Gay Place

FLOOD, SWEAT, FEARS It's summer, hotstuff. Goddamn, it's the kind that makes you want to die or kill people it is so freaking hot. Demoralizing, that. Feh. No complaints, really. We live for heat. Not the humility. Not the bodies (Bea, Michael, Farrah, Walter, Merce, Karl, Kung Fu, Les, Euni, Willy, Billy, Ed, who the hell else, and who the hell's next?), ashes to ashes, dropping like flies. Flies that land on your forehead dead. No sirree. And certainly not this relentless shit that is nonstop, no yard-watering, no dog-bowl-filling, no rain-rain-go-away so goddamn surreal you lie down and can't even stick to your sheets because you are too busy sizzling and sticking to your own damn skin freaking hot. Drowning in your own exuded bouquet. No escape. That's how. So respite it is. Crazy-making summer forced it upon us. Respite, release, relief. Come on, mama, make it cool. Cool it down. Bring some water. Take it down. A notch. A degree, please? Tender kisses in the afternoon. HVAC me home, darling. Breezes like dusk. Take it down, it only gets hotter. So hot, right there. So hot, make ya pant like a pup. Micro-Nano. DJ Ben Aqua. Yummy vegan cool on the tongue on the tip of the digits on the real on tha one. Ass. Acre. Yes, please, and thank you. See you at Cheer Up Charlie's? Cool it down now. (See Saturday in Gay Place listings.)