It being St. Me Day, and with a nod to The New York Times for its story on how the DOGEbags have been taking a shillelagh to the National Nuclear Security Administration — which is said to have lost “a huge cadre of scientists, engineers, safety experts, project officers, accountants and lawyers — all in the midst of its most ambitious endeavors in a generation” — we present The Bothy Band performing, “Old Hag You Have Killed Me.”
Tag: St. Patrick’s Day
Paddywhacked
’Tis a fine soft St. Patrick’s Day morning so.
After a 24-hour sandblasting — I’m talking wind in the 30-mph area with gusts approaching 50 — we finally got a drop of rain to refresh the greenery without the need to crank up our irrigation system, tapping the invisible water that’s always in such short supply around here.
Now it appears to be snowing. Yay, etc.
Not snowing snowing, mind you. Not like it has been in Colorado or California. Hijo, madre. This borders on too much of a good thing, unless you’re a skier, or a yeti. Or perhaps an overdeveloped and underwatered desert community downstream from ski country.
What we’d like is a nice blanket that soaks into the sod before the wind can blow it to Hell. Water wizard John Fleck calls this “sublimation,” which means “the loss of snow straight to atmospheric drying without [it] ever having a chance to melt and make it to the rivers.”
As we speak, right on cue, here comes the wind again, as reliable as bad news from the campaign trail. We’re all doomed, some say. Proper fucked.
Well, the world ends for someone every day, yeah? A whole bunch of someones, most days. I’m not sure it helps to dwell overlong on when your turn might be coming round. Better, maybe, to spend that time seeing to it that the other guy’s parade is the one that gets rained on.
Erin go blaugh
I will never be smart. But occasionally I am correct.
On Wednesday, I had been thinking about going for a run, but decided to gallop around Elena Gallegos Open Space on a cyclocross bike for 90 minutes or so because Thursday’s weather was looking iffy and I’d probably need to run then.
On Thursday, the weather was indeed iffy — as in raining — and I considered taking the day off entirely. But then I reconsidered and Herself and I went for a run, because Friday was shaping up to be even worse.
And now, here it is Friday, March 17, and it is snowing. From several directions at once, too.
Emboldened by a short streak of rightness, I announced with authority, “This almost never happens.”
And boom, just like that I was back to being not-smart. Also, wrong.
This is why we take notes. I glanced back through a half-dozen old training logs and found reports of March snow in 2019 and 2022, and as late as April 28 (2017 and 2021).
The forecast for St. Patrick’s Day — and for several days afterward — is for more of the same. I guess it’s a good thing I made a big pot of soup last night, because it sure doesn’t look like we’ll be getting a Paddy melt today.
The luck of the Irish
O, ’tis a fine soft day we have here so.
The rain awakened Herself, but not me. I thought she was selling me a bill of goods when she said it rained during the night, until I glanced outside this morning.
There’s a dusting of snow just up the hill, and the cul-de-sac is dampish. This wee sprinkle will do a fine job of tamping down the sand in the arroyo I’ve been riding lately. I’ve only seen one other cyclist in there and he was riding a mountain bike; also, down, not up.
It will save me from the raking of the lawn as well. No point in busting my hump corraling all those soggy pine needles now. Wait until they dry out and lighten up.
Ditto for the trails. Never ride ’em wet. After a rain the knuckleheads in Bibleburg would slash the gooey singletrack into something that looked like Rodan the Flying Monster’s landing strip. The ruts would set up harder than times in 1929, and riding them on a cyclocross bike meant taking a hot lap on Satan’s Slot Car Track.
The ground here in The Duck! City is mighty thirsty, though. Getting it wet enough to damage with bicycle tires might require the sort of deluge that made a sailor of Noah.
St. Puddy
It being a fine soft day out of doors, Miss Mia O’Sopaipilla just celebrated St. Patrick’s Day with an extended rúla búla up to 90 around the shebeen so. Now she wants a fry.
It being St. Paddy’s Day, we probably should have a spot of music — in this case, a Dublin concert marking the 40th anniversary of the fabled 1977 album by Andy Irvine and Paul Brady, who had both been members of the legendary Irish group Planxty. Joining them in this concert (and on the album) were Dónal Lunny, another Planxty vet, and Kevin Burke.
I saw Irvine and Brady perform at a small venue in Corvallis, Oregon, when I worked for the newspaper there. It goes without saying that I have that album (both vinyl and digital) as well as Planxty out the wazoo. The neighbors are getting an earful as we speak.
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