Blogspot, melty, melty cheese.
I once saw a documentary on the Discovery Channel about areas near volcanos in Africa where gases dissolved in the magma chamber seep out into the atmosphere. On stagnant days, the carbon dioxide displaces all the oxygen at ground level and suffocates animals on the ground and the occasional four year old.
The Lexington and 51st street subway station works the same way with heat. One of the entrances features a shallow set of steps down to the platform and today, I could feel the hot air lapping at my legs. This is a radical departure from a week ago, when the cool Atlantic water washed over my ankles. In my mind I am in Rehoboth Beach again, staring at a ruined jellyfish and contemplating throwing it at Joe--the quaintest possible act of bioterror.
Back in Realityland, the heat index peaked at 108 today. I don't understand. Past 90 degrees, I basically bake, marinated in twin juices of sweat and Haterade. And that's when the air isn't even so humid as to resemble atomized jacuzzi water. As I stepped on the subway and started drying off, salt crystals started forming on the edge of my mouth, like I was a fucking margarita glass. Later, when a pair of tragically cheery Quecha walked in and commenced with a high pitched, Andean rendition of Simon and Garfunkel's greatest hits, I could have dismembered their panpipes and shoved each carved tube of yew (yewtube, ha) into their eyes.
Epilogue: I have struck all Simon and Garfunkel from my computer.
And, just for the hell of it:
I once saw a documentary on the Discovery Channel about areas near volcanos in Africa where gases dissolved in the magma chamber seep out into the atmosphere. On stagnant days, the carbon dioxide displaces all the oxygen at ground level and suffocates animals on the ground and the occasional four year old.
The Lexington and 51st street subway station works the same way with heat. One of the entrances features a shallow set of steps down to the platform and today, I could feel the hot air lapping at my legs. This is a radical departure from a week ago, when the cool Atlantic water washed over my ankles. In my mind I am in Rehoboth Beach again, staring at a ruined jellyfish and contemplating throwing it at Joe--the quaintest possible act of bioterror.
Back in Realityland, the heat index peaked at 108 today. I don't understand. Past 90 degrees, I basically bake, marinated in twin juices of sweat and Haterade. And that's when the air isn't even so humid as to resemble atomized jacuzzi water. As I stepped on the subway and started drying off, salt crystals started forming on the edge of my mouth, like I was a fucking margarita glass. Later, when a pair of tragically cheery Quecha walked in and commenced with a high pitched, Andean rendition of Simon and Garfunkel's greatest hits, I could have dismembered their panpipes and shoved each carved tube of yew (yewtube, ha) into their eyes.
Epilogue: I have struck all Simon and Garfunkel from my computer.
And, just for the hell of it:
posted by Byron at 8:15 PM
1 Comments:
YOU SAID THERE'D BE A REHOBOTH ENTRY
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