07.25
It gives me a special thrill to know that Joey is currently in my hometown on Cape Cod, enjoying the same crappy weather, hellacious traffic jams, and touristy jackassery as I. It’s like in those romantic movies, when you wonder if your beloved is gazing at the same hazy full moon as you are, and thinking fond thoughts of you.
Except in this case he is probably laying on his horn somewhere along route six, cursing the sunscreen-stained Midwestern family in the minivan ahead of him, and fondly thinking of how I am incredibly soft in the head for living here.
I’m only here for the cheap housing, man.
No, really — despite the fact that you can’t buy a tool shed for under 400K on Cape Cod (not an exaggeration), I was fortunate enough to be hoodwinked by my father into moving into his ancestral cottage by the sea, bringing my personal housing cost embarrassingly well below the average.
Dad made his offer when I was particularly vulnerable. I had just sold the failing nightclub I had inexplicably been allowed to buy with nothing but credit and candle wax, and was now living an aimless life, depressed and unemployed and not yet thirty. Chucking it all and running away to Cape Cod sounded like a pretty good deal at the time, and the price was right.



