Tuesday, November 15, 2005
The sun is my enemy. And Michael Coe from the third grade. That fucker always took cuts in the lunch line. He was the type of kid who would get on the see-saw with you, get you all the way in the air and then jump off just because he knew you had an irrational fear of levers and cried easily.

So there was that kid and the sun. I don't see that bastard anymore, but I can't get the evil, evil sun to leave me alone. I hate it because it makes me all sweaty. And it melts stuff. And it is the essential catalyst for the process of photosynthesis that keeps plants alive, including trees, which I also hate. Especially palm trees. Stupid pointy palm trees with no climbing-branches, just sitting there all obstacle-y when I'm trying to drive drunk. No, I don't think "hate" is too strong a word.

That kid, trees and the sun. Three enemies. You're probably thinking "Oh, but what about the fact that trees provide shade from the sun? Isn't the enemy of your enemy your friend?" And I say NO. They're working together in some way I haven't figured out exactly what. I think maybe the shade is to lure me outside under a false promise of safe shelter, only to have the sneaky-ass sun hold its stupid position at the center of the solar system as the earth rotates, thereby causing the shade to move and leaving me exposed once more. Shade is a fickle bitch. It is not to be trusted.

Not that I seek shade. It may seem paradoxical, but I don't shirk from the sun. No, I have to be ready. One day it's going to come down to Me vs. It, Man vs. Celestial Body, Overstuffed Life-giving Ball of Burning Gas vs. the Sun. When I go to the beach, I wear no sunblock. It's a full-body dip in vegetable oil and then lay out under a canopy made entirely of magnifying glasses. When it comes down to the showdown--as it inevitably will--mano a sol, I have to be ready to take the sun's best shot. And I will be.

Not everyone sees it my way, though, no. These people are known as "wrong".

They lay out on beaches, next to pools, beside any convenient collection of water and just bask, bask, bask. Oh, but not too much. That's what sunblock is for, right? You want to get as much sun as possible without feeling the ravages of what the bastard, merciless sun can really do. I have no tolerance for collaborators. Some of us will be ready and some of us won't, that's all I'm saying.

For those of you who don't believe that sunblock is for pussies, consider the testimony of Nature: scientists at the very prestigious University of California, Riverside have recently concluded that the sunblock washed off human bodies and dumped into the ocean turns male fish into female fish. It contains a chemical that closely resembles estrogen in certain coastal fish, triggering spontaneous gender reassignment. It's something I suspected for a long, long time. Banana Boat gives you man-boobs. Visit any California beach and you'll see it in action. Argue if you want, but it's science.

Sunblock exposure also makes you stupid. Consider the entire cast of the entire run of Baywatch. Sounds anecdotal, doesn't it? But when even a red-swimsuit short-timer Brooke Burns drives her car into her own swimming pool, I think can safely rest my case. Driving into someone else's swimming is one thing. Hey, things happen. I once crashed a Vespa into a koi pond. I'm not proud of it, but it happened. If you must know, I was trying to avoid a tree. A palm tree. The point is, one would assume one would be familiar enough with their own living space to be able to avoid the pool with the car or even the whole of the backyard altogether. This is what sunblock does to you. In combination with being born stupid, the effects are devastating.

I can't make you people listen. I can't make anyone listen. But just consider: if the sun isn't planning anything, why does it just sit there all the time, watching? It's taking notes, mark my words. It's waiting for us to show weakness. Global warming is just the beginning.

Me, I'll be ready.

Well, tomorrow. Today I'm busy. I have a doctor's appointment. I have this new weird-looking mole I need him to look at. Tomorrow it's on, though.

This post on the Narcissus Scale: 2.8



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