I don't want to poke at any sore spots — I am nothing if not sensitive to the triggers and flashpoints of the paper's readership — but the thing that gets me through the week is anticipation of a weekend spent basking in the plenitude of quality programming made available to me through National Public Radio. Of course, I dwell within the receiving range of a classy and superbly endowed station, KPCC-Pasadena. Movie stars and other super-attractive people listen to this station, and so the content is all top-drawer. Not like your KZYX, which is staffed entirely by drunken lemurs who broadcast nothing but random simian chatter and the sounds of rotten fruit smashing against the sides of the broadcast booth.
But I'm not trying to lord it over you guys. I sympathize with your plight and suggest you initiate a takeover, violent if necessary. Public radio belongs to the people, not Old World lesser primates. Ship 'em back to Madagascar.
There was a theme running through all this past weekend's programming that made me want to run Ira Glass through a wood chipper, and that theme was: Summer. "Summer" conceptually, and all the joys and pastimes associated with it. Barbecues, fireworks, amusement parks, lake fun, baseball, vacations, beaches, road trips, hot dogs, yadda yadda… do shut up. Bah—if I may appropriate a contemptuous phrase specifically associated with another season entirely—humbug. Summer, schmumnmer. I am in prison and these seasonal diversions are unavailable to me. Therefore, when I hear non-imprisoned people waxing rapturous about the glories of the season I want to tie a truck axle to Garrison Keillor and throw him into the deepest part of Lake Wobegon.
You're probably thinking, what, these people should tailor their programming to suit the needs of one unfortunately incarcerated individual? Well—yes, definitely. In fact, if more people went out of their way to make life easier for me, the world would be a better place. For me. I just presumed that went without saying.
It's not enough that I don't get to go Jet-Skiing, or play beach volleyball, I'm also stuck in the extremely inhospitable environment of the Mojave Desert. Summer means not only temperatures approximating those inside of an active volcano, but a steady, continuous, superheated, dust-bearing breeze that makes me want to find some sort of piercing implement with which to let all the air out of Terry Gross. The wind will make you crazy. Like the Santa Anas from the noir stories that swirl down from the hills and wrap themselves around the ids of formerly docile housewives, spurring them to homicidal frenzies, the wind never stops and seems to whisper violent suggestions into your ears. Which is why I’ll be staying indoors until Halloween. That, and a person of my complexion has about as much chance in a Mojave summer as an ice cube in a hot skillet. I'd go up like a piece of flash paper-film, gone.
There are no birds here. What kind of jacked-up biome harbors no birds? Birds love prisons. Plenty of free food. Miles of fencing to perch on. If there were a bird within 20 miles, he'd find this place, but I'm guessing the absence of trees in the area elicits a hard pass from discerning avian travelers. Oh, there are some weird-looking gnarled shrubs that people tell me are called Joshua "trees," but I've seen trees. I lived in Mendocino.
I would love to have been at the meeting where they chose the brilliantly imaginative name for this place.
Chairman: Any ideas, gentlemen?
Assistant V.P. In Charge Of Naming Stuff: If only there were some dominant physical characteristic defining the local landscape… [walks over to window, looks outside] I'm viewing desert… Eureka! That's it! Desert View!
Ah, for a Fort Bragg summer. Now there's a latitude and coastal proximity that knows how to do summer right. None of that pesky sunshine or warm temperatures. Chill foggy mornings and cool, overcast afternoons, starless nights and sunrises in all shades of gray. Werewolves running wild and free, charging out of the forest with their surfboards held high over their heads, howling as they catch the predawn break at Big River. That's right, I said werewolves. Redwood country is werewolf country, and summer is when they're at their most active. Those of a more diurnal bent may be less aware of their presence, but we denizens of the dark have become quite blasé about the lycanthrope contingent and their eldritch antitheses, the vampires. They rule the summer night, these creatures, having hoedowns and dance battles, surf contests and crab boils. Werewolves are a little bit country, and vampires are a little bit EDM [techno-pop/electronic dance music], but that doesn't stop them partying together, despite widespread belief to the contrary. Really, they're just another symbol of our County's heterogeneity, and if the price we pay for diversity is the occasional desanguination or evisceration, then so be it.
Summer is, of course, also baseball season, and my beloved Giants — excuse me, World Champion Giants — are hard at work on their mission to vanquish the detested boys in blue. Unfortunately, the only time I get to watch them play is when they are in fact actively engaged against the Dodgers, and then I must watch quietly and not draw attention to myself lest I get Bryan Stowe'd. It's a real danger. These guys are not baseball fans, they're thugs in thrall to symbols that they tattoo on their faces and will defend to the death. That the symbol is attached to a baseball team is incidental. Tack "LA" onto the unitards of a preteen dance troupe and they'll be out there turning recitals into riots. It sucks for those of us who love the game for its own sake, but this is yet another example of "what the hell are you doing in prison, then?"
I guess what I'm really trying to say, dear reader, is: enjoy your summer. Never mind about me. I'll be fine. Take in a Giants game, but I would advise achieving first-strike capability and neutralizing in the parking lot anyone wearing blue and sporting face tattoos. This is for home games; trying this at Chavez Ravine would necessitate an airstrike, which, although an attractive and socially responsible course of action, is probably inadvisable due to environmental factors. I understand there is a Monarch butterfly hatch in the region, and you know what colors they sport.
Go splash around at the water park, but for Pete's sake make sure your immune system is up to par and go early in the day. By 4pm you're just soaking in urine-based viral cultures.
Hit the beach, have a barbecue, go kayaking, drink beer outdoors, enjoy an outdoor concert, take a road trip to gawk at interesting landscape features. Just because I'm not having a good time doesn't mean that you shouldn't, although a show of solidarity by sequestering yourself in a small room one day a week for the remainder of the summer would be looked on favorably in the future.
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