Parrothead Ramblings

Welcome to Virginia Beach, Crime Dog. Enjoy your stay.

Well, here it comes. The weather channel girl with her perfect weather curl is talking hot, hot, hot. We'll probably break 100 this weekend, and in a few weeks, we can start counting the consecutive days in which we stay above that mind-numbing, brain-boiling, egg-frying-on-the-sidewalk triple-digit shit. Honestly, you non-Arizonans may not understand this, but the magic number really isn't 100. That's a myth promulgated by the liberal media. Or was it conservative talk radio? I forget. Anyway, the magic number at which we pronounce it "one hot sumbitch out there" is more like 104, maybe 105. Hell, we do 102 standing on our heads.

Thanks to good ol' Uncle Sam, I've been damn near around the world, both hot spots and cold spots. I thought I had found in The Valley of the Sun the most miserably hot summers on the planet. But then, a few years ago, I had the misfortune to make a business trip to what is undoubtedly the most miserable shit hole in America, thermally speaking: Virginia Beach, Virginia. Admittedly, this joint had some serious shortcomings in numerous areas, all of which I could have forgiven had I just been able to breathe.

On the first day, I thought of Virginia Beach as quaint and interesting, in a Redneck Riviera sort of way. That image wore thin on the second day, by which time I had used up the last of my seven shirts. By the third day, all I could think about was getting home to my 115 in the shade so I could cool off. No disrespect intended, but just how the hell do you people live out there in the summer? And what in the name of all that is holy possesses people to spend their hard-earned vacation time and money wasting away in that place? It was a week of sweltering weather, man-eating sharks (honest), truly shitty hotels, and not a single worthwhile swimsuit on the whole strand. Trust me. I looked.

Well, perhaps if I hadn't been spoiled by San Diego or Laguna Beach, I'd have a different opinion. Or maybe I was there during "Kentucky Fat Chick Week" or something, I don't know. Whatever the deal, it was a week-long suckfest. We were there for a seminar, and the host hotel filled up before we registered. No small wonder, since it was about the size of my house. We were relegated to the overflow hotel, which was something short of a Motel 6, maybe a Motel 4.5, tops.

So, I haven't bitched about Arizona summers since I spent that week in Virginia Beach, August 2001. If it gets too hot, I just crank down the ol' A/C. If that ain't enough, I hop in the car and drive up to Flagstaff, or maybe San Diego.

And there's always an up side. In this case, it at least means cheap golf until October. Courses drop from $100 to $40 to $20 to "Please. Just show up. We'll buy the beer." I got that going for me.

C'mon summer. I ain't a-scared of you.
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