Heat is Temporarily Infinite

Summer in the city.

Supposedly, this is the best thing about living in New York. Street fairs, free events and cute little dogs without their sweaters. Hidden swimming pools are discovered and, all of the sudden, we are shocked by the realization: "Hey, there are numerous beaches surrounding the burroughs." Let's get a tan!
Hipster boys sport their undeniably trendy bermuda shorts and Jersey girls show their indisputably teeny minis. We rediscover our love for Pink Berry, Mr. Softee, or the organic ice cream truck on Bedford, which never fails to have a line of over-heated scenesters anticipating their single-scoop and blocking my Northbound path to Greenpoint. We laugh and we hold hands and we sit in the park and we exclaim over and over, "I LOVE SUMMER IN THE CITY."

But it's fucking hot.

For some reason, New York landlords refuse to believe that we do not live in a. 1912 and b. Sicily. I would compare the heat to the American South. But I'm from the American South, and down there, we all have central A/C. We also all own a cow, drink water from the community well, and I didn't even own my first pair of shoes until I hitchhiked my way to the big city! I'll save those stories (lies) for my future posts.

In New York, it is not uncommon to walk into a clothing store, already over-heated and soaked from your brisk 1/2 mile stroll in the 90 degree heat, only to find that this particular store is not only over-priced and under-whelming, but employees and customers alike are passing out left and right from exhaustion and heat strokes. Their faces are literally becoming burned from the reflection of the sun rays off the windows. Is it morally acceptable to make employees work on their feet for 8 hours a day, without even the meagerest, window-installed 5,000 wat unit?

I'm exaggerating. Guilty.

But it's fucking hot.

You look at your iChat, and notice that boy (who just didn't work out). His status is, "it's fucking hot in here. this sux." HA! Hate it for you, boy-who-just-didn't-work-out. Because I'm feeling rather content right now, lying on my bed, window open, cigarette in hand. The buses are loud, but comforting. The roar of the G train below me is almost dulcet, and I've gotten used to the lady who rummages through the recycling. She needs to eat too, you know. The breeze is slow but consistent, and the rain makes everything delightfully bearable. Even lovely.

Sorry boy-who-just-didn't-work-out, because although I'm hot, I'm not miserable. Like you.

I think on Sunday I'd like to go to the Brooklyn Pool Party and listen to Dan Deacon and Deerhunter play-- for free. Maybe I'll even grab a 1.00 penny-lick ice cream cone. I'll invite my friends, and we'll kiss each others cheeks and hold hands and drink cold, over-priced beer. We'll tease the cute hipster boys and label them "delicious" or "unclean". We'll scour the hoards of trendy girls and secretly wish we were wearing that dress. We'll judge the judgmental. We'll judge each other. We'll sweat and and acquire a new tan-line. Our noses will become pink in the sun. We'll dance.

At the end of the day, we'll sit down with a brown-bagged tall boy in the park. We'll complain about sunburns and landlords and various wrong-doings. We'll make headbands out of clover flowers. I'll smoke a cigarette, and lay down on the grass, and watch the kickball game which will undoubtedly be played 20 feet from my head.

And then I'll talk about how much I love summer in the city.

xxM