The clouds over the Sandias look to be answering the bell for round two.
It rained and hailed like a mad bastard for a spell yesterday, the first moisture to make landfall here in the better part of quite some time. Fifty-four days, to be precise.
The trees lost a few leaves, and the Duke City lost at least one resident, who got swept to the next world via the North Diversion Channel. Firefighters rescued five other folks from various places they shouldn’t have oughta been. Water don’t play, yo.
We might get some more today, and we might not. Regardless, don’t expect to see me loading up the woody with my board inside, heading out and singing my song. I have other, drier diversions in mind.
I had just about decided to step out for a run when the rain talked me out of it. Instead I’m making green chile stew. Manaña, baby.
Hoo-boy. It may be raining here, but I bet the actual water is landing at Hal’s place up Weirdcliffe way, because the wind is flat-out howling out of the south.
If you haven’t had a real beer for five years, a fake one tastes remarkably like beer.
Herself went back to work today and it’s just me and the cats here.
There’s a dog-shaped hole in the kitchen, which feels like an abandoned house.
But it’ll warm up a tad when I start making some green chile stew. It always gladdened The Boo’s hungry little heart to see me moving around and about in his living room, laying hands on knife, pot and cutting board.
And y’know what? I may even have a beer with it. Non-alcoholic, of course. Surely I must be training for something.
• Late update: From Esquire (where else?) comes this list of “tasty near beers that don’t suck.”
It was gloomy around here the past couple days, and not just for the obvious reason. The weather finally turned and we got something like a half-inch of rain; a long, steady soaking.
Something seems dreadfully wrong with this picture.
Even the normally stoic Turk grew unsettled, first spending an unusual amount of time under the bed, and then following me around like bad news.
This morning he was finally back to his routine: yowling outside the bedroom door when he’s decided that I’ve logged enough shuteye; jumping into bed for a brief cuddle; and finally nodding off as the sun crept over the Sandias.
Herself is easing back into business as usual, hitting her workout classes and fencing with the taxman, whose clammy hand is even less welcome in our pockets than usual.
Mia performs her one-cat show “Sit Like a Cat,” based on a poem from the Ted Kooser-Jim Harrison collection “Braided Creek”:
We should sit like a cat and wait for the door to open.
And the unflappable Miss Mia Sopaipilla, who came to us from the same shelter that gave us Mister Boo, continues to provide some much-needed comic relief. The other day it was zazen on my drawing stool; this morning it was mortal combat with a long-forgotten toy mouse.
Me? You’d think I should be chronicling some velo-business for fun and profit, what with CABDA just concluded and Frostbike, NAHBS and 24 Hours in the Old Pueblo ongoing.
But I’m not, so maybe I’ll go for a ride instead.
• Editor’s note: Gassho and deep bows to one and all for your condolences following the passing of Mister Boo. Sifting through the piles of photos and videos depicting the sprightly young Boo of days gone by, and seeing the pleasure his presence provided beyond our own household, helped us remember the good times, bright moments that often fade under the harsher light of day-to-day caregiving.
Well, kinda, sorta. Still, it was enough for the National Weather Service to declare an end — or at least an intermission — to the fifth longest dry streak since 1891.
“All in all, it’s nothing to write home about,” said NWS meteorologist Randall Hergert.
Oh, I dunno. Maybe a quick email:
Dear Mom,
Not on fire. Yet. Please send fire-retardant jammies for my birthday.
Love,
Patrick
Elsewhere, I see Steve Bannon is at loose ends. Never fear, he’ll land on his feet. Just as soon as he pulls them out of his mouth.
And the Republicans aren’t waiting around to get tossed out like Sloppy Steve. They’re running — not for re-election, but for the exits. Even Obama’s bestie Darrell Issa has seen the light, the way a roach does right before it scuttles under the stove.
Meanwhile, what the fuck is it with The New York Times and its pix of elevator doors closing on fascists? Cut that shit out. Seriously. You can bring the concept back when it’s lids closing on coffins.
It rained all day, which is a good thing, and not just because we live in a desert, either.
Nope, I had things to do, and still have, among them a column and cartoon for Bicycle Retailer and Industry News and a bicycle review for Adventure Cyclist.
Thus it was best that I be confined to quarters and required to pay attention.
Elsewhere, the deluge — no, not the rain, but the shit monsoon that is the reign of King Donald the Short-fingered — continues unabated. His family crest should be a tiny hand stirring a golden toilet with the motto, “L’merde, c’est moi.”
So we’ll ignore that fool and link instead to an interesting read from Cormac McCarthy on the unconscious and its distrust of language. Hardly anyone gets killed horribly in it, but I’ll tell you, he makes me feel like a haunted house.
Mad Blog Media 