Saturday, July 23, 2005
No Friday Posting?? WTF??
OK, OK, so I didn't post anything yeterday. So sue me. I rolled out of the rack early and hit the road with TRex to attend a meeting of the Arizona Auto Theft Investigators Association (AATIA) up in the high country. We could already smell the pines and the burgers grilling, and could feel the 75 degree temps and cool breezes as we sit on the porch in rocking chairs. We hold our July meeting annually at a member's cabin up near Clint's Well, which is not so much a town as a place for campers, fishermen, and hunters to stop in and pick up the staples when they run low. You know, things like beer. Or maybe fishing worms, which I actually like to refer to as "#12 lumbricus terrestris" when I'm around those snooty fly fishing types. Don't get me wrong - I'm an avid fly fisherman - but I like to catch fish, too. I ain't proud. Trout often turn their nose up at every fly I drift by them, which turns out to be about every fifth cast. See, the first four casts are:
1: Completely miss the target
2: Tree limb
3: My dog (Sorry there, Scully)
4) The ass of my pants
On those days, it's time to put a split shot and a hook on my leader and start flipping over rocks looking for critters to throw at the trout. I've never met a trout that could turn down a big 'ol nightcrawler.
But I digress.
So TRex and I headed north up the once-infamous Beeline Highway. About the time we reached it, we saw a huge cloud of smoke to the northeast. Damn, another forest/brush/grass fire. That's Arizona. For the past several summers and winters, see, the whole state collectively prayed for reprieve from a very long drought. We got that reprieve last winter, when it rained like the proverbial "cow pissing on a flat rock," (Thanks for that one, Grandpa) The desert turned lovely green - grasses, wildflowers, you name it. By June, all that green turned to gasoline. One asswipe with a cigarette butt is all it takes, or maybe even a lightning strike, and we have an inferno to rival Dante's. The sight of that smoke plume prompted TRex to regale me with stories of the heroism and daring-do of his younger days, when he fought those blazes with the US Forest Service. He damn near got his ass incinerated on more than one occasion. Of course, I then had to match him with my "bad boys whatcha goona do" cop stories. Just as we had enough bullshit in the car to fertilize The BOB, we hit a roadblock. TRex is honored to still carry a badge these days, unlike The Crime Dog, so he bails out of the car and asks the friendly officers just what the H - E - Double hockey sticks is going on here. Turns out this particular fire jumped the road over near Punkin Center (No I didn't misspell it), causing the main artery from the East Valley to the high country to be completely blocked. How long will it be, I ask? "A long fucking time."
Shit. No cool breezes. No trout stream. No 75 degrees. No rocking chair. No burgers. So, we turned it around and came back down the Bush Highway towards town. Catching a few glimpses of bikini-clad coeds tubing down the Salt River might brighten our day. No such luck. Not a single tube or bikini to be found.
So, we ended up back at my house. I'd already cleared the decks of work to attend the meeting, now what? Then it hit me: Crime Dog's Margaritaville West cement pond was finished yesterday. They started filling it up, and it was 2/3 full when we left. We sprint to the backyard, with sprint being a relative term at our ages. It was somewhat less than a brisk walk. It's FULL! I break off a call to Paddock - "Hurry and get someone over here to start up the equipment, let's get this show goin'!"
Sorry, Crime Dog, no one available till Saturday. But you can get in it, anyway. It's just a giant bathtub at this point. Say no more, TRex and I jump in and spend the next hour floating around and relaxing.
There no place like home, I always say.
Last night, a full on, ball breaking, ass-kicking monsoon hit my house. There's enough shit in that unfiltered, unchlorinated, uncirculated pool to make it look like a Texas farm pond. I think I'll stock it with trout, and throw in a #12 lumbricus terrestris. At least I got that goin' for me.
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1: Completely miss the target
2: Tree limb
3: My dog (Sorry there, Scully)
4) The ass of my pants
On those days, it's time to put a split shot and a hook on my leader and start flipping over rocks looking for critters to throw at the trout. I've never met a trout that could turn down a big 'ol nightcrawler.
But I digress.
So TRex and I headed north up the once-infamous Beeline Highway. About the time we reached it, we saw a huge cloud of smoke to the northeast. Damn, another forest/brush/grass fire. That's Arizona. For the past several summers and winters, see, the whole state collectively prayed for reprieve from a very long drought. We got that reprieve last winter, when it rained like the proverbial "cow pissing on a flat rock," (Thanks for that one, Grandpa) The desert turned lovely green - grasses, wildflowers, you name it. By June, all that green turned to gasoline. One asswipe with a cigarette butt is all it takes, or maybe even a lightning strike, and we have an inferno to rival Dante's. The sight of that smoke plume prompted TRex to regale me with stories of the heroism and daring-do of his younger days, when he fought those blazes with the US Forest Service. He damn near got his ass incinerated on more than one occasion. Of course, I then had to match him with my "bad boys whatcha goona do" cop stories. Just as we had enough bullshit in the car to fertilize The BOB, we hit a roadblock. TRex is honored to still carry a badge these days, unlike The Crime Dog, so he bails out of the car and asks the friendly officers just what the H - E - Double hockey sticks is going on here. Turns out this particular fire jumped the road over near Punkin Center (No I didn't misspell it), causing the main artery from the East Valley to the high country to be completely blocked. How long will it be, I ask? "A long fucking time."
Shit. No cool breezes. No trout stream. No 75 degrees. No rocking chair. No burgers. So, we turned it around and came back down the Bush Highway towards town. Catching a few glimpses of bikini-clad coeds tubing down the Salt River might brighten our day. No such luck. Not a single tube or bikini to be found.
So, we ended up back at my house. I'd already cleared the decks of work to attend the meeting, now what? Then it hit me: Crime Dog's Margaritaville West cement pond was finished yesterday. They started filling it up, and it was 2/3 full when we left. We sprint to the backyard, with sprint being a relative term at our ages. It was somewhat less than a brisk walk. It's FULL! I break off a call to Paddock - "Hurry and get someone over here to start up the equipment, let's get this show goin'!"
Sorry, Crime Dog, no one available till Saturday. But you can get in it, anyway. It's just a giant bathtub at this point. Say no more, TRex and I jump in and spend the next hour floating around and relaxing.
There no place like home, I always say.
Last night, a full on, ball breaking, ass-kicking monsoon hit my house. There's enough shit in that unfiltered, unchlorinated, uncirculated pool to make it look like a Texas farm pond. I think I'll stock it with trout, and throw in a #12 lumbricus terrestris. At least I got that goin' for me.
