I know it’s August and hot everywhere except in the Southern Hemisphere.
Here in the Pacific Northwest where summer temps often soar into the high sixties, it’s over ninety and has been for days. The weather is wreaking havoc on the bedazzled natives.
A ‘beach book’ in this corner of the world deals with hypothermia. Never mind corduroy and plaid, the kids wear parkas to frolic in the sand. Up in BC they’re diving into English Bay with nary a concern that the province is home to the sexiest RV salesmen on the continent. I read that somewhere and I believe it.
Although Pam Anderson’s ‘A Night of Literature’ is a complete fabrication on my part, Powell’s should consider it before Labor Day. Dubya’s Yosemite Sam mug is right next to Pam in the display window along with My Life and a gradually melting potpourri of books on haute cuisine. Never mind the cops, just park anywhere on Burnside and check it out.
It’s even worse in Seattle where the Elliot Bay Bookstore doesn’t serve iced coffee. Children born in the past four years ask “Mommy, what are those?’
when they see people wearing sunglasses. Like leap years, summers occur at intervals in Seattle, predicated less on the calendar than on what meteorologists darkly call ‘convergent zones.’ Don’t go into the convergent zone.
We’ll muddle through. It’ll rain on Labor Day Weekend and an ‘arctic air mass’ will stretch from Howe Sound to the California border. It’s said that whale watching is best accomplished on overcast days. I haven’t seen one in weeks.