August has been kicking in with some heat, so let's cool off with this entry from the summer of 2007.
I can tell you that, as a kid, the months of July and August always prompted some voracious reading on my part. There was always something different about diving into a book when you didn't have to as opposed to when it was assigned to you by some nutty seventh grade English teacher. All those designated "must-reads" ever did was promote the opportunities to make sport of the titles.
Silly Ass Marner.
Great Expectorations.
And the boys locker room classic: A Sale of Two Titties.
Reading on hot and humid nights was a completely different thing, though. I couldn't wait to hit a book around 9PM and go till about 12 Midnight. Even then, my reading preference tended to be more film and sports biographies. I would attack a novel from time to time. Usually, if some best seller was being made into a movie for summer release, I would race to finish the book before seeing the film. I remember vividly the breakneck speed at which I finished "The Godfather." And, for this innocent youngster, Page 27 was more education than I ever needed.
But, the simple act of nightly reading was not the complete nirvana. I had another bizarre ritual that went along with it hand-in-hand.
I did not grow up in central air conditioning. Far from it. We had one room that was air conditioned. The living room. The rest of the house was up for murky grabs. The only cooling process was this huge window fan in the kitchen. Now, my father had this scientific procedure that managed to effectively cool the whole house by simply shutting some doors. The fan drew a healthy breeze from all other open windows and, voila, a cool night for all.
I loved the sound of that fan. Especially when it was on high. For me, it was akin to listening to the roar of the ocean. The fan in the kitchen was situated right next to a china closet. And there is where my summer nightly reading took place. With a tensor lamp and me wedged in between the fan and the china closet with a good book. It was almost like my own private little cave.
To this day, the sound of an electric fan does a little more than just comfort me. It blows me right back to Don Corleone, Rhett and Scarlett, and a biography of Charlie Chaplin.
And that is way too cool.
Silly Ass Marner.
Great Expectorations.
And the boys locker room classic: A Sale of Two Titties.
Reading on hot and humid nights was a completely different thing, though. I couldn't wait to hit a book around 9PM and go till about 12 Midnight. Even then, my reading preference tended to be more film and sports biographies. I would attack a novel from time to time. Usually, if some best seller was being made into a movie for summer release, I would race to finish the book before seeing the film. I remember vividly the breakneck speed at which I finished "The Godfather." And, for this innocent youngster, Page 27 was more education than I ever needed.
But, the simple act of nightly reading was not the complete nirvana. I had another bizarre ritual that went along with it hand-in-hand.
I did not grow up in central air conditioning. Far from it. We had one room that was air conditioned. The living room. The rest of the house was up for murky grabs. The only cooling process was this huge window fan in the kitchen. Now, my father had this scientific procedure that managed to effectively cool the whole house by simply shutting some doors. The fan drew a healthy breeze from all other open windows and, voila, a cool night for all.
I loved the sound of that fan. Especially when it was on high. For me, it was akin to listening to the roar of the ocean. The fan in the kitchen was situated right next to a china closet. And there is where my summer nightly reading took place. With a tensor lamp and me wedged in between the fan and the china closet with a good book. It was almost like my own private little cave.
To this day, the sound of an electric fan does a little more than just comfort me. It blows me right back to Don Corleone, Rhett and Scarlett, and a biography of Charlie Chaplin.
And that is way too cool.
Dinner last night: Roast pork and sauerkraut at Bistro Provence in Burbank.
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