It’s monsoon season in Peoria and we’re in this for the long haul.

All is calm at first glance: iced drinks contain more liquid outside than in, showers are taken cold for environmental fear of contributing even more steam, and papers no longer shuffle well. We sigh about the oppressive humidity level, a rocket launching, and soon give up. 75% humidity doesn’t tell us when clothes begin sticking to skin.

But every dam will break under enough pressure, and we issue watches and warnings and advisories to give us calm. Skies unadorned suddenly become imperfect, splotchy with meteorological poison ivy, and dirt clods of clouds pepper the dome. It cracks, releasing raw elemental energy, and after 30 minutes or so, it’s done and scheming the next round. Our CFL bulbs shudder and computers seize on and off, but we know this to be summer.

It’s like a scene from Star Trek IV: The Voyage Home. If you’re in the know, you’ll remember a scene on the planet Earth as it’s being decimated by some turd-shaped space probe that really, really wants to speak with our whales. Our extinct humpback whales, that is. Whether anger or accident, our planet’s weather systems go haywire and what I’m trying to say is that there’s a 4 second clip where pounding rain eventually is just too much for those poor windows at Starfleet Command and BAM – broken glass and wind and water, everywhere. A group of engineers, garbed in spacesuits, flail on the ground and it’s chiseled in my mind ever since. (Here’s a quasi clip, at 11 seconds)

Our edition repeats for the third straight day, without the Star Trek injury, and I’m annoyed for taking a walk when the radar screamed “DANGER, YOU DULLARD” in bright reds. I’m stuck at Starbucks, a supermodel walks through the door, and the tap is tapped and the rain falls behind her.

I do mean supermodel, too. Bean pole high and wearing a slinky black summer dress that displays 4 feet of leg, my eyes are making billions, trillions of saccades in vain attempts to keep glued to my laptop screen and away from the hem of her dress. She sits, and waits, and no coffee is ordered.

Eventually a dude that could either play the part of rock metal DJ or bartender arrives. He sits next to her, but in a way that screams “hey, I don’t need you, but I can be convinced.” And her miniskirt tries. Is it a job interview? I get that impression, but there are other less savory options to entertain.

The thunder intensifies subsonically, right in the gut with the bran muffin I had an hour ago, and I schlep home under heavenly attack.