Out of the Frying Pan and Back Into the Frying Pan (or, a Whole Lot of Heat)

It is HOT in Baltimore. Like, really hot. Like, sticky, sweaty, dehydrating-just-by-sitting-on-the-front-porch hot. Thankfully, we volunteers of the Arrupe House on Guilford Ave. have been saved from the lugubrious, energy-draining clutches of the Earth’s inevitable approach toward the Sun; our air-conditioning has been fixed! Now, as the sixth month of the year reaches its adulthood, we have a sense of empowerment as we leave our front door to adventure around town on weekends. For we know, now matter how high the temperature might get on the sidewalk, just one turn of the key inside our semi-rusted keyhole grants us access to the Freon-loaded atmosphere of peace, love and social justice (or, more commonly, our living room).

I rolled out of bed early (much like the nimblest of cats) on Saturday morning to get a nice, adult-like start to the weekend. I took on the noblest of missions and walked up to the Farmer’s Market in the Waverly neighborhood to obtain, quite literally, the fruits by means of which the housemates and I will be nourished this week. Twelve apples, some rhubarb, and some other leafy vegetable later, I returned home to enjoy a nice English muffin and cup of coffee on my front porch. No sugary cereal nor cartoons. I am getting old.

After briefly checking out a massive yard sale that Johns Hopkins was hosting, I decided that 11 a.m. was the perfect time to go for an eight-mile run with nary a glimpse of shade along my route. So there I was, plugging along on miles of Baltimore sidewalk, feigning a fourth harmony to the songs of Good Old War and wondering what shade of gray my shirt had actually been when I started idealistic crusade. Along the way I got lost; I think I may have stumbled upon Baltimore’s version of the fictional Philadelphia suburb that the Matthews lived in on Boy Meets World. How I had hoped to run into Cory and Topanga and that silly Eric! But nay,

The ultimate remedy for a physical adventure such as the one I had just completed is, needless to say, a freezing cold shower, so of course I almost spent the rest of the afternoon in that vein-numbing deluge. After eventually emerging from that liquid igloo, I ate some lunch and began preparing our television for the USA World Cup match at 2:30 p.m.

Yes, that’s right, I said prepare. Our little 20-inch GE boob tube can only be aptly described as a conundrum wrapped in an enigma coated in the most befuddling of riddles, and has been the cause of many inward- and outward- curses and attempted evil hexes this year. As relyingly-unreliable as it’s been this entire year, how could I honestly expect it work during the biggest month of my 4-year soccer-watching cycle? It’s times like these when I wish I was a sorcerer and could conjure up a crystal-clear image of Alexi Lalas telling me how the US has a legitimate chance. Ah, to dream…

With about 47 seconds until kickoff, the roommates and I made a mad dash to the local establishment, where air conditioning and HD and, most importantly, soccer! awaited us. We cheered an exciting match. This is going to be a great month. I love soccer.

Saturday night found us on the “Avenue,” in Hampden, a neighborhood I can only describe as…well…a lot of references come to mind but none I think that would make sense to any of my readers. We were there for “Hon Fest,” a real Baltimore delight. During this two-day festival, the fine citizens of “Bawlmer” put on their best feather boas, don their tightest leopard-print leggings, and slap on as much hair lacquer as is chemically possible, all in the hopes of recreating what Baltimore was apparently best known for in the 60’s (really, Baltimore? You couldn’t have offered anything more substantial?). That being, of course, the “Baltimore Hon.”

Picture a boisterous, slightly drunk Kathy Bates with the kind heart and good nature of your grandmother (or, picture any of the females from Hairspray. And John Travolta, too, I guess), and you’ve got the kind of person who was walking around Hon Fest. These Hons (pronounced huns) are famous for their endearingly-clashy outfits, the way they adorably butcher any hint of proper English that escapes from their overly-lipsticked smoochers, and for the full foot and a half height increase that their beehive hairdos give them. In a word they are Baltimore, and in two words, they are pretty hilarious.

We trekked back over to Hon Fest on Sunday to catch the crowning of Baltimore’s Best Hon 2010 (A lady from Loyola narrowly defeated a 98-year old who had to be wheeled out onto the stage. I would have thought it cute had I not been seriously worried for her health in this oppressive heat). After returning home and gaining entrance to our living room, we immediately fell onto the nearest piece of furniture that would catch us (luckily, I made it to the recliner. Others were not so lucky) and succumbed to the hazy stupor that only this type of heat can elicit. I spent the rest of the afternoon sleeping, reading, mopping the kitchen floor, and watching Grease (that Danny Zucko’s got some moves! And in an unrelated note, I am now looking for a leather jacket). I even capped off the weekend with a Reese’s McFlurry from McDonald’s!

Hey, I don’t mind the heat so much if there’s going to be a McFlurry in my hand. Just saying.