Daniel the Writer

Hottest day of the year. It was. I saw hydrant water run across the street and little fat kids, shirts sticking to their little boobies like a skin, getting all wet. I told ’em, I just biked seven miles and one of them said, whoa, I’ll hold your bike for you. I dunked my head, forgetting the water pressure, then cupped handfuls over my arms. The cooling sensation was immense.

Tomorrow is a party on Bogart street in 98 degree heat. Roberta’s, which recently got a write-up in The New Yorker (look out Bushwick, people from Manhattan are going to start comin over) and which really could stand to be less a bunch of jerks when it comes to seating, is supposed to be offering free pizza, although I don’t think they’ll be able to churn out enough for the 2000 attending on Facebook. There’s live wrestling though, so we’ve got that to look forward to.

I’m just thankful I have a.c. in my bedroom and that there hasn’t been a blackout yet. Knock on wood.The heat is extreme and we all know how I feel about extremes– that’s when I’m happiest. I sit in my room like a hermit and read and write. So whether it’s a hundred degrees or zero, I’m happy as an oyster, alone.