Chapter 10: Summer Lovin'

It's beginning to look a lot like Summer in the big city. Nothing says sweaty and sticky like a hot NYC day.  When I found this picture online I thought, "I could'nt have coined it better myself. Humid days in Manhattan feel like I'm wearing a pair of Sauna Hot Pants." And then my thoughts drift to, "I would totally use that as my porn name." You have to admit, it's a catchy title.

There are two things I love about Summer in the big city. Number 1: Mr. Softee. At almost every busy corner you will find a Mr. Softee ice cream truck. Ok, it isn't really ice cream-it's soft serve. I couldn't tell you what's in it, but it's delicious. The secret ingredient could be made of people, like Soylent Green, but I'd still eat it-that's how deep my love runs. I suppose I should be bothered that there's a chemical-filled chocolatey dip that hardens when it makes contact with the soft serve, but in this instance, I pretend it's magic. The bewitchment starts with a generous dollop of thick, velvety cool soft serve infused with the flavor of Chocolate or Vanilla. Next you add the sweet, crunchy soft cone. When I bite into one, I hear the "Flower Duet" from the Opera Lakmé  playing in my head. That's as close to the divine I'll allow. And the people love it. Yesterday I watched an old, barely ambulatory grandma literally push a child in a stroller out the way to get to the truck. True story.

Number 2: Street Fairs. Sometimes you just gotta let your white trash flag fly. Corn cobs on a stick, chili dogs, funnel cake, chocolate-dipped fruit, and a multitude of booths with cheap crafts and hideous textiles. Last time I bought a Bonsai plant; So what if I'm bound to kill it within a week. But there is a dark side to the fairs-it almost negates the giddy joy I get from browsing the tacky wire jewelry stand. It's the street performers. You know who you are. You're the Burning Man rejects, the jam band who tries to emulate Phish, the crying mime (top of my hit list), the balloon guy in the Hawaiian shirt with the saccharin-laced voice an octave too high, and the lone acoustic guitar player playing Beatles songs who either can't play very well or can't sing at all. I'd like to declare the fairs a "bad street performer free zone".  It doesn't seem to be effective to offer money to these people to stop playing. It also does no good to offer frank advice. After a particularly awful rendition of "Hey Jude", one of the lone guitar players asked the crowd how they liked it. I volunteered the following, "How much do you have in that tip jar? Do you think it's enough to pay this crowd reparations for the five minutes of torture you've just inflicted?

Whatever. Is that Sangria?

...Vive été!