Wee Request.

I'm starting to get afeared that the summer dome that tends to set up or set in over 27408 and parts thereunto is in fact setting up and setting in—what comes after this, of course, is the oaks giving up for the season and turning first pale green and then brown, various and sundry tomato deaths, watering restrictions and bans, flowerbeds shrinking back and dying off. It'll rain out north and west, and it'll rain down east, but we've hit that place where whatever it is that drops out of the mountains is too torn and ragged while it's over us, and only comes back together once it's past. What we need is one of those hurricanes that forms out of nowhere right off Savannah and then barrels due north towards us and stalls and gives us a week of gray and rain and weird wind from the east. We need something. Early summer felt like my earliest summers in Greensboro. Early summer it actually rained. Of late, it feels like it did last year, and the year before that, and the year before that. Of late, it feels like it has of late.

Today I bought a pair of yellow pants on sale. Something's wrong with me. I tend to try to live a life that's free of anything that looks at all like yellow pants.

The dog's well. Everybody else is, too. We've got tomatoes on the vine. The basil's still fantastic. It's Thirsty Thursday tonight in 27215, and TLK and I are going to head out US 70 and see what new ways the Burlingtons can find to lose a baseball game. Things are good. They really are. It's just: Could we please get a little rain, please?