I was at a party last year. It was an ugly sweater party, which was odd because it was July, and the entire summer was basically one long heat wave. I stopped at Deseret Industries after work to pick up an ugly sweater (which, I was later advised, was actually a rather attractive sweater. I was happy to be looking sexy — if a little sweaty — but disappointed to be out of the running for the ugliness competition).
At one point, we were sitting around outside (after ditching the sweaters in a sudden inexplicable case of sense), listening to the several self-styled musicians among us strumming a guitar and singing, and I was watching the host's border collie as he roamed around the yard. He wandered up to where four people were sitting on the grass, with drinks before them in paper cups.
The dog, apparently thirsty, stuck his snout into one of the cups, and drank vigorously for a few seconds before wandering off again.
None of the four people noticed. Every single one of them was gazing intently at their tiny cell phone screens, their thumbs moving swiftly.
I drove along a beautiful Utah road. To my left I saw for miles; past verdant fields shuffling in a breeze; past decades-old barbed wire, still dutifully taut between gnarled and dutifully erect faded logs; past the silhouettes of mountains; through molecules of air that shaved the light down to a toothsome creamsicle hue; through 93 million miles of space, past the trajectories of Mercury and Venus, to where the sun had been eight minutes earlier, when the light striking my eyes had begun its journey to Earth.
As the creamsicle turned to magma , I passed a minivan. Inside, a few children gazed up, past the polyester seat back, to the eight-inch LCD screen, where Nemo's dad was hard at work to find him.
Photo #2. Something to help get you through the heat wave.