It was 105 degrees when AJ and I returned to our swank bachelor pad last night at nearly 7 p.m. This marks the 19th straight day of 100+ temps in the Greater LA Region. Now, I'm not one to complain about the heat. Given the choice, I much prefer sweaty over teeth-chattering, testicle-freezing cold. But this is getting sorta silly. We've had humidity that would make Chicagoans beg for relief. On Sunday we had a very cool flash thunderstorm featuring raindrops the size of mini Coopers. It's crazy. Perhaps Al Gore is right. But he's still a douche.
So AJ and I braved 80 yards of simmering asphalt and made our way to the resort-style concrete pond, where we spent two hours submerged in its cooling waters. He doesn't swim yet, but absolutely refuses to wear anything inflatable or floatable, presumably because those things are dorky looking and my son would rather eat vegetables than wear anything dorky, which right there eliminates need for a DNA test to prove he is of my loins.
Back at the pad, we both spent the rest of our waking night clad only in our underwear and building, then flying, a squadron of paper airplanes, a bonding experience I highly recommend to everyone. We crashed early--both of us beneath high-powered fans--momentarily forgetting the cardinal rule of living in the desert in the summer: Don't leave food out. In this case, it wasn't food, but a glass of Gatorade on the dining room table, a glass (and table) that were crawling with ants this morning. Those fuckers. My first infestation of the new place. I only had time this morning for a quick spraying and cleaning, but tonight I'll batten down the hatches by wiping bleach on all the floor boards. Ants don't so much like the bleach fumes.
I've kind of broken up with poker. I'm on a bit of leave, my recent forays not even being of a very serious nature. For one, I'm not playing when AJ's around, which he has been a lot more lately because we've switched to a new schedule, one where I'll actually have every other weekend free. For another, it just bores me. And a newly divorced guy cuddled up with his laptop every night, shouting at the rampant retardation of the players, living and dying on every flop......not so sexy. Sure, it's social (pathetic and sad, but social), but it's not exactly time well-spent for someone who needs to develop a network of locals with whom to drink and talk and have sex.
Plus, Ryan's gonna pad my bankroll in the Main Event.