Smaugust- summer by appointment only

Those gay days of May, Junuary, and July are over, leaving us in a soon to be smokey shadow of our former summer self. The holy month of Smaugust is nigh. Grab your masks and water bazookas, kids.

Summer—now available by appointment only.

Summer—Some do. Some don’t. Have summer, that is.

Apparently this week, we will have summer. Our beaches beckon with their dirty sands, frigid waters and overflowing flesh. On some folks, the de rigueur string bikini fits more like a tourniquet. The male of the species is pregnant with hops and barley, their “baby” hanging over their speedos, presenting as more of a spee-don’t.

Which seems fine, until they bend over. Then we are gifted the fashion reveal of presenting ass.

Summer—Some are. Some aren’t.

Kids playing with a ball. A quaint remnant of another time, their ball bouncing off my new beach chair. At least it wasn’t my head. At least I am sober, because if they spilled my drink, old me would have been right pissed.

My new beach chair has replaced my former beach chairs, which sadly were drowned in the trunk of my sunken car. My new beach chair recalls my favourite teenage exhort:

Well, cut off my legs and call me shorty.

I had a friend who always said that. At one point, I was told that sadly he had a accident, losing both legs. I was horrified. Later I heard that was not true at all, as his legs were fine. Unfortunately cancer got him a few years later, taking everything.

Sitting in my new beach chair, I am barely above the sand. At least I am not like the kid up the beach, buried up to his head in sand. But wait—the chair comes with straps so I can wear it on my back like a backpack.

Do you realized how stupid I look, the old man at the beach with a chair strapped to his back? I now have to carry my backpack in my hands, because my new chair has my back.

Near the ice cream truck, we see an assembly of Korean kids singing and taking videos of themselves with an old black man with a mic and speakers. Destiny’s Child is blasting Survivor. None of these Survivalists can sing to save their lives. Not one Beyoncé among the bunch. But wait, a Somali man has taken the mic. He moans whoa whoa whoa. Off key. Some kind of Coldplay song about flags, I think.

Grab an ice cream cone and find a log. Musical chairs. Please find your seats class.

The lesson on the board is plain to see. Written with chemtrails. Our naked eyes burn like a black hole sun with a smoky halo.

Welcome to Smaugust.

We walk the sea wall around the park. On our left, a bike path. We are in the pedestrian lane. The electric scooters crowd the bicyclists, their helmetless heads just waiting to be cracked open like watermelons. For a few of these pinheads, a dozen eggs might be a better metaphor. First, separate the whites from the yokels.

Be careful not to break the yokels. Whip dry to soft peaks. Oh, your peak is the softest! Faint praise.

With six you get egg roll, but with all this summertime sweetness, we get meringue. Bake it long at a low temperature, and watch the meringues harden. Just macerate some fresh fruit and add whipped cream for the Eton Mess.

The Eton Mess sounds like a new movie with Robert Pattinson and Zendaya. Except that was called The Drama. Not that anyone has asked me, but I recommend it.

I am on the sky donkey, carless and careless. Taking advantage of my senior rates. I am saving about $1100 a month just by not driving. Not to mention all the drivers saved from my driving.

Some folks take the opportunity to sleep on transit. Others scroll and amuse themselves to death. Neil Postman never dreamed of this scene. His worry was television and lack of reading. The Revolution May Have Been Televised, but ratings were low. Very low. Worst revolution ever.

Naturally, I am listening to Shirley Bassey singing Alone Again (Naturally). This morning, I kicked it off with vintage Iggy and the Stooges circa 1970 singing The Shadow of a Smile. Steve Mackay blows atonal sax. Glorious.Tony Bennett could never imagine such a wonderful travesty.

Well, perhaps he could. Tony was a very cool guy, would have been 100 this year. He only lived to 97. Tragic. Cut down in his prime. I remember watching him on a televised special with Lady Gaga. She guided him out to the stage, gave his voice the spare piano backing it needed, just like the great Ralph Sharon had done for so many years. Tony remembered all the words. His voice showing his years, but still, there was a magic to him that the dementia and age could not erase.

He was Tony Bennett after all.

It may yet be a scorcher, but let’s wait and see. When the smoke starts rolling in, the sky will change from yesterday’s blue to a smoky yellow haze with the burning eye of the sun looking down on us, casting shade.