Greetings from Woodburn, Oregon, where it is unseasonably frigid and where I am staying at a Best Western (it used to be a Holiday Inn Express, I’m told) that sits about thirty yards from a Denny’s restaurant and about 150 yards from the highway. It’s quite lovely. When I was a kid, I used to convince my friends that my dad, who is named Dennis, owned Denny’s. My friends were very impressed, probably because they were 10 and had never actually eaten at a Denny’s. I last visited a Denny’s several years ago, next to some other highway in some other state, and though I don’t remember what I ate or how it tasted, I do remember that my fellow diners all looked very sad. Denny’s is always open, and sad people like that. So do drunk people. So, apparently, do professional basketball players.

This evening I fly to Alaska to hang out with sled dog racers for five days. Be sure to check back for a picture of me on a sled.