For decades now, I love keeping track of the weather. I love checking on friends scattered across the country. It’s 100 here and Tweedie’s Montana is flooding. Jan in Idaho is getting pounded by hail. My daughter is fighting thunderstorms and miserable, humid days in Oklahoma. My best pal Philly in Chicago is having a pleasant, late spring, and another pal in Hawaii? What can you say about Hawaii?
By watching Santa Clarita, I’ve figured out that, give or take, we have historically had about 100 days of dratted hot weather.
Now sometimes, summer’s late or early. But usually and uncannily so, it gets hot on the Fourth of July and the heat stays until mid-October — about 100 days. That’s followed by a sigh and 265 days of mostly pleasant albeit rainless weather.
Have you any idea what’s guaranteed to we citizens of Santa Clarita prior to the arrival of Devil Summer?
Cool, flirting with nippy, overcast, almost drizzly, soft-on-the-eyes grey skies, happy negative ions skipping about the air — June Gloom.
Winter lasted 20 minutes this year, spring — 10. Some wretch, possibly an ax-murderer Democrat, stole our “Welcome to SClarita!” sign. They replaced it with: “You Are Now Entering Blythe, Damn Your Soul.” The weather gods flew by, saw the switched sign, got confused and made a wrong delivery.
I’d like to blame Joe Biden for this early summer heat wave, but he’d just blame the weather on Vladimir Putin and the War in Ukraine. Dirty commie so-and-so.
It pains me to write this, but, according to the president, a complete lack of June Gloom isn’t such a bad thing. We should close our eyes real hard and say the magic Democratic words: “I reimagine… I reimagine… I reimagine.” Then, all we have to do is go outside and hold our thermometers upside down. Voila. No longer is it 99 degrees, it’s 66. There. Feel better already.
I mean, who do I see about this? June Gloom is an important part of, if not “The,” then “My,” environment and it certainly needs saving. Of all the trillions of dollars going to the organized crime lobby formerly known as Green, couldn’t I have a few measly billions to moisturize the Santa Clarita’s air and knock the temp down a few hundred degrees? I know. I should be Mr. Eureka, not Mr. Santa Clarita Valley. I could enjoy a daytime high in August of 56 and an evening low of 55. With a sea breeze and smell of conifers.
While Vice President Kamela Harris obviously isn’t doing anything with the wide open border, couldn’t she get all those new Green factories in Central America to build some nice, fluffy, cool clouds, wrap a string around the bottom and have all the illegal aliens grab the other end and deliver it to the good ol’ SCV?
I like the idea of a valley-filling single cloud, to take with me wherever I go.
Like a balloon.
Being more a methodist (small “m”) than a conservative, I already see ways to lower costs for my June Gloom Machine. I could use 12 dozen (144) illegal alien babes to carry me around the valley in a shaded sedan chair. We’re talking three shifts, so that’s 16 fetching sedan chair babes per eight hours. Eight would do the actual hefting. The other eight would carry powerful fans/air conditioning units aimed at my prone direction.
I might have to add eight more girls to fiddle with the miles of extension chords.
Perhaps there could be some city/federal money to declare eminent domain over the Valencia Lanes. It’s always nice and dark and cool inside the bowling alley on Lyons. Plus, Mabel next door in the coffee shop could sing, in her operatic voice, “Bali Ha’i,” while I work on a column or my next book.
Which is, “The World’s 37 Most Inappropriate Dog Breeds,” coming out at the end of the month. Tres funny…
We could pipe in some waterfall sound effects and soft bongo drums, to sort of ameliorate the annoying and constant noise of rolling bowling balls and pins crashing.
As Vice President Harris recently said, and mind you, it’s original: “Perhaps I’m a dreamer. But I’m not the only one…”
I know. I know. Big 1,000-X cowboy hat. Big weather sissy underneath. Guilty as charged.
I like those last, final days of spring, where you sometimes have to wear a jacket at night or put a couple logs on the fire to thwart the moody dampness. I miss Morning Dew.
That’s the pre-dawn mist on a trillion blades of grass, not Hunter Biden’s stripper.
I’d rather open the windows at night and let in the cool breeze instead of duct-taping myself to the air conditioning vent on the ceiling. There’s another Hunter Biden blague de perversité (joke of perversity) but the country is going through hard times enough already and doesn’t need another painful reminder.
I’ve thought of this so often lately. If there was a cloud bank, I’d borrow from it. Maybe I’m missing some federal handout, where the government would pay me to live in Cambria, in a humble seven-bedroom getaway nestled in the cliffs above the crashing Pacific. Perhaps there’s another Washington/Sacramento handout where I could declare myself indigent and qualify for a Federal De-humidifier.
And some fetching illegal alien young lady apprentices to stockpile peach and raspberry margaritas for the upcoming Cambria heatwave when temperatures can reach 62.
Still. Cambria is not Santa Clarita. It has scenery.
I want, no, demand, my Real, Old-Fashioned Santa Clarita June Gloom. I liken June Gloom to that last conjugal visit with your girlfriend, before she gets transferred to a higher-security federal max for 15 to life.
The feeling from both experiences can be so profoundly refreshing…
Until mid-October, John Boston is nocturnal and Earth’s most prolific humorist/satirist. Visit his johnbostonbooks.com. Buy books. Enjoy. Tell others.