Yesterday's heat dome cracked 102 °F and felt like 109 °F. This afternoon hovers modestly around a mere 100 °F. I would have thought the last comparably soaring scorcher had been the previous summer with all its melted daily records, but apparently for sustained triple digits it was 1944.

At this point my life is such that even were anything sestercentennially awesome happening I would almost certainly be obliged to miss out on it, but it remains exhausting to watch a reality of history ground into Christofascist clickbait so malignly uninteresting it seems slopped out entire by that insult to mediocrity, the plagiarism engine: it has the thin, unreal, nauseous feel of it, including that at any mindless second it could be prompted to bomb the Middle East. My father has been mourning the bicentennial. I still have the commemorative quarters my grandmother kept for years on the windowsill of the anchor-papered guest room with the dollars and half-dollars in the metal piggy bank.

The aetiological little murder ballad that I heard last night on my way to collect spatch turned out to be Mugison's "Salt" (2004). I am enjoying the photo slider of local psychogeography from the Boston Globe.