2005-06-13 - 1:22 p.m.

A fan does not a cool night�s sleep make.

While a heat trapping sixth floor apartment is beautiful during the months where Brooklyn turns into a winter wonderland, yet to be plowed since Manhattan gets first rights to clean roads; a well windowed room acting like a greenhouse in the summer months is only good if you intend to spend your days wrapped in a white towel amongst five other similarly dressed men talking about stock options after a game of golf.

�Nothing like a good steam after a hundred and thirty stroke game, eh Johnson?�

�You said it Smith. How about those Pistons, huh?�

Unfortunately, sitting around decked out in His and His towels with a couple guys chomping cigars is not exactly a regular activity of mine, and since I�m twenty miles from the nearest set of links, I can�t even rent out the space to the sauna types.

It wasn�t until midway through my sweat drenched summer last year that I even bought the creaky little fan that stands futilely against the forces of humidity. Two friends came into town and stayed for the weekend, and they, surprisingly, did not have the same ability I have to sleep while sizzling like your Brain on Drugs.

Only one of my windows actually opens. The others seem glued shut, and whatever force my gloots can muster can't budge the industrial portholes. The singular passageway to the outside just happens to be right above my laundry basket. On the one hand, giving immediate aeration on my increasingly grungy socks is a boon, but I�ve accidentally lobbed more than one pair of moist undies into the wild blue yonder. I simply pray those on the five flights below me weren�t watching as my boxers were tossed in the breeze like a porno remake of American Beauty.

While the recirculation of steaming hot air my fan provides seems enough for me to survive, I can�t help but feel a splotch of guilt for those I entertain. Taking a shower every couple or hours or so just to keep one�s clothing from velcroing itself to your body seems terribly unnecessary. My brilliant plan to put ice cubes into the fan to increase the cool factor just resulted in a din closely resembling gatling gun fire, and an enthrallingly dangerous combination of sloppily constructed electronics and water.

I fear the acquisition of an air-conditioner, though. First of all, it may only cost seventy-five dollars, but when you add the necessary taxi costs, and the hospital bills after I inevitably drop the �sonovabitch� on my toes at least twice, the cost skyrockets to about five hundred dollars. Not to mention the impending lawsuit when the badly secured unit slips out of the window frame and crushes the super�s garden gnome collection.

I�ve tried asking each and every one of my female friends to take a position in my living room working the giant palms I ordered on Ebay, but they all declined; despite what I think is an extremely benevolent offer to provide the slave girl outfit. It�s relatively slimming. On the upside the leaves will make great decoration for my west wall.

As a last resort, I�ve even considered living in my refrigerator, but I�ve heard a few tales where that didn�t go well.

Whatever schemes I hatch, it seems I�m destined to lose at least fifteen pounds in water weight over the next few months, and I can take comfort that I�ll be regaining my girlish figure after those heavy spring months where I gorged myself upon canned macaroni and cheese. Apartment thirty will remain a hazy sauna until the blistering smog breaks in September. I�ve taken the liberty of buying a bunch of cheap Swisher Sweets, and installing a few benches, so at least the room looks the part. Any of those who�d join me, please take your towel from Charles at the front door, and grab a seat.

�And how about those Spurs, huh?�

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