The Rites of Summer

In which we share the truth about global warming, Nordic "culture" and skin cancer

Happy Solstice Day, y’all!

Got any big plans for celebrating the “official” start of summer?

The quotation marks are necessary because down here in Florida it’s been summer for at least six weeks now and probably won’t let up any sooner than Halloween and even then the A.C. will likely be cranking on Thanksgiving Day, probably Christmas too, at which point we will have totally forgotten to celebrate the winter solstice, which by law, doesn’t happen here.

So don’t expect us to take part in a summer solstice ritual that dates back to ancient times:

Building bonfires.

This tradition began in the medieval era when certain tribes of people believed that setting massive piles of timber aflame would provide more heat for the sun and thus help it do its job of warming the earth.

And now, centuries later, all that hard work is really paying off, isn’t it?

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The people we have to thank for global warming, the ones who built those bonfires, were part of what’s known today as “Nordic” cultures, Nordic being a highly contagious medical condition brought on by spending too much time in saunas, eating pickled herring and assembling furniture with names like BJÖRKSTÅND and FLÄRDFULL from Ikea.

Meanwhile, in Florida, our ancient tribal cultures, which migrated here from the Midwest, celebrated the summer solstice by inventing deep freezers, building catapults and flinging huge blocks of ice at the sun in an attempt to get it to back the heck off.

Sadly, this also resulted in creating hurricanes and the demise of those brave Midwestern pioneers. But relics of their rich and vibrant culture can still be found in the remains of mysterious strip malls that dot the landscape and the daily convergence of cargo-shorts-wearing, golf-cart-driving retirees who bitch about the weather and aggressively defend their early-bird dinner reservations with all the intensity of their ice-block hurling forebears.

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So here’s how I celebrated the summer solstice: I got my nose sanded.

Yes, agreed, it is in extremely bad taste for me to show you a photo of the bandaged results, but if you have read this far you deserve it.

That’s some honker, ain’t it?

And no, those aren’t runaway nose hairs. Not all of them anyway.

Here’s the backstory: Back in October I visited my dermatologist to get yet another chunk of me lopped off, or as we refer to it — a Florida tattoo. Like many other Floridians, I have these decorative adornments all over my body, mainly because those ancient dead Midwesterners did not have the good sense to invent sunscreen. And even if they had invented it, I wouldn’t have had the good sense to put it on when I was growing up, it being the 60s and all of us young Florida guys of the time aspiring to be bronzed Beach Boys instead of the leather handbags we’ve become.

The chunk that most recently got lopped off was smack dab in the middle of my nose. It required nine stitches in a process known as MOHS surgery, which takes its name from Dr. Frederic Mohs, a man who, I might point out, was from Wisconsin and of Nordic heritage.

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What MOHS really stands for is: Methodically Obliterating Handsomeness Surgery.

Because what resulted was a scar on my nose that, if it were on the moon, would be known as the “Morris Crater.”

When I returned to the dermatologist the other day, he took a look at the gaping hole and said: “Hmmm.”

This is never a good thing to hear from your dermatologist. And mine went on to say: “You need a nose sanding.”

I’ve come to find out there’s a medical term for this—dermabrasion—which sounds a heckuva lot less painful than “nose sanding.” But I appreciate my dermatologist not pulling any punches and putting it in layman’s terms because the procedure, which involved applying a hot, electric scraper of some kind to my nose and the aroma of barbecued human flesh, did indeed burn like Baptist hell.

After it was all over, my dermatologist channeled that guy on those Men’s Warehouse commercials and, without a trace of irony that I could detect, said: “You’re gonna like the way you look.”

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The jury is still out on that.

I’ve not had the courage to remove the bandage. And when I do, I promise I won’t share a photo with you. Unless it’s truly gnarly, in which case I might frame it.

But I did do some research into skin cancer, specifically: Which states have the most of it?

I thought Florida—the Sunshine Kills You State—would surely rank number one, just like we do in so many desirable things like shark attacks, fatal lightning strikes and deaths from falling coconuts (true.)

But no, Florida ranks an embarrassing Number 18 out of 50. According to multiple sources that aren’t Fox News, here are the top five states for the incidence of skin cancer per capita.

1. Utah

2. Vermont

3. Minnesota

4. New Hampshire

5. Iowa

And all of these states, I might point out, have significant populations that claim Nordic heritage.

Which, as it so often does, brings us to Today’s Poll:

That’s it. I’m off to the beach. See you back here soon, probably Sunday.

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This is the part where, if you aren’t already a paid subscriber, I ask you to please consider becoming one. It works out to about $4.10 a month, which will keep me in sunscreen.

If you don’t care to pony up the money, then the very least you can do is share. Bob’s Diner is free and I appreciate you spreading me around.

And, lastly, I enjoy hearing from you. Even you good Nordic folks. So say what you’ve got to say: