We got 0.28 inch of rain yesterday in about 28 seconds, so, ’ray for us.
The deluge will not resolve our water issues, though it ended the struggles of at least one poor soul whose last known address was a washout down near Edith and Roy.
We stayed indoors where it couldn’t get us. Well, mostly.
Herself took her chances with an early run. I held out hope for a bike ride, and if I’d moved fast I could’ve had one, too.
But fast is not my speed. So instead of risking a good soaking I dithered, waffled, and procrastinated, and then finally tottered out for a short run and never even got my shoes damp, though at one point I was jogging up a sandy arroyo that feeds into that long flume ride downtown.
“Roll him back to makeup, someone screwed up the spray tan. Also, more lipstick. Maybe that’ll help.”
Here it is Feb. 1 in the Year of Our Lard 2025. The last 11 days of January were chock-full of chuckles, and I anticipate even more of same going forward.
Yesterday I got out for a leisurely 90-minute ride in pleasant weather, which helped. The 45-minute run is fine, as far as it goes, which is not very. But I need at least twice that to slap some of the rabies out of the Voices in my head, get them all singing more or less on key and in harmony rather than screeching at random like banshees with the piles. They resist gentle persuasion, and believe me, you don’t want to get bitten.
Meanwhile, the Dingaling Bros-Barnum & Beelzebozo Circus Rolling Blunder Revue thunders along. The Junior Stalinists are erasing Centers for Disease Control and Prevention data because DEI, whipping tariffs on all and sundry (adios, avocados), and releasing water from storage in California because … who the fuck knows why? Not the water wizards, that’s for sure. (A tip of the ol’ swim cap to Kevin Drum for the intel).
I could go on — and on, and on, and on — but won’t. Remember, it”s a marathon, not a sprint. Maybe an ultramarathon. Barefoot, uphill, into the wind, on a rocky trail bordered by cacti and speckled with bear scat and broken glass. Let’s pace ourselves.
Clouds we got, sometimes. Rain, snow? Not so much.
The mornings are chilly in these early days of the Year of Our Lard 2025, but once the sun finally creeps over the Sandias, shortly before 9, things warm up considerably. The weather wizards predict a high of 60° today.
Yes, I said 60°. Six-oh degrees Fahrenheit. In January.
Miss Mia would like to invite the birds to dinner.
Good for the healthful outdoor exercise, for those of us who take it. Unless we’re talking skiing. Also, not so much for the plants and wildlife and drinking water come summer. See John Fleck for more.
In the meantime, we need not bundle up like the Michelin Man for running and riding so far this winter. It’s been so unseasonably warm that my brother geezers, who ordinarily are traveling to ski or working out in the gym, have called a ride for today.
In the early afternoon, of course. No need to wear the hair shirt. We are not children, with their barely tested HVAC systems fresh from the factory.
Meanwhile, Miss Mia Sopaipilla gets to bird-watch at the patio door, where I scatter a little seed for the house finches and dark-eyed juncos who don’t feel like battling the bigger birds at our feeders.
There’s a little bit of Sylvester and Tweety Bird going on there in her little mind. Bad ol’ puddy tat. …
In other news, the cuckoos in the House of Reprehensibles nearly give their Squeaker the bird. Says NYT’s Carl Hulse: “House Republicans certainly relish their internal drama.” Dinner theater for the insane.
Our friendly neighborhood water wizard John Fleck got to make a big wake by the boat dock in The New York Times this morning, taking California to task for “trying to protect its outsized water supply at the expense of others in the region. …”
Those others, in case you were wondering, include Your Humble Narrator and his friends and neighbors in New Mexico, Colorado, and Arizona.
John writes:
If we approach the challenge with a sense of fairness and shared sacrifice it will be possible to save the West that we know and love.
From your lips to God’s ears, as my people say. What was the line about learning to share in kindergarten? Maybe California needs some remedial education. That juicy Colorado River pie has become something of a dried-out shit sandwich, and we’re all going to have to take a bite.
Check out the entire essay, and follow John over at his own little adobe hacienda on the banks of the Great Digital River.
I guess we can leave the skinny skis in the garage.
Well, it must be true, if both The New York Times and The Washington Post simultaneously catch up to the sad story about Rio Verde Foothills, where dreams go to die in the dust.
It’s an old story, with the new wrinkle being Scottsdale finally putting a cork in water sales to Rio Verde, saying it had to consider its own residents first and foremost. From the WaPo:
“The city cannot be responsible for the water needs of a separate community especially given its unlimited and unregulated growth,” the city manager’s office wrote in December.
The stories share a squeaky wheel — Cody Reim, who has a wife and four kids, works for the family’s sheet-metal business, and is looking at a water bill that could surpass the tab for his mortgage, when he’s not chatting up the national press. Again, from the WaPo:
“I thought, this is the United States of America, we do so much in humanitarian aid to other countries that don’t have water, they’re not going to let taxpaying citizens of this county go without water,” he said.
“You don’t think this could happen,” he added. “You have this belief that there’s going to be help.”
I have sympathy for the Reim family. Like them, we chose to live in a sandbox — the northern edge of the Chihuahuan Desert — and our water gets humped uphill to El Rancho Pendejo via a series of pumping stations. If we paid what this liquid gold is actually worth, or had to fetch it here by bike or burro, you can bet your ass we’d use a lot less of it.
Either that or we’d move to where the water is. Yet here we are.
Deciding to build your base camp in the desert is magical thinking going toe to toe with mathematics. As John Fleck observes in his ongoing Dead Pool Diaries, decent runoff this year will not change the fact that Colorado River water is overallocated and always has been.
“It’s just arithmetic!” he says.
If God wanted us here, He would’ve stored more agua fria under the rocks and cacti. But clearly He wasn’t expecting quite so much company.
“Hey, you come to the desert to get wisdom, 40 days and nights, tops. And then you go back where you came from. You silly sods never went back.”
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