Nothing Here To Speak Of

We have no weather here to speak of, just the usual marine air in the morning and a few gusty winds below the canyons. Another high of 75 and no relief in sight. Increasing light until evening followed by decreasing sun. Looks like another nice day, huh? Yup.

Back East they’re boiling. The Statue of Liberty is perspiring. Eggs are over-easy on Times Square. The lunatic moon is red hot like a second sun driving cab drivers sane. The heat and humidity are tied at 98 in the shade, going into extra innings. The Hudson is bubbling. Stay wet, the hydrants are open. Every street compares with Mott St. New England Blue States are sizzling red.

Whatever the absence of real weather has done to upset the seasons of my body, I’ve made the adjustment. The damage is reparable. I’m ready to live without the bite of snow or withering triple digit temperature, without spring showers or fall foliage. Maybe just the memory of it is sufficient. I'm content living with our four seasons: fire, flood, drought and quake.

I do miss the smell of rain on a hot sidewalk but somehow that vapor remains in my olfactory factory. The picture in my head is enough of people sleeping on fire escapes in their underwear.

I heard Mayor Bloomberg declare that New Yorkers will live three years longer than the national average. With 8.5 million folks in the city maybe nobody notices when they drop.

Deniers of climate change should be sent there. Chunks of Labrador have been spotted in the East River. Migratory birds are bumping into each other. Bulbs will be bursting at off-season rates.

Now it is getting a bit drafty. The temperature has dipped below 71. It has taken me out of my comfort-zone. If it goes over 80 for three days I’m prepared to march on City Hall.