We vote. But not by mail, not in the strictest definition.
Yes, we receive our ballots via the U.S. Postal Service, but only so we can fill them out at the kitchen table, where last-minute research is easier and the lines shorter.
And then we march them over to the local polling place, an easy milelong stroll along the Tramway bike path. We exchange pleasantries with the nice folks doing the People’s Business, thank them for their service, and feed our sealed ballots into the box.
Then we stroll back to El Rancho Pendejo, secure in the knowledge that we have performed one of the most basic — and most important — duties of a citizen. Tossing rascals out and planting a fresh crop.
But you may vote by mail, for one reason or another, and that’s why you might want to check the shed for pitchforks and torches. Because the federal government — executive, legislative and judicial — seems to think that if they keep putting more roadblocks in our path, a critical number of us might not bother to vote at all.
“We’d eat you, if we thought it would help, but you don’t even taste good anymore,” adds Boo Boo. “Like cheap industrial lager and soda pop.”
“And B.O.,” says Yogi. “You using any of this water to take showers, or are you just soaking the lawn and washing the Suburban?”
Here in the Land of Entrapment the monsoon has been more of a non-soon, and when asked when we might expect some relief the answer is “Not soon.”
The administration’s drought map shows that 3% of New Mexico is in “severe drought,” namely Albuquerque, Santa Fe and parts of the northeastern corner of the state. About one-third of the state, predominantly in northern New Mexico, is suffering from “extreme drought,” the map shows.
The outlook notes that conditions are unlikely to improve over the next two weeks, with all but the northern and western edges of New Mexico facing 100% probabilities of above-average temperatures.
Meanwhile, my old stomping grounds around Española remain on fire.
I’d love to claim the moral high ground here. But I’m down here in the sandbox with the rest of the dummies. Part of the problem.
We have a lawn. Smaller than the one we got when we bought the house, at the northern edge of the Chihuahuan Desert. But still.
I drink two cups of coffee and one tall mug of tea every morning, plus a bottle or two of water on my bike rides, and more after I get home. There’s that daily shower too. Sometimes it’s jailhouse style, but occasionally I go full Hollywood.
I let God wash the car, when She’s of a mind to. Lately She’s not in the mood. Keeps sending us bears.
We have a new swimming pool in the cul-de-sac. One lane, and a tough flip turn.
It’s been a week since I got sprung from jury duty and I’m (a) still slightly bemused by the experience, and (2) not particularly interested in diving back into the sewage lagoon of the 24-hour news cycle.
Anyway, the fiber-optic fairies have been scurrying hither and yon in the ’hood, barricading streets and sidewalks; parking trucks, trailers, and arcane machinery in the right of way; digging holes and then filling them up again (or not); cutting gas lines and unplugging cable TV; and like that there.
It seems like a treasure hunt, albeit slightly spastic, and for some spray-tanned Suits in air-conditioned offices it almost certainly is. But for the sunburnt dudes with the shovels it’s hard labor with a side of heat stroke. And for the casual blogger it’s a noisy pain in the brain that takes his eye off the ball.
Well. Maybe not. Unless you can find me a real little one. Some toddler’s teddy, maybe.
Instead I go for a ride.
Yesterday I’d planned to wind southwest along the Paseo de Las Montañas Trail and through downtown to the bosque, before it dries up and blows away, then come home via the Paseo/North Diversion Channel Trail/Osuna/Bear Canyon route, or take the NDCT through Balloon Fiesta Park and up Tramway.
But NDCT south of the brief stretch of I-40 Trail west of Carlisle was closed for some reason, so I skipped downtown and the bosque and rode north to the Tramway climb, which I hadn’t done in two months.
The North Diversion Channel Trail hooks up with Balloon Fiesta Park.
I usually ride this gradual 5-mile ascent from I-25 to County Line BBQ as an individual time trial, just for shits and giggles, not trying to prove anything. My “training,” if you can call it that, is focused on having fun, testing myself a little when the spirit moves, and not getting centerpunched by some leadfoot “making his day” on TikTok.
A half hour for the distance is not shameful. My best time is 26:37, set four years ago on the DBR Prevail TT.
Yesterday, aboard the Soma Pescadero, I didn’t feel like I was crushing it — maybe a slight cross/headwind, p’raps sloth and torpor, or some combination of the two — so I was surprised to check the ol’ chrono at the finish and see a time of 28 minutes flat.
It seemed familiar, possibly because it was. When I got home and checked my training log to see how 28 minutes flat added up to previous Tramway time trials … well, it was the exact same time I’d ridden back in June, on the New Albion Privateer.
That was weird. What was really weird was that my time for the entire ride — from El Rancho Pendejo to the I-40/NDCT trails, Balloon Fiesta Park, Tramway, County Line, and back to the rancho — was likewise identical to my June outing, which covered the same ground, to the centimeter.
Talk about spinning your wheels to no particular purpose. No wonder I never go viral. You gotta give The Algorithm something to work with.
I can’t believe I never heard of Scovel until Jason Zinoman plugged him in his New York Times column. Herself and I gambled on his most recent Netflix hour, “Show Must Go On,” and after that we gnawed like famished rats through his collected works. The shows available on Netflix, HBO Max, and YouTube, anyway.
Good shit. He writes, but also wings it. Writing on stage must feel like juggling chainsaws, live babies, or leaky plastic bags of runny shit. Dude does it anyway. “Live Without Fear” from 2018 includes bits from six improvised shows at the Relapse Theatre in Atlanta. Here’s the opener:
“I appreciate you guys coming out tonight. That takes a lot of goddamn courage. To literally be like, ‘OK, what is the description of the show?’ ‘Oh, it says he’s no longer willing to do the homework.’ ‘All right, let’s go see that then.'”
It got me thinking, “I bet Marc Maron interviewed this dude on his podcast, and I was right. Fascinating stuff.
If you could use a laugh too, start with “Show Must Go On” and then backtrack him, the way we did. It’s like “The Ascent of Man,” but in reverse. And with more chuckles.
Frank Beard has followed Dusty Hill backstage, leaving Billy Gibbons as the Last OG Standing in ZZ Top.
I don’t remember who put me hip to ZZ Top. Could’ve been my old newsie bro the M-dogg, back in our Bibleburg daze, after the release of their sixth album, “Degüello.”
Whatever. I soon backtracked through their catalog, adding “Tres Hombres” and “Tejas” to my box of road-trip tunes. “El Loco” would join them.
I never caught them live, but their MTV videos were killer. It’s always a pleasure to watch folks who enjoy their work.
It wasn’t always fun, of course. I recall one of the ZZs, asked for the secret to the trio’s longevity, replying: “Three tour buses.”
And Frank sure had his issues with the fabled party favors. The band took a three-year break while he got his shit together, which he did, as you can see from the video up top, a clip from the documentary “ZZ Top — That Little Ol’ Band From Texas.”
Billy, Dusty and Frank were my co-conspirators on many a road trip, and I’ll always be grateful for their company. Peace to Frank, his family, friends, and fans.
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