That may be Cthulhu’s eye up there in the clouds. Or it could be the moon.
This is what the eastern sky looked like around 7:30 last night.
“No more monsoons! The end is nigh! Prepare ye for mostly sunny and warmish!”
Which it was. Eighties as I pedaled off nine-ish this morning, and it only got hotter.
Later in the afternoon Herself popped round to the Dark Tower for a window chat with her mom, but couldn’t stick it out more than a few minutes.
Don’t expect her to have a window chat of any duration with Louie Gohmert, though. Not even if the dumb sonofabitch wears a diving helmet and a diaper over his Bug-hole.
It was cloudy around the Crest, but the real action was behind me down below, as I found out when I headed for the barn.
The monsoons have draped themselves over us like a soggy cotton shirt.
It would be nice if the Universe would rearrange its watering schedule. A little bit here and a little bit there instead of all at once, like emptying a thundermug out of a second-story window onto a warbling drunkard.
But nobody in his right mind snivels about rain in the high desert. Not when rivers are drier than a popcorn fart and even the cacti are panting.
I’ve switched bikes — from the Soma Saga (canti) to the Soma Saga (disc) — because the latter still has fenders. I pulled the mudguards and racks off the rim-brake model to make it more of a daily driver than a touring machine.
But the daily driving is different now, so, yeah. I got rained on today. Fenders are your friend.
One hundred days. That’s how close we are to the next U.S. presidential election. And in his weekly newsletter, Charles P. Pierce notes:
We are prepared neither for an election in the middle of a pandemic, nor to cope with the mechanisms being constructed to ratfck an election in the middle of a pandemic, up to and including armed and anonymous troopers on the street corner outside the polling place. And, hell, in a country that seems incapable of doing anything of substance any more anyway, learned helplessness is fairly easy to, well, learn.
Helplessness and hubris may be our two greatest enemies. And they have the full support of the 24/7 news cycle.
“The shit monsoon has swept us all out to sea! Here, you’re gonna need this anvil!”
“What’s that off the port bow? Tom Hanks commanding a destroyer, ready to lead our ragtag convoy to safety? No, it’s just Daffy Uncle Joe in a dinghy, but he hardly stutters at all, and his son’s only a little bit crooked, so no need to panic. Unless you can’t swim.” (Cue the “Jaws” theme.”)
“We’re all fucked!” may be accurate, if only as a self-fulfilling prophecy. But as slogans go, it’s not in a league with “Give me liberty or give me death!”
“But look at the polls!” is likewise unhelpful. Look at them all you want, take whatever solace they may provide. But remember, the only numbers that count are the ones that come out of the actual election. That’s why we hold ’em. To find out who won. Occasionally we are surprised.
Here’s the thing. It’s something of a Zen koan: You can’t bag it. Because it’s not in the bag.
By all means, follow the news and the polls. But not blindly. Keep one eye on the compass and the other on the crew. Some of this lot need a good flogging come Nov. 3. Doesn’t matter who’s captain if the crew’s in mutiny.
And grab an oar. This ain’t “The Love Boat,” matey. No passengers.
A wet brick can be a terrorist weapon in the wrong hands. See something, say something!
The “monsoons” appear to be upon us. A bit late, but better that than never.
Look for the Homeless People’s Diversion Channel Surfing Championships live from Albuquerque on ESPN, as there are no other “sports” available to televise.*
Simultaneously, on CNN, watch the 101st Vanborne Division (“The Squealing Beagles”) take target practice on the hapless channel-surfers using “less-lethal munitions,” formerly dubbed “non-lethal munitions,” a.k.a. rubber bullets, beanbag rounds, IRA recruitment tools, etc.
Survivors will be fished out, charged with domestic terrorism for occupying and/or polluting a waterway, and sentenced to take the “troops” water-skiing.
BUM, bum, BUM, bum. …
“Row, y’bastards!”
* Major League Baseball™ is not a sport. It is a business, like AT&T, Facebook, and the White House.
Waiting on the “provider” at urgent care on Feb. 21. Is it just me, or does “The Provider” sound like a third-tier Marvel superhero?
That’s how long it’s been since I broke my right ankle, getting an early jump (har de har har) on lockdown.
This one-two punch certainly restricted my movement, even without the intervention of the 101st Vanborne, which is said to be en route. Since Feb. 21, I haven’t ventured north of Tramway and Interstate 25, east of Carnuel, south of I-40, or west of Interstate 25.
In an ordinary year I would have hightailed it at least once by now, to Arizona or Colorado. At the very least I would have cycled around the bosque, ridden up to the Triangle, or even tackled a short tour. If the State is going to track me, I want the sonsabitches to work up a sweat.
But 2020 has been anything but ordinary, in terms of personal mobility, global pandemic, and creeping fascism.
Bad ankle! Bad, bad, bad! Get in that boot and stay there, thinking about what you’ve done.
Re: personal mobility. I gassed up the Forester the day before breaking the ankle, but I didn’t fill ’er up again until last Thursday.
This means that in the past five months, I’ve driven maybe 300 miles, which is what I get from a tank of gas when motoring around Albuquerque. Bum ankle notwithstanding, I’m pretty sure I’ve walked more than that.* For sure I’ve cycled more (943.8 miles).
By the way, this cycling mileage is not impressive, even for a 66-year-old gimp. My best week since the mishap saw me ride all of 80 miles. The worst? Three-point-five. Seriously. It was March 7, I was on the trainer with my Darth Bootsy footwear, and I lasted a whole half hour.
The good news is, I’m biking and hiking regularly, and the ankle continues its slow, steady rehabilitation.
The bad news is, I don’t think I can outrun one of those federales in the cammy-jammies if he catches me off the bike. And that dodgy right foot is the one I use to kick annoyances in the balls.
* OK, so I’ve only walked 123.7 miles. I had to check.
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