Ah, August in NYC. I forgot what a special time of year this is. Nothing heralds the last stretch of summer like the stink of hot, cooked garbage and urine.

The whole city is on vacation, even if you have to work. Everything slows. You are easily taking three showers a day to wash off the thin film of sweat that covers you from the moment you wake up, as well as to just lower your body temperature. Once you start to move, you will start to sweat again, so there can be no movement after the day's last shower - just laying on the bed, not sweating. The trains are empty in the morning because everyone has fled to the Hamptons or the Jersey shore. You get to see who the real plebes of the city are.

It's a battle of the wills each night between me and the A/C, to see how long I can hold out before succumbing. You know you want me, it taunts. I know I do, but I don't want to pay for you! I sweat it out in front of the fan until I am no longer coherent, completely lethargic and listless and nearly sick from the stale heat in the apartment. Opening the roof hatch to try and get a breeze going doesn't seem to do anything. It just seems to let in more heat (and I get afraid of a pigeon or a water bug falling in). This is probably the only drawback to living on the top floor: the sun beats down on the roof and pre-heats your apartment like an oven awaiting a Thanksgiving turkey. I think I might leave one out on the counter one day to see what happens.

In a few weeks the trains will once again be packed with obnoxious school kids and hordes of people returning to work. Summer Fridays will be over, and we'll soon be watching the names of 9/11 victims read on TV. But for now, nothing matters but air conditioned movie theaters, cool, dark bars, and lots of cold showers. It's August, full force.