I realize this is a song we’re all singing these days, but it is just stupid hot out. And don’t give me some sob story about how it’s hotter where you live, because your little game of oneupsmanship won’t make either of us less hot. Although I’ll admit that it probably is hotter where you are, because I live on a breezy ol’ sandbar stuck out in the middle of the Atlantic, not in some foul city where the subways are ovens and the narrow streets trap the heat and restaurants stay open past 7:45 pm and serve something besides baked scrod and there is a chance of hearing music at least slightly more fresh and innovative than Don Henley.
Hey. What was I saying?
Anyway, it’s still hot here. At least, hotter than it’s supposed to be, since all those awesome things that cosmopolitan cities have like people younger than 65 and sidewalks and folks who don’t necessarily look like they just stepped out of the country club and might quite possibly answer to “Bobbi” or “Chip” are woefully lacking here, so being relatively cool and happy in the summer is supposed to compensate for all that.
It’s also supposed to compensate for the lack of a decent bagel, but let’s not push it.
So I cut out of work early today because I’m a slacker and because I can, and went home and turned the AC to its highest setting, took off my pants and waited for the bliss to begin. Half an hour later, it’s bearable in here, but only just. In another half hour it’ll be perfect, and I’ll be an evil, energy-wasting jackass, but I’ll be cool.
And just in case you get any ideas, the pants are staying off. I don’t care what the neighbors say.