Cheesespread

Mid-summer exorcism
Seventies jackoff Martin Mull once said that extremely hot climates were populated by stupid people—"the old brain pan is just not meant to take these high temperatures,” he said. I don’t know that there’s much scientific support for his theory, but I have noticed some of my own personal tendencies during the scorching summer months since moving here. These can be summed up with one word: impatience.

That’s right. Sitting at a stoplight on my bike during the hottest part of the day, smothered in an offensive spew of mullet rock, bland hip-hop and cancerous car fumes from surrounding traffic, can be annoying. Usually I just take a deep breath, squint and watch as sweat beads on my forearms. Impatience. I smite thee with beautiful visions of green tropical islands: Palao’s Rock Islands maybe. Or Thailand’s Ko Samui from 1971. Aquamarine waters, white sand and silence.

I guess one could just scream like a cornered animal and throw the bike through the windshield of the nearest car. Newcomers out there (maybe you hail from more moderate climates like me) shouldn’t let it go that far. Allow the frustration to flow back into a mental sea of your own design, or rub crystals if you have to, whatever works for you.

In the spirit of renewable release, I’d like to do some harmless venting about some “little things” that contributed to my patience problem lately.

People who can’t make a simple ATM transaction in under five minutes. Even if you’ve never seen a computer before, you should be able to figure this out. Working your finances with a line of people behind you makes you like the idiot who waits 15 minutes in a fast-food line, then still hasn’t decided what to order by his turn. Get some help.

People who leave dogs leashed on baking sidewalks. The dog’s squeals and floundering tongue should tell you something—put your pet in the shade and leave some water (Frisbees work well). Damn.

People who don’t use car signals! An unobservant jackass like you already destroyed my car and almost killed me. Do I need to have close calls on my bike, too? Use your signals always, obey the laws—idiots!

Oh, and you cookie-cut Eminem-wannabes popping out of the woodwork. Guys who think it’s OK to walk up to me drunk and start a conversation that begins, “Yo dawg,” then proceed to babble about “where the bitches at, dude?” Good rule of thumb—if you’re drunk and already a moron to begin with, don’t go chatting up strangers and don’t ever, EVER walk up on my crib during a Scrabble game. If I had it my way, I’d drop your pseudo-ass off in a real East Coast project, the kind you don’t see glorified on MTV, rubber ball in your mouth and a sign around your neck that says, “Down with the homies, dawg!” Annoying.

Enough venting for now. I’m out of space anyway.

This has been a mid-summer exorcism. Brought to you in part by the makers of Impatience—We’re out there, just waiting.

Weekly props
1. No smoking glass dogs
2. Matt Groening hosting All Tomorrow’s Parties next June (L.A.)
3. Bob and Dave’s Mr. Show live at the Crest in Sacto (10/7)
4. Read Harper’s