Hi, Kids. Time for a couple of trashy news or pop-culture items, calorie-rich bon-bons to take you away, at least briefly, from thoughts of the sweltering, dysfunctional mess that is your national government, from horrifying images of the Big Crash they promise.

I love summer in New York, springtime in New York, almost any time in New York.

Hi, kids. I’m back. It’s Syd. What up? After a long, strange trip from L.A., I’m in New York, chilling in Gramercy at the Carlton Arms.

I’m not having a good day. I have a splitting headache. I’m at a truck stop in Milesburg, Pa. waiting for the New York bus. My so-called book agent in Manhattan—a guy named Aubrey—is not returning my calls.

This is the end. My only friend, the end. See, I’ve been thinking a lot about Jim Morrison and the Doors and Apocalypse Now. I’m not alone. Charlie Sheen is drawing much of his snappiest patter from Coppola’s Vietnam flick, in which his old man Marty co-starred.

Hi there, ladies and germs. It’s Syd. We met here in early February, remember? I’m the Voice of Freaks Everywhere, Tribune of the Radical Middle, etc.?

Amerika’s the name. Syd Amerika. Remember it. Scratch it into your arm with a linoleum knife. Scribble it on a cocktail napkin with a pencil stub that’s longer than your boyfriend’s shvantz. I don’t care.