At its hottest, stickiest, and buggiest, July can make one yearn for winter. But given the length of winter in these parts, that is a perverse virtue. Besides, the month has other allures. On weekends, most everyone with means has fled town, leaving those remaining behind with plenty of elbow room. It is as though some great equalizer has descended from the heavens to bloodlessly thin the herd and restore balance to sidewalks and streets. And of all the summer months, July is the most pure in its summerness--the best time for the midnight dip in a city lake, a bogus sick call to work, a six-pack on the stoop, and other noble pursuits. Yeah, nothing much seems to get done in July--and in the frenzied industriousness of these boom times, that too is a mighty sweet quality.