A new calm envelops me; it coats my aura.

But waitaminute...It's August and the countdown to Paris, Caracas and the Great Wide Open has officially begun. I should be manically tearing out my hair at this point - especially after the train-wreck conversation I had with a Venezuelan realtor today (arrobo = "ampersand," btw) - so why such peace? Why such Phil Jackson zen and tranquility?

Oh yeah that's right - Your Los Angeles Dodgers are on a plane out here as I type.

Hail, my brethren - for I knew you would come for me! I greet thee at the gates of this inferior city with thy Royal Blue carpet. Come, mighty conquerors, and claim thy prize: fair virgins to sprinkle garlands in thy path and wait upon thy every need. Then we shall laugh and dance and sing with joy at our fortuitous reunion in this strange place, so far from the Land of Milk and Honey.

But then...what's this? A sense of doom pervades my spirit. My soul is shrouded in fear and doubt.

Weaver's pitching tommorow.

We have a high of 94 degrees, with 60 percent humidity.

Shit.

Curses upon this foul land that the gods hate, their heated fury scorching the air and the trees. This is where living in the Land that God Loves Above All Else actually becomes a disadvantage, believe it or not - it's like those long-distance runners who train in Colorado. Washingtonians train their brains to not go insane in the god-awful hair-dryer blasts of summer. I fear Your Los Angeles Dodgers, pampered in sea-breeze goodness, aren't prepared for this horrific ecosphere.

Let's pray the Nationals continue their skid and the Heroes of the West reign victorious. Penny's pitching on Thursday - I'm putting my money on us taking two of three.