Heard from Beta, she’s doing okay in France other than the freezing. Alpha leaves tomorrow on a business trip. Gamma gets her report card from school today. I’m busy with a project for someone else. It’s not snowing right now, not here. It thaws during the day and freezes at night, making the drifts of snow along the road rock hard. It also makes the igloo shrink during the day, and freeze again at night.

The cats are using it. Only for shelter, they say.

There are a lot of Swiss Army knives at the reception. Not a cutlass in sight, but then I’m not looking too hard. Several plastic foils from children’s Zorro costumes. Several that you get with a Happy Meal, cute talking cutlery from some Disney animated feature. Here and there, the little plastic swords they stick into the maraschino cherries in your drinks or sundaes.

But the guy talking to my wife is a cane sword, without a doubt. The slickest man I know. Whenever we encounter him at a reception, I have the feeling that I get an education just watching him. At these society events he is in constant motion, mingling as if he’d drown if he stopped for a moment, eyes constantly on the lookout for food, seals maybe, or snorklers, up at the surface.

[Mig, pick a metaphor and stick to it, for Godssake. Knives or sharks?]

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Which writer do you kiss like?

If we were allowed to choose our own Siamese twin I would of course choose Michael J. Pollard over Anthony Zerbe because with Michael as my Siamese twin I would be known as “the cute one” although Michael would probably still be more popular, while with Anthony one could never be sure; not of anything; Anthony attached to you at the hip or shoulder or back or top of the head or back of the head: Anthony Zerbe’s face talking all night from the back of your head like that girl in the Tom Waites song, talking about terrible things and keeping you awake all night; Anthony Zerbe stopping the cabs, getting the waiter’s attention at the restaurant; Anthony Zerbe sighing with impatience at your ineffectiveness, at your weakness.

Michael J. Pollard would be more forgiving as a Siamese twin.

Also, he has been visiting me at my breakfast table in the mornings lately and telling me shit. On the days when Alpha doesn’t come down, when she sleeps in.

This morning Michael J. Pollard said, You’re not as indecisive as you think, Mig. Everything you do is because of a decision you make, because you decide to do it. His eyes twinkle, even before I’ve had my coffee I can see his eyes twinkling, while mine are bloodshot and my head pounds from a splitting headache that woke me up at four AM.

It’s that cheap American Zinfandel you drank last night, says Michael J. Pollard. He’s not as cute, despite twinkling eyes, in person as he is often required to be in his movie roles. Michael J. Pollard is the most misunderestimated American actor there is. Is he still alive, by the way, or is this his ghost visiting me? And what about Anthony Zerbe?

He says, you’re responsible for all of it. Someone holds a gun to your head and says Do it, it’s your choice to do it or to be shot in the head. And besides, those guys holding guns to your head, they usually shoot you anyway, after you’ve done it, so you don’t tell anyone, you know that. Either way you get shot. It’s always your choice. Everything you do, where you stand now: you’re riding the crest of a wave of choices you’ve made. Or you’re clinging to a half-full motorcycle innertube, trying to keep your head above water, looking for a piece of styrofoam or a cooler lid. You’re not indecisive, you just try to blame other people is all. You’re as decisive as the next guy.

Thanks, Michael I say, and wonder what Anthony Zerbe whispering about hell all night would be like.

One shovel at a time.

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On my way home from a pointless drive into Vienna yesterday morning, angry at the world and especially at work for requiring I come in for no reason, pointless, pointless, eight deer ran across a field in deep snow.

Then I went into the backyard and build an igloo for Gamma. After which I forbade her ever to go inside it because it might collapse on her.

I’m a sick piece of work.

We inspected the igloo this morning prior to me pulling her to school on a sled. It’s still a bit small inside for her, she can’t quite sit up in it. I told her I’d hollow it out for a her more. I told her it’s okay to play in, just make sure she’s not alone.

First contact with Beta since her departure for France. We all miss her. Gamma just misses her, period, all the time. I feel de-lionized, in a neutral to negative way. Alpha is suffering more than she’d expected. The main cat is sleeping on Beta’s dirty clothes and not getting off.

Saturday we went sledding. Gamma whined less this year. It was quite enjoyable. We slept well that night.

Currently, 98.9% of those voting in the Fistful of Euros something something awards think Metamorphosism is not the best personal weblog. How’d I get nominated? Thanks for telling me, David Weman. I’m honored. Voting is still going on, but I would like to thank Mr. Weman for letting me know I’m on the list, and all of you for you know, and especially those who send me pictures of themselves in the shower etc. And thanks to Alpha for all the material. Special thanks goes to my turtle tortoise, who is still hibernating, I hope. And to the hedgehogs. And whoever invented the cello. And the Fiat auto company.