So I'm still here in McKinney, Texas. Not the most cosmopolitan of towns, but it's been good to spend time with my family. I have not seen them in eleven months or so. If it weren't for the magic that is the internet and the dirty pleasure of a couple of well placed web cams, I think I would be going just about batty by now.

McKinney and the rest of the DFW area for that matter have never been high on my list of cool paces to visit. All in all, Texas and I don't get along so well. I'm a vegetarian, mountain climbing, beach dwelling, liberal, Italian, Bush-hating agnostic. And I think country music is for people who want their music like they want their politics: slow, derivative, and uninspired. Which pretty much means most people in Dallas hate my guts. Not that I care so much. Most of the people here drink Bud Light for breakfast, so their opinions are clearly suspect anyhow.

How my east coast Italian parents have spent more than a decade here is a mystery to everyone.

Regardless, I'm still happy to be here. The weather, oddly enough has been great. A change from my usual MO. I have the unique ability to time my visits to Dallas with their coldest day in a decade. Complete with ice storms. Blessedly, this hasn't been the case this time around, and, like I said, it has been good to see everyone.

My sisters both have new houses here in McKinney, so I got to tour through them and consult on the faux-finishes on their bathroom walls and consider the paint color for the guest bedrooms and explain why that window treatment just isn't a good idea with that ceiling. Basically, I got to be gay. Which as we all know would be a good lifestyle choice for me if it weren't for the whole dick-sucking bit.

I also got to see the new Bordeaux Mastiff who has been relentlessly chewing on my toes (and hands, and ears, and head) since I arrived on Thursday. He is a doll, although I know it's just a matter of time until he is another 140 pound drool machine with a bad case of gas. But until then, is there anything better than puppy breath and puppy paws and that heavenly puppy fur so angelically soft that God-forgive-me I desperately want to turn it into a sheet set for my bed?

The family has finally decided that "Titan" is the correct name for this plodding, gnawing, stumbling, stinky little bundle of orange fur. My precocious three-year old niece doesn't agree, however, and has decided independently that his name is in fact "Potato" and will tell you in no uncertain terms that this is indeed the case. Frankly, I can't really argue with her because the dog is the same color as a sweet potato, and honestly, what self respecting uncle can argue with a three year old anyway?

My suspicion is that this is the name that will stick in the end. Three year olds have a way of doing that. My first girlfriend was renamed Mimi by her sister. No one has called her Cecelia since. And for years milk was referred to as "bert" in my own household as result of my brother's tenacious if a little strange re-branding efforts.

She is also convinced that “Shaft,” the horse I was riding on Saturday is her own. My parents keep three horses at a ranch near their home and go riding regularly. I’m thrilled to see them so taken with a hobby, but honestly, I don’t quite get the appeal. I won’t hold this against them as they sure as hell don’t understand why I get off on hanging my ass off the side of a cliff. To each their own.

I’ll keep the rocks. Let them have the horses. Sure, it’s fun to pet the animals, but I get a little nervous around any animal that’s taller than I am. Besides, after a thirty minute ride I’m usually a full two inches shorter than when I began. Spinal compression is not what I call a good time. And if I’m gonna have to deal with chaffing and chaps, well, I know of a few places in Hollywood where I’m bound to have a lot more fun than desperately clinging to a 1500 pound animal intent on showing me just who, in fact, is the boss.

And a quick note to all you masochists out there making saddles. It’s called “foam” or “padding.” Look into it. You’ll make a killing.

My new nephew is cute and all, as babies usually are, but honestly, I’m not a baby kinda guy. I like them once they become little people. The stinky little fluid factories they are before the age of one or so is just not my thing.

My other niece is nine and as she was the first I am still quite fond of her. She, like most kids her age, is home sick with the flu, puking and coughing and snotting on everything in sight. Kids are just germ wholesalers. Wal-Mart wishes it had a distribution model that good. She just better keep those germs away from me. On Wednesday I have to be in San Francisco for a meeting I have been planning for the better part of two months, and if I get sick Santa Jimbo is definitely skipping her house this year.