Tucson is the only city I know of that has an acutal season devoted to dramatic tension. Once the temperature hits 100 and stays there, the whole city starts wondering when the monsoons will get here. We all know that at some point the clouds we see building up ominously over Mexico will unleash apocalyptic thunderstorms upon us all, and that then is when our swamp coolers will stop working.

So we swelter, and we wait, knowing that soon our streets will become rivers, washing our garbage cans away downstream. In the meantime, it’s so hot that after driving for five minutes, your ignition key is too hot to touch.

Weirdly enough, I love this time of year. And so does everyone I know.

I guess you have to be kind of strange to live here.