Ok, here’s the thing…I seem to have lost the ability to write anything funny. (Now, before any of my previous readers snidely suggest that I never actually had the ability to be funny before so what’s all the angst about, let me point out that with all the information available on the internet I can easily find your street address and come over to your house and thump you, so keep you dopey mouths shut.)
Apparently, my writing abilities are seasonal, at best. Before moving to Syracuse, New York, which I am reliably informed by the meth freak who lives down my block is the snowiest big city in the United States, I spent thirteen or fourteen years living in the Catskill and Adirondack Mountains, which has nothing to do with my explanation and eight years in New York City which also has no bearing on this but I thought you’d like to know.
Anyway, what I’m getting at is that I grew up in New Jersey in the seventies, a thirty minute car ride away from the Jersey Shore in general and Asbury Park in particular. Younger readers (which, given my advanced age, means virtually all my readers) may recall from their Rock history books that Asbury Park in the seventies was the realm of such rock and roll luminaries as Bruce Springsteen, Clarence Clemmons, Miami Steve Van Zandt and Southside Johnny, gentlemen who spent their summers playing clubs like the Fast Lane and the Stone Pony and becoming wildly famous. Well, maybe Southside Johnny didn’t exactly become wildly famous, but he did put out a good party tune or two. In other words, I’m a product of the sun and sea, along with drugs, cigarettes, sex and alcohol. So, as soon as the temperatures start to rise in spring and the leaves start to bud out on the trees, I’m outside playing in the sun. Since we are all products of our youth, this is as it must be. Of course these days playing in the sun has nothing to do with the beach or ocean, alcohol, drugs and increasingly as I age, sex, but the perennial urge for the sun is still there.
The point of all this is that while in the snowy depths of winter I wake up and read the news, tune into CNN and power up Google News in order to find out which egregious lie the Administration of George W. Bush is telling us that day, come summertime I get up, thrown on as little clothing as I legally can and hit the great outdoors. If George Bush had attacked Iraq in May instead of March I wouldn’t have known about it until late October. Writing political satire requires knowing what the hell’s going on in the world and in the summertime I just don’t pay attention all that much, except on rainy days, so don’t expect too much from me till the weather chills down this Fall.
Now, I wouldn’t want anyone to think that my not excoriating our President daily during the warm months of summer implies that I’ve modified my opinion that Mr. Bush is a lying and ethically challenged dolt whose entire term as Commander in Chief has been spent serving as the mouth piece for big corporations and the Evangelical Christian movement. Far from it. I just want a tan.
So, to bring this somewhat tortured piece of self serving tripe to a conclusion, let me just issue a blanket statement that should cover the entire summer: George Bush is lying (again), no, God does not approve of what he’s doing, America is fast becoming a totalitarian police state and finally, you’re all too fat. If something untoward happens I’ll let you know, as long as the weathers crappy, but barring that I’ll see you in October. That is, as long as super volcano’s, terrorist attacks and George’s penchant for Preemptive Liberations don’t kill us all before then. Until then however, have a Happy Summer.