The Sky Is Wet

It’s not really raining here tonight, but it’s not not-raining, either. Nor is it a situation where I’m just waiting for the rain to start. There’s no fog. The sky is wet, that’s all.

I used to marvel (and occasionally still do) at how something warm and wet can feel so nice, while something cold and wet is repulsive. You could sit on a cottage porch at the beach in a warm puddle of water and it was fine; try it in the spring or fall when that puddle is cold and it’s a whole different matter.

Sixty degrees is great on a winter day; it’s just so warm and nice. Sixty degrees on a summer day is a cold snap we don’t enjoy and we hope doesn’t last. Sixty isn’t just sixty, it’s "sixty compared to what."

One time, I flew from Fairbanks, Alaska, to New York City. When we landed, I seriously wondered why the heat was on so high in the terminal building. At this point, I can’t remember the temperature in Fairbanks, but it sure was a lot lower than the 97 in New York. It soon dawned on me that, perhaps, NYC was hotter than Alaska.

"It’s not the heat, it’s the humidity," we often hear. I don’t know about that; there’s not any humidity in a fire, yet I bet we’d feel the heat if we fell into it. Maybe Hell is this 95-degree place with 95% humidity and no showers. We’re all going around sweating like race horses and smelling up the place; as time (or eternity) wears on, it just gets worse and worse. Hardly worth whatever bad you did here.