Entourage has always been my least favorite of my favorite pay cable shows. The Sopranos, Weeds, Californication the incomparable Dexter, and let’s see, Diary of a Call Girl (Billie Piper, in the house) and True Blood are markedly better in my eyes. To me Entourage has always been a wisp of a show: cotton candy lasagna. Ari Gold is a towering character, maybe of all-time, but the rest of the actors seem to be spinning their wheels, Turtle’s recent existential crisis aside.

I can’t even being to tell you what has happened the last two seasons. Only this: Sloane appears to have gotten like 90% hotter. I mean, for real. Debi Mazar’s character is woefully underused, and I could never figure out why Ari’s wife, actress Peri Reaves, doesn’t get more time. If Vinnie Chase were any more boring, his head would be shaped like the Holy Bible. Uh…..didn’t mean that, God. Sorry….

He’d be far more engaging if he were closer to the actor he portrays—grim, earnest midget Mark Wahlberg, whose vain, hot-tempered antics have been interesting to follow in a “what a tool” kind of way. Despite the fact that I am actually writing this on the web, I am too lazy to check the shows’ ratings, so I cannot tell you if I am in the minority here. I would imagine that it does okay. I mean, I watch it. It’s twenty-four minutes long; doesn’t everyone have at least that long to eat a plate of blue-and-pink cotton candy?

The sad fact is that I know the answer to that question is ‘I do’.

I like Russell Brand. I think he’s very funny. I follow his tweets (rustyrockets) and I am excited that he is once again hosting the MTV Awards. My friends from England don’t really like him. They think him to be a prat.

I don’t disagree, but think his level of pratness is engaging. He isn’t mean like Sasha Bitter Cohen’s characters, who oftentimes ridicule moronic innocents, rather than lacquered douchebags. Borat and Brüno are, in my eyes, one-note, but they make trillions, so what the hell do I know? Please don’t answer that; we’ve been getting along so well lately.

And I could see sitting through dinner with a Russell Brand, and winding up in some downtown club at 4am, with a table full of Minsk minxes, sweating because the woman who plays Sloane on Entourage is telling a joke that Russell thinks is hysterical, only I can’t hear because my left hand is burning like Harry Potter’s head often does. Where was I?

Anyway, the thought of watching SBC and his hot buzzkill wife skulk their way through a sushi dinner in a midtown hotel would be sheer torture. They would probably rail on Gordon Brown’s corrupt administration, while nibbling at their his-and-hers hijiki salads.

I am not sure what this has to do with anything, but I am determined to not take myself so seriously. Just kidding.

So, I’m back. Whoop-de-damn-do. Had a great time. Hotter’n a June bride in Italy, though. It was like a sauna, with incredible food and wine. But these are the first words I have written in ten days. I figured that I needed a break, and left my laptop at home. Guess what? I didn’t miss it. Not once.

There were all sorts of cool stuff happening—I was particularly moved by Rome’s ghettos, and had a field day mocking the “fake” David statue in Florence—but I didn’t feel like making the effort. And I was either eating gelato, drinking wine or napping for much of the time. You’d hate me for writing that. So I decided to spare you the less-than-gory details.

But I am feeling frisky and will be addressing a number of people, places and things that have delighted/horrified me recently. It’s a long list, beginning with Blanket Jackson. And ending with whoever the toothless woman was this morning on the subway that was eating chocolate covered crickets. At least that is what the package said.

Glad to be home.

I say this often, but, man, if I’d had texting and IMing capabilities when I was in high school, I’d have been far more “successful” and let’s leave it at that. For I was your typical tongue-tied high school kid, especially when meeting girls. I could always talk to them, but when it came to asking them out, oh sweet Jesus, it was tough. I scripted more casual conversations than Al Roker and Ann Curry combined.

I remember my closest friend in high school, Diego, had a little sister named Beatriz, who was a year-and-something younger and pretty beautiful. And asking her to the junior prom (with her big bro’s blessing of course—that’s was another difficult convo) featured oratory worthy of Daniel Webster himself. (Incidentally, she went and it sucked because, hell, she was my best friend’s little sister and we all kinda grew up together. Not sure why the ramifications of that never resonated with me. Or, apparently, Harry Potter.)

But mostly with the fairer sex, it wasn’t until they, or I went on vacation, and I would write letters (remember them?) that I was able to move the chains, as they say in football.

I had all sorts of words stored up in my, from years of reading and, I don’t know, my reincarnation from a Dr. Seuss dictionary or something. As far as closing the deal—and in the suburbs where I grew up, that simply meant going to the movies or the mall—the problem was simple: most of the high school girls that I was really going after weren’t the “words type.” They were more the “root beer lip gloss type.” But there was another set, the attractive braniacs that sorta got my antics. And let’s leave it at that.

I still write letters and notes, but they are now supplemented by tweets, some post-hipster blog and Facebook messages. It also sounds so stupid, and it usually is, but I enjoy it immensely. The best part is, for near-on the past decade I haven’t had to worry one bit about moving the chains.

Just getting sacked from the blindside.

Have you ever heard of getting a job and going on vacation in the same week? You have now.

My professional bachelorhood is, once again, over. And I am so relieved. I was hoping to use my time off to maybe figure out what I wanted to do with the rest of my career, my trained profession withering like Rachel Zoe’s face. And I think that I am on the right path. I had flirted with the idea of mixed martial arts, but I am currently vexed by a broken fingernail (literally) and so I thought I would do that other thing. The one with words and, as Levi Johnston’s mother so eloquently put it, “pitch-urs.”

What is also exciting is that on Thursday evening I am flying to Rome to spend a day cavorting with my innamorata bellissima before meeting up with friends in Tuscany at some lovely villa, nestled in the hills. Sounds like hell, I know.

I plan to channel my inner Dickie Greenleaf and smoke cigars, drink red wine and eat a spectacular array of food. And laugh. Our friends, all from the UK, are the kind of clever conversationalists that are hard to find between the US coasts. Topics can veer from geopolitics and sports to entertainment and embarrassing moments at each other’s weddings or parties.

Apparently, I have been told that my “dodgy beard” is the topic du jour. I am preparing some devastating rejoinders to reduce them to tears or, at the very least get them talking about Andrew’s needle-pointing hobby or Murph’s secret family in Romania.

I’m only half-kidding. Sadly.

1. That blind governor. Not because he’s blind, obvi, but because he is a) a dick and b) a joke.

2. Those Republicans (Lindsay Graham, Mitch McConnell, etc.) who look like escaped mother superiors but spend their days trying to make life difficult for homosexuals.

3. Derek “the statue” Jeter. Ed McMahon’s headless corpse has more range than the Captain. Still, he’s the All-Star starter? Sure.

4. Trig Palin. I saw him in person and he gave me a funny look.

5. Reality judges with no talent, who judge people that can actually do something. Like Hasselhoff and Abdul. Clam up, you druggies.

6. “Poker? Check. Surfing? Check. Scotch? If I must. What else can I do to look cool? Bow-ties? Really? Oh, all right.”

7. Bloggers that revel in their unprofessionalism. It’s not funny. You suck. Now go play your Wii.

8. Pedophile apologists. You know who you are, virtually everybody but me and Chris Rock.

9. Young people. Find your own cultural references. Even the words “hip” and “cool” are ripoffs from previous generations. And lose the fedoras, you short, balding, outer boroughed……oh, where was I?

10. Myself. One part sanctimony, a splash of bitterness and two jiggers of sarcasm. Shake. Then serve ice cold.

Everyone has a favorite food, even if they are too stupid to figure it out. Sometimes people cannot decide between, say, fried chicken and pizza. Me? Easy as hell. You bring me to a clam shack, such as The Spot in Martha’s Vineyard or Evelyn’s Clam Shack in Tiverton, RI, give me a pint of tartar sauce, some beers and about 100 or so clam bellies and I am happier than a schoolbus filled with…wait, whose the next most famous child molester now that MJ is dead? Oh, no one. Time to find a new joke.

And to take a nap. Let’s talk later.

I was on an elevator, looking at that video screen and trying not to actually drip sweat on my co-worker (the F was a nightmare this a.m.) and saw the following: 69% of Americans worry about paying for cancer treatment; 68% of Americans worry about getting cancer

Like, what?

I’m not some crazy lefty, but I have to tell you: the fact that every single American doesn’t have available health care is just plain nuts. At some point, the powers-that-be decided that the ability to take a sick child to a doctor is a privilege and not a right. And we let that happen. What were we thinking? We weren’t. Like a lot of other things that go down, we are too busy not paying attention.

Sadly, even after all of the fraud and malfeasance that has been heaped upon us, we are no better at avoiding the special interests’ shiny distractions than your basic brown trout is of a fly. Common decency dictates that we treat everyone better. Bush did his best to drive it completely from us. I guess his legacy is that he couldn’t. Mazel tov, dummy.

And it’s not only the uninsured folks that get screwed. I have had the same doctor for eighteen years. His office is around the corner from my home. He wants me to call him Jeff, but I instead call him the Ditch. But guess what? The Ditch doesn’t take my insurance. So I actually have to pay for his visits.

I have insurance, but that directs me to a stranger. A guy I have never met before, who tells me that “I could lose a few pounds” but otherwise sends me on my way with a prescription. “Jeff” yells at me if I am not taking care of myself. He lives in SoHo and tells me to call if it’s an emergency.

I have no intention of calling him, but I have to say: if this isn’t an emergency, then I don’t know what one is.

Truth be told, over these past months, I have grappled with not being a boss. Not because I like bossing people around. I don’t, as anyone who has ever worked for me can attest. I would rather do something myself than ask anyone and have always held to the maxim that the best way to show authority is to not show authority. Fairly egalitarian, is how I once termed my workplace.

I guess I miss it because I like teaching people. Not work stuff necessarily. But people stuff. Adult stuff. How to ask for things, how to deal with crises, how to treat people—from the owner of the company to the guy delivering the pizza. The pleasure that comes when everyone is moving in the same direction, toward the same goal, and feeling the same amount of ownership of an idea.

I am lucky because, over the years I have had some great bosses, really and truly. I have also had some terrible ones, whose bodies I wouldn’t even contaminate a landfill with, lest they increase the number of vermin. Literally. But, by and large, I have been very lucky and have tried to pass that luck on.

What got me thinking about this in the first place was when I heard this morning that a guy I worked for a few years ago, Kevin Hahn, had passed away from cancer. (I know, another friend gone.) He was in his forties, with a lovely wife and two kids. He was also the smartest guy I have ever known, had an infectious laugh, and was a real gentleman. And he liked me very much and always felt guilty that he put me in the middle of a tempestuous business relationship that my former employer had with a professional sports league that shall remain nameless.

When I last saw him, it was at the company Christmas party in 2003, my last day there, and we clinked Heineken bottles and toasted my new job. Despite the fact that I was sort of leaving him in the lurch—I had been doing about twelve jobs at once—he was genuinely happy and kept telling me “don’t worry about it” when I fretted over how he was going to handle everything.

That is the memory I will always have of him. Gracious and kind. And I hope some day, in about 45 years or so, that is the type of memory people will have of me.

Not the one where I try and eat an Emma’s Combo sandwich in three bites.

(Okay, they can have two memories.)

I used to hate it when people were unable to characterize something as “the best.” They could not choose their favorite food; they were unable to decide on which actor they thought most proficient. They would not make a stand of any consequence on even the most harebrained of topics.  (You know how I roll.) It kind of boggled my mind. Because, as you may have gathered, I have opinions on everything and everyone. Secretly, I have opinions on your opinions.   They’re all very positive; don’t you worry.

But, over these few short years since my youth, I have come to realize that some people can like more than one thing. And that they really do enjoy mojitos and margaritas equally. Or whatever. I have softened considerably, which comes in handy because the other day someone asked me who my favorite TV character was, and I narrowed it down to two, unable to go any further. And unwilling because both Justin Kirk and Jennifer Carpenter are on some other plane with their characters, Andy Botwin and Deb Morgan.

Fortunately or unfortunately, they are both on television shows built around another character, being portrayed by two fucking heavyweights in Mary-Louise Parker and Michael C. Hall.  But, man, they are good at stealing the show on more than a few occasions.

Justin Kirk plays Andy Botwin as the perfect Sancho Panza to sister-in-law Nancy’s Don Quixote. Morally, ethically, logically deficient. Seems perpetually weary and sad-eyed. Like, he’s already been dog-kicked by life and faces every situation with resignation. This season he has been gingerly pursuing Nancy, all while she is carrying another man’s baby—and a drug lord’s at that—and he is pretty mind-blowing at making such a toady, otherwise untrustworthy character so worthy of our sympathy. I hate it when actors talk about bringing “humanity” to a role, but you know, uh, never mind.

Jennifer Carpenter has turned Deb Morgan (“Dexter”) from a one-dimensional character to the emotional fulcrum of the entire show. Skinny as a rail, but increasingly sexy—a shocking development, in my eyes—Carpenter (who I saw on the subway the other day) inhabits this role as a ferocious, foulmouthed but sensitive sister of a serial killer. 

She has completely grown on me and last season I was totally gushing every week, to the point where GG began to nose around, but then realized she had no reason to disparage JC the way does the acting super vixens of today. (You should hear those rants. Jaw dropping, sometimes.) She’s been in a couple of other movies and was very good in them. But I fear that Carpenter will always be known for Deb.

At least that’s my opinion.