Today brought the most productive development of the vacation yet: I shaved for the first time in two weeks.

I had a distinguished beard going there. But Cronkette was starting to jump back in pain every time our faces brushed together.

But more than that, I didn't recognize myself anymore. Time to bust out the Gilette Mach-Four (TM).

It's been a strange vacation. I'd be lying if I said I haven't been feeling out of sorts.

'Not that I'm jonesing to hop a plane back to Chi-town, either. Brrrr!

I've found I haven't been able to fully embrace the LA sunshine - I just keeping thinking about the inevitable shock of that first time I step out of O'Hare on January 3rd.

I feel like a ghost, like I'm in limbo. And it's not like I'm a stranger to coming home for the holidays...but there's something different this time 'round.

'Can't put my finger on it.

The other day my buddy Crockster called, and two minutes hadn't passed when he asked, "Um, did I catch you asleep?"

I guess, in a way, he did.

Needless to say, family and girlfriend are not thrilled with this development. Not that I blame them.

But today I helped shake the cobwebs a little with a few pick-up games down at the local beach courts. Getting back into that rhythm felt great, minus the not-one-but-two Malone-esque elbows I took to the face. (Excuse me sir, could you hand me that tooth over there?)

Ah...just like ol' times.

And no, the fact that the last time I played hoops was inside a stuffy gym while a snowstorm raged outside did not escape me. I may be out of sorts, but I ain't stupid. Ain't that stupid.

I can't wait to hit the courts again tomorrow. And if my freshly-shaven face doesn't look like I've played a full season of non-locked-out NHL hockey by the time I get back to Chicago, I will consider the whole endeavor a failure.

A guy who came to Fight Club for the first time, his ass was a wad of cookie dough. After a few weeks, he was carved out of wood.

Get busy living or get busy dying. That's goddamn right.