That's not all I did, though. I also spent too much time on Twitter and Facebook, rewrote my next novel, and mowed the lawn. These summer activities were the equivalent of watching paint dry. But there's a silver lining. Even though the activities were dry, I was not, primarily because I didn't have an umbrella, and in a quasi-biblical nod to global warming, it rained for 40 days and 40 nights.

If I were handy, I'd take advantage of the resultant flooding and use my vacation time to build an ark. Alas, I'm not Mr. Fix-It, so I've decided to spend the week at home, engaging in the newest American pastime - the staycation. While others are flying off to exotic locales, I'll be parked in front of the television watching reruns in my boxers. I'll be scratching, too. A real man doesn't veg out on the couch without lots of scratching.

You can only scratch so much without injuring yourself, however, so I'm going to do something productive to deal with my nonvacation bitterness. I'm going to write a film treatment. It'll be the adult answer to the teen horror flick, "I Know What You Did Last Summer." I'll call it: "I Know What I Didn't Do This Summer." (Cue screaming here).

Act I

We see Solomon in swim trunks, smiling and carefree, running in slow motion as water splashes up around his feet. He appears to be near the ocean. But as the camera slowly zooms in, we see the truth. Solomon is trying desperately to escape from a backyard kiddie pool while Eve and Little Solomon hold onto his ankles.

Solomon's smile transforms into a look of terror. His wife sprays him with the hose. The kids pull him to the ground. Just then, an evil figure in a black suit walks into the shot, stares into the camera and says . . .

"I know what you didn't do this summer."

Act II

Solomon sits at an outdoor Paris café with a stogie and an umbrella drink. He's wearing an open-collared linen shirt, matching trousers, and sunglasses. Violins play. The Eiffel Tower looms in the background. A woman in the latest couture walks by with a French poodle.

"Garçon!" Solomon calls out.

A waiter with a heavy accent says, "Oui, Monsieur?"

Before Solomon can say escargot, a hand reaches down and shakes him.

Solomon wakes up screaming, "Paris! I'll always have Paris!"

"No, you won't," says the guy in the black suit.

"But why?" Solomon wails. "Why?"

"Because I know what you didn't do this summer."

Act III

We see Solomon looking out over the edge of a ship, his eyes closed in a look of pure bliss. The waves rise. The wind blows. Sea mist moistens his face. The camera pulls back and we see his fellow passengers looking out over the railing.

At first, it looks like a fabulous cruise ship. But there's something yellow and beaklike in the passengers' hands. That's when we hear it. The sound of a hundred ducks.

The camera zooms in on Solomon's face. This isn't a cruise ship at all. It's a Ride The Ducks trip on the Delaware River.

"Come on, Daddy! Blow yours, too!" his kids exclaim.

Reluctantly, he does. Then the guy in the suit shows up at the front of the vessel, speaking into that horrible, tiny Ride The Ducks microphone.

"You can't hide from me, Solomon," he says in a sinister voice. "I know what you didn't do this summer."

Solomon's column appears every Saturday. You can reach him at sj@solomonjones.com.