Heat index

In extreme heat, one has to learn a certain patience. The heat index is at a suffocating 102 degrees Fahrenheit in Washington, DC. People will act a little crazy and sooner or later you'll be acting a little crazy. It's like Night of the Living Dead, where we all start walking like zombies, bumping into each other, our mouths open and legs apart, moving to a cool shade and air conditioned buildings.

 

While on the Metro yesterday morning at Union Station, an angry black man walked on screaming obscenities at a balding middle-aged white man. Black man had a disc man, big head phones, a black tank top, black hat and black jean shorts. White man had on a white shirt, red tie and gray slacks.

 

White man says, "I don't appreciate being threatened."

The Black man stands up and out of his seat, braces himself on the bar and yells, "Fuck head. If I was a threatening you, You'd be lying on the ground bleeding right there." He points in between the metro seats. "So, no I'm not fucking threatening you, ASSHOLE!"

 

The morning rush hour commuters all look at each other with the expression - it's really too hot and too early for this.

 

I saw a little old lady dancing in line at the Whole Foods in Silver Spring last night because in her hand was peacan ice cream.

 

I haven't lost it yet, but I had this desire to walk through every bubbling fountain on the way to work this morning.