The heat has been ridiculous--77 degrees with 80 percent humidity at 6 a.m. . . . All I can say is Blah. Teresa and I have still managed to get our morning walks in, but she's from Florida so this probably seems balmy. Walking in the "cool" of the morning is the outer limit of what I can accomplish outside. Even the thought of doing a yard chore makes me sweat.

Today is our last rehearsal day. Then tomorrow we have a much-needed day off, and on Sunday we head up to Monson. Meanwhile, Tom, bless his heart, is planning a big dinner for the rehearsal crowd tonight. I am leaving it all in his hands.

Here's a clip from the Denis Johnson poem "Heat" that more or less sums up how I'm feeling about this weather. Yes, I know he's talking about a different month, but climate change is real . . .

 

August,

              you're just an erotic hallucination,

just so much feverishly produced kazoo music,

are you serious?