by RAF KATIGBAK

At the onset of this column lo so many months ago, these few cardinal rules were laid bare: check your facts, don’t be late, and, most importantly, never, ever, ever write about the weather.

The reason for the latter being presumably that everyone already knows that Montreal has a climatological personality disorder equivalent to a manic-depressive schizophrenic (albeit like the totally sexy bilingual one you knew in college), so reporting on the weather is effectively no big whup.

Oh really? It’s cold in the winter here, is it? How did you scoop that little Pulitzer-Prize-winning nugget of journalism, Woodstein? What was your first clue? Perhaps it’s the fact that we live in fucking Canada?!

But what is a city columnist to do when you’re suffering through a heat wave so intensely incapacitating that the idea of spontaneous human combustion suddenly becomes a reality beyond the grainy Faces of Death 5 videotape passed around in elementary school? That was my thought Monday afternoon as I lay melted on my tiled kitchen floor covered in wet towels hypothesizing whether or not a 5’4” Filipino could fit into the freezer compartment of an 18 cubic-foot Kenmore Value refrigerator (the answer is a resounding no).

As Environment Canada reported, the temperature reached 32 last Monday—3.5 degrees short of the 1953 record high (remember, the agency measures the temperature in the shade, so add another 10 degrees onto the forecasted temperature if you’re out in the sun). Senior climatologist David Phillips remarked to a local news agency that it was more the widespread reach of the heat that made it extraordinary, as a good part of Quebec, the Maritimes, Manitoba and all of Ontario was blasted by a hot sticky dose of continental swamp crotch.

But the dangers of humid heat waves are very real. In the last five years, six Quebec workers have suffered fatal heat strokes on the job. And while the rest of Canada has their own ways of beating the heat, as a public service, Canadian Health officials released Montreal-specific guidelines to staying cool.

l Avoid being outdoors during the hottest part of the day. If you must go out, try going out in the early morning or later evening hours when the sun is not as strong. This will also reduce contact with tourists, which in turn limits the amount of “’Scuse me, where can I find the Just-Poor-Rear Festival?” questions which will increase chances of heatstroke by 75 per cent.

l If you do go out in the afternoon, make sure your destination is air-conditioned like a mall or movie theatre. If a tourist asks you where you are going, take him aside, look around suspiciously and whisper, “The underground city,” then dart away quickly. This adds to the mystique and will hopefully keep outsiders from realizing that “the underground city” is really just a bunch of malls and movie theatres stuck together. Bonus tip: for a truly frigid experience, check out Jennifer Aniston’s latest rom-com.

l Slow down activities that make you hot. Work erratic, brief periods and take frequent breaks... basically, try to find a job as a city road worker repairing potholes.

l Drink plenty of cool fluids, but avoid caffeine and alcohol. Unless you’re talking about caffeinated alcohol drinks like Sparks. Which we’ve found, when coupled with go-kart racing and a touch of sunstroke, can make for one of the craziest afternoons ever.

l Dress in light, loose clothing. Montrealers are notorious for busting out bikinis and Daisy Dukes once the last mangy snow pile melts off the sidewalk, so feel free to show some skin. Unless you are a pasty British tourist: nobody needs to see the inner workings of your lower intestines through your translucent skin, so keep that to yourself, guv’na.

l Wear a hat. For women, a large-brim straw hat will do. Suggestions for Québécois men are anything of the jester or red-and-white-striped felt Cat-in-the-Hat variety, preferably coupled with no shirt, revealing hairy pepperoni-sized nipples. Oh, and Oakley wraparound shades from 1996, and a henna pot-leaf tattoo on your shoulder, and a set of, what are those things called…? Devil sticks? That would be funny.

Riff-Raff@sympatico.ca

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