The heat does strange things to you.
I must admit I’m not a fan of 100 degree days where you want to climb out of your skin like some Shel Silverstein poem but you can’t because then everybody at work will look at you differently after that, so even in shorts and a thin t-shirt you cook like the proverbial brains in 80’s era anti-drug propaganda; no, I’m not a fan of those days at all.
The heat was so intense on Wednesday a hiker was gored by a bison on Catalina Island, flipped upside down in the air. I bet the buffalo was sick of being stuck on the island and was burning up under all that hair and fur and took out its frustration on the unlucky hiker that crossed paths with the creature.
The heat was so bad on Thursday it felt like the wind could light your hair on fire should someone strike up a cigarette nearby. The air was practically combustible.
The heat was so intense yesterday the studio sent out a bulletin to conserve energy so all the lights were turned down low. Everybody wore lifeless, hangdog faces. I walked by the breakroom and could have sworn the top of the table was on fire, a slow blue flame spread across its surface. In the dark it was hard to tell if someone was deep in thought, or sleeping, and if there was a difference.
The heat today was like a vicious ex-lover, determined to ruin everybody’s weekend, angry and oppressive. My thoughts were woozy. (No, I’m not trying to be funny) I swear the neurons in your brain slow down on days like these. I can’t write in a furnace, as you can clearly see. Even Shakespeare would take the day off, hop in the convertible, pop in the The Decemberists, and head down to Malibu.
“Forget the fucking sonnets, the waves are calling, dude.”
The heat will be back tomorrow. It is now midnight and the palm trees are on fire. The asphalt has finally cooled off though. Outside the window I can see that the roadkill is now cooked well-done, burnt to a crisp.
Tomorrow I feel like heading to the beach, cut over the hill through Topanga to the Pacific where the cool ocean breeze hides. I wouldn’t be surprised, upon arriving, discovering it all dried up, the fish bellied up on the beach, gasping for water.
Stay cool, L.A.