First day of summer, whatever that means. The past three weeks have already seen thermometers push their red past ninety.

But, “yay!” It’s Summer! Now, the heat is official! All that heat before today, it was just for practice. None of it counted.

Another Spring gone by without love, that’s what it means.

And more fucking bugs. More opportunity for Pop to get bit with that West Nile virus, because he doesn’t like the stickiness of repellent. More opportunity for skin cancer, too, because he doesn’t like the smelliness of sun-block.

Snowstorm or drought, will an elderly man “brave” the elements today because there may not be a tomorrow? Or maybe they go out into it because, deep down, they don’t want a tomorrow. Maybe it’s just in the programming. Swear to God, I see more old men walking about when it’s ninety-five than when it’s twenty degrees cooler (and, given the property taxes ‘round here, this not for want of air conditioning). 'Round here, they’ll be out in the below-zero, shoveling snow. While they’re shivering, they’ll tell you they love it, out there in the “crisp” air…

Sometimes, Bach is the perfect composer to write to. Other times, he’s the only way to get to sleep. And Bach, he’s best listened to in the dead of Winter. Okay, maybe, also, sometimes, on very early Summer mornings. Like this one. But he's best when set to a blizzard.

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