Home Is Where The Scotch Is

Leah and I spent about seven hours in the car today. We woke up in Fremont, Ohio, ate some cereal and drove to Youngstown, Ohio where we ate some pasta made by some 80 year old lady they call Grandma and after that we drove home to Cincinnati. Christmas is bananas. Sing that song, Bing.

So after a wild day I'm sitting here watching college football, drinking a single malt scotch out of a customized glass inscribed with my yet-to-become-mainstream nickname, "Hurricane" (both gifts from lil' Brenty) while Leah puts together her new ultra-violet indoor herb garden (gift from her bro Justin). The smoky-sweet, golden juice is melting away the stress of crisscrossing the heartland to bask in extended-family Christmas cheer.

I can think of a few things to write about. Lots of different emotions this Christmas. For whatever reason I choose to comment on an email I just received. My friend Baranabas (Mr. Bee) from Jos, Nigeria just signed up for Facebook. He wants me to be his online "friend." I've long been a Facebook skeptic. I'm not a hater. I just don't really get it. Real life friends make fun of me for being the only one not a part of the online friend book. That fuels my holdout. But when Mr. Bee signed up I was intrigued. I thought about how cool it would be to keep in touch and see photos of him, the Ultimate, Smally, Rogers and Aliyu (our drill crew) changing entire villages in Jos. So who knows if I'll join the dark side. The irrational rebel in me has a pretty strong hold on my life. But this is definitely the first time the Book of Face has made any kind of sense to me.