Beans, Beans, the Magical Fruit

The sort of secret blog of Beans, a.k.a. Jules, a.k.a. "Legs for Miles" a.k.a. "Rackie the Boob Queen." Fine, ok, not the last two. Starting July 2006, sometimes "Mike," aka "fagadoccio," is a co-poster on the blog. The co-poster child, really.

Tuesday, August 01, 2006

The Sizzler: Not just a buffet, a way of life

Americans, visiting foreigners, illegal immigrants, sing it with me! And-a-one, and-a-two:


That's right Jules, your ultra-futuristic Ikea-adorned Finnish glass box may be sparkling in the reflected light of the Baltic, and various flora and fauna may be practically craning their necks to be seen by your benevolent gaze, but is it 90 DEGREES AT 10 AM THERE? DO YOU HAVE HEAT BLISTERS FROM STANDING ON THE SUBWAY PLATFORM 600 FEET BELOW GROUND? DOES YOUR HOME THERMOSTAT NO LONGER SHOW A PARTICULAR NUMBER FOR THE TEMPERATURE, BUT JUST AN ELONGATED "BLEARRGGGH" NEXT TO A TINY PICTURE OF A STICK FIGURE WITH X-OUTS FOR EYES? No? Oh.

Today's weather map. Reds through yellows indicate "hot enough to fry ice cream" and greens indicate "so hot that going commando in metal button fly jeans will ruin your sex life."

How are average Americans to cope with this nationwide "heat attack"? Sure, the homeless and hungry can go to air-conditioned shelters, and the elderly are practically fending off free fans and lemonade with their wheely-baskets full of cherished possessions and loose change. But what about the rest of us poor schwitzing slobs? Here in the city, it requires a bit of good old fashioned ingenuity. How so? Let's go through a typical day on this sweltering granite prison known as Manhattan:

7 am: The alarm chimes. Another blissful night's rest, accomplished through the use of a room air-conditioner. Each morning I wake up and marvel at this little box's ability to keep me sane. I do not share this luxury with my roommate, a "man's man" who sweats tuna melt and 7 up into his sheets every night due to his stubborn refusal to "spend money on unnecessary things." I chuckle softly as I saunter to the shower. "WTF dingus, where's the ingenuity in that?" you ask? Ah ha! In order to afford the energy bill, I deftly forget to sign my rent check, buying precious time until I get paid and can juggle my debts and assets like so many spinning plates on the end of long thin rods made of poverty.

7:45 am: The subway. This one's a doozy. In many ways, this is a "grin and bear it" situation, but can be eased with some forethought. Need a backpack? Heck no, not with all the back sweat that's sure to follow! Ditch the workout gear, iPod, newspaper, water bottle and ditch the heat-trapping nylon! What do I do for fun on the subway? Stare at others, and brazenly examine their flaws while laughing sadistically.

8:15 am: Breakfast time! I go for hot foods on hot days. Why? Because the theory of relativity isn't just about quarks and googolplexes, it's about temperature. If my breakfast is 20 degrees hotter than the atmosphere, then ingesting said hot food will make it seem 20 degrees colder! Barry, you intelligent prick.

Work Time: Heavy lifting isn't just for muscled Latino men, drenched in their own musk and heaving through their tattered wife-beater anymore, no sir. Apparently, tiny little homos are supposed to do heavy lifting at their low-rank jobs now too. Thanks for that stunningly expensive degree, Mom and Dad, b-t-dubs. Anyway, while technically in my job description, the energy required to do such tasks would render my designer shirt, still being paid for Sakajawea coin by Sakajawea coin at the local Barney's, drenched. So instead, I slip the freight elevator man a couple quarters, a wink, and point him in the direction of the piles of astonishingly heavy stone I need him to move ASAP, DAMMIT. After all, it's his job too! He seems appreciative, even playfully jabbing me with the butt end of his switchblade in a mock threat to my life.

5 pm: Gotta hit the gym. Again, sweaty see, sweaty do, but is there any way to temper the stream of sweat on this deliriously hot day? How do I work out with out stinking out? Easy enough, when you stop drinking fluids. What liquid are your pores going to expel if you don't ingest any?! Geen. A delightful byproduct is how well your clothes fit without all that water bloat.

Din-din: Say goodbye to the heavy rib roast, the sodden casserole, the steamy stew, and say hello to popsicles. Who wants to be full during a heat wave? Who wants to grow groggy with red wine reductions as they sit in their vinyl recliner while the anemic overhead fan washes their body with a 4 mph breeze? Fuck it! Keep it simple (water-based), sugary (energy without the weightiness of real nutrition), and frigid.

Bedtime ritual: After an invigorating face wash (hot water, natch! Relativity again!), I pray to my God for a reprieve from the heat. Since I'm of the chosen people, I imagine that if nothing else, he'll knock a couple bucks off the air-con bill, get that train into the station quicker, and throw a couple of popcorn thundershowers along my way to keep me solvent and cool. Not Jewish? Good luck, loser!


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