Yes, Virginia, indeed it is.

I live in a cottage built in the '30s without the slightest bit of weathering and not a stitch of insulation. If a shotgun shack mated with a quaint beach cabin, this is what their little wooden boy would look like. My furnace broke down last Monday and, of course, what happened last week? The %#!@#! temperature dropped down into the $@#!! 20s.

Probably the worst moment was when I got home late on Friday night and discovered it was 47 degrees in my living room. If it weren't for my Columbia Sportswear jacket and the copy of "The Life Aquatic" that arrived via Netflix, I would have probably spent the rest of the night in one of the last remaining sleaze-pit motels on Barbur Boulevard.

Which would have made for a blog post a lot more interesting than this one, but, hey, a freezing cold homestead is still better than spending a night in a room wedged between a meth cooker and a Mayor Quimby-esque fling. I've had a lot of sleepless nights in my life but never one caused by a lack of caulk.

So Steve Zissou and the jacket, in addition to a $5 bottle of wine, a nearly-worthless $20 space heater and a recently unearthed copy of Sim City 3000, got me through that foul evening. I stayed up until dawn listening to Bill Murray deadpan as I shivered and built New York City from scratch on my PC. Since you no doubt spent the holiday weekend comfortably lounging around your warm, energy efficient abode, I'm now officially 5 - 10 % more hardcore than you. I don't care if you served in 'Nam. I once spent a sleep-deprived President's Day weekend in a house with no operable furnace.

But a miracle happened today: a repairman finally showed up and I have heat once more. Blessed heat. Heat milked from the udders of the Heavenly Cow of Warmth Herself- no pasteurization process required. A guy told me one time, "Don't let yourself get attached to anything you are not willing to walk out on in 30 seconds flat if you feel the heat around the corner." You know what I have to say to that guy now? You can run away from the heat all you want, pal, I'm staying put.

To celebrate, I've donned a pair of Elvis shades and I'm sipping a Mai Tai from a plastic bamboo cup. Les Baxter is cranked up to 10 on the hi-fi and the the meter on my thermostat is reading a downright balmy 87 degrees. If it were feasibly possible to set it up, I'd run down to the root cellar for the hammock.

This evening will add at least 60 bucks to my heating bill but it's worth it. In fact, I may have to open the window here pretty soon. It's getting damn hot in here.