Some Like It Hot. Some Can Frig Off.

I could be crawling along the freshly painted red Freedom Trail stripe at the Boylston T kiosk, mouth full of peanut butter and saltines with a sun-lamp strapped to the back of my head - and some twat would pick that particular moment to stroll by and declare "What's the big deal? I like it when it's this hot!" Well, if that's indeed the case, please let me extend to you this invitation to die immediately in a roofdeck propane fire.

"Air conditioner? Poppycock - save your utility money and just give in to this beautiful heat. Slather yourself in Crisco and find a nice patch of incindiary North End sidewalk to lie on. Get some rays. Sure, the 16-year-old bubblegum will be liquifying straight into your hair, but I love it I love it I love it!" This girl lives in my building. And while I'm exaggerating her exact statement to me Sunday morning as I struggled to install my decade old airplane hanger AC unit, I am in no way exaggerating the sudden desire I felt to drop said 100 pounds of freon fixture on her jelly-sandled tootsies.

Maybe it's because I'm a frostback. Maybe it's because I wasn't an Afrikaans tobacco farmer in a former life. Regardless, I don't do well in the heat - and I really wish I still owned one of these.