It's one of those days in New York when you wish we could sell the island back to its original owners--$24 be damned.
It's about 90 degrees already and you could squeeze the air out like an old mop and get dirty water. The pigeons are sticking to the asphalt and the cabbies are taking aim at any living creatures more miserable than they are.
What's more, in old Gotham, the beloved Bronx Bombers have dropped four in a row to the hated Crimson Hose of Boston and you could say a pall has settled upon the old town.
Even my reading glasses--which I didn't need when I started this blog 11 years ago--are fogged up in the 6000% humidity. As my old man might have said, it's so hot I saw a fire-hydrant fighting over two dogs.
I returned late yesterday afternoon from LA where we were once again shooting. There, cool ocean breezes and bright sunshine keep the temperatures and people's moods mild.
But I'll say, despite the prevailing innocuousness of Tinsel Town, on a day like today, it seems more than a little appealing.
On Saturday night my wife and I had dinner at a small Mexican place that, given that it's been there since 1959, qualifies as an institution in Southern California.
There were two thirty-something's at the table abutting ours, gesticulating wildly and laughing like thunder. My wife, naturally started a conversation.
"I'm from Staten Island," one of the men started. "But don't holditagainstme. I was raised in Queens."
The other chimed in, "I was born in the Bronx," he said.
"We're from Manhattan," I said, "If we had a Brooklyn here, we'd have all five boroughs."
They laughed, and the Bronx-ite said, "I'll get my mom on Facetime, she lives in Brooklyn now."
We all laughed, sitting outdoors in the cool LA night, up to our elbows in burritos.
But wishing we were back in New York.