I was feeling a little seared behind the eyes earlier, like I'd been inhaling too deeply as I stood over the stove. Then I remembered that we've reached that magical point in the year when opening the window to my office can bring the temperature down five degrees in minutes. I'm sure the desert has one more 100+ heat wave in store for us before the lock on summer has finally clicked shut. But I'm pushing all the weight of my chill-seeking desire against the door. Besides, the effort I expend will take my mind off next Saturday's contest in Eugene, in which my underperforming yet still impressive Bears are likely to have their hopes of a BCS game dashed, not having beaten the Ducks there in two decades. Shit, now that my mind has returned to that worrisome topic the breeze outside has slackened. I'm sure I've already made what I'm about to state abundantly clear. Nevertheless, I feel obligated to declare that my stream of consciousness spreads out over a vast network of current and former wetlands in which the two most easily navigable channels are tuned to the weather and ESPN. When the levee breaks, though, there's no telling where the flow will go.