Seven days until California. Weird. It has been hot as Hell* in Michigan for the last two weeks. We've got high humidity and temperatures in the nineties. Nighttime lows are around seventy, and we all know that there's no chance of recovering a day when you're woken up hot. This weather pretty much sucks, and, I would argue, given how warm a Winter we had, these high tempeatues are also profoundly unfair. If we'd had a nice, snowy Winter, then I could at least understand a hot Summer. But we had the pussiest Winter on record. Where the fuck is the balance?! Hmmm, maybe last Winter was warm because last Summer was cold. That I could live with, because it suggests that this coming Winter will be a beast. Excellent.

Anyway, given the suffering caused by the heat and Julie's dire warnings about New York as a pressure cooker, I'm going to put off visiting her until the Fall. Since I've bought Brad's football tickets (one of the few nice things about Ann Arbor is Michigan football), I'll find a nice non-football weekend and go see the colors in Central Park.
(*I would have said "hot as Hades," just because I like the word Hades, but as anyone who has read their Greek myths can tell you, Hades was not a sea of sulfur or lake of fire like the Christian Hell, but a place as cold and gray as the grave itself.)

45 Things She Wishes You Knew
11. I expect you to call me.
And I do. Although... I don't know.... It used to be that I would always call Lindsay. She usually seemed rather short on the phone; rather eager to get back to whatever she was doing. Now, yes, I do have more than just a slight tendency to be longwinded (i.e. brother, do I know how to not shut up), but I always read that it was more than that. Maybe she had other things to do. Now, given my phone-as-rude-interruption theory, this shouldn't have bothered me. But I'd be lying if I said it didn't. Now, however, she calls me more often than I call her. She initiates contact more frequently than I do. I'd like to think this is because absense makes the heart grow fonder, but most likely it's because she's just moved to a city where she knows no one, and she's lonely. Still....

The phone. The phone is an incredibly rude device. At my whim, I can call you up, and almost regardless of what you are doing you are expected to drop it and respond to the ringing like Pavlov's dog. Yet, amazingly, this is not considered rude. And, as I do not forego the use of the phone, I am as guilty of this as anyone else. Think about it, though. Of course, there are exceptions. Last night, David and I had just begun watching Schindler's List when the phone rang. I sprang up from the couch and unplugged it. David had hung on my door the sign reading, "DO NOT knock unless it's important." Nevertheless, a few moments later, Brad knocked on my door. I stopped the movie and answered it, emplying one of my best scowls. He said, "I know you don't want to be interrupted, but it's from California." Lindsay! Hurray! Brad made the right decision; so, I thanked him and took the call. So, yes, sometimes it is good to be interrupted. The moral of the story is that philosophical purity is very attractive, but dauntingly impractical.