It was three degrees when I left my apartment this morning, walked the torturous eight blocks to the train, listening to John Lee Hookers voice buck dances on tthrough the stomping rythm. It's a small comfort, with these artic winds blowing through me like a Hoovertown hut. Damn near impossible to ignore a cold like this, only someone as disciplined as old Dali on the hill could accomplish it. "Freight train is my only friend," Hooker croons, and hey, life is full of discomfort. I live in a pretty yuppie part of town, but, as my brother-in-law says, "these yuppies don't look down on people who are different than them, just one's that are the same." Not much better, but hell, ya can't beat the restaurants.

Anybody who wants to face down old mother nature with me, I'm open for business.

Merry Christmas