All over the valley people are dying. Septuagenarians are wilting over, falling face first, like broken flowers into industrial carpet or bowls of high fiber cereal.
Earthquakes shut down Disneyland. Twice.
A man called Bruce made me an omelet this morning. Bruce said nothing about the heat or the people who are dying or Disneyland. This is because Bruce spends his days in front of the flame. He plays with fire professionally. He’s available for corporate events, birthday parties, weddings.
I’m at a stop light choosing to look right then left in order to avoid the sun—in order to exert less energy. I’m trying to save my energy because while it’s hard out here for a pimp, it’s even harder out here for those of us with underperforming air-conditioning.
When it’s 112 degrees, as it is today in Chatsworth—the town that made the rim job famous—everyone’s A/C is underperforming. Impotent air conditioning units. These cooling devices simply cannot get it up in order to get our internal temperatures down. Thus, our brains melt. Sweat runs down backs and flies off our noses.
There’s a place around the corner with a rock wall facade and a martini glass crafted out of halogen light on the door. They host karaoke most Mondays, or so the sign says, I’ve never been. Not yet.
If I was a braver man, I’d step outside. Fuck frying an egg on the concrete; I’d lay down a pot full of water, add a drop of vinegar and poach the damn thing. For health reasons. No offense to Bruce. My omelet was delicious. I just hope it wasn’t cooked on the black top. But if it was, so be it! Eggshells crunch like gravel. It’s hot enough outside to blanch broccoli.
I’m off to an incredibly sophisticated locale that promises cocktails, and iceberg lettuce served with real ice. Whole chunks of ice are bigger than your glass or in my case, bigger than my head of lettuce. Iceberg lettuce is making a comeback. All things icy are now trending. The cocktail appears to be here to stay.
My advice: find a walk-in freezer. Walk inside of it. Now close the door. Think about all the people that could be scalding their asses on rides at Disneyland right now, but aren’t because there have been earthquakes. Two.
Things will start to slow down. Soon only the most vital of organs will function. Freezing to death is one of the better ways to go. Sylvia Platt, Bruce, your average arsonist—those who live by the flame die by the flame, but you don’t have to live by Antarctica to freeze to death. Go ahead now. Forget about the heat and rest your little head there—yes, there against a frozen cow carcass. A little stiff at first, but it pays off, like memory foam. Now let yourself drift off to sleep. The longer you’re there the more the mellifluous hum of the freezer sounds like Elvis crooning at the bottom of the pool.
Stay cool, Americans. Or die trying.
Exchanging Pleasantries 