There are several benefits of living in an apartment older than most U.S. states.  The first is probably the history; I often think of the immigrants who lived in my Little Italy apartment generations ago, who sweat and toiled so that one day, many years later, their descendants could pound jagerbombs and look like this (nice straws, fellas).

[I have to say right off the bat - I'm very prejudiced against Italians ("Can you imagine, in this day and age, a Jew broad prejudiced against Italians?").  One of my ex-girlfriends had a dream of going to Italy, and, though my sugar daddy instinct kicked in almost immediately and I began saving for a surprise trip, I tried to explain to her that if we were to go to Italy, only she would come back.  This is because Italians are so sexually aggressive that it's almost criminal - and none of them fight.  They are relentless when hitting on women, even if a guy is present.  And though I'd be able to put up with it for a while, trying to do my best to represent my country, eventually all that body hair that I have would take over and there'd be some major problems and I'd end up in jail, known in the Italian press as "l'orso americano della morte."  Because like I said, Italians don't fight.  Throwing a punch in the middle of a group of Italians is like throwing a rock in the middle of a group of pigeons - they freak out, make a bunch of noise, and get the hell out of there as quickly as possible (I've seen this first-hand).  This behavior, which was confirmed by other friends I know who have lived in Italy, was shocking to me because Italian-Americans are all about machismo.  What happened during the transition from real Italians, who don't fight, to Italian-Americans, who will fight you for breathing on their leather jacket?  Italian-Americans are like the kids who got bullied in grade school, then transferred to another grade school and immediately started bullying everyone in the new school so that they wouldn't get picked on anymore.  Well, I know your secret my Eyetal-American friends.  So watch it.  And by the way, you look ridiculous.]

[And the girl and I never made it to Italy.  Like everything else in my life, she and I had a great start, and then a meager, awkward finish.  I think I spent the Italy trip money on cocaine and harmonicas.  So it worked out for everyone.]  

Another benefit of older apartments is that they are typically large.  I know this might sound counter-intuitive.  You may be thinking, “But I thought the average person was like 4’11 in 1875, so wouldn’t the apartments be smaller?”  This is certainly true – studies have shown that the average height of a male in 1875 was exactly 4’11″ – but you’re missing the bigger picture.  Because literally dozens of immigrants lived per apartment in Manhattan, a lot of the older buildings have apartments that are quite large for a modern one or two bedroom.  For example, in my two bedroom apartment, there lived a family of twelve people in the 1930′s.  And yes, I completely made that up.  But if it were true, it wouldn’t surprise me.  Well, maybe a little bit.  But anyway…

But even though I love its history and its size, I hate a few other features of my apartment.  One in particular is unbearable: the heat.

I love to sleep in the cold.  This is not surprising, I guess, since when I go swimming it looks as though I’m looking for salmon.  In the summer, I blast the AC, keep the windows open in the spring and fall, and like the heat low in the winter time.

The past few weeks have been great sleeping weather in my apartment, as temperatures had begun to dip into the low 50′s about three weeks ago.  This is perfect.  I can sleep with the windows slightly open, just so I can bury myself in my two blankets among my four fluffy in my spectacular either 600 or 800 (I can’t remember) thread count sheets.  Glorious.  

But that all can to a swift end of Sunday night.  Because now it is heat week in my apartment.

At the end of last week, it was cold at night.  Very cold.  “It’s 40° and I can see my breath” cold.  And while I like the cold, contrary to what I might look like in the shower, I am not actually a bear.  So sleeping last week was tough as I tried to stay bundled up to stave off hypothermia.

(And if you’re keeping count at home, that’s three bear references, including one in Italian.)

I was getting frustrated with my shitty old building and began hoping for the heat to be turned on.  Sunday night I got into bed, braving the cold temperatures in my room, closed the windows and bundled up.  It was going to be a long, cold night.

Four hours later, I woke up nearly drowning.  Sometime after I had fallen asleep, the heat – the first heat of the season – kicked on.  And when it comes to heat in my apartment, there is no in-between.  It’s all or nothing (singed eyebrows when walking into my room be damned!).  I was covered in sweat.  I mean this in the most literal sense – sweat was over 100% of my body, staining my clothes and sheets.  My hair was matted to my forehead and my balls – my poor, poor balls – felt like sponge cake when I gave them a lil’ squeeze.

This extreme, out-of-nowhere heat phenomenon happened last year, so I at least knew what to expect.  My old roommate Brian and I called it “heat week”, because it took our bodies about a week to get used to the major temperature change in the apartment.  Each night this week has been a physical struggle, a test of endurance, to see how I can make sleeping work.  I’ve been experimenting with opening the windows at different angles, sleeping with different clothes on and with different blankets, even trying new positions on the bed – all in an attempt to reduce my body temperature without leaving the windows open enough to give me frostbite.

Especially challenging is how the heat only comes on at night, after I’m asleep.  When I get home from work and when I go to bed, my apartment is freezing.  It is only when I’ve fallen asleep and am blissfully dreaming about boobies made of pudding does the heat kick on, leaving me with something like sunstroke. 

(Also, it seems to gain momentum during the night.  When I lay down, let’s say it’s 58 in my bedroom.  At about 2am, it’ll be up to 70.  At 4am, maybe 77.  By the time I wake up, it’s gotta be around 85 in there.  Horrible, just horrible.)

So this week has not been a good one.  To all those I’ve been a dick to this week, please accept my apologies.  I haven’t had a decent night’s sleep in a week and what sleep I have gotten has been most unpleasant, like taking your mattress into a sauna.  The good news is that heat week is almost over; my body is very weak and soon I will resign myself to the temperature extremes and be able to sleep through the night.  But until that happens, thank god for wine.  I don’t know if I would have made it through the week without breaking my hands while trying to murder my radiator without it. 

Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to zone out at my desk and catch up some rest.  Thank you for understanding and please, let’s keep the loud noises to a minimum, ok?