Too many people in this gutless world have come under the impression that writers are a race of finks, queers, and candy asses to be bilked, cheated, and mocked as a form of commercial sport.  It should be noted, therefore, in the public interest, that some writers possess .44 Magnums and can puncture beer cans with 240-grain slugs from that weapon at a distance of 150 yards.  Other writers, it is said, tend to enjoy violence for its own sake, and feel that a good fight, with the inevitable destruction of all nearby equipment and furniture, is nearly as fine for the nerves as a quart of John Powers Irish Whiskey.  ~ HST

I promised myself that I’d quit bitching about the weather, dear reader…after all, you and I both know neither my bitching nor anyone else’s will have the slightest effect on the local meteorology.  And yet I find myself on the cusp of yet another vicious, nauseating, soul-killing, literally hotter-than-hell summer, after an inappropriately warm and dry winter, and thus, I find myself feeling the need to bitch once again, resolutions and self-promises be damned.  It could very well be the whiskey talking, but I presently feel that a solid round of bitching is more than called for at this point.  You see, dear reader, most of the rest of the country gets four clearly delineated seasons. Their years are divided quite nicely between four (4) three (3)-month periods, each significantly different than the last or the one to come.  So, for the rest of the American world, summer is hot and humid and sometimes intolerably so, but those good people are only forced to endure such inhospitable conditions for 90 days.  Then on the 91st day, like clockwork: the cooling relief of fall.  The heat and excruciating humidity alleviates, the leaves all turn gold and orange, the trees begin their slow and sexy three-month striptease, the birds start looking for warmer climes to the south, and the gentry brace for what is to come: winter.  For three months, the entire rest of the county freezes their balls and has contend with all manner of arctic horrors: ice storms, blizzards, thundersnow…the whole bone-chilling nightmare.  I personally seem to thrive in that sort of environment, but I get why most people don’t.  But just when it gets to be Too Much and people have Had Enough of the frigid misery, bam!  Spring springs and the flowers come out and it’s suddenly mating season for the mammals.  Then, exactly 90 days after that vernal Bacchanalia begins, the solar-blasted summer begins, and the whole damn cycle starts over.  The point is for the rest of the world, right as your reaching your breaking point for whatever season you’re three months into, it’s over.  And you are thus thrilled with the arrival of the new season.  You’ve had a chance to miss it, with the heart growing fonder with absence and all that.

Not so in Allergy Valley, CA, dear reader.  Oh no.  Here, it is constantly summer…it only slowly waxes and wanes.  While the rest of the continent is freezing their balls, we’re over here basking in clear, 55°F days.  It gets below freezing for a few hours during two, maybe three nights out of the year, and even then just barely.  That’s about as bad as it gets.  Ever.  Springtime is just more dryness and highs in the 60s-70s.  Pollen explodes.  Then June shows up and everything goes to hell.  High soar into the 110s and everybody gets pissed off.  Aircraft aren’t able to land here because their tires melt the instant they come into contact with the landing strip.  Birds explode in midair.  The whole thing is disgusting.  The number of elderly who fall asleep while lying in the morning sun reading a book or whatever and then just bake to death skyrockets.

Today was pretty inarguably great…a few clouds, a light breeze, high in the mid-70s.  It was a fucking lovely day.  But that’s going to be the last one for a while.  All too soon there will be no more clouds, no more breezes, no more temperatures under 90°.  Just melting tires and exploding birds.

Summer is Coming.  And I’d really rather it not.

N.P.: “What’s Coming To Me” – Dorothy