I used to live in a city called Bullhead that had the hottest summers on earth. Bullhead existed on the Arizona/Nevada border, across from Laughlin, Nevada, with roads lined with pawn shops with chipped paint signs and tiny places selling slot machines. Temperatures in this meth-riddled town reached up to 120 degrees and the one redeeming factor it offered was the Colorado River, which ran in-between the two cities. The river was solace for Bullhead residents at a time when the summer heat was murderous, inescapable and inexplicably powerful. The desert: a dry heat, still, hot air at a time when even the prospect of being free from school was not enough to make those three months tolerable. Fuck, it was hot.
I've never lived on the east coast; I've never spent more than a day or two in the snow; I've never truly enjoyed company barbeques or family pool parties, and I hate summer clothes, bathing suits and shorts. Summer is just another season, just another few months when you avoid the weather, spend more time on the Netflix website and find songs that speak to my summer sensibilities. Summer songs are about reclusive days, boring drunk evenings, and a general sense of total relaxation, whether they spout an upbeat beach dancing riff or serene sense of coooooool -- perfect for the hot days.
This summer more than ever I've avoided the summer hype, stayed indoors instead of manning the 105 degree temperatures up here in Northern California and, though Bullhead still has a place in my heart, been incredibly thankful to not live there anymore.