August is the middle child of the calendar—awkward, hot, and constantly trying to prove it matters. It doesn’t. While January is out here reinventing lives and December is hosting year-end galas, August just…exists. It’s like the tambourine of months—technically part of the band, but no one really knows why.

As a musician and cultural advocate, I can confirm: August is the month when productivity takes a long nap and creativity sweats profusely in front of a fan. Rehearsals slow down. Some people pretend they’re “on retreat,” which is code for “don’t email me until after Labor Day.” And the only rhythm anyone keeps is the dull beat of their forehead hitting the desk while trying to write grant reports in 90% humidity.

Even festivals—our cultural bread and butter—start to blur together. But August is always anchored by the Grapes Blessing Picnic, the crown jewel of Armenian summer gatherings. It’s the one time a year when families gather in the blazing heat to celebrate tradition, faith, and food. I usually find myself grilling kebab with one of my brothers, both of us sweating like we’re in a sauna but somehow loving every minute of it. The scent of meat on the grill, the buzz of music and laughter, and the familiar rhythm of Tamzara under a summer sun—it’s hot, it’s chaotic, it’s perfect.

Visual artists don’t fare much better. Galleries either shut down for the “summer lull” or bravely mount exhibits called things like Sweat: A Study in Perspiration and Existential Dread. Outdoor art fairs become obstacle courses of sunburn, melted ice cream, and explaining for the 47th time that yes, this painting is for sale but no, I won’t take $10 and a hot dog.

Even culturally, August struggles. July has fireworks. September has back-to-school symphonies of fresh pencils and new planners. August? It has a weird obsession with beige. No major holidays. Just a vague promise that something exciting might happen soon—like cooler weather or, God willing, a concert indoors.

And yet… there’s a strange beauty in this purposelessness. In the sluggish pace. In the awkward in-between. August gives us permission to unplug, tune our instruments in peace, sketch bad ideas without judgment, and daydream about fall premieres that will totally happen (but probably won’t).

So here’s to you, August: the underachieving, overly sweaty, culturally confused month we love to complain about. You may not know your purpose, but maybe that’s the point. You’re the intermission of the year—awkward, necessary, and slightly too long.

Let’s just not pretend you’re anyone’s favorite. Not even yours.