July 7, 2010

This is the sun. According to my calculations (aka “my wild guess”), the sun’s average temperature is 150-gazillion-billion degrees, or thereabouts. Admittedly, by the time the sun’s rays reach the earth, they’ve cooled off quite considerably. But between a childhood in rural Alabama and an ongoing Manhattan residency - I’ve been here for 20 years now - I have experienced some industrial-strength, skin-bubbling hot in my time. And I hate being hot. I despise it with every inch of my being.

The temperature in New York reached 103 degrees yesterday, and believe me when I tell you there’s no way to properly describe a 100 degree day in this city. Tack on the cement, the asphalt, the dog shit, the human urine, the uncollected garbage, and the subterranean mode of transport, and you can truly feel like you’re trapped in an elaborate hell full of great restaurants, famous landmarks, and first-class museums. Factor in the several million stupid, often smelly people you’re forced to share your personal space with, and the fun never stops.

It just puts you in a murderous mood. I remember the first summer I lived here, back in 1990. The big movie blockbuster that year was supposed to be Tom Cruise’s lowbrow-ass-kissing NASCAR picture, “Days of Thunder,” and every single city bus had a poster advertising the fiasco stretched out along its side. I was broke, of course, because I’m almost always broke, and was spending most of my time hitting the pavement, looking for even a menial job. I did not do this while happily whistling the theme from “New York, New York,” in case you’re wondering.

My clearest recollection from that period is the intense, choking heat - it seemed like I was swimming in a vat of inedible soup - and the fact that every time I stopped at a crosswalk, some goddamn bus would whiz by, pooting black soot in my face while Cruise’s trademarked manly visage stared out at me from above the super-catchy slogan, “CRUISE LIKE THUNDER”— POOOOOOOOOT!

I’m not exaggerating when I say that, by the time I got home in the evening, I wanted Tom Cruise dead. Of course, I backed off from that once the temperature dropped, but I was exceptionally pleased to at least watch Cruise's career die some 17 years later, when he suddenly decided to switch personas and become a doctrine-spewing daytime TV wacko-asshole.

"So Cruise like this, Tommy baby,” he said while gripping his privates.

                                                ***

Anyway, I fucking hate to sweat, and I like the novelty of actually being able to breathe while I’m still alive. Frankly, I’m surprised I’ve written as much about it as I have, since this piece was originally supposed to be an apology for the fact that, due to the temperature, I don’t feel like cranking out another post, especially since the air conditioner in our apartment is so lousy you can’t get anything out of it unless you gather around and hold up your hands like you’re warming them over a campfire. Every time I think I have an interesting topic to write about, it just melts like an exposed ice cube.

My original plan was to write a quick set-up, then simply show you a bigger man than me making the most of the heat. So here it is, an extra-sweaty Elvis Presley rip-snorting his way through a truly incendiary rehearsal of “One Night with You,” from his legendary 1968 “comeback special.”

Holy cow. I’m not an expert on such things, but I’ll be damned if Jim Morrison ever did more than that for a leather suit.

Paul Tatara