Back in the USSR ROC EOC
(Emergency Operations Center, for the uninformed). We have been activated for
over 2 weeks due to wildfires, mercifully burning mostly in uninhabited areas,
no deaths, no reported loss of structure, minimal evacuations. Unlike Colorado
that has at the moment 2 deaths and over 500 homes consumed.
A 10-hour shift last Saturday, and it
was quiet, a good thing but a bit boring. As I am always “up” when the
adrenalin flows, and increasingly (as I age) “down” when nothing is happening,
I muse upon the plight of all who dwell in the realm of emergency. You
certainly don’t want to sue for activity as it almost certainly means weeping
and wailing and the occasional gnashing of dentures, while conversely a 10-hour
shift can seem like a week when nothing is happening. Not as bad as the solo
12-hour 6-pm to 6-am odysseys I pulled as a county Watch Officer in a previous
life. One night at 4-am Elvis sauntered in, but he was looking for a party and
quickly departed.
The above was written a
week ago and we are now back to steady-state operation, the EOC de-activated,
and those once deployed have now returned to home base – they’re “ployed” I
guess.
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The temperature here has been 90F+,
but not accompanied by the 250% humidity suffered by friends back east, and
thus generally tolerable.
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On the treadmill at 04:30 several
mornings ago when the news broke that James Gandolfini succumbed to a heart
attack at the age of 51. No deep thoughts here, but it did make the workout a
bit more tolerable.
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We dress down here and jeans and
collared polos are common for the masculine workforce. I have clung to the
dress shirt until I discovered to my horror that laundering here is $3.50-$4.00
per shirt vice about $1.40 some 1500 miles eastward. But it may be a zero sum
game, as I have found a brewery midway on my 10-minute commute home that has a
happy hour with a quite tolerable pint of IPA for $2.50.
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Continuity, at least as
practiced in government, is a slow and steady process, which provides time for
contemplation. That and the fact that at the Cowgirl on Sunday a young woman
offers a very passable rendition of the Janice Joplin classic “Me and Bobby McGee,”
got me to wondering how Janice disposed of McGee’s body when “somewhere near Salinas,
Lord, I let him slip away.” Hope she didn’t leave him curbside. If I’m ever in
Kansas, I’ll ask around.
As one who has
circumnavigated the globe a time or two, I say with some authority that I have
rarely encountered so shopworn a populace as here in the Land of Enchantment.
It might be the sun (which can be harsh), the wind (which I have yet to
experience in extremus but which I am told can be fierce), or perhaps something
else. After all, Roswell is just down the road.
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At the Cowgirl, where if
you have been paying attention, you know I spend much of my free time, I have
noticed that about 90% of the tables are same-gender and 5% are tourist
families with progeny in tow who look like they would trade a double root canal
for the experience.
Were I a more social
individual, I might consider undertaking some cross-gender introductions. Well,
perhaps not.
And yesterday while
basking in the sun listening to Joe West and Friends, I was approached by a
matron of a certain age who offered me sunscreen. Trying to think of a non- or
minimally-rude response, I replied that I am not a fan of rubbing grease on my
body, upon which she offered to undertake the application on my behalf. Cheech!
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