Yes, I’m back in dear old Boston. St. Armand’s is a nice place to visit, but not much going on, aside from the aforementioned walks along the beach, which I’m not knockin’, and the occasional Jerry Springer sighting. More about my week at the beach here.

Back in Boston things are much as I left them, with the additional remnants of a little snow event I missed. People seem to be sort of perking up a bit, having survived January 24th, the most depressing day of the year, at least according to University of Cardiff psychologist Dr. Cliff Arnall’s calculations. His formula looks like this:

The equation is broken down into seven variables: (W) weather, (D) debt, (d) monthly salary, (T) time since Christmas, (Q) time since failed quit attempt, (M) low motivational levels and (NA) the need to take action.

I don’t know how much snow we got while I was gone, but the motorists on my dysfunctional block here in Dot apparently felt it was enough to merit breaking out the old “space-savers” again. Drama queens. I mean, I took a walk around the block and noticed it was just my little street where people had put out the space-savers. I don’t know what to make of that. Is there something wrong with my block? Is it something in the water? It doesn’t seem, on the face of it, to be any more small-minded, petty and possessive than any other block in Boston. But there’s obviously something going on.

I would write about taking the silver line from the airport last night, but I didn’t. I caved into pressure from Itchy, who had offered to collect me at the airport. I thought there might be a little sushi stop on the way home, but no. I should have taken the T.

Speaking of sushi. My aunt was all like, “oh, your uncle loves sushi, so you two will get along famously.” But while we got along just fine, he’s not a true sushiphile. My aunt saw him eat a california roll once and that’s what she based her judgment on. She’s like that. You know people who see you, like, clog dance once, or whatever, and then forever after you’re referred to in mixed company as “my nephew the crazy clog-dancing fool.” And it’s like you tried it on a lark, and you never ever did it again. But that’s the problem with families. They won’t let it die. My aunt doesn’t eat any fish at all, by the way, which I can’t understand. And thus she talks about fish like it’s just a given it’s disgusting. It’s like, “No, I don’t drink puss from lepers’ boils! Are you kidding?” That’s how she sees it. So, we didn’t have fish but once the whole time I was down there. And no sushi.