June gloom has lifted, and LA is bright and sunny and full of spit and vinegar. Why, Perez Hilton, that infamous blogger, got a knuckle sandwich to the face on Sunday from the road manager of the Black Eyed Peas after Perez called Will.I.Am. a "faggot." It went down in Toronto, but you don’t take a shot at LA’s number-one celebrity blogger and not expect retaliation. Perez is filing suit. Fergie just wants to keep the peace. It’s all so f-ing G-l-a-m-o-r-o-u-s.

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My father turned 65 on Saturday, and sadly I wasn’t home in the 'Sota for the big shebang. On the blessed day, he grilled some burgers; drank a brandy Manhattan; and took Uncle Howdy, Aunt Barb (his sister), and his father for a ride through some Wisconsin wilderness on his John Deere four-wheelin’ Gator. No shame in keeping it simple.

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Some people do drugs to get high; I just need a live taping of Prairie Home Companion (street name: PHC) to get a little juiced, staggered, and steamed.

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I have a distinct childhood memory of sitting in the back seat of my family’s Volvo station wagon on a July Saturday night on Highway 8 and listening to Prairie Home Companion. Having fully exhausted myself from a day of swimming and sandcastling at Grandma and Grandpa’s cabin, I rested against the car window and watched a bright orange sunset dart between the knee-high rows of corn as the tender bass of Garrison Keillor and his Prairie Home Companion lulled me into a sweet, summer peace.

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