The Heatwave Diaries 3 -- New England Edition


I really wanted to call this "Electric Boogaloo", but that would have just been silly.

Once upon a time, not that long ago, I decided to start a blog. And with this blog, I hoped to get noticed by writing some funny things about everyday life.

It was a novel idea, if the year had been 1998.

Unfortunately, we are all sharing the same bandwidth breathing space with about a jamillion other hopeful scribes, making getting noticed about as easy as keeping Paris Hilton in jail for an entire sentence.

Still, every now and then, I get inspired. And though it doesn't quite make sense to me, for some reason excessive heat and humidity inspires me to wax poetic...or at least mildly amusing.

Today is one of those days. Especially since it's a level of New England hot unseen since those tea party guys tried to boil the harbor. I didn't move here for the same level of humidity as New York. I moved here for blue skies and cool ocean breezes. The RI tourist bureau lied.

Nova Scotia, here I come.

Regardless, here I am. It's hot. I'm off today. Let's go.


8:45 a.m. -- I greet my much-deserved and needed day off in my new usual fashion -- by not having a cigarette. I've cheated a few times since my last post -- after twelve years of beers and smokes, the weekend was tough -- but it's NOTHING like it was. Score one for the home team.


9:12 a.m. -- I want a cigarette.


9:14 a.m. -- Coffee will have to do. Due to a local lack of taste, Chock Full of Nuts (New York's House Blend) is not readily available at Providence's finer gasoline facilities, forcing me to struggle through a cup of Maxwell House. Since I have time, and nothing else seems to be going on, allow me to explain why Maxwell House sucks.

Back in the day -- and by "the day" I mean the late 1990s -- coffee was, for the most part, still coffee. Sure, those flannel-clad fools had Starbucks in everyone's subconscious, but for those people who wanted a good, blue collar cup of joe, Maxwell House had your grimy ass covered. It was too strong, inconsistently ground, and in the can, looked like it had already been brewed. But it was what it was, and we loved it.

When said flannelites began entering the home coffee market, something changed. Folgers, Maxwell House, Taster's Choice and all of the other grocery store regulars started trying to fruitify their coffee. Instead of sticking with the bold, brash metal cans, these brands could now also be found in those dainty vacuum-sealed bags retailing for eight bucks a pound.

Then came the flavors. Quick note to Mr. Maxwell and his soon to be condemned House -- If I was hell bent on having a cherry hazelnut fluffernutter latte, I'll go to an overpriced coffee house, swallow my manhood and order one. Hell, I actually LIKE some flavored coffee, but there is no way I'm going to accept that a brand featured prominently at most 24-hour truck stops has suddenly cornered the gourmet market. That's not why I (used to) buy Maxwell House.

But it sold. And it still sells a ton today. Now there are seventeen varieties of flavored Maxwell House Select, and I'm sure they all make wannabe beatniks very happy indeed.

But something bad happened along the way. While Maxwell House was catering to the select, the company forgot how to make the regular stuff! What was once a dirty little caffeinated pleasure has now become just dirty. It tastes like the crap that other crap won't hang out with. It's rancid. It's oily. It's most definitely not select. Which is why we now drink Chock Full of Nuts.

Good to the last drop, my ass. Choke on that, Maxwell.


9:17 a.m. -- Coffee's up!


9:41 a.m. -- My cats -- stars of the first two Heatwave Diaries -- are not handling this any better than they used to. Though our Providence apartment is not nearly the sweatbox that the Brooklyn one was, it's not exactly a breezy shore house, either.

"No, really...this isn't what it looks like...Put the camera away!"

Mookie, a year older, dumber and fatter, isn't coping too well, given the fact that each time you brush him, you could take the dander and theoretically build another cat. He pants like I used to, before I stopped smoking...sorta.

Meshach hasn't moved in two days, which means he's acting normally.


10:08 a.m. -- It's been an hour, and there's still no updates on why WWE wrestler Chris Benoit killed himself and his family this past weekend. It couldn't be because of the steroids, painkillers and bovine tranquilizers they found in his home, could it?

Of course not.

It couldn't be because the man became famous for doing a diving headbutt from 20 feet in the air, each and every night for the last two decades, could it?

Of course not.

It couldn't be that the previously mentioned 'roid rage, coupled with an unhappy marriage and a developmentally disabled child drove him to the edge, could it?

Sad, but also no.

It's all of the above, plus the fact that Benoit looked out his suburban Atlanta window that morning, watched men in suits go to work, then proceeded to go to his own closet, which of course was filled with shiny spandex. He then realized what an utter and complete failure he was as a person. Only a failure in all walks of life could do what he did.


10:09 a.m. -- Just saw an update on Chris Benoit. Maybe I need to wait before I type.


10:15 a.m. -- The temperature outside is a sultry 94 degrees. I say "sultry", because at 95 degrees, it becomes "sweltering", and at 98, "stifling"... And you guys think meteorologists just read the weather. Sheesh.


10:36 a.m. -- I was just re-reading the old heatwave diaries. Suddenly, I have a hankering to go to....wait for it.....waiiiiiittt forrrrr itttttttt....THE MALL!!!!!

The Providence Place Mall...roses and all...

10:38 a.m. -- I'm giving myself a half hour to decide whether or not the mall is where I need to be. The safe money is on "no", but I'm a stickler for heatwave tradition.


11:12 a.m. -- Decided against going to the mall...at least until it cools off a bit. Unlike Queens, there is no subway to the mall. I either fire up my black car, with dark leather interior, and drive a sauna on wheels, or I walk and risk offending the youth of Providence with my sweat gland problems. Decisions, decisions.


12 noon -- Thanks to Chuck Marchant, of New Jack Trippers fame (see last July's blog archive for more on the Trippers), we have reached today's moment of zen. Here it is:

If someone told me about a photo of David Hasselhoff with his hands
full of puppies, this isn't what I'd expect to see...

Thanks again, Chuck, for helping me achieve this. And thanks to the Hoff, for being so very Hoff.


12:48 p.m. -- I just called a realtor about renting a townhome for the third time this morning. Now, I'm no real estate guru, nor am I a whiz with customer service, but wouldn't logic dictate that answering a phone and/or returning a message would help the process along?

Call me kooky, but I would think so.


12:54 p.m. -- I just saw an ad for JCPenney's one time only midweek blowout bonanza. During the last heatwave diary, I ranted a bit about how JCPenney seems to continually bring new bargain items out from the back of the storeroom when I'm not looking. And in order to do this without being seen, the company must use an army of retail midgets to do the deed.

I'm proud to say that I've finally seen one of these little (sales)people. He looked like this:



I know, I was expecting something else, too.


1:00 p.m. -- My mall debate rages on. I just went outside for a smoke. I admit it, I was weak. But get this -- I didn't do it! I remembered what smoking in excessive heat feels like. It sucks. I calmly put the emergency bogey back in the holster, and went back inside. Today's score: Brad 2 - Addiction 0.

On a side note, it's absolutely disgusting outside right now. The forecast calls for a mid-afternoon thundershower. I, for one, cannot wait to get dumped on. Maybe then a mall trip would make more sense.

Because, if nothing else, I am a slave to logic.


1:03 p.m. -- ...I am also a slave to the mall. After pondering my entertainment options for the day, I've decided that sitting in front of a computer is no more intelligent than going to buy stuff I don't need.

Besides, there's a really good bar right next to Providence Place. Yes, this is what sealed the decision. No, I'm not ashamed. Yes, I may just skip the mall part entirely. No, I won't apologize for wanting a cold beer on a hot day -- it is a teacher's summer break, after all. Yes, I plan on bringing some home for the cats.

Any teacher who tells you (s)he doesn't love this aspect of the profession is a liar. Thanks for playing along. I'll be back sooner than you think.


Professor out...