From the former honeymoon capital of the world, the Pocono Mountains, not Niagara Falls, the Pocono Mountains.

This is obscure season four in American tragedy. I am your host,

your friend, your ear lover, and literary mansplainer in chief, Michael Ian Black.

Reporting today from the Pocono Mountains, where the wife and I have absconded for the next

couple of months to escape the torturous

Savannah Heat, which isn't that torturous, but is kind of annoying and will sort of weigh you down

if you don't make some accommodations to deal with it. So this year we decide, well, we'll get away

from it for a couple of months,

and that's what we've done. We arrived here a few days ago. We have been anxious about it because

there's really nothing to do here at all. It is a cultural desert. I mean, look, if you like

outdoor activities, hiking, fishing, hunting, that sort of thing,

well, this could be a sportsman's paradise for you. Or if you're the parents of young children

who are looking to catch botulism from an indoor water park, this is an ideal location for you.

But if you are homebodies who like occasional excursions to coffee shops, used bookstores

and other tree amenities, you're shit out of luck.

There are no coffee shops.

There is a town not too far away.

And in fact, we're going to go to the movies today over there in that town and watch a normal movie.

But it does, you know, it's a bit of a hall and just in the immediate vicinity.

There just isn't very much to do here at all. Not that I mind particularly

because for one thing, denizens of the East Coast will recognize the name Mount Airy Lodge,

which is an old school hotel resort in the area three miles away from where I am currently located and the thing

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