July rolls in like warmed-over gin ‘n juice, sweltering, melting and looking generally wilted, disheveled and overhung (from all those Indie Day cool brews). Scorching summer burns rubber across my mosquito-bitten ass, leaving tread-marks as profound as Debra Opri’s frown lines (not attractive, people). I’m just saying…let’s separate fact from fiction: July in the red-hot city, simply put, is gritty, sweaty, dizzying and crazy-making. And I do believe I’d prefer a torrid love affair in the South of France or Belize or Bermuda right about now, to this boiling cauldron of city stew (a lovely fantasy anyhow). But back here on earth, in the wiles of this metro tangle, we tip our hats to July because we must (lest it become irate with us and unleash its true tornado fury upon our tender island). La month de la Independencia Dia, with fire works freaking (teenage hands melting-off in the ER), baseball ‘n marching high-hat faithfuls, heiresses newly emerged from the clinky – pasty-faced (Sunset Tan’s musta almost gone under) as reformed and freshly-minted philanthropists – (I’ll believe it when I see it, sister), pink champagne in tacky aluminum, foamy toasts raised high to heaven’s sent, picnics on the great lawn expanse, 13-gun salutes and patriotic tunes, liberty, freedom and equality for the weary, huddled masses (especially those in secret prisons, or if your last name is a hotel chain), inalienable rights for all, and most of all of course good old fashioned red, white ‘n blue sewn into just about anything Martha Stewart can wrap her maw-claws around (just beat my fledgling fashion sense with an leaded bat for chrisstakes and put me out of my misery, why don’t you?).
I for one will not take summer’s antics lying down, like some hapless victim of its squally wiles – this is a call to arms, sisters! Formulate a plan: take shelter beneath a beachy canopy (ocean breezes… come to me), do a balletic rain dance, intern with some humidity-banishing voodoo queen, whatever it takes to remain cool, kicked-back and impervious to summer’s attempts to take you down. Clomp on out of June gloom with head and flag held high, body-surf the sandy dunes, slide your fishbelly hide into the heart of the frying pan – hot oil dripping down baking bucksides amidst row upon row of tanning boys of summer (or better yet, sautéed in butter, French-style). C’mon now, don’t be shy – venture beyond these bounds of reeking asphalt and urban tundra into wild escapes on wind cut sand, where tumbling, bumbling nature rules supreme and green is the dominant tinge… such a summery vision, oui?
Ride the train bareback outta dodge every chance you get (giddyap), nursing visions of dancing Montauk bonfires in your swelling head (suck back those electrolytes like there’s no tomorrow!). Enjoy the last fading vestiges of Coney Island and take a fly on the Cyclone one last time (sniff). Apparently George Washington marked the 4th’s first anniversary with a double ration of rum for his soldiers and an artillery salute. Sheit, who knew the General was such a party-maestro? I’ll toast high to that notion, mon capità¡n. Daquiris all around!