Goddamn acid flashbacks. Where the hell am I now? Xanadu? Hobbiton? Oz? Oh, whew, just the back yard. I was afeared I’d stumble across Ann Coulter with a house on top of her.
Archive for the ‘Spring’ Category
Welcome to the earliest vernal equinox since 1896, according to EarthSky.
The vernal equinox is named for Vern, the ancient Roman god of aeration. The illegitimate offspring of the lesser deities Benadryl, god of drying up, and Kleenex, god of mopping up, Vern (like Your Humble Narrator) had a small but entirely deranged following; his was dedicated to perforating nouns, which is to say people, places and things. Especially people.
The conspirators who did for Julius Caesar were all dedicated Vernalites, though they claimed afterward that their knifework was intended to permit vital fluids to gain entrance rather than draining them.
Indeed, among the Vernalites a certain belligerent thickheadedness was considered a blessing rather than a curse, and today we can find their descendants manning customer-service “help” desks, hosting the morning drive-time “zoo” at local radio stations, and running for president on the GOP ticket.
It was a quiet St. Patrick’s Day around El Rancho Pendejo, as you might expect from my previous post.
We had the previous owner of the place over for a glass of wine with Herself — Kathy is the green-thumbed person who planted the lovely flowers that are just beginning to pop up for a look-see — and we caught up on this and that, discussed the parlous state of the Republic, and in general had a delightful early evening.
I’d had a pot of Irish stew simmering on the fire, and invited Kathy to join us, but she had other plans. So it was just the two of us nibbling away in front of the tube — season one of “Orange Is the New Black,” which is OK but so far no “Breaking Bad,” thanks all the same. (Yeah, we’re late to the popular-culture party again.)
Today I need to log a little saddle time, if I can ever stop blowing my nose (honk). Still, could be worse. Here the temps may inch up toward the 70-degree mark. Back in Bibleburg, it’s snowing.
Snerk. Hyeenk. Björk. Honnnnk. Fwwaaaaahhhh.
Why, yes, it is allergy season. Thanks for asking.
The sprinkler system developed multiple personality disorder this morning, and while I was puzzling out the operation of the controller with the help of an iPad Mini and much bad language I noticed that spring, like fascism, seems to be creeping up on us.
More spring, please. And less fascism.
This is the first day of spring? So where’s the sun?
Frankly, I’m stumped.
And yes, I know, nobody in his right mind living in a desert climate complains about rain. But right mind and I have not shared the same ZIP code for the better part of quite some time. And I have bicycles that are badly in need of riding.
The good news is, after today and tonight we’re looking at a stretch of sunny and 70s. The better news? We don’t live in New York City.
… I finally got Herself out on a bike.
Why, yes, I think it might sprinkle a bit. Why do you ask?
And later, it did.
Herself and I spent some quality time together this morning, cleaning up the wreckage from yesterday’s blitzkrieg hailstorm.
I had to get up on the roof to broom off some of the detached greenery (and clear the gutters while I was at it). And then we set about collecting the stuff on the ground. This was about the time I decided that owning two-fifths of the block was something of a giant pain in the ass, or more specifically, the lower back.
We filled one of those big rolling trash bins and another smaller can with salad and sticks before saying the hell with it and going back indoors for lunch, after which we lost interest more or less permanently, especially since it looks like another storm may be blowing in here directly.
In other news, poor Cuddles lost his pretty pink shirt in the Giro. He has one flat stage for liver-gnawing purposes, tomorrow, before the ground tilts upward and the shit gets serious. Should be fun to watch. Rigoberto Uran Ran Ran Ran Da Doo Ran Ran looked tougher ‘n’ whang leather out there today, and taking time back from him will be like trying to steal stupid from Louie Gohmert.
Well, that was a spot of fun. A massive hailstorm just roared through and beat the mortal shit out of every tree in the ‘hood.
Our house looks like Odin was displeased with dinner and threw his salad at it. The House Back East™, likewise.
I’m no arborist, so I have no idea how well, or if, our silver maple will recover from the pounding it took. Damn, I love that tree, too.
True to form, the sun is now out and it’s sandals-and-shorts weather.