You can’t make this shit up. “Liz Bourgeois?” Yeah, right. Who’s her supervisor, Heywood Jablomie?
Less bushwa
Category: Fire
Ash hole
With Labor Day in the rear-view mirror, we’re on the fast, winding descent to fall, the election, winter, The Fear, and the decline and fall of western civilization.
And now here’s Patrick with the weather!
We got a surprise visit from someone’s wildfire smoke last evening, probably Santa Fe’s. Though it could’ve come all the way from California or Colorado, where my sister reported from Fort Fun that clouds of noxious smoke from the Cameron Peak Fire turned day into night.
“We have also had lots of ash falling,” she added.
Here we got only smoke, which made the setting sun look like the devil’s fiery bunghole. The pic doesn’t begin to do it justice. It was as red as the business end of a plutocrat’s cigar as he’s telling you to clear out your desk and hit the bricks.
This morning the sky has an odd, flat, metallic sheen, and the Duke City is enjoying an air-quality alert, though we don’t have to cut it with a knife and chew 20 times before swallowing the way they do out to Californy. It must be tough to sell real estate when so much of it is floating around in the sky.
Ash Thursday?
A fine haze hovered above the Rio as I hiked around the Foothills trails yesterday.
And come evening, all that vaporized forest certainly made for a thrilling sunset.
The photo really doesn’t do it justice. The sun was as red as Sauron’s Eye, and it vanished long before the actual horizon in an impenetrable cloud of smoke. Whether it came from the Medio fire near Santa Fe or one of the many, many others scattered around the West, I have no idea.
I had been thinking about a nice long road ride this morning, but now I’m not so sure. I like my air a little less chewy.
An example from the monkey*
Well, we don’t have any fire tornadoes swirling through the neighborhood, so I’m gonna go out on a limb and call it a pretty pleasant day.
Herself was busy with this, that, and the other, so I slipped out for a solo ride on the old DBR Prevail TT, which doesn’t see much daylight anymore.
It was my road-racing bike Back in the Day®, when I still did what I called “road racing” and actual road racers called “getting shelled.” So it was a pleasant change from the usual 32-pound touring machine. Even a no-hoper like me feels frisky on a 20-pound bike.
So we climbed some hills, and then some more hills, and I didn’t even need the 34×25, because I’d left a dozen pounds of bike back in the garage.
Meanwhile, the Democrats have their own hill to climb starting tomorrow. I don’t see a virtual convention crushing it, eyeballs-wise. The traditional dog-and-another-dog show has rarely been what I’d call must-see TV. Not even the Yippies could put some zip into this mutt.
Anyway, the GOP has stolen their best bit, what with running a pig for president not once, but twice.
* “The higher it climbs, the more you see of its behind. — St. Bonaventure, “Conferences on the Gospel of John.”
Fire on the mountain
Somebody, man, god, or devil, got careless with combustibles here in the ’hood last night.
Details are elusive, but somehow a hillside about a mile from us got lit up at stupid-thirty last night, while we were abed.
The smoke-eaters must’ve gotten right on top of the thing because the evacuees were all back in their homes in a matter of hours. And this morning things seemed to be in the mopping-up stage.
Not what you like to see as the weather heats up ahead of a Fourth of July weekend. In fact, not what you like to see, period.
Mad Blog Media 