The Climate Crisis

For the past two years, during my vacation in Los Angeles, I survived without the luxury of air conditioning. In fact, I took great pride in my lack of interior temperature control. “Oooohhhh, I live so close to the beach that the fresh ocean breeze in my air conditioning.” In reality, my building was too old to have considered installing such equipment, the “ocean breeze” stopped three miles short of my front door and the air in Los Angeles can never really be described “fresh.”

Still, I survived–even during those record setting heat waves, in which the Valley would experience rolling blackouts caused by overuse of air conditioning,  fell asleep comfortably in the 100+ degree heat under a cozy down comforter and the influence of narcotic cough syrup, without any trouble.

During the winter, I kept comfortable in the frigid 50’s by lighting fires in my somewhat operative fireplace and turning on the “central heat” (to which I never found any proof–such as vents or ducts–that might suggest that the system was actually functional). EIther way, at least I never donned a goose-down parka to the supermarket, a trend that, despite year-round mild to warm outdoor temperatures, was all the rage at the Ralph’s on Wilshire from late November to mid-February. Once, I legitimately witnessed a woman, whose hood featured a faux-fur lining, secure mittens on her hands before exiting the store, on a brisk 56 degree day. What a bitch.

I digress. The point is, one of my top priorities (aside from obtaining bulk quantities of diet soda and menthol cigarettes in preparation for nuclear winter) is to maintain a tolerable interior temperature.

Here at the Dorchester House though, that feat is insurmountable. I’m not sure whether to blame the senior denizens of teh building who haven’t moved more than five yards from their Craftmatic in the past decade, but have been given unrestricted use of free utilities in a rent controlled dwelling or the throes of Spanish speaking immigrants who must be trying to recreate the climate zone of the equatorial homelands–All i know, is that when the mercury drops below 40, I shouldn’t have to open a window.

I believe the primary overheat offender to be Ruth, a Southern Baptist Church going, cane wielding octogenarian who lives below me and beleaguers me about my chronic “middle of the night door slamming” routine. “Listen bitch, turn your fuckin heat down, and maaaaybe we can discuss the sounds and smells emitting from my residence. And until then, if you could refrain from stealing elevator security tapes in order to “prove” waht time I came home, I’d be rather grateful.”

Now the Climate Crisis (Dorchester campus) could easily be resolved by the installation of central heating and air conditioning. Good news! My “tier” of the building is scheduled for such an installation this coming Spring! As the leasing office described it, it should be no problem: HVAC construction will only take place in the tenants home between the hours of 9 am and 5 pm and shall take between four and eight weeks to complete.

Now, for tenants whose careers take them outside their home at reasonable daytime hours, this might be a bit of an inconvenience, but for those of us that work from home, this is simply unacceptable. How can I get work done–and avoid wearing pants–if I’ve got a construction crew–that I didn’t invite–tearing shit up in my home all day? Okay, okay, maybe what I do isn’t as important as like, helping children, feeding the homeless, writing return correspondence to constituents or being a barista, but you can’t deny that what I do takes hard work. I work to ignore the sun through shear curtains past noon. I work to get that cold soda can from the fridge to my mouth. I work to find a comfortable seated position for smoking cigarettes out the kitchen window, despite my complete lack of legitimate counter space. And most of all, I work hard to find new ways to enjoy the benefits of medical grade THC.

That’s right. I am now a proud member (do we call ourselves member? are we like a team? am I supposed to know any of the other “member’s” names? should I have written down the name of the law firm in charge of this litigious matter?) of a class action lawsuit. Seriously though, I don’t think we’re being dicks by suggesting that the management not begin construction in my apartment that “involves extensive drilling into my walls, ceiling and floors, for an ongoing 60 to 80 days in which I will be unable to enjoy the comforts of my home and most of my possessions due to possible harmful particulates such as ASBESTOS, noise from drilling/banging, and constant traffic from workers.”

But, after signing up for complimentary legal representation I feel like I’ve gotten myself into an old fashioned Catch-22 (that’s that think that’s like, you’re ironically screwed either way, right?). In scenario one, I must live with intolerable heat, making my “work” much harder to accomplish, and my precious private free time much harder to enjoy. Yet if I seek to maximize my comfort via increased core temperature control, I lose a majority of my “private” free time, by allowing groups of strangers into my home during office hours. (Cancer is a given either way. Whether it’s mesothelioma, or standard lung, only time will tell.)

Or, maybe Ruth will die soon and this entire conundrum will be irrelevant. I hope she remembers my kindness (in not backhanding her upon accusations of unacceptable nocturnal behavior) and leaves me that damn China cabinet she’s always raving about, in her will. Cause once she’s gone, I’m going to need something to keep me warm during this harsh East Coast winter–and nothing burns quite like Depression era Oak!