Ihave many heirlooms. My father's desk. My uncle's pocket watch. My grandmother's chastity belt (broken).

I wonder why I keep them. The Buddha says we should not become "attached" to things, but what about to a placenta? If we never became attached to one of those, we'd all have low birth weight, and that is the primary cause of smoking. Besides, with a gut like that, Buddha could never get his own reality show or date a Kardashian, so why should I listen to him? I'm glad I have kept a few heirlooms around, or at least I used to be ...

The other night, I'm lying in bed. My decentralized air is barely managing to keep my bedroom at 90 degrees, so I am hotter than Satan's balls, and my body sweat is turning my dormitory-quality sheets into the Shroud of Turin. I stare at the ceiling and grieve the loss of my box fan, which occurred during the Great Box Fan Incident of 2008. On that fateful night, it was laboring so hard it danced down the hallway and plummeted to its death via the stairs. It left no note or dependents, but its impressive getaway is still circulated among the box fan community.

Anyway, as I am lying there, pleasuring my body to the thought of popsicles, it occurs to me: Granddad's old fan is in the closet. It's one of those old Emerson Electric fans from the 1930s, the kind you might see oscillating on the desk of a private dick as he listens to the sad tale of a femme fatale with rocket boobs.

So I get out of bed and make my way to the closet. My foot- sweat on the hardwoods has me walking like a fresh baby deer. There, behind my stash of popsicle magazines, is Granddad's fan, more archaic than I remember. There is barely any protective grill – it's as if they discovered baby-hand grinders could also keep you cool, and marketed them as fans.

I take the fan over to the bedside table and plug it in. I'm almost blown into the opposite sheetrock. It's like standing in front of a Cessna but with more wind. I want to turn it off, but it threatens my approaching fingers.

So I lie back and try to sleep as papers and farm animals swirl about my room. Then I hear a pop and look over to see fireworks emitting from the motor. I notice the streetlights dim and dogs start barking, so I run out of my house and do drugs.

Maybe Buddha was right. In this heat, I wish I'd never become attached to a placenta.

Hear Gordon on "The Ticket" KTCK-AM (1310) weekdays from 5:30 to 10 a.m. E-mail him at gordon@gordonkeith.com.

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