It's hotter than fish grease out this morning! Standing on the platform at Atlantic Ave. waiting for the 2 or 3, I got a taste of what hell must be like. Couldn't even blink without another salty bead of perspiration stinging my eyes and clumping my mascara. The reasons why summer's my least favorite season keeps piling up like shootouts on Hot 97's premises. In this sweltering weather, I can't wrap my brain around folks walking around with the scent of Eau de Staten Island Landfills nonchalantly. I know the boho/homeless look is the trend most likely to be forgotten in another month or so, but Ph-balanced protection is on the market for a reason. For the love of my singed nostril hairs, scrap the damn crystal deodorant and invest in a $3 stick of Degree.

Praise God, Jehovah, Allah and the three stooges for Starbucks. What beats an overpriced chilled latte to keep you sane during the dog days of summer? You must try the new Green Tea frappuccino...it's sweet without the need for an insulin drip afterwards like the caramel tends to do and tastes super yummy. If they uncovered crack as a hidden ingredient, I wouldn't be surprised. It's that good. I'm in the throes of Robert Downey, Jr.-like addiction already. The spin on the tazo tea lemonade is another tasty thirst quencher. Que deeelish.

Guess who's back atop the AL East, bitches?! Now that's what I call one helluva birthday gift to Joe Torre. Through all the turmoil, the lineup changes, the blows to our patchy rotation, the flareups from the Boss...we're still here. Pinstriped pessimists, be afraid. Be VERY afraid.


My beloved Yankees were written off faster than UPN's fall schedule by the oh-so-eager scribes that couldn't wait to signal the death knell. (Holla back, Dan Shaughnessy!) Having a $200 million payroll will keep the haters' claws sharp at all times. They were over. Left for dead. Silly wabbits. Tricks are for kids and the boys of summer are cookin' like Zatarain's fresh out the box. Is there any duo more lethal than the tandem of A-Rod & Sheff right now? Jeter (a.k.a my baby daddy in my head) is slumping a bit, but he's still hovering around .300. Hell, 5 out of our 11 batters are hitting .300 or better while 2 more are flirting with .280. The Bronx Bombers are BACK. I'm a little worried about the O's & Red Sux maneuvering for the first blockbuster trade before the deadline with A.J. Burnett being dangled as the bait... it may be time to break out the trusty rosary beads so Jason Schmidt becomes available by the Giants by month's end.

Can't seem to get any work done today because my mind's like a thousand miles away. Gotta get my Saumur strap fixed. Plot to catch Nordstrom's open while cursing not-so-subtly through the usual traffic slowed to a crawl on the Southern State. Reschedule dinner with my homegirl before I'm banished to the isle of bad friends. Have these fuzzy caterpillars doubling as eyebrows weedwacked back into proper arches (it's my homage to Brooke Shields, so bite me). I keep trying to focus only to wind up having my thoughts float off into "shit I gotta get done before week's out" land like 5 minutes later. I have the attention span of a firefly lately. Must... not... have... a... Newport.