Another Rotten Summer

Is there be anything worse than summer? Maybe life in prison. Or reliving one’s childhood. Or any movie starring Dustin Hoffman.

It’s too goddamn hot. Everyone is slim and tan and wearing pastels that hurt the eye. About the only good thing about summer is blender drinks and Solarcaine.

 What do you do in the summer? Go to the beach? Ride out to some hellish stretch of sand where 4,000 other families are stretched out on joke towels, the stench of suntan lotion choking the humid, breezeless air? You lay there repeatedly smearing on number 100 sunblock while reading yet another stupid celebrity biography of a person you never really liked to begin with. (At least they’re dead and don’t have to go to the beach). Then when you’re so hot you think you’re going to scream, you get up and climb over the multitude of overweight families, stand on the shore scratching the sand off your burned, melanoma-scarred skin and watch the hypodermic needles, discarded fetuses and nuclear waste bob up and down in the water.

 When I was young my family forced me to spend a week camping near a beach. We always traveled with another family whose children were so boring I daydreamed punching them repeatedly. I spent day after day reading horror novels in the shade and hanging out near the changing room to catch a glimpse of some undressed dad. I’ll never forget one summer the night before we were to pack up. We were all sitting around a bonfire roasting marshmallows and my mother innocently asked me what I thought about this vacation. “I hated it,” I said, and heads snapped towards me in disbelief. My mother was so furious she barely spoke to me on the tense ride home. I importantly learned that “honesty is not the best policy” that tedious and fateful summer

What about cooling off at an inner-city pool? There’s the indescribable joy of climbing into tepid chlorine water, being sandwiched between screaming mutant children all fantasizing whirlpooling, and catching the eye of someone standing submerged in the deep section with that special smile on their face that only comes from urinating in water.

How about a picnic? Just try to find some secluded spot in Central Park. What if you are invited out to the country to a party where you stand around making small talk and participating in the throbbing excitement of watching meat fry on a grill. How about the giddy thrill of picking mosquitos out of potato salad? Or being introduced to a loquacious asshole who collects unusually shaped soaps from around the world. What fun to spend hours that night searching your body for ticks.

Where do you plan to vacation? Some woodland hellhole which will result in years of medication for Lyme disease. Or some lake where your children are sure to drown. Then, of course, there are always angry, hungry bears. A cruise, perhaps? Imagine being trapped on the high seas with people you have nothing in common with only to watch them vomiting over the side of the boat. And day after day praying for terrorists to board the ship and put you out of your misery.

Taking a plane anywhere? Are you fucking insane?

In winter it’s a snap to keep warm. You just slip on a sweater or a hat. In summer you spend your time dashing in and out of air-conditioned vacuums until you end up with walking pneumonia. And that “cold wind in August” they used to talk about doesn’t exist anymore, now that spray deodorants have turned the ozone layer into unscented Swiss cheese.

I was not born to sweat or wear shorts.

Or for that matter, to participate in outdoor activities like boating, waterskiing, volleyball, badminton, tennis or throwing idiotic horseshoes into the air. One should swim only if sharks are chasing you. Or jog if the police are in pursuit. And trust me, sweatbands make you look like a fool. A bicycle should only be stationary in your home to lose weight, not a lethal weapon forcing people to scarily jump out of their way (while simply traveling to buy ice cream or more liquor to pacify this seasonal discontent). As for hang gliding and bungee jumping, I can get the same death-defying sensation by buying a ticket to a new Tyler Perry film.

As for going to the movies, the idea in itself is a pleasurable one- getting off the streets and out of the hot sun, settling into a comfortable seat in an air-conditioned theater with a tub of buttered corn, a vase of cola and a box of cavity-ripping candy. Unfortunately summer movies are all loud, noisy and stupid, and frequently asking talented actors to wear tight-fitting, yet ludicrous, super hero outfits. You’ve got to ask yourself, do you really, honestly, care what happens to the Avengers? When you are lying on your deathbed are you really going to be flashing back to images of Iron Man, Captain America, Black Widow, Thor and the Hulk? Well, then you’ve led a really worthless life and deserve to die.

Step out-of-doors in the city when it’s 100 degrees and sidewalks soften beneath your feet. Your clothes are instantly soaking wet within 10 minutes. The glare of the sun cuts right through your supposedly impenetrable sunglasses. And the smell of the city rises up, choking your nostrils- the pungent odor of urine and defeat.

Not to mention the depressing sight of your new neighbors- all white, affluent and entitled, now that apartments rent for $5,000 a month, pushing out a more diverse crowd. I moved to Greenwich Village, not Greenwich, Connecticut. Where are all the bohemians, beatniks, extreme gays, colorful street people that used to make a trip to the store an adventure?

In all honesty, every year at the end of May, I always pray that an air conditioner falls from an apartment window and strikes me on the head, putting me in a coma right up to the end of September. When I wake up there will be a slight chill in the air. The leaves on the trees will be starting to turn their autumnal rainbow hues. The New York Film Festival will have announced its schedule. The fall television season will be just starting up. And finally, and most importantly, it will be unfashionable and unconscionable to wear white.