It's hard to make coherent sense out of such an enigmatic locale as Hilton Head Island - a haven for the senile octogenarian and the wealthy golf pro; a retired paradise for the republican values of the congenitally elite. Here, the daily decision making revolves around what time to call Bob for the morning golf match and when to make space for naming that demented alligator who keeps trying to climb the fence of our gated community.

It's a nice vacation. Any more than 10 days here would force me to eat decomposing feces from a wrinkled goat for mere pleasure, but for the time being, it serves as a good breather.

To be able to socialize and drink wine with the most conservative of conservatives is a talent I am quickly getting accustomed to. I just have to remember catch phrases like "Yes siree, those tax cuts sure do make life easier!" and "Hunting season starts soon for the live buffalo, wild turkey, and runaway homosexuals!".

Sigh. Send me home.