I'm going to go for a late-night ride to see if it helps me get to sleep sooner or at least deeper than has been the case in recent days. Because it is now below freezing, I am wearing: a red long underwear shirt of the classic "waffle" construction; a black Neko Case t-shirt with a fox on the front that I've had on for longer than I can remember and which has, therefore, been temporarily transformed into oiled sackcloth; a hideous red-and-black-checked zipper vest that I purchased at The Gap on Bancroft in Berkeley in a moment of would-be pseudo-lumberjack weakness; and my trusty orange fleece Starter shirt jacket over top of everything. I anticipate staying relatively warm where I am most likely to suffer, namely my once-frostbitten and twice-shy nipples, which have never recovered from playing football with my cousin on a blustery Queens day at the tail end of the 1970s while wearing only a shirt and then discovering that he'd misplaced the keys to his car, forcing us to go on a long trek for help that culminated in our walking into one of those long, narrow Italian restaurants you see in movies about the mafia, at which point I waited in the front "public" portion while he disappeared into the back room in which all of the real business in those movies seems to happen. Since he was an Assistant D.A. at the time, my almost-teenage brain made a mental note to come back to the incident later in life, when I understood the world a little better. I did, years later, and decided that there was something suspicious about his familiarity with a place that seemed so suspicious. Where was I? Frostbitten nipples. Not a sensation I recommend experiencing firsthand. And that's why my tired and therefore more-prone-to-becoming-chilled body is attired in a manner that makes me look like the oafish guy who tags along in those movies about the mafia and gets shot simply for being stupid, because someone has to die early in the story arc.