"CAN I HAVE YOUR AUTOGRAPH?" HE SAID TO THE FAT, BLOND ACTRESS
It's another cold night in Wightman house. Apparently we have to call the landlords and ask them to turn up the heat every time it gets cold, because they'll shut it off between ridiculously cold days to save some money. One, not all, of my toes went numb just because the floor is so damn cold. And when Carolyn and I walked back from the 61C today we were covered in almost an inch of snow by the time we got back to the house. Fair enough.

Winters do a lot to keep people insular. I don't want to go further than my little neighborhood, and even then I feel an urge to get myself back to my little room as soon as the snow starts up. Even if Carolyn and I are talking to a cute guy she used to know who worked at the Beehive, and he's telling us that "School of Rock" will turn out to be the best movie of the aughts. The whole house smells of popcorn, which is the exact kind of thing that kind of depresses me on Sunday nights.

But still, even just being around the house with Carolyn all day is so pleasant. We roll cigarettes and listen to David Bowie on the record player, and it all makes me very pleased with the view of Pittsburgh out of all the windows.