We have the damnedest way of electing presidents in this country.

Sunday was Groundhog Day. Or as I prefer to call it Let’s-Stop-Listening-to-the-Meteorologists-Who’ve-Spent-Years-Studying-Weather-and-Climate-For-24-Hours-So-We-Can-Let-A-Rodent-Predict-the-Weather Day.

Coming home for New Orleans earlier this month, we stopped at Waffle House for our traditional day-after-the-game breakfast of scrambled eggs, bacon and hash browns, scattered, smothered and covered.

“So, Bald Guy who lives at my house, do you know what today is?”

Driving back from New Orleans last week, we stopped for gas at one of those big truck stops on the interstate. A “travel plaza” they call it these days.

I don’t usually make New Year’s resolutions because, for most of us, they seem impossible to keep. We have good intentions, of course, when we resolve to put our bad habits behind us, to lose the extra 20 pounds or quit smoking or learn a new hobby.

I'm a present shaker from way back. When I was a little boy, I would rattle any Christmas present that had my name on it. And if I might be allowed to brag a bit, I actually got quite good at it figuring out what each rattle was.

Journalists like me are always trying to land big-time interviews, and I’m certainly no exception. This year, for instance, I was granted an exclusive interview with Santa Claus last week.