I know an elderly society matron in Singapore who would rather walk in the scorching sun for blocks on end rather than have her chauffeur drive into the Central Business District at peak hour and pay the $1.50 surcharge.
The summer of 1976 was so hot that bars of chocolate melted on the shelves before confectioners could sell them.
It must be the PGA Championship if it's August and you can sit down and talk to the heat or reach inside your shirt, where it's 110 degrees, and grab handfuls of humidity.
At one of the games I broadcast at Florida State a few years back, the mercury soared to 105 degrees, and you try attempting to look composed and professional, providing insight from the benches, while sweat pours into your eyes.
We shot 'Mudbound' in the South in the summer, which meant we were working in extreme heat and humidity at all times and that it could go from glaring sun to overcast skies to pouring rain in a matter of minutes, often shifting multiple times a day.
Every year, August lashes out in volcanic fury, rising with the din of morning traffic, its great metallic wings smashing against the ground, heating the air with ever-increasing intensity.
The desert loves me. I love the desert. It's nice to be in the heat in Africa. I love it.
