Sunday, June 8, 2008

Hell or something like it.

It’s 8:31 in the morning, and it’s 85 degrees outside.

Here’s something you may not know about New York: there is no spring here. The city of New York jumps from what is one of the most long, miserable winters to one of the most long, miserable summers you’ve ever experienced. Except it’s not summer, it’s hell. Hot, flaming hell.

People find out I’m from Chicago and ninety percent of the time respond with, “Isn’t it just freezing there?” Sure, buddy. It’s “freezing.” I nod my head to avoid the argument I am more than willing to start because the truth is much different. Chicago is not much colder than New York, and it lacks that extra NY humidity that chills you to your bones. The humidity that exists because NY is next to an ocean and it pours rain here like some kind of urban rainforest that unfortunately isn’t being threatened to be cut down by any logging industry any time soon. The same humidity that kicks my natural instincts to fight for survival in when the subway platform reaches a stifling 102 degrees, the trains become mysteriously more sluggish, and some baby is making a sound that cannot be described other than it is the devil’s spawn itself. It’s as if my furious gaze has begun some kind of transformation for the ruler of hell to turn into its true form in its nine hundred dollar, four wheeling space stroller. I am ready to fight the demon seed baby in this urine coated, mini version of hell; I am.
So no, it’s not better than Chicago’s weather in New York. I’m driven to talk about fighting babies for chrissake.

This is a city that gets so hot, you have to plan to plant yourself in front of your window AC unit, take part in this country’s disgusting overuse of energy, and just enjoy, enjoy, enjoy that cold air in order to get through some days. A summer where you are forced to relinquish any hope of looking attractive; as sweat soaks through your lightest clothing, pours down your face and pools at your feet, victorious in its destruction of your ego. A place where conversation is dominated- no, fully comprised- of people discussing its heat until its bitter cold returns and takes over its nasty conversational throne. And we are left to endure its reign just as we pay its costly rent, wait in its overrated lines, and surrender to its domination of the masses. Because after all, this is New York City. If you can’t make it here, you can’t make it anywhere. Except for hell, which is quite similar in more than just its climate.

It’s now 8:43 am, and it’s 87 degrees.

I’ll be in front of my air conditioner.