This is not the work of Hurricane Hilary, which should carve a much wider swath through the high desert.
COVID finally came for Ken Layne of Desert Oracle Radio. But he did his usual Friday-night stint at the Z107.7 FM mic anyway, and you can catch the podcast of same at all the usual places.
“Some people say you should not do your radio show when you’re sick in the head. But I am not one of those people,” he explains.
Layne is waiting for Hurricane Hilary to visit the Mojave — it’s something new for a lot of the local desert rats, but as an old Nawlins hand he knows a little something about rigging for heavy weather.
This week’s episode is heavy on advice for riding out the storm. But he also recounts his bout with The Bug, a random prowler testing his door, and the apparent death and resurrection of a big ol’ spiny desert lizard who is a regular on his patio (but not the radio show).
“Be careful, friends,” Layne advises, adding, “And once you’re prepared, it’s time to hunker down. Enjoy the excitement — nobody ever says that on the weather report — but it’s exciting. It’s real life, it’s right here. No Netflix necessary.”
No excitement for us here in The Duck! City — Hilary will be giving us a miss — but we might catch a little wind burn from her passage. I guess it’s Netflix for us. How about you?
There are moments when the summertime heat feels almost bearable. Say, when there are no pressing matters and a pool sits nearby. There is an iced beverage sweating in a tall glass and a broad umbrella throwing a soupçon of shade. Someone else is picking up the tabs.
But even then. …
When I was a kid on Randolph AFB the San Antonio summers were murderous. Crouch under the Fedders window unit and play board games or haunt the officers’ club pool like a toasty ghost.
Tucson? Don’t get me started. I drove a 1974 Datsun pickup with no air conditioning, and my guest-house rental (also sans a/c) was a long, slow-rolling, late-afternoon drive from The Arizona Daily Star, where I labored in dubious battle with Young Republicans and old fascists.
Mostly I passed my days at the pool there, too. Not at the Star; at the University of Arizona, where the coeds weren’t yelling at me all the time unless they caught me drooling.
Now here I am in The Duck! City, where everything I do makes life hotter and the windows of opportunity are quickly closed and curtained against the sun.
Cycling. Running. Cooking. Especially cooking. Sometimes I feel as though it’s me browning in the skillet.
Not an early riser by nature, I find myself compelled to rush through the morning’s rituals so I can get out and back in while Tōnatiuh is still warming up in the bullpen.
Coffee. The New York Times, The Washington Post, The Guardian, the Albuquerque Journal. More coffee, with toast this time. The litter box. Not for me, for Miss Mia, who has already been in there a time or two while I was ethering my sputtering carburetor. Then the baño for me.
A bite of breakfast — yogurt with granola, oatmeal with nuts and dried fruit, a mandarine, or some combination of these. No tea, it’s already too hot, and we don’t want to overclock the old CPU. Dole out some water to the parched foliage.
And then — hey, what’s that sound, everybody look, what’s going down? — it’s raining. Not for long, not in any quantity (0.01 inch), and it evaporates from the chip-seal in the cul-de-sac before the echo of the raindrops fades.
But still. Music to the ears. Maybe I’ll have that cup of tea after all.
Almost a quarter-inch of rain in the past 48 hours! We’ll happily take this little gift from the gods, especially since there’s a chance the Rio will run dry again this year thanks to (a) dust on snow and (2) no storage for the early snowmelt.
The day dawned gray and gloomy, but by noontime Tlaloc had shut off the water works, and I was feeling a tad cabin-feverish and a bit peckish all simultaneous-like.
“Should we go for a jiggety-jog or segue straight into lunch?” I asked Herself.
Herself didn’t actually address Your Humble Narrator in this disrespectful fashion, of course.
The “fat bastard” line is from “The Full Monty” and spoken by the slender Gaz, who is taunting portly Dave during a run as they try to get in shape for a one-off gig as bargain-basement Chippendales.
The original flick also contains a memorable line from Dave: “Anti-wrinkle cream there may be, but anti-fat-bastard cream there is none.”
If that pulls a Team Cinzano on the old bikey ridey for a couple of days it’s tough titty for Your Humble Narrator because The Duck! City’s flora and fauna need the moisture. Just because the feds and the Colorado Water Compact states are talking to each other doesn’t mean they’re listening.
Also, weather like this is why Odin invented SKS fenders. And running shoes.
In other news:
• The Journal devoted a little ink to the demise of the Bike Coop; nothing we didn’t already know, but still, damn.
• Another item you’ve probably already seen: A lone cyclist heckles the Patriot Front peacocks in DeeCee and a grateful nation thanks him. If you haven’t seen it yet, be sure to check out the video. The PF parade looks like a community-college production of “Springtime for Hitler” in Gator Bait, Florida.
• And finally, Save the Elena Gallegos wins a second round in its battle with The Duck! City over its plan to erect a “visitor/education center” in our beloved open space, where Your Humble Narrator frequently recreates. The place gets plenty visitors as it is and we have the Internets for education, thanks all the same.
Mad Blog Media 