Whoever can name the source of that lyrical pun wins my eternal praise.

While I taunt Abo with my daily dose of warm daylight and ultra-violet vitamin A, I must admit that mornings and nights have been torturously cold here in Sunny Diego. I don’t get it. As I type this it’s gotta be at least 75 degrees. Every couple minutes a new freckle keeps popping up with its signature rice-crispies-sound of arrival. And yet I can guarantee you that by 7 o’clock it’ll be barely hovering over 50 degrees and that each of my nipples will resemble Popocatepetl.

These insane conditions have brought about two decisive moments each day. The first, lasting on average two minutes and 46 seconds comes when I can no longer fall back asleep in my warm cocoon of dead goose and have yet to make it into the steaming hot sanctuary of my yellow-tiled shower. Worse than the actual whimpering and skimpering down the hallway as my three inch long nipples point the way, is just the thinking about it. The hesitation. The endless pondering of, now, do I really need to get up and start my day before noon when the sun in all her majestic glory will cover us with womb-like warmth? Will the universe or even my own life be, in any way, altered 20 years down the road based on whether or not I rise from my bed now or just chill here for the next four hours?

No, obviously not. And yet, out of some perverse psycho-sociological guilt, I force myself up and prance like a three-year-old ballerina down the hallway and into the bathroom where I shiver and sorta pogo-stick up and down, holding my elbows all while waiting for that god damned first-story water heater to make it’s unbearably slow kinetic journey upstairs.

And then all is good. Hot water. What an invention. Those who can hear my plumbing must think that I have turned into either a chronic masturbator or an obsessively compulsive clean freak. I assure you, I am far removed from both. I am also weighed down by guilt over my recent hot-water hedonism. I realize this is no good thing as Southern California is both short on the hot (as in energy) and the water. But at 50 degrees at 8 in the morning, I happily say bite me.

The second decisive moment comes late at night. Either at 10:30, after I get home from work or, even worse, around midnight, when I get back from the gym. The task at hand is this: put my night’s reading materials on the shelf above my bed, peel back my sheets and two down comforters, strip down to my boxers, dive into bed, and somehow raise the temperature of my hibernation den above hypothermic conditions. It’s the last step that has been the real challenge. I try everything. Horizontal jumping jacks. Full body exfoliation with my bare hands until my first layer of skin has disintegrated. The fish-out-of-water dance. But no matter what I try, I’m not shaving off any time from my standard two minutes of teeth-rattling trauma.

Now, as you can imagine, two minutes straight of vertical jumping jacks is not conducive to falling asleep. And so I’ve been getting a lot of reading done lately. Luckily though, I’ve also discovered a new fool-proof way to fall asleep each night. It finally struck me that blog posts don’t have to be read on a computer screen. So now, before diving into my goose feathers, I print out a few of HP‘s posts and typically I can only get through about one and a half of them and then I’m out cold. I thank you my friend.