Talkin' Shit About A Pretty Sunset

Heat waves blur upward from the white plastic tables in front of my secret Pho joint as the sweat droplets form tiny middle fingers coming down my face.

I brush past begging homeless men and cars trying to kill me---speeding up from the cool depths of a nearby parking garage. My uncrowded lunch mecca is a solid fuck-you to the worst bar in DC across the street, which faces my ass as I open the bar-clad door. I have one thing on my mind: the big-as-your-head bowl of near-boiling pork fat, tangy vegetables, beef strips and stringy noodles waiting for me in the back.

At the counter, I feel like I'm in Da Nang, 1967. I imagine carrying on a Full Metal Jacket-style conversation while I order my steaming southeast-Asian soup on a ball-sweat hot day in your nation's capital:

Me: What do I get for ten dollars?
Her: Every t'ing you wan'.
Me: Everything?
Her: ... Every t'ing.

SNAP OUT OF IT.

"I'll have the Special Pho with a Dr. Pepper, please."

Easy. Five minutes, done. I sit down in front of various and sundry hot sauces while the dust-coated AC and back-up fan blow straight into my face. There are three people in the place but since we're all 'in the know', we're the few, the proud: the summertime Pho-eaters. A rare breed. A breed that loves the heat of sun and slickness of humidity and will order hot soup in all four seasons.

The liquid burn of the hot slurry of Pho soon makes its way down my gullet, making me quickly forget that my only breakfast was vending machine coffee and lukewarm water from the bottle on my moving bicycle. For 35 minutes of my work day, I am truly happy.

What'll happen when the US is a nation of 300 million winter lovers?---folks who start griping at the first drop of sweat. My friend, sweating FEELS GOOD. That's what it's meant to do.

Drink up summer now because in a few months we're all gonna be two clicks from calling 1-800-SUICIDE when Old Man Winter comes a-knocking.