Hot Hot Hot

Fuck the daytime, LA Summers can only be done at night, and best if you don’t have to work at all.

I have to work tomorrow which means that just as this day is finally becoming perfect, I now have to battle the supercharged wrestling midget inside of me who just loves to stay out late, and this midget will go with or without the mask. It’s a shame really.

All in all, I had one of the better summers on record, and this was the perfect summer weekend. Kept it indoors in the daytime, rolled out the intrigue and uber-socializing at night, way late at night, eating well the whole time. This is what summers in this town are for.

Today, on the last day of the long weekend, I, along with my boyfriend and my closest friend laid low for most of the day, trying not to make too many unnecessary movements, but we waited too long to act, so by the time two of the three of us were sufficiently overheated, our trip to the Beverly Center didn’t provide the cooling relief that we sought. I do some of my worst thinking in the heat.

On Labor Day, every Monday thru Friday working fucker has the same bright idea as you, particularly if you live here. You have only a few choices, the ocean, the mall, or the movies, and there is no escaping traffic. We tried to languish in the one bedroom with AC, but it was pointless as well as awkward, so at near 6pm, not wanting to face holiday beach traffic, nor see another movie, we opted for the mall, where it was proven once again that we are just lemmings. LEMMINGS. We do as the rest, hoping that our own nose-dive will somehow turn out differently.

The parking garage was a cluster fuck, you couldn’t get onto an elevator, and it was warm inside. Shops were beginning to close, save for Bloomingdale’s so we tried on jeans, but everyone knows that jean shopping is more depressing than getting bad news from your mechanic. It is nature’s AND society’s way of reminding you that you are uglier than you thought. Your derriere is bizarre, your thighs are a pair of baby manatees. Forget about pocket placement, that won't help your sad, hopeless ass, you should bank your hard earned $200 and get thee to the nearest euthanasia center. This and similar thoughts raced through my mind. My companions, if they were similarly struck, did not seem to show it.

After jeans, we gorged ourselves at the food court. No big deal. We had a healthy lunch at Urth Café earlier.

Getting out was misery. The cars generated more heat from blasting AC, all beaded together in string clusters, clogging and penetrating the exits, making the trek to our car feel like a stroll through Hell’s softer side. It just sucked.

Now it’s night and I’m looking to party, but I’m your standard issue M thru F sonofabitch, which means that I have to find a way to stay cool enough to get sleep for the shortened work week. I have to try not to think about budgets, the gigantic slabs that may have fallen through the cracks, the emails awaiting me with fangs and venom, the phone calls I have to make. I can forget about sleep, I'm already in the future. This day is a bullshit, anti-climactic end to one of the best summers ever. I say it every year, Fuck Labor Day.