Welcome back lone reader, far too much has happened since I last blogged, so I feel it would be best to let it unfold naturally over the coming months, much like a Season 10 episode of - LOST.

The biggest news is that four months ago, following Horace Greely’s sage advice of ‘go west young man,’ I did just that and upon driving into the Pacific Ocean, reconsidered the implications of this advice and turned my sights north toward Vancouver – settling in South Delta between “The Hole” and “Point Bob.” Another implication that needed an ounce of consideration.

The despair that comes over me every year at Christmas coupled with the despair of feeling snowbound in unfamiliar tundra, has left me in place that few get to visit. Not really a happy place to writing my return blog from, sorry. I have written tons since I got here – some lost after a security glitch in my laptop, of which I have recovered only about 60% - rants about the price of scotch; the unfairly high cost of junk food when compared to the availability of pot; learning how to deal with family and bi-polar bears. All of which will, no doubt, find their way to this page, now that I have unlocked the entrance to my blog once again.

While my current state of mind is good for my writing, as was the move out of L.A. ( I keep telling myself that) it’s not good for much of anything else – other than rediscovering the music of Warren Zevon and dusting off my uke. Did I mention the snow? Oh yes, I am literally snowbound. I ventured outside yesterday, feeling like I could drop, frozen in the snow and simply be absorbed by it and it reminded me of a poem by D.H. Lawrence:

I never saw a wild thing
Sorry for itself.
A small bird will drop frozen dead from a bough
Without having felt sorry for itself.

Yeah, Dave, I get it – especially the “drop frozen dead” part - humans are the only animal capable of self-pity. So I’m human, good to know. I think it would help my mood if it was about 80 degrees outside. And yes, I admit that I miss Christmas in L.A. I miss wearing shorts while picking out your tree. I miss cutting off that guy in the Christmas tree parking lot and getting that holiday greeting of “get flocked.” I miss seeing that mall Santa who was the serial killer on last week’s CSI. I miss dodging bullets from a drive-by as they ricochet behind you, ringing out “Hark, Hear the Bells.”

So, sitting here in this Winter Wonderland pondering the distinct probability of a f’ing White Christmas (and I only used f’ing because it’s the holidays) makes me wonder why, with all bustle & insanity of this “season” how anyone could write a song like White Christmas – because all of the songwriters of the forties and fifties lived where? That’s right, Los Angeles!

So, I will try to keep the self pity in check, if the rest of the world will keep Christmas in check. Deal? Welcome back.