From the former honeymoon capital of these here, United States, this is obscure season

four in American tragedy.

I am your host, your friend, your earlover, and literary mansplainer-in-chief, Michael

Ian Black, supine, this time on the master

bed in the master boudoir here in our Poconos cabin.

We have been here for, oh, a couple of weeks now, and tonight, very fun thing we're going

to do.

We're going to head over to Philadelphia, the city of Brotherly Love, to see some of my brothers

perform in the middle-aged dad jam band.

They've got a show in Philadelphia.

I will also be singing a tune.

Martha will be coming with us, or with me, and who knows?

Maybe there's even going to be Philly cheese steaks on the offering, although I doubt it because I no longer eat Philly cheese steaks, but it does sound delicious. And who knows, maybe I'll make an exception this evening. I just don't know. And then tomorrow we head over to Lake Geneva, Wisconsin, to visit my dear friend Tom Lennon, who has a little summer cottage there. We're going to

be cottaging with the Lennons for a few days, along with our terrible, terrible, terrible dogs,

Oli and Squash, who have been nothing but aggravating since we departed Savannah, Georgia,

loath these two weeks ago. I mean, it's not their fault. They're dogs. But, you know, it's just like you get them out of their routine and suddenly hell's a pop. And, you know, everything's just, everything's just going off. They're barking. They're whining. They're scratching. You know, it's just, it's just, here's the thing. Dogs?

Great.

Everybody loves dogs.

Do I want to own a dog?

No.

Not anymore.

And not ever again.

...