That Was the End of Matt

photo, pharmacy sign 37 degrees, hot matt rose Matt Rose points to sign of ambient blood temperature.

G o o d H o t B l o g W e e k

by Ric Erickson

Paris:– Wednesday, 19. July:– In the olden days when Dr. Fahrenheit and Dr. Celsius were designing our thermometres they had to designate the scale, decide what would be freezing and what would be cooking. When water curdles, that's zero said Dr. Celsius. No, Dr. Fahrenheit said, it's 32 degrees. That's because a degree is 5/9ths of a kelvin.

They didn't live in the same town or at exactly the same time, but close enough. They agreed that –40 would be the same in both C and F. Another standard to fix on was blood, but Celsius got there first. He reckoned Dr. Wunderlich's research made it 37 degrees so Fahrenheit did his 5/9ths thing and came up with 98.6. Apparently it is not so precise, so it is seldom exactly either.

When I ventured out earlier today I had no idea of the temperature until I saw the pharmacy sign with starving artist Matt Rose standing under it. I took the historic photo and then joined him, and only then did he look up and see the 37° C. And that was the end of Matt.

As historic as the weather is today it is no match for the temperature in Paris, Texas where they were expecting to have 105 F this afternoon. Yahoo France predicted 34 for Paris today, the New York Times put forward 89 for the City and the LA Times guessed 79 for Los Angeles. If Yahoo's number was right, the lowest humidity was in Paris this afternoon and I guess it could have been true if you were sitting still and letting the 29 kph breeze from the southeast cool you off. It was like being wrapped in a hot fuzzy blanket.

For Thursday the outlook calls for mainly sunny and 32 degrees, but maybe with the beginning of summer storms. These will really be happening on Friday, knocking the heat down to 30 degrees, but according to experts it will be sunny again on Sunday, and as warm as necessary for the first weekend of Paris–Plages.

photo, irish pub the green linne Hot terrace of this hot café on a hot night.

Hot Soul, Hot Night

Tuesday, 18. July:– I kind of doubt it got as hot as 36 degrees today. In the middle of the afternoon the best it could do showed on the pharmacy signs as 32.5 and 33 degrees. Was it my imagination or was this hotter than the 31 degrees we had recently, like on Saturday?

Meanwhile out in Hollywood where Alan Pavlik sits in his crib JustAboveSunset he says they had a cooking Bastille Day party on Sunday next door to La Brea tar pit that wasn't a big success on account of the heat and the smell – so Los Angeles, so unlike frites! – then today he sends a "What's this?" in the form of a graphic of the weather in LA, New York and Paris.

photo, 32 degrees in the rue daguerre32 degrees going on 36 in the shade.

That's right folks! I didn't have to risk my life going down Daguerre to check out the pharmacy signs after all. The graphic says it's 96 and sunny here today, but only 94 in New York and merely 93 and thunderstormy in Los Angeles. And the forecast shows 98 for here tomorrow.

So even though it is my day off – means I don't have to get dressed – I did watch tonight's TV–weather news because this is a hot story. Isabelle said we have this huge anticyclone which is going to give us 36 degrees on Wednesday, but the true blue morning skies are going to turn cloudy in the afternoon – which maybe means the humidity is going to increase from the fairly dry 21% we might have had today. And the air quality is getting worse, to match the overnight Alert Orange.


What begins on Wednesday will turn into chaotic skies on Thursday, with a forecast high of 30, followed by a mostly sunny Friday with a high of 31 degrees, maybe 90–91 F, a bit less than the prediction for LA.

The slightly crummy outlook for Thursday is no surprise because it's the day that Paris–Plages opens this year. But before we get into it, note that plages is plural. The sign that sprung up around Boggleville says that there are beaches on both sides of the Seine. But alert readers already know this thanks to Metropole and its intrepid 'Ed' who was off traipsing around Saturday night, testing new jiggling bridges and spying out the new floating pool. Unless I'm mistaken it's still floating.

Mister Phil's Pal John Simms

Tonight the Rue Roger is resting after baking all day. Even though I am still cooking I have been called out by Mister Phil who sent an URGENTE via email to alert me to the fix John Simms got himself in by getting mugged. Yes, even in Boggleville these crummy things happen.

photo, john simms and soul crew John Simms sings despite being plastered.

Mister Phil's pal John Simms is a soul singer and now he's got a busted wrist. This is a bit of a handicap so the idea tonight was to have a bit of a sing–song at the Irish pub The Green Linnet, named after either a poem by Billy Wordsworth or a little finch of a bird, which may not be green but is more real than many saints.

And this wonderful happening was taking place in the Rue Victoria which is as downtown as you can get but is not the liveliest street although it has a view of the Place du Châtalet and the Hôtel de Ville. On this hot night John's friends and fans kept stepping out to the sidewalk because of the Death Valley temperatures inside – inside that was made hotter by the benefit group, perhaps including Barry Johnson, Romello and Shelley Fox Reed, funking with guitars while John tried out the microphone with an arm encased in plaster.

photo, sign, paris plages, 2006

I got reasonably close to the bar to get an orange juice and this woman starting hitting me. It was the only way for club member Claire to get my attention, and it was to tell me to go outside for a taste of air. Then, out there, she said she couldn't hear the singing, all of three metres away with all the doors and windows as open as Outer Mongolia.

Then a pleasant fellow standing there told me he was Mr. Heather but I didn't believe him. Everybody knows Mr. Heather is in Singapore. He said he had the dogs, but didn't, couldn't produce them. All this time these four big guys were shouting into microphones and the benefits were filling up the Champagne bucket being used for a pot.

The lesson of this meaningless story is that if you are a soulful blues singer in this town and get your wrist broken by a mean mugger, just call Mister Phil and he'll put out the word that you are hurting. Not only this but he'll arrange for it to be the hottest night of the year, maybe even more better hot than Hollywood. In any case, too hot to walk back. This is where the Bus 38 took up the slack, er, slacker.

Goodblognight from Paris
radio ric

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