A gloomy Nov. 1 follows a delightful Halloween. What the hell, we got an extra hour in the sack to start the month. Or did we?
Quite the Halloween we had here.
The weather was perfect — neither too cold nor too warm, and the anticipated rain never appeared. As a consequence we served what I think was a record number of trick-or-treaters before lights out, around 9 p.m.
Boo.
All manner of Burqueños rang our doorbell — young and old and in between, costumes ranging from casual to wildly elaborate, the mood celebratory throughout. Not at all the sort of mob one has to run from.
I choose to see it as an omen. A bunch of strangers sharing a moment, however briefly. See, it can be done. May the spirit endure.
We may yet get a puck in the gob from the gods, who seem intent on flogging us with a windy, watery cat-o’-nine-tails. It would be swell if they took a couple days off — like, through Election Day — but the trees are already dancing a jig so I’m not counting on it. Today may be another running opportunity, and perhaps tomorrow as well.
In any event, I need to get outside for a while. Sundays are when Herself does the serious housecleaning, and like Nature, I abhor a vacuum.
Nothing says Halloween like a plug-in plastic punkin.
Anybody else having trouble getting a boner (har de har har) for Halloween?
I mean, masked strangers in scary costumes pounding on your door at dark-thirty? They don’t save that shit for Oct. 31 anymore, yo. It’s been ages since anyone demanded my papers. Shit, these days I don’t even own a pipe.
Anyway, yesterday I finally started making my All Hallows’ Eve preparations. The weatherbeaten strings of lights that we leave up year round, as the late, great Jinx’s Place in Bibleburg did with its Christmas ornaments, have finally achieved critical bulb shortage. So I took them down and as we speak I’m cobbling together a minimalist arrangement that involves less pine sap (fingers) and ladder usage (lower back and knees).
It’s always a crapshoot here at the bottom of the cul-de-sac, trying to predict how heavy a lift Halloween is going to be. Some years we get throngs; others, twos and fews.
Tell you what, though. If it turns out we draw nothing but ICEholes this time around there will be a lot of candy left over. We won’t give the sonsabitches shit other than name, rank and serial number.
I have something of a reputation as an obituary writer.
Whether it’s deserved or not, I have no idea. What I do know is that it’s a hard pull on rough ground, uphill and into the gale, especially when the dearly departed truly is — an old friend turned dust in the wind.
But I’ve never tried to write an obit while the subject was still around to read it.
That’s what my man Hal Walter is doing as we speak — writing “a life review” of his old comrade Clint Roberts, who has been ailing for some time now and has had quite enough of it. The fabled mountain athlete has one last effort in him, and it will be to hit that Door running.
Writes Hal:
Instead of an obituary, I embraced the notion of a Life Review for Clint, a short biography of sorts. He agreed to participate during his final days from his home in Oregon. It’s lengthy, and time is short, so I have decided to present it here in a series. At this writing I am unsure whether I will complete this before he is actually gone but at least he will be able to read some of it along with many people who have been inspired by him, and those who are yet to know him through this story.
Hal is posting Clint’s story at his Substack, Hardscrabble Times. Give it a read, and consider supporting his work, which includes an upcoming book collecting his play-by-play report on how he and son Harrison navigated the mysteries of Colorado Mountain College and what came after.
Betsy Ross would like to know who left the lid up, among other things.
Someone up the road a ways is flying the flag upside down.
It’s fair, I thought. Someone across the street had been doing likewise under the previous administration. What’s good for the goose, etc.
I had been debating whether to fly a flag at all on this Fourth of July, right side up or otherwise. Part of me feels that to fly the flag at all hints of complicity with the brigands, featherbedders and toadies who snuggle up to it as though Old Glory were a young girl on Epstein Island.
It’s one of the reasons I never wear the stars-and-stripes jersey some wiseguy at USA Cycling awarded to me for being a National Champion Pain in the Ass, or something very much like that.
Sure, I earned it. But actually wearing it? I dunno.
“Hey, check out the senior citizen in the national-champ kit. He must’ve been something before electricity. I didn’t know Depends made bib shorts. And what’s that thing he’s riding? Steel? Bar-end shifters? Rim brakes? Yo, Rip Van Weinmann! Wake up and smell the future! Haw haw haw!
• • •
Your Humble Narrator and Herself.
So, yeah. When Herself and I rolled out for this morning’s ride I was not wearing the stars-and-stripes. Yet I was rockin’ the red, white, and blue, as hard as I could, for anyone who cared enough to take notice.
Red Steelman Eurocross (USA) and Giro gloves (Vietnam). White Rudy Project helmet (China), cotton headrag (ditto), Patagonia undershirt (USA), and Gore socks (?). Blue Voler jersey (USA), a match for the decals on the Eurocross and the Cane Creek Crono X Cross wheels (?). The bibs were Voler (USA) — not Depends— in basic black, to match my Sidi shoes (Romania) and my aura.
Quite a few of our fellow Americans were getting their heart rates up despite the smoky haze applying a gray filter to the normally beautiful blue skies. Joggers, dog-walkers, e-bikers, you name it. The quail were mostly under cover, but we saw a few bunnies and one deer curled up in a shady spot against a Sandia Heights house for sale.
And what’s with all the crows lately? Could be ravens, I suppose. Quite a conspiracy of them, too. Someone should write a poem.
• • •
When we got home a few of the Spanish-speakers that so frighten the nation’s mismanagement were prepping a neighbor’s place for stucco in the 94-degree heat. Another will be working a checkout lane at a nearby grocery until 10 p.m. I know this because she told me so.
“Gonna miss the barbecue and everything,” she said, ringing up my purchases, mostly the ingredients for that most American of condiments (salsa).
Our post-ride lunch was some Mexican red rice and savory ground beef left over from last night’s dinner, that most American of dishes (tacos), with a couple of scrambled eggs and a sprinking of Irish cheese. The last of the taco filling will be put to use tonight in that most American of meals (pizza).
• • •
The star-spangled banner yet waves.
But we were talking about flags, yeah? I put ours out, right side up. They’re nothing special, just a couple of cheap promotional items dumped on the property years ago by some long-forgotten real-estate shithead with zero respect for flag etiquette. Nevertheless, Herself and I agreed that we should hew to the gospel preached to us by our late friend and neighbor Marv’ Berkman.
Shortly after we moved in next door to Marv’, once I had gotten the feeling that he wasn’t your standard-brand, hard-right Bibleburger, I asked him why he flew the flag day in and day out.
And the old Chicago saloon picker sez to me he sez (stop me if you’ve heard this one before):
“I just want those guys to know they’re not the only ones who can fly it.”
While a presidential proclamation Is blasting out across the nation And Mad Dog and his band of jerks Are lighting off the fireworks Oh, boy, hey hey, it’s a national holiday It’s a national holiday.—Timbuk 3
