With the news in the Middle East these days being so very much grimmer than usual, news announcers are getting busy wrapping their dexterous tongues around unfamiliar words again, like Hezbollah and Hamas. Of course Bush still can’t pronounce either one with anything approaching reliability, but that’s par for the course. At least all this bombin’ and killin’ — some of his strengths — have piqued his interest a little, and we’ve seen just a little less of the ol’ thousand-yard stare from everyone’s favorite Village Idiot.

Of his repertoire, I’d have to say I prefer the thousand-yard stare to his other two facial expressions: 1) Just Joshin’, wherein he leans across the podium with an air of just between us folks and delivers some soft-boiled inanity with a lopsided grin that makes you feel all gooey inside, or 2) Blue Steel. Really, we’ve seen way too much of Blue Steel as it is, and it was never one of his stronger looks to begin with.

But none of this explains why I acquire a certain lopsided grin whenever the name Hamas is mentioned — I mean, it’s a brutal terrorist organization with a decades-long record of serial murder! What’s the joke?

I’ll tell you, ’cause we’re friends. Allow me to lean intimately across the podium for a moment…



Man, I am ready for summer to be over.

Summer has seriously got to be the most overrated season. It’s too hot, which leads to sweaty people, which leads to unpleasant odors and the need to do laundry more often than usual. It gets way too crowded where I live, and the places where I don’t live it is even hotter than it is here.

There aren’t any good holidays during the summer, and I am not forgetting the 4th of July. That’s merely another one of those holidays on which everyone just seems to feel entitled to act even more retarded than usual, which is saying something. Of course, there’s my birthday shortly after the 4th of July, but I’d be willing to consider relocating that if necessary. For the good of the team.



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.