August, the summer's last messenger of misery, is a hollow actor.

August brings into sharp focus and a furious boil everything I've been listening to in the late spring and summer.

August used to be a sad month for me. As the days went on, the thought of school starting weighed heavily upon my young frame. That, coupled with the oppressive heat and humidity of my native Washington, D.C., only seemed to heighten the misery.

August in sub-Saharan Los Angeles is one of the great and awful tests of one's endurance, sanity and stamina.

We know that in September, we will wander through the warm winds of summer's wreckage. We will welcome summer's ghost.

Every year, August lashes out in volcanic fury, rising with the din of morning traffic, its great metallic wings smashing against the ground, heating the air with ever-increasing intensity.