Hal Walter and Spike in 2000, after winning what I believe was their second world pack-burro championship in Fairplay, Colo.
My man Hal “Mr. Awesome” Walter, who races burros and raises an autistic son, is the subject of a profile over to Narrative.ly, just in time for Father’s Day.
You might think that managing what Hal prefers to call a “neurodiverse” child would be heavy lifting. But like burro racing, it has more to do with endurance, which just happens to be the title of a newish short book the man is hawking between his other chores.
Like father, like son: Young Harrison has his very own burro circa 2005.
Hal and I first met back in the Eighties on the copy desk of The Pueblo Chieftain, where we also dealt with varying degrees of neurodiversity and as a consequence enhanced our capacities to endure just about anything.
I went on to become an extraordinarily prosaic amateur cyclist while professionally lampooning leg-shavers, dope fiends, and leg-shaving dope fiends, while Hal became a world-champion pack-burro racer and author.
But we’ve remained friends despite our class differences, and thus I recommend that you read the profile and buy the book.
It was a wee bit hazy with a scent of smoke in the air as Mister Boo enjoyed his promenade this morning.
Smokin’ hot in the Duke City this morning, and for the immediate future as well.
We have a nice little fire cooking away down southeast of here, and a couple others elsewhere. The smell of a forest burning revives a memory of our storied Bibleburg days and provides a preview of my anticipated afterlife.
Taking a few hot laps around the Elena Gallegos Open Space on the Jones 29er.
The heat is tough on the turf, which is slightly scorched due to someone not noticing that a sprinkler head had gone sideways. (Thanks, Obama!)
And it’s no party for the pets, all three of whom have whiled away the day sleeping. Mister Boo is barely interested in his meals, which ordinarily would be a sign of the Apocalypse but in this case indicates that it’s just too bloody hot to eat.
Or cook, for that matter. Last night Herself and I dined on a hunk of smoked salmon, sharp cheddar, crackers and a big-ass salad (note the crucial hyphen there; a big ass salad would be something else entirely).
Tonight I think it’s gonna be some hot Italian sausage, onions and peppers, a tomatoey, garlicky thing, perhaps over orecchiette, a pasta I’m really starting to appreciate.
Elsewhere The Stupid is swelling like a boil on the buttocks of the body politic. Sen. John McInsane (R-Off My Lawn) is spastically trying to walk back a brain-dead crack he made about Obama’s responsibility for the massacre in Orlando (time for your meds, some soup and a nice nap, Johnny me boyo). And Rumor Control hints that Cheeto Jesus may be less interested in the presidency than in his own cable network.
Seriously? We’ve all watched the GOP sawing feebly away at its skinny wrists with a butter knife for eight long years. Suddenly Ronald McDonald McTrump accelerates the process with a “Game of Thrones” flourish that leaves 16 heads rolling in the aisles, and all he wants for his trouble is a fucking job in TV?
Well, son, that’s one hell of an opening act. But what d’ye do for an encore?
Miss Mia Sopaipilla would like to know if it’s safe to come out now. Because if it’s not, she can stay right where she is and have her meals delivered.
Another mass shooting, this time in a Florida nightclub. Prepare yourselves for the tales told by idiots, full of sound and fury, signifying nothing, in 3, 2, 1. …
I expect the official mugshot will look a good deal different than this homemade job.
The Kalamazoo County prosecutor has brought charges against the suspect in the June 7 crash that killed five cyclists and injured four others.
Charles Pickett Jr. faces five counts of second-degree murder and four of reckless driving causing serious impairment. As I suspected earlier, Chuckles seems to have some sort of a medical condition his own bad self.
And what a lovely fellow he appears to be, too. Fine Christian gent, judging by his neckwear. I’m thinking something in a nice rope might suit him better, though.
Mad Blog Media 