Barbarians at the gates

Semper felinus.

An old friend and colleague, Steve Frothingham of Bicycle Retailer and Industry News, popped round for a short visit yesterday, bringing his special lady Diane and their two largish dogs.

The chair recognizes the Minister for Photography.

Field Marshal Turkish von Turkenstein (commander, 1st Feline Home Defense Regiment) immediately declared a red alert, and he and aide-de-camp Miss Mia Sopaipilla stationed themselves at the sliding glass door leading to the back patio, both of them puffed up to Death Star size.

Mister Boo, a 4-F, conscientious objector and suspected canine sympathizer, was interned in the kitchen, where he sang “Kumbaya” softly to himself before nodding off to dream of lunch, snacks and dinner.

Once the invaders had retreated the all-clear was sounded and the commander and his staff assumed a more relaxed defense posture. That is all.

Abyss in ya

The high point of today’s outing, just below the Sandia Tram.

“And when you look long into an abyss, the abyss also looks into you.”—Friedrich Wilhelm Nietzsche, “Beyond Good and Evil”

Screw the abyss, I said, and went for a ride. And what a fine idea it was, too.

It was sunny and warmish out there, away from the Mac, and grew more so. I’m still reviewing the Fuji Touring Disc for Adventure Cyclist, and thus it’s the go-to machine for any bike rides out of El Rancho Pendejo, unless I absolutely, positively must have some dirt time.

I can’t stay gone for long. The Boo has been showing signs of the Dogzheimer’s and frequently forgets the difference between indoors and outdoors, with deleterious consequences for the brick floors and carpets. I kennel him when I leave, but that’s no guarantee that I won’t come home to a mess. And confining him to quarters means he can march around in any messes that he makes. I should get him some little Wellingtons to wear in the slammer.

So, yeah. Short rides, two hours or less. But still, it beats watching everybody in America be revealed as a perv’, fascist, false prophet, lickspittle, tinpot dictator, coward, fool or some combination thereof.

His August Majesty

The Boo is all sleek and shiny and very interested in whatever it is that Herself is holding in her hand while that other person clicks the shutter.

Mister Boo has had his monthly wash and brush-up and feels much better about himself, though he was less than amused to be all dressed up with nowhere to go for the first half of today (one of his varlets got hauled into court again).

Yes, once again they called my name, and once again I was marched upstairs to a courtroom. But this time we actually enjoyed a spot of voir dire as both defense and prosecution sought to pick a crew that wouldn’t give them a pain in the pinstripes.

Nearly 350 people got rounded up today, and 46 of us were in the pool for this trial, a criminal matter that actually sounded interesting until a couple potential jurors began expounding on their knowledge of the Law According to Too Much Television.

Then I began praying for mercy and lo! My prayers were answered.

“Go thou forth, yet check thee back at 4:30 every afternoon,” they said. “Thou still owest us eight days.”

Well done, Yahweh*

A snapshot from the cul-de-sac last evening, at the conclusion of The Boo’s walk.

Albuquerque has its problems, to be sure. Joblessness, crime, drivers who should not be permitted to operate grocery-store scooters … but it flat brings the sunset.

* The headline is from Ed Abbey’s “The Monkey Wrench Gang,” which featured another elderly, bearded weirdo from Albuquerque.