summer stories

Sometime in the last four days I lost my car key--between driving to the Haitian restaurant and trying to drive to my cousin's house. We could have cycled to the Haitian restaurant but drove out of some kind of trepidation for exploring the "bad neighborhood" (aka Jefferson Avenue) for the first time in such an exposed manner. I did cycle to my cousin's house, which was very fine--remember, with the fireflies? (The one White quadrant of town, no one's afraid to cycle there.) Looking for my key, I've begun to call up the area bars. It's not at the Lux, or so they say. I think I could have lost it while lying in the hammock. Last night at dinner, Ross came into the kitchen triumphantly, arms full of Corona. Someone was slicing limes immediately, as if it were some deep-seated reflex that might have even violated causality. It's too hot to do anything else in Rochester. "There's something about the heat and Mexican beer," Ross noted. So we sat on the porch drinking Coronas and fixing my bicycle.

(no subject)

This is sort of a physics question: Could you pump cold water through radiators to cool your house? The obvious flaw is something like "cold doesn't radiate," but, then, don't we have the general principle that a good antenna for transmission is usually a good receiving antenna too, and hence the cold "radiator" should absorb thermal radiation from other objects? (In addition to cooling by convection.)

writing

I need some literary theme that consists of more than simple nostalgia.