In Ptown we are cycling too fast through the themed weekends of summer: Film Festival, Portuguese Festival, Circuit Party 4th of July, and now it's already Bear Week. Up-Cape, Melissa Etheridge has already made her summer stop at the Cape Cod Melody Tent in Hyannis. I have already made my second annual ask for the Obamas to take a day-trip to Ptown when they are vacationing on Martha's Vineyard.
Yet the speed of the weeks running into weeks contrasts with the slow viscosity of the days, a brutal string of high heat and humidity. On my bike ride to work one early evening, I stop and ask my old friend Gordon, proudly Portuguese and the town barber for many years, if he's ever seen anything like it. He is shirtless, in shorts with suspenders, gartered black socks and is drooped over his porch railing, listlessly watering his wilted blue hydrangeas. "Neva, dahlin', neva."
Even my Indian girlfriend, accustomed to New Delhi summers, is at half speed. The blast furnace blunts me of Northern Irish latitudes into an unshakable, lethargic lassitude. I am asked to write an article for a book about watching Glenn Beck, TV's chief crybaby booby. I could care less. I am asked what I think of the US/USSR spy swap. I think it has something to do with LeBron James. According to Jezebel.com, The Daily Show is sexist. Care to comment? Will "Duh." do?
As I type this, my forearms stick to the desk. The keys stay depressed. A glass of ice water sweats a puddle onto papers The ink runs. The late heat of the day overwhelms. In my estivation, I conclude that Mother Nature is pissed about getting deep drilled and this heat is just a reminder of who is in charge. I expect a blizzard in October.