Mr. Pants for romance is not

Like Cole Porter says, it's too darn hot. I've experience 120 degree heat before, but it was a "dry heat," and there really is a difference. It's the difference between blowing the hairdryer in your face and Satan putting you a headlock -- cackling while he jams your face in his sweaty, swampy armpit. I think you can guess which one I would prefer.

For those of you who don't live in NYC and regularly endure triple-digit temps and 90+% humidity and think I'm being a big baby, let me remind you that the only time you actually experience this weather is when you walk the 20 steps from your air-conditioned home to your air-conditioned car. New Yorkers have to walk everywhere and wait around on steaming subway platforms. And I'm guessing your driveway doesn't smell like hot urine.

When I think of summer in New York, I think of children playing in hydrants. I have never actually seen this except on Sesame Street. I'd dearly like to witness this phenomenon. It's such a magically New York image. I'm hoping that if I see it, it will transform this heat into something kind of charming and nostalgic. Then I can look back fondly on the summer of '06 as the time I saw kids playing in the hydrant, not the time I saw that guy on the subway with his fly open trying to air out his crotch.