I still don’t get it.
I turn on the weather and the map of the US shows two numbers on the mostly blue outline of the country. The weatherman points and offers “It is 20 degrees in Minneapolis, but it feels like it is 5 degrees.”
What the hell is that?
First of all, if it gets that cold (which it does every single year, mind you) you don’t need numbers.
It’s screamingly cold to me at about fifty degrees, and to me, it feels like fifty degrees. If someone says it feels like thirty, then the temperature is thirty.
Otherwise why even have an instrument to keep track of temperatures? A thermometer doesn’t have a “feels like” reading, so as I tell Karen the Domestic Despot that when I am “over everything,” one of the changes I will make is to establish individual climate-controlled clothing so that you pick your own temperature.
Sometimes I even amaze myself, and that is not an easy thing to do with my high standards.
Man, this weed is good.
The very hottest temperature that I have encountered so far is at Red Rocks outside of Las Vegas where the temperature was over 110 degrees and it was during about a week of insanely high temps.
It “felt like” 200 degrees.
Thank God for Budweiser.
Conversely, the very coldest I remember was when I accidentally mailed the wrong love letter to the wrong girl. I’ll never forget how cold it was when I opened up a letter from my girlfriend in Ojai, California. It contained the love letter except it was addressed to my girlfriend in Springfield, Massachusetts.
Seriously, though, I saw the first chink in my armor and I should have had more respect for women.
In 1973 I was taken to Cedar Point, an amusement park in Sandusky, Ohio. The place specialized in rollercoasters of all kinds.
I got a great idea.
I would eat a little square piece of paper that had a picture of Mickey Mouse in his wizard garb waving his wand.
I went to an IMAX theater where the acid kicked in.
I was suddenly in a balloon, high above beautiful fields and forests. Everything was HUGE, so suddenly I thought I was tiny, so small that I could not even see myself. I started looking around the theater for a huge telephone like in Land of the Giants, the TV series from the sixties.
If that wasn’t trippy enough, now I am underwater swimming alongside huge sharks and whales, and I am trying to hold my breath so that I don’t breathe in water and drown to death.
The year I took the SAT’s, mine was one of the top scores in California. I had to do well. I had attended six different high schools in four different countries so I had a minimal GPA.
2.3 I believe.
But right this second, I am strapped in to a space capsule. (His brain was squirming’ like a toad).
Check it out: