Someone once said that there ain’t no cure for the summertime blues, but I don’t believe it. I mean there’s gotta be, right? I am quite certain that such an elixir (or is it a salve?) can be haggled for on the cobbled streets of Brno, most likely behind the sad-eyed Cossack selling wool blankets knitted by his mother, her wrinkled talons forced to purl and purl and purl 13 joyless hours a day. It’s definitely available for purchase at Suzie’s Sauce Hut in San Diego—and I know because I once went there in August and didn’t feel the least bit blue. (Though I did feel green—with food envy. But that’s a story you’ll hear on my next tour through the Catskills. I’m there all week!) I think it’s even found somewhere in Brooklyn; in fact, I bet the cure lurks in my cupboard, where there is a newly purchased tin of Heinz’s Baked Beans. So, a note to whomever sings that infamous song: Quit being such an alarmist already.


Subway rage!