Wait, it gets better

Can I kick it? It's hot, hot, hot up here in the mountains. Tanks tops and flip-flops and cold bottles of coke. Sun tanning on the summit. Swimming soon.

I am still writing my book, still incommunicado, still pining for the Big Apple. But now I am going to the gym every day too. Going hard on the treadmill. (I must be getting bored. And yes, there is a gym two seconds away from my idyllic hide-out in the woods. You can't beat that with a bat.)

Another column for the peanut gallery.

I curse each and every one of you that caught Hov's show last night. I don't want to hear about it.

Getting my Shakira on to The Clipse. To the window, to the wall.

This may be what they mean by cabin fever.