Summer in New York City is imponderable; you never quite know when it arrives, until suddenly the dog days are sweating the walls of your apartment into jelly. Top ten onset signs, then, for our love-it-til-you-hate-it affair with the hot season.
- When you plan to do something fun, it rains. In a minor corollary, when you don’t plan to do something fun, it also rains.
- Peeling is still cute.
- Soft shell crabs, everywhere you turn. The truth is, no matter what you do with them soft shell crabs are squirty and hard to eat. But our chefs grapple: soft shell crabs with sauce, soft shell crabs without sauce, soft shell crab sandwiches, soft shell crabs on a stick. Soft shell crab smoothies? Why not?
- Italian ices, everywhere you turn. New designer flavors are starting to penetrate, but you know something? Lemon is still where it’s at.
- Arrival Of The Girls. Where do they go for the winter? Certainly not my neighborhood. And when the sun machine gets coming down they emerge en masse, garnished and decked in unlikely scraps that highlight what they barely obscure.
- Ambient relief: the ubiquitous grind of the air conditioner replaces the ubiquitous clank of heating pipes.
- Some guy says “It’s not the heat, it’s the humidity” for the first of many, many times.
- Some guy wonders if that was all we get of spring this year, for the first of many, many times.
- Roland Emmerich puts out a special effects blockbuster. Mirabile dictu! It sucks! But you go to see it anyway. Or at least I do.
- Ever been downwind of the Des Moines pig plants on a slaughter day? That’s what the curb at the local McDonalds smells like. All day, all the time. Eight days a week.
Speaking of Sumer, it’s a bit wonderful that the ancient Sumerian word for sexual relations is formed from the word for “loins” plus the verb “to do.” Now that’s practical.