Hello, Failure

Of all the enemies of literature, success is the most insidious

Friday, June 27, 2003

Failure of the Day: Fuck. The. Sun.

You heard me. I said FUCK the sun. Because this is just goddamn ridiculous. It was 97 in San Francisco yesterday. Ninety-Seven.

As I was standing outside the comic book store waiting for Chris, a woman walked past me talking on her cell phone. She said into the phone, "So you know those electric buses that run on the wires? Well one of the poles that holds the wires up started to melt, and it fell down and smushed a woman! Right on Van Ness, this afternoon!" Now, I have heard precisely nothing about this on the news but I have decided that the story is Absolutely True nonetheless. Chris doesn't believe it, but I told the story to the comic book store guys and they believed it too.

To be fair, Chris lived in Sacramento for some 15 years, so this weather is no big deal to him. He doesn't even wear short sleeves. Chris is largely impervious to weather, although even he couldn't sleep under the covers last night. I myself had to wrap a chunk of blue ice in a wet towel and sleep with it on my back. Not since the blistering heat of summer in Seattle have I had to do that.

Are you getting the picture? I used the word blistering to describe SEATTLE for chrissakes. I hate hot weather. Hate. It.

And for all you East Coast and Midwestern people who are shaking your heads in amusement about California weather wimps, I don't even want to hear about it. You had air conditioning. In cars, in restaurants, at home. I don't. And I am LOADED with self-righteous indignation and no small amount of crabbiness about it, too. So watch it, buster.


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