Coat! I got a coat! Well, almost—a Patagonia brand winter coat is on its way to me, via UPS, at my behest. I’m busting! Busting! The first time I parade through my neighborhood with my bony, Michigan-bred torso cloaked in that fleece-lined black ski jacket, oh the stares I’ll get. And no piteous looks, these; at last: envy, pure polyunsaturated envy.

I almost feel sad for the steaming carcass that is my shit-brown corduroy coat, which I bought at the Salvation Army for $15 three winters ago in order to ditch the boring six-year-old Banana Republic jacket with the holes in the pockets. We had some good times, Old Cordy and I. Like that time on the Serengeti when we bagged a charging eland with—I can’t lie—two shots. Or that time we sipped Chivas on the embarcadero in Sydney after having just turned down Weinstein’s offer to star in Rabbit-Proof Fence. Yep, I’ll almost miss that sucker. Almost.


I caught a two-second glimpse of An American Idol Christmas.