Mick Farren on Saturday Night

There is nothing as warm as the January sun. That is what I was thinking when my dog and I were walking along today. My dog may very well have been thinking the same thing. I had dressed all in black, absorbing every watt of the sun's warmth and was feeling as good as you can without the help of dope and liquor.

There was not much to look at as we made our way along a slippery path through the nearly lifeless woods. Some cool icicles, that was about it. The Hammer crunched up half frozen dead mice hidden from my eye in the dead grass. As is my custom this time of year, I stopped and rested against a downed log, reached into my jacket for my small thermos of whisky and coffee. Just because you are feeling good does not mean you cannot feel better. My drink filled the woods with its aroma faster than a bear briefly breaking his hibernation to take a big bear shit can.

Below us a police car sped through the farmlands at 100 mph, sirens screaming, then going silent as the big car neared its target. The war on crime uses a lot of gas.

I gave my dog a cookie for patiently waiting for me and we continued on our way. The whisky made its way to my brain as we made our way carefully back to the car. I felt like Mick Farren on Saturday night.

I am hoping to feel even better on Sunday. I do not usually bet on anything besides unknown horses and the Canucks losing but I have a little on the Steelers beating the spread in the Super Bowl. Just a little.