Summer. Even though we work in our raging hot office building, swearing at the cologne-covered janitor as he throws our recycling in with the banana-peels-and-fingernail-clippings trash, we still think kindly of the season, remember when we used to go to summer camp, think we should maybe take off a little earlier than usual, maybe have that extra drink in the afternoon, perhaps sleep with the secretary (or janitor, for that matter), just one more time before putting our nose back to the grindstone.

And we, for one, remember most fondly of all the crushes that blossomed and the kisses that sprang out of summer. Mostly in our brains, or in the pages of comic books, but, still, they were there, along with the bad haircuts and the tube socks pulled high.

No matter that summer probably serves no purpose any longer -- didn't it used to be that kids had to have some months off from school so they could help out with the farming at home, in places like Kansas or Ohio or Kentucky? Well, somehow, those lucky little bastards in NYC got hold of this break time, too, as did the kids in L.A., as if some pompous, arrogant little prick riding around in his lawyer dad's Bentley in Beverly Hills needs a break. A break from what? Having sex with the pool guy?

There is, as usual, much to say. It's going to be a long, hot summer.

Until then, we remain, as ever, your humble servant,

The Raging Face