It appears all of my recent blogs have been melted away by the summer heat. That is unfortunate, as there is no other record of their existence. You will just have to trust that their illumination upon the human condition and the rendering of humankind’s hopes in contrast to its heartbreaking realities was a bludgeoning of truth to the brittle, kleptomaniacal fingers that would keep tugging you back toward Plato’s dark cave.
And the dick jokes. Oooh man, the dick jokes were transcendent.
Sadly, they will remain forever absent, liquefied into a digital soup by the summer heat’s blog-meltingly high temperatures. This loss cannot be quantified accurately, but just know that there wasn’t a 5-month lag in writing – no way – just a meteorologically-induced Internet malfunction.
Moving on to the meat:
Summer Madness: A concept that humans are simply not adapted to consistent 100+ degree temperatures. It affects the human brain and may cause depression, obsessive compulsive behavior and a general cognitive decay. Diets of beer and barbecue combined with confinement in either climate-controlled safe-havens or public pools yield separate yet equally damaging declines in one’s emotional and physical health.
Case Study #1:
Me, Ol’ Fat Fingers Justice.
My body is a temple where burritos go to die, and where humidity from large reservoirs of booze spawns black mold. My mind feels rotten, is beginning to stink up my skull, and faint yet cringe-inducing whiffs escape from my ears whenever I try to concentrate, like something from a derelict refrigerator mistakenly opened a second too long.
And the heat for a hairy man is insult added to, or maybe multiplied by, injury. I was once told I belonged on a Bee Gees album cover. Whether that was a compliment or a dig does not matter; it’s fact.
Austin’s already approaching a month’s worth of days over 100 degrees, and it’s only July 10. I’m subsisting on pitchers of horchata, bowls of spaghetti and hours of Korean revenge movies on Netflix. My only exercise is a pretty intense combination of angry fist-shaking and yelling through the curtains at the sun. It’s a sad scene, a drama of strenuous impotence.
This heat-reenforced hermitry is affecting my social skills. The last few times I’ve gone out I’ve been overwhelmed by people, by swarms of words and other bodies radiating heat. Jabbering meat machines, sweat on brows and beverage rings on tables – it’s all a hideous damp jungle. I swear when I looked at a sunburned woman the other night I saw legs and arms as oversized ballpark franks. Red, swollen, sour, sweaty meat through to the bone.
I may or may not have seen the Virgin Mary in a hipster’s pit-stain.
Look! It’s even too hot for 70s-era Gene Hackman! He is shirtless and forlorn.
Too long, Gene.
It certainly feels like never.
I wish I could even quit my job and work from my bottom-sheet-only bed beneath the a/c vent. I read recently of an opportunity which could afford me this very luxury!
Grow rich while you sleep! Have you always wanted to work less and nap more? But you just couldn’t make ends meet on a nap-based salary? Well, now’s your chance to dream yourself rich!
“What if I haven’t dreamt in 4 years because I haven’t gone to bed sober in 4 years?”
Fair question! But no worries. Even if you don’t remember how you got home last night, or why you awoke spooning a grilled cheese sandwich, you will never forget waking up on a big pile of rich, dirty money. Who cares if you don’t remember your dreams? You’re now wide awake and living…the American Dream.
Prestige. Power. Women and/or men. Things that are fast and dangerous! Rare action figurines. Exotic, bejeweled totebags. Cats that play the radio!
You’re rich. You can have all of those things and more. It doesn’t even have to make sense. Alligator chair vodka helmet! Someone will figure out what that means and get it for you. And it will be the best kind! The Cadillac of alligator chair vodka helmets, no knock-off or outlet mall version.
Grow rich while you sleep – you’ll always be on the cooler side of the pillow. (Because you’ll be able to hire desperate laborers to gently turn it over for you, and you can shamelessly scold them if they wake you in the process.)
Unfortunately, the heat haunts me even in my sleep. You see, my apartment’s thermostat is haunted by a cruel shithead. That, or in a race to feeble, geriatric senility, I’m befuddled by this most simple of technologies. I cancel all program settings and simply set it to run at 75, and yet, I’ll awake at four a.m., sweaty, to a thermostat reading 84. Through a fog of sleepiness, I push buttons angrily. By the time it turns on, I’m wide awake. And still poor.
The other night, not the one where I may or may not have had the religious vision in a dinner-plate-sized, underarm sweat-ring, I engaged in a dating discussion with friends and a couple strangers. A woman, not the ballpark-frank lady, talked endlessly about a guy she was dating but who had recently been acting strange and distant. It was one of those, “Hey, this is what happened – do you think I’m crazy for being worried” kind of things. A seemingly great month-long romance evaporated mysteriously over a weekend, with broken dates and promises, and should she continue to pursue it or confront him?
Little did she know she was asking someone whose paramount mission was to avoid summer madness, so my advice was not particularly welcomed.
I told her I had a new rule: I don’t date in the summertime, and others should seriously consider adopting that policy. It’s just too hot. Plus, the nights are shorter. You should drop that zero and find yourself a heroic fan. Focus on what’s important – avoiding brain damage.
In conclusion, let me address a solution to the temperatures I’m sure many of your heat-radiated brains have been pondering. You see, this summer madness causes many to indulge in something I find disgusting – public swimming pools. I’ve never been a big fan. It’s a meat soup. The big chunks tightly strapped into nylon/spandex while little nuggets offer additional seasoning with stealth urination. This soup will get in your mouth. And yet, so many people will chase it with warm beer and keep laughing.
That’s ultimate summer madness.
Sometimes, dead bodies marinate in this soup, and nobody notices for days. If you see me in a public swimming pool, kindly prepare me a padded cell.
But please, for the love of God, have it air-conditioned.