I could write about politics. I could write about my job. I could write about the Dow Jones Industrial Average. All so very boring to most.

I could also write about Jesse of the NYT who takes me seriously when I sound even more angst-ridden and jewish than he does. It's not a long stretch for me for some reason. We have a lot in common I think and he is one with whom I can identify with in some small way.

I could write about biking which I've done to death, but tonight was special. Biking home on November 24 and watching the sky turn from an azur blue, to dark blue to darkness while weaving in and out of traffic was sort of special for a Torontonian who is used to sleet at this time of year.

I could write about why I am such a soft touch. I'm not really but I must look like one. I'm getting better. It takes me an extraordinary amount of time to figure this out, it seems I was born to take everyone at face value to my chagrin so many times. I have no regrets, my heart was in the right place even though my head wasn't perhaps.

And above all I could write my family. And I do. That is what fun is all about. It is rediculous isn't it? Unfortunately I'm so old, I think Jim is fairly cute, not really. Can you imagine what I might think of Gail: "gail, you are fairly cute" "uncle don, I'm not that good" "in my wizened years you seem to be up there in cuteness, and Donna is right up there too". "uncle don, we can't be cute anymore, we're over thirty". "huh?" "we are over thirty, we can't be cute anymore, those days are past, long gone". "you look cute to me" "Uncle Don, quit with the cute, we've had kids, raised a family, struggled with jobs" "But you are cute, can I say that?" "I guess so"