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80s definition of heat
Monday, August 14 2017
location: Twenty Ninth Pond, Essex County, New York
It was sunny and not windy at all on the dock this morning, making conditions favorable for coffee and "buttered" toast (what I had for breakfast). This was my last morning at the cabin this year; I would have to drive back to Hurley in time to begin my day in the remote workplace. Unfortunately, I hadn't seen any beavers or Throckmorton the Loon, two Twenty Ninth Pond residents that had made a big impression early last week.
After packing it with my stuff, Gretchen's discarded books, ansd Janet the Kitten, I drove the Subaru to the Prius, Ramona chasing me the whole way down the driveway. After a car-to-car transfer, I began my long two and a half hour drive back south to Hurley, 5% further from the north pole. As she had on the way north, Janet stayed in my lap for the entire drive.
Somewhere around Saratoga Springs, my Froggy FM country station petered out, so I found another with a strong signal. It was WVCR, a community supported radio station from Siena College, though it was also somehow affiliated with IHeartRadio, the broadcasting thing that arose from the rebranding of ClearChannel Communications. Its association with junk radio is perhaps the reason for the weirdly vapid playlist. It being a two-for Monday, I heard songs by Michæl Jackson (one being pre-Thriller!), Lady Antebellum, the Beatles, Neil Diamond, and Robert Palmer. It's rare to hear such a diverse collection of pop, particularly in the context of purportedly community radio. There's also the question of what sort of college student (presumably in their teens or early 20s) would be listening to pop music from the early 1980s. I was especially struck by the horror that is Robert Palmer's "Some Like it Hot," which is somehow both more 1980s and more meaningless than Glenn Frey's "The Heat is On." Remember, in the 1980s pop music, "the heat" was a meaningless phrase related to sexuality, danger, cocaine, ridiculous hair, and money, seemingly chosen for the precise percussive sound it makes when uttered (much like a drum with gated reverb, also a hallmark of the 1980s).
Back at the house, it smelled rather like a zoo and there were several puddles of cat vomit I needed to clean up. I also found an enormous amount of grey cat fur in the laboratory, suggesting (as was probably the case) yet another fight between Celeste and Charles, who are still working out where they are in the household feline power structure.
At some point during the workday, Donald Trump grudgingly condemned the white supremacists and neo-nazis he'd failed to single on after the horror that happened in Charlottesville on Saturday. One could tell his heart wasn't in it, but it was something he needed to do to provide nominal cover for his craven Republican enablers.
This evening I drank some booze, smoked some pot, and took a bath. Later, while pleasantly stoned, I watched the latest episode of Game of Thrones in the teevee room. It was the first time I'd watched teevee by myself there in months.
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