The Waldo Canyon fire, as seen from a couple blocks west of Chez Dog.
Sonofabitch. Now we’ve got a live one encroaching upon greater cosmopolitan Bibleburg.
Dubbed the Pyramid Mountain fire, it started somewhere near Waldo Canyon and is already estimated at some 600 acres. An assortment of mandatory and voluntary beat-it orders are in place for west- and north-siders, but at the moment it seems the prevailing winds are pushing the thing north and west, so Your Humble Narrator is not in danger — at the moment, anyway — of becoming a hot dog, har har.
The fire has been declared a federal emergency, and renowned feddle-gummint rassler Dougie Lamborn (R-Hypocrisy) reportedly “stands ready to assist if federal resources are required.” In light of the serious nature of the event I’ll refrain from delivering the obvious ironic rimshot.
More as we hear it.
• Late update: The fire is now officially named for Waldo Canyon (no “Where’s Waldo? jokes, please), and late word is that it’s torched a couple thousand acres and displaced about as many people. Nobody hurt so far, according to the local rumormongers, which is good. You can replace burned-up people, just like you can replace burned-up stuff, but the process takes longer and the outcome is uncertain.
The winds seem to have died down, but it’s always creepy to look at the sky at 9:30 p.m. and see peach-colored clouds and a moon that looks like an orange slice from some kid’s Halloween candy haul.
Jeebus. Four days of record-breaking heat in Bibleburg and more on the way. Lord, I know it was supposed to be the fire next time — I just wasn’t expecting it so soon.
Speakings of fires, have I mentioned that we’ve got ’em out the wazoo? Up near Lake George, around Fort Collins, at Pagosa Springs and around Mesa Verde, for starters.
The Springer fire near Lake George is thought to have been human-caused, if you can describe as “human” one or more of the lesser primates banging away at a propane tank with the old smokepole. Yes, that’s the rumor behind the news, as The Firesign Theatre would put it. And the crazier the rumor, the greater the likelihood that it’s true. We also have a serial arsonist lighting up the roadside grasses in Teller County. Good times.
The menagerie and I are left alone to endure this smoky pestilence, Herself having pissed off to Mouse Country for some class of library confab at which they all dress severely, put their hair up in buns and practice the hissing of “Shh!” at each other. Just as well, I suppose, as the metaphorical flames of multiple deadlines are licking around my feet and I can’t seem to stomp them out fast enough, which makes me unpleasant company.
And at least we still have a pot to piss in and a window to throw it out of, unlike a whole bunch of folks up in Larimer County, whose homes are now portable, fitting neatly into their cars’ ashtrays. Makes a shit monsoon feel like a gentle summer rain.
Here in Bibleburg, the unemployment rate nudged up to 9.2 percent in April, considerably worse than the statewide average of 7.9 percent, which is only marginally better than the 8.2 percent rate nationwide. The figures indicate that more than 28,000 of my friends and neighbors were looking for work, while an unknown number have simply given up the hunt.
And the folks who are supposed to be empowered to have a go at doing something about this? They’re too busy running for office, running from their records, or simply running their mouths.
As Charles P. Pierce notes: “We have 300,000 long-term unemployed who, all evidence indicates, their government largely has abandoned, and about whom their country’s corporate landlords could care even less. Perhaps this isn’t the best time in history for the president to be boasting regularly about how much federal spending he’s cut.”
Charles, a wiser and funnier man than I, warns that the prez “cannot win re-election on the merits if he’s mixing pale middle-class nostrums with deficit-hawk snake oil.” Troo dat, Brother Pierce. If enough Donks and indies get depressed, say “Fuck it” and stay home on Election Day, leaving Teh Crazy to jerk levers from San Fran to Savannah, we will be enjoying the tender mercies of President Romney come 2013.
Back in the day I had a dog, name of Jojo. Leave a door or a window ajar and Jojo would shoot through it like a bottle rocket, a decidedly unguided missile.
He would come home, eventually, looking like he had been shot at and missed, and shit at and hit. But he always seemed to have had a good time.
Jojo never learned much from me. But I clearly learned something from him, because every time a window opens … well, you get the idea.
My window opened yesterday, and I shot through it with the idea of cycling through Pueblo to Penrose, there to stay at a nearby hot springs overnight before returning to El Rancho del Perro Loco to ride herd on the cats, Herself having planned to toddle off to Texas with Buddy to visit family.
What the hell? It was only 80-some-odd miles, and who cares if I get the traditional late start, as in 10:30 a.m.?
Riding the trail south from Bibleburg through Fountain beats the hell out of the alternatives — Interstate 25 or Highway 85/87.
Well, me, for starters, once I finally got to Pueblo three hours later after fighting a headwind all the way with a couple dozen pounds of this and that lashed to the rack of my Soma Double Cross. It was 98 degrees at Bingo Burger, the skies were looking decidedly ominous toward the west, and despite having packed and consumed three bottles I was so dry I was farting dust.
I slammed two IZZE Grapefruits with my burger and fries, reloaded my bottles with water and ice, took one more look westward — goddamnit, the wind is out of the west now! — and made a command decision: Fuck Penrose, I’m staying in the Hampton Inn & Suites, where there is air conditioning, a swimming pool and a liquor store within walking distance.
Plus I got Hilton points, which also scores points with Herself. This is important if one is not supposed to be staying in a motel in the first place.
This morning I got up bright and early, took advantage of the Hampton’s free breakfast, and snagged Herself via cell phone en route to Texas as I departed. We met, I took Buddy for a quick walk, Herself took herself for one too, and we agreed that we would not kill me until she came home.
An old railroad bridge paralleling Old Pueblo Road near the fabled Hanover Loop, a death march of a ride favored by the Mad Dogs back in the Nineties.
My ride north was a good deal easier, though longer. It helps if one starts before the sun is on full fry-the-fat-guy mode.
• Extra-credit bonus snark: The movie “Unstoppable” is one of the silliest flicks it has been my misfortune to stumble across with a remote control, a mild case of heatstroke and a six-pack of Odell’s 5 Barrel Pale Ale in an air-conditioned motel 30 miles from where I had intended to park myself for the evening. I actually have been hit by a train, and I would gladly endure that indignity again if only I could be driving a bus containing everyone responsible for this miserable piece of shit as we hit the crossing in front of old Triple-7 doing 70 per.
Mad Blog Media 