======= ======= ====== ====== ====== ===== ==== ====== ====== ===== ==== ======= ======= ====== ====== ====== ===== ==== ====== ====== ===== ====
Picture this: It’s a crisp November evening and you’re headed to midtown for a night at your favorite patio bar with the boys. You’re finally wearing that fleece you copped on clearance after last Christmas and you’d be lying if you said you weren’t feeling yourself. It’s a Thursday night so the drinks are cheaper, albeit not much, but cheaper still. The weekend is basically here and you’re ready to half ass it from 9-5 on Friday with a hangover induced by so few drinks your college-self would be embarrassed. All is right in the world.
But it’s not November. It’s August. And it’s hot.
I’ve had a slight glisten on my forehead since late March down here in Houston, Texas, and it’s not getting better any time soon. The only thing sweating worse than the vodka soda in my hand is my back and, apparently, the forearm of every person that accidentally bumps into me while making their way through the crowd. Oh, and I hope you didn’t wear anything other than a Dri-FIT polo because it’s pretty difficult to flirt at the bar with pit stains like Lake Erie. Not to mention it’s hard to catch a buzz sipping weak cocktails when I’m sweating them out faster than I can afford to drink them.
Now, I don’t know what it is about these places, but all of them have the kind of airflow that rivals that of an 1850s coal mine. In fact, I’m sure it would make that cave those twelve Thai boys were stuck in feel downright breezy. I can hear some of your rebuttals now, and I’m sure some of my friends would say the same things. “But Hunter, they have fans!” “But Hunter, they have misters!” Fuck you.
Every single bar fan that has ever existed is stuck on one setting and it’s somewhere between a category 5 and a tornado. Excuse me if I don’t want to feel like I’m staring down the barrel of Harvey every 30 seconds when the fan happens to oscillate in my general direction. And don’t get me started on the misters. This isn’t the cool zone at Six Flags. Do you see a damn popsicle in my hands? Are we surrounded by rollercoasters? No. So let’s not help the humidity out anymore than we have to.
All that being said, week in and week out I find myself driving into Houston for another uncomfortable night, standing shoulder to shoulder on a patio with a group of people that are all as silently miserable as I am. We’re all thinking the same thing, but for some reason I can’t quite explain, no one voices their opinion. It’s got to stop.
Now, now, relax a little bit. Put down the pitchforks and extinguish your torches. I’m not saying we abandon our beloved patio bars all together. I love a cold beer and game of cornhole as much as the next red-blooded American. All I’m saying is maybe we can try somewhere new for a change? Hell, I’d be willing give that wack piano bar down the road that no one has been to since their sophomore year of college a try. Put me in a corner booth and give me a few drinks and who knows, I might even start to enjoy the off key rendition of “Blurred Lines” being belted out by the pack-a-day smoker up there stroking the ivory. I’m merely suggesting a brief hiatus, an offseason, if you will, until I can walk out of my house without getting angry at the sun. So, why don’t we just agree to pick this up in the fall? Until then, I’ll be enjoying the modern marvel that is air conditioning. Stay cool, y’all..