I'm viewing life from the Mount Rushmore area of South Dakota this week, dodging overweight patriots by the thousands. There are more stars and stripes around here than at a Republican convention, and nary a morsel of tofu for miles. It's alternately fascinating, fun, and frightening. I've been going through scotch and cigars like they were salsa and chips.
If I don't post for the rest of the week, it's because I'm drunk on our nation's birthday. Or I've been accidentally crushed by 350-lbs Nebraskan wrapped in our nation's flag. "Hey lady, there's a little flat New Yorker stuck to the seat of your pants."