November 26, 2001


Finally, a snowstorm. Being indoors feels right now, all cozy and everything. I can with good conscience hunker down and read and write and scratch my head and rub the tiredness out of my eyes.

It pains me to say, the Chuck Taylors may have to go in the closet. They are wonderful shoes, oh so comfortable, but the baby-smooth soles are a death wish signed by Satan himself when worn on ice and snow.

I got my Atta Boy hat back from the Cloquet theatre, after telling them that it had significant sentimental value. I left it there a few Fridays back when we went to see Harry Potter. A guy working the ticket desk recognised me as one of the sax players in UMD Jazz One; he saw us at our Halloween concert and when we went on tour to Esko. I thanked him for giving up his Halloween to spend with us. He inquired as to what sentiments I had attached to the hat. I dodged the question, and on the way back to my Tracer came up with all sorts of funny answers.

“It’s actually made out of my dog.”

“It’s the hat my girlfriend died in.”

“My mom made it for me right before she went to the asylum. They call her Madam Twitchly McGigglekins down at the farm.”

“What hat?”

note: funny answers will be included at a later date.

Hey! Speaking of funny, how ’bout some more Funny from Thanksgiving break?!?!?! We (me, my parents, Greta and Tyler, Tyler’s parents, Tyler’s uncle Dick and aunt CantrememberhernamerightnowbutIknowitstartswithL, and what seemed like 14 raging dogs) were sitting in the nautical-themed living room eating hazelnut chocolates. These special treats came with fortunes written in five languages, one of which was often a form of English.

Dick read his fortune, furrowed his brow, and read it aloud.

There is also a kind of happiness that brings a feeling of fear to the heart.


“It’s probably a one-word phrase in German,” offered my father.

“Yeah,” agreed Dick. “Sauerkraut.”