Air conditioning is not a crime, by Luc Le Vaillant

It is a fashion accessory that bears witness to the grotesquerie of these overheated times. The portable fan has replaced the fan. Many have abandoned the Spanish-style wrist whip that punctuated the sol y sombra afternoons and gave them the haughty air of flamenco dancers at the end of their lives. Now, many are seen propelling themselves in hyperventilated procession, holding straight in front of them this witness to climate harm, a small personal wind turbine that, poor thing, only stirs hot air. The colors are pastel or fluorescent. At a glance, the object thus exhibited is the neighbor of the Cornetto and the frozen Eskimo and the cousin of the sexual gadget for societies whose desires are damaged by rising temperatures.

For now, its appropriation is entirely gendered. Only women bring it close to their disgusted lips as they would to an old-fashioned microphone where they would roar their lament at the risk of being scalped by the sharp blades of this whirlwind of inanity. Sweaty men, on the other hand, continue to sweat profusely. They have not yet been educated not to drip under their arms and it is not certain that they ever will be. But the future non-binary diffusion of this prosthesis, which is nonsense, will not succeed in making us forget that it is rechargeable electric and that it would perhaps be simpler to