July has washed ashore in Suburbia Majora, with her heat humidity and bugs. Unlike a crisp New England summer, there's a certain melancholy that accompanies the hazy, thick skies of a Virginia summer. There're days of heat, punctuated by the shaking of the heavens as leaden anvils, their tops daring to defy heaven, release their fury on the earth below.
In the next several evenings, the skies will be lit with the display of illegal fireworks that'll entertain many while taunting the County Stormtroopers. Me, I've lost my nerve to light off the cool stuff, sticking with the OTC fireworks that seem to be available in any of Suburbia Majora's many shopping centers. So far, Barry hasn't placed patriotic celebrations in his sights so for now, we can still stuff our pie holes with Nathan's franks and light the night.