this holiday season: How that bear got into your kitchen, and what you are going to do about it, especially if it sees the jar of Lowry's Bear Seasoning you left out on the stove last night.

Oh, and yes, the reindeer have bullets.

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"I've eaten my weight in babies," was taken much worse than I intended when I belched it.

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