Said to be the last song John Prine recorded. He wrote it with longtime collaborator Pat McLaughlin.
Me, I don’t remember much. And a lot of what I do remember I’d like to forget.
But I don’t ever want to forget John Prine.
Month: June 2020
Smoke gets in your eyes
Most mornings I get a fine clear look at the Sandias as I shamble around El Rancho Pendejo, opening windows to air out the joint.
Today? Not so much.
New Mexico Fire Information and InciWeb both report a handful of fires in our fair, dry, and windblown state. One of them, Los Charcos, is just down the road a bit, on Isleta Pueblo. There are three more down in the Gila National Forest, plus some more in Arizona, and the Duke City has issued a health alert for this morning. Our gentle 45-mph zephyrs should send the forest exhaust elsewhere by this afternoon.
Los Charcos was human-caused. Happily, it — unlike the humans and their megadrought — is nearly under control.
And the windows? They’re closed.
Skullcapped
We’ve finally surrendered to the inevitable and turned on the air conditioning at El Rancho Pendejo.
It’s been hot as balls for a while now. And though this morning we awakened to cloudy skies and light rain, before long the sun came out, the wind followed, and boom! Just like that our plans for a long bike ride got red-flagged.
Herself opted for a short trail run instead, while I trudged out for an hourlong hike, my running days being more or less over.
One of the downsides of using hiking as a running replacement is that the practitioner is compelled to spend more time outside, where the sun is. And during a four-miler last week I got a bit toasted on the back of the neck, where my Santa Fe School of Cooking ballcap proved of no use whatsoever.
So afterward I popped round to a nearby surplus store, where I scored myself a cheapo Honduran boonie hat to replace the ballcap. And I’ve started knotting a raggedy-ass bandana around my throat, too.
Now I look like every other bewhiskered old gabacho hoofer in the ’hood. Imagine how Carl Spackler might look 40 years after “Caddyshack,” assuming he married well, and you’ll get the picture.
Implausible deniability
And now, for your listening pleasure, Attorney General Bill “Droopy” Barr performs “An Ode to Self-Exoneration” on the butt-trumpet:
“I’m not involved in giving tactical commands like that,” Barr told the Associated Press. “I was frustrated and I was also worried that as the crowd grew, it was going to be harder and harder to do. So my attitude was get it done, but I didn’t say, ‘Go do it.’ ”
Gee whillikers, a fella just can’t find good help anymore, even with the unemployment rate in double digits. This gasbag makes John Mitchell look like Clarence Darrow.
There’s treasure everywhere
I keep a sizable collection of “Calvin and Hobbes” cartoons in the bathroom.
That way, after some bit of news like this sends me scampering for the toilet, I can flush out my headgear at the same time.
Mad Blog Media 