J.P. Devine says he's been struggling with his role as court jester amid recent events, but he'll persist until the meteor hits.

A cold wind is blowing and Starbucks is closed, J.P. Devine says.

Limericks? Really? Why not?  Would you rather talk about golfers? Covid?, writes J.P. Devine.

This Christmas, as thousands of nurses and doctors in blue scrubs hold the hands of the millions of the dying, J.P. Devine is thinking of his mother in her starched white dress and cap, bringing a cupcake home.

I hold this virtual mic with a heavy heart, and this is my fear. As someone who once made a living in show business, there is no one I trust, J.P. Devine says.

J.P. Devine is keeping the candles in his windows lit just in case a family might be walking by looking for a safe warm place to sleep.

This Thanksgiving, J.P. Devine and She have canceled cooking, which means no dirty dishes, greasy pans and broken glasses — just a dinner catered by Hannaford Market chefs with some wine.

The cavalry always comes, so it’s not the end of the world. So put on your grown-up pants, says J.P. Devine.

Tidying up the bathroom, J.P. Devine muses that it's time our nation move past gutter politics and bad boys, and think instead about what's good and clean.