It’s such a Guatamelan sweatbox outside I almost don’t want to go into Manhattan for screenings. It’s that bad. I can roll with Palm Springs heat. Bone-dry cactus heat is actually kind of pleasant if you’ve got a drink in your hand and an air-conditioned store to pop into when you need a break. But jungle-sweat Eighth Avenue heat is awful. You’re walking down the street and going “oh, man” with every other step. It affects your attitude, the sharpness of your thinking…everything. You feel two or three steps away from suffocation while standing on the West 4th street subway platform. Imagine what New Yorkers went through before air-conditioning came along.
