The Duck! City croaked another mark yesterday with a high of 88°. And our earliest day of 90° or better — May 3, 1947 — looks like an endangered species as well.
This is a small platter of fried spuds to anyone living in Tucson (101°), Phoenix (105°), or Palm Springs (107°). All records, set yesterday. Helluva note when St. Me Day comes with a chaser of heat stroke. If MarkWayne BillyBob JimmyJoe Knucklegobbler and his ICEholes come looking for you in any of those ZIP codes all you need is a parabolic reflector and hey presto! Instant Death Ray.
Speaking of cookery, the hot soups and stews and anything involving the oven have long since been 86ed from the menu here at Chez Dog. Last night we dined on Martha Rose Shulman’s shrimp and mango tacos with a side of rice and green salad. As “spring” scampers into summer, this ol’ dog needs his wok.
The weather suddenly has a nasty case of multiple-personality disorder.
First it was breaking heat records right, left, and center. Then yesterday, it was the thundering winds and the air so thick with particulates, pollen, and various monoxides and dioxides — hence the phrase, “Beware the ’ides of March!” — that one had to chew each breath 666 times before swallowing. The AirNow.gov klaxons were going all like aaaaaaOOOOOOgahh and the local air-quality monitors were an equally loud shade of red that matched my eyes.
I didn’t even think about going out for a ride or run. Nevertheless around 10:30 last night I was blown out of bed and into the spare room by an allergy attack the likes of which I haven’t suffered since LBJ was hoisting his beagles and the Vietnamese by the ears. I didn’t think it was possible for a human body to contain that much snot, unless maybe that body belonged to Karoline Leavitt.
I did wonder whether UFC bro’-brahs Addled Hitler and Bibi the Beast going all Michael Corleone around the Bible Lands might have had some effect on the global climate. I’ve heard it said that The Pestilence can change the weather in DeeCee just by dropping trou’. In any case both should be in cages, and if they wanted to fight, well, I’d buy a ticket.
Today we awakened to temps in the 20s with a forecast high in the 60s, which would be par for the course this time of year. But the forecast also calls for highs to ascend to the upper 80s by Thursday. Perhaps Lucifer has finally found the escalator that runs upward.
“The Devil you say? Wonderful to see you again, old chap. Bit of an upgrade from the trip downward, yes? ‘Hurl’d headlong flaming’ and all that? Will you have tea? Oh, I beg your pardon, something cool for a change, certainly. …”
Speaking of failed rebellions and free beverages, I see “One Battle After Another” took the big prize last night. At times I wonder if the Oscars aren’t actually the work of some third-rate TikTok movie critic name of Domhnall O’Scar, an Irish-American knee-walker who decides who gets what depending upon who’s underwriting his bar tab at the moment.
“One Battle After Another,” y’say? (belch) Is tha’ an empty glass I see before me? Yeer a gennl’mun an’ a scholar, sir. Down the hatch and up the rebels! (urp)”
“Periwinkle blue, boys,” the color Mickey the Pikey wanted for his ma’s caravan in “Snatch.”
The Duck! City was smokin’ the day after the State of the Union crashed and burned, reaching a high of 72 degrees — 18 degrees above average.
It’s nice to be above average in something. But still, damn.
The roses are budding and so is everything else. The primates who call this desert home may view with alarm the federal knuckles being dragged into the Colorado River Compact, which remains an insoluable dilemma to its signatories and will join the long list of issues about which His Excremency King Piggy the Sticky-Fingered knows nothing and cares even less.
And Your Humble Narrator, who ordinarily yearns to piss off to someplace toasty about this time of year, finds himself in the awkward position of grumbling about beautiful weather in February.
All of which means — yes, yes, yes — it’s time for a Coconut Telegraph edition of Radio Free Dogpatch. Apologies to the late Jimmy Buffett, from whom I liberated the headline.
• Technical notes: RFD uses the Ethos mic from Earthworks Audio; Audio-Technica ATH-M50X headphones; Zoom H5 Handy Recorder; Rogue Amoeba’s Audio Hijack; Apple’s GarageBand, and Auphonic for a quick wash and brushup. The dog drinking from his dish and the car failing to start come from Freesound. The background music, “Easy Stroll,” is from YouTube’s audio library. Other sound effects are the work of the thirsty, sunburnt, untraveled Irish-American behind the bar at this non-alcoholic pub.
68° yesterday, maybe 63° today … hoo-lawd, this ain’t no way to run a climate, bruh.
It’s barely February and we already have juniper, ash, alder, elm, rumex, and willow pollen blasting us in the nose-holes like ICEholes pepper-spraying citizens.
This makes for fine cycling weather, of course, as long as you’re not drafting someone clearing his beak. The tuque and tights go back in the winter-duds drawer. Ditto the capilene base layers. Out come the short sleeves and arm/knee warmers because, hey, you never know.
But one of the days we’re gonna twist a faucet to fill a water bottle and get nothing but a fart sound, pffffbbbbbffflllhhhh, maybe a little puff of fine sand.
Boy, is Assos ever gonna make bank selling stillsuits.
“Albuquerque? You’re gonna want the Paul-Muad’Dib Signature Model. How much? Ho, ho. If you have to ask, you can’t afford it. Can I interest you in a Liet-Kynes hoodie and a gallon jug of Kwisatz Haderach sunscreen, SPF 666? And maybe a Kleenex?”
Didn’t we just have a full moon? Is God overstocked with these things and blowing them out? Or has He finally run out of patience and put His foot to the floorboard on the road to the End of Days?
This latest celestial spotlight is the Snow Moon, which, ha ha, etc. Yesterday’s high was 61, 10 (!) degrees above normal. Today’s may be warmer still. What little remains from last week’s snow lurks in dark corners, like ICEholes waiting for women and children to push around.
But we were talking about time, not temperature, yes?
Lately it seems that the instant I’ve finished washing the breakfast dishes it’s time to make lunch. Then, with luck, a bit of exercise, and boom! Dinner and bedtime.
Not a lot of unclaimed space therein to, as Whitman put it, “loafe and invite my soul.” My soul won’t even take my calls. Straight to voicemail they go.
Now, some may say that I burn an awful lot of dawn’s early light slobbering around the Internet like an ADHD kid working out on a Tootsie Pop — the National Weather Service, The Paris Review, various and sundry purveyors of products that I don’t need and can’t afford — before finally biting into its center, the homepage of The New York Times, which almost always shares a deep brown hue with, but is very much not, chocolate.
That this drives me to lunch is only because (a) I no longer drink, and (2) I desperately need something to take the taste of the NYT homepage out of my mouth.
Having eaten my way through the fridge and pantry, I feel a pressing need for either sleep or exercise. And exercise it is, because Miss Mia Sopaipilla is in the bed, and if I try to share a corner of that king-size bed with that 8-pound cat she will get right out of it and stalk around the house, meowing at the top of her lungs. She’s deaf as a post and her voice carries.
So out the door I go. And sure, if it’s 55 or 60 out there I’m liable to stay out a while, because see “the homepage of The New York Times” and “meowing at the top of her lungs” above. Last week I got 100 miles in, plus one trail run.
When I get home I’m hungry again for some reason as Herself inspects a gas range atop which dinner is very much not cooking itself with that look on her face that says, “Some people have to go to work in the morning.” I strive mightily to swallow a cheery, “Not me!” And get out in that kitchen and rattle those pots and pans.
And soon dinner is served, as is something less toothsome on TV, and since some people have to go to work in the morning (not me) everyone is in bed by 8 and asleep shortly thereafter.
Tomorrow, as the fella says, is another day. That Tootsie Pop ain’t gonna lick itself.
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