Illustration by Marcie LaCerte
Legends speak of climes unbleak,
That one great state does boast,
You can’t be seen without sunscreen,
Or risk being burnt to toast.
They said the sun goes down for fun,
And not to truly set,
From long-gone rays that stay ablaze,
You may light a cigarette.
The shadow-tinter, the Cali winter,
They claimed was rather mild,
“A heavy jacket? No, don’t pack it,
The cold can’t hurt a child.”
So then without a shred of doubt,
I flew a whole day’s ride,
I bought a Beck’s at LAX,
Went out, and promptly died.
For my tame North Indian frame,
The “breeze” was cold as ice.
The gust of wind did moan, “You’ve sinned,
And now you’ll pay the price.”
The cold outweighed the price I paid,
With shivers of all sorts.
The bastard flirt went up my shirt
And down my bloody shorts.
I silently asked myself, hood-masked,
“If the wind does now lampoon,
Will my head splinter in the dead of winter?
Today’s the first of June!” ♦