Category: drought

Weather is here, wish you were beautiful

~ Patrick O'Grady ~ 15 Comments
“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.

Desert rat

~ Patrick O'Grady ~ 15 Comments
Don’t tease us with these puffballs, fellas.

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?”

Adios, January

~ Patrick O'Grady ~ 8 Comments
The Colorado River Basin states aren’t having much luck squeezing water from the rocks. Or each other.

January has finally wobbled off into the desert, sunburnt and mumbling to itself.

“55 degrees? Seriously?”

When last seen January was clad in short sleeves and knickers, with one half-full bidon, which will not be enough as the Colorado River Basin states squabble over how to divvy up the water that isn’t there.

I mean, shit, it’s already 46° here in Duck!Burg as February starts applying the SPF 70 and it’s all of 10:15 a.m. The Year of Our Lard 2026 looks like a long, dry ride for some of us. Maybe all of us.

In the Carolinas, meanwhile, my man Clyde DePoynter reports snow and wind and a lack of natural gas that has him feeding the wood stove like Casey Jones’ fireman shoveling coal, trying to get the mail to Mississippi. He was keeping toasty by watching the UCI cyclocross world championships in the Netherlands via VPN.

No spoilers here — but if you missed the live action and would like some recorded highlights, well, FloBikes and YouTube have ’em.

After the deluge

~ Patrick O'Grady ~ 10 Comments
Splashed stucco with a side of piñon.

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.

Then, later that afternoon, boom, down it came.

The Rolling Blunder Revue

~ Patrick O'Grady ~ 2 Comments
“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.