I Know It’s Summer
June is more than half-over. I’m ready for a cool dip in a lake, a fetid pool, or even my bathtub.
Because I am too hot to write coherent sentences thanks to the sultry weather, I’ll think I will let my fellow bloggers pontificate on sizzling topics of the day like the Charleston church massacre, the Pope’s encyclical on the environment, and Donald Trump running for the presidency again (yikes!). Jeepers, I don’t even particularly want to write about cold subjects like the Chicago Blackhawks winning the National Hockey League’s Stanley Cup. In the early 1970s, I was a gargantuan Blackhawks fan. After I finished my homework, I stayed up late to listen to radio broadcasts of Hawks games. Like baseball, hockey is a better sport on radio than television. The action is nearly non-stop, and it is enjoyable hearing glib-tongued go bat-guano crazy when a lumbering Canadian or a Belarusian score an empty-net goal.
But even though they had great players like Bobby Hull and Stan Mikita, the early 1970s the Blackhawks were like the Chicago Cubs of that same time period–brilliant but flawed. They never could win it all because somehow, someway they would lose to the Montreal Canadiens in the Stanley Cup finals. I despised hearing announcers and sports reporters moan, “Wait ’till next year, fans.” I already heard that excuse every October when the Cubs blew yet another pennant to the Mets, the Reds, the Pirates, the Pony Leaguers, and even the Little Sisters of the Poor.
When I started undergoing puberty, the Blackhawks and hockey in general no longer captivated me for some unknown reason. Maybe it was because I was more interested in watching demure girls put on their makeup than cheering on nearly toothless brawny men on skates body check each other into a bloody pulp. Nowadays, unless there is something earthshaking like the U.S. Olympic team beating the Russians in the 1980 Winter Olympics, I pay about much attention to hockey as I do towards Andorran ice dancing.
Now that the Hawks have won another Stanley Cup, my mind is now focused on summertime activities. I know it’s summer when:
–The seasons of winter professional sports teams like the NBA are finally over.
–“Rabbit food” like lettuce, celery, and carrots taste oh-so-good.
–Beach Boys music are played incessantly on the radio.
–Women are wearing their latest bikinis, to the delight of dirty old men wearing nothing but sunglasses and raincoats.
–Tilt-a-whirls, Ferris wheels, carousels, and geek shows are back in tank towns.
–Fat guys like me try a little skinny-dipping.
–You don’t have to go to the gym to work up a sweat. Just getting a hot beer from a broken-down refrigerator will give you
that warm and clammy feeling.
–There are 5,000 reruns on television and still nothing is on.
–Kids head off to summer camp to experience camping, canoeing, hiking, swimming, archery, macramé, wedgies, and certain
nocturnal activities they would grounded for eternity if they tried them at home.
–Politicians spend more time at the golf course or vacation spots like Martha’s Vineyard rather than filibustering–and
creating–much ado about nothing.
–Not only do people go on vacation, but mosquitos love biting vacationing people.
–Little imps can’t stand the heat.
–Nobody talks about wind chills, blizzards (except for those sold at Dairy Queen), frostbite, or the tundra.
–Hurricanes are not just something you drink at the local watering hole.
–I’m about to celebrate another birthday and anniversary. Kudos to me!
Joe’s Maybe Memorable Quote of the Day
I’m cool towards summer because it is so hot.