The New York Times has seen fit to report on the deep and strange power of the American summer, and poq thinks they have found a thing, hidden somewhere in the langourous courthouse in which the Constitution was written and the lazy eddies of the Mississippi and the croaks of the bullfrogs and the hazy fields of gold barley and wheat in the Midwest and the red barn where the bats come flickering at dusk and the scattered fires in the brown poppy-studded hills of California and that old fairground with the caramel apples and the decaying merry-go-round and the ferris wheel and the sound of the ice cream trucks and out in the suburbs the necrotized grey asphalt parking lots and the box stores and strip malls and the air-conditioned cars all running along the highways of L.A. and the smog in the sky and the children playing with lawn hoses in the yards and selling lemonade out of garages and the bugs floating in their pool out back, and the adolescence and the highschools where the same musical is played again and again in the school gyms and theatres, forever forever in summer days and oh for the summer nights.
