So far I've dislocated my jaw eating mango leather and sped on my bike back and forth from one side of the Isthmus to the other: Monona-Mendota-Monona-Mendota. High June is here, and it is simply exquisite.

Skeeter is less than thrilled, resentful of the wiry black kitten that roams the apartment freely, unused to the spongy air mattress. He grumbles and growls, but then the window beckons and he stretches out on the sill, unable to resist the cool air.

Ravinia 2011.

Really.

shawn lenker on flickr

That one should wake up in the morning, it was enough.

Every season is likeable, and wet days and fine, red wine and white, company and solitude. Even sleep, that deplorable curtailment of the joy of life, can be full of dreams.

VIRGINIA WOOLF.

Do you find this happens all the time?

It's one of those Grant-Lee Phillips, Civil Wars, Aimee Mann, Smiths, Feisty, Swell Season-swell days.

Age of Consent, Grant-Lee Phillips

Thieves, She & Him

Two Tongues, Swell Season

Falling, The Civil Wars

Train Song, Ben Gibbard & Leslie Feist

One Voice, The Wailin' Jennys

The Moth, Aimee Mann

Asleep, The Smiths

Poison & Wine, The Civil Wars

You Are Here, The Wailin' Jennys

Diamond and a Tether, Death Cab for Cutie

I Feel It All, Feist

One Fast Move, Jay Farrar & Ben Gibbard

Deeper Well, The Wailin' Jennys

Summer, truly.

Spring lasted less than five minutes this year, squeezed between March mud and chill and these suddenly warm, sticky evenings. Tonight I walked home with a jug of ice-cold Sassy Cow milk sweating so fiercely it threatened to slip from my curled fingers. That's summer, alright.

I closed the box and put it in a closet. There is no real way to deal with everything we lose.

JOAN DIDION.

Photograph by greenlaundry on Flickr

Hang in there, Illinois.

And just like that, after holding out on concealed carry longer than 48 of los Estados Unidos, we're a "shall-issue" state. If I wanted to make a joke, I'd say it makes me mad enough to shoot something, but I don't want to joke about it. I have heard too many Republicans say and too many bumperstickers blare: "If guns are outlawed, only outlaws will have guns." This seems less troubling than the alternative. I say, the more guns and bullets, the greater the potential for terrible crimes and terrible accidents, whomever is packing heat.

Except for one joyous pawful of fat black cherries, eaten on the sunny stoop of the Berkeley Bowl, we dined out every day in the Bay Area. This meant Thai curries, pizzas, breakfast pastries, submarine sandwiches, and far too many Chipotle burritos. It also meant packaging, packaging, packaging, waste of the most incredible variety. I felt slightly sick all the time—not from the food itself, but from overflowing trash bins, plastic sleeves slipped over sandwiches we said we’d eat on-site, thin wafers of plastic slapped on oversized fountain drinks, and for the messages that packaging bore: praise for the consumer’s wisely exercised discretion that led her to this place, this product; self-praise for the company for utilizing 15% post-consumer content in its paper cups or embracing “all natural ingredients.” I wanted to pack lunches for the airport and shop at organic groceries, even and especially if that meant piecing together meals on the sidewalk outside.

San Francisco.

It feels far.