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Desert
Miracle II
Spring
the time to be in Tucson
It's been said before and
we'll say again now that there's nothing wrong with the
desert. That's not entirely true of course and, in fact, once
the temperature in the desert hits 95 and above (which it does
for about four or five months straight in these parts) there
can be a whole boatload of things not only wrong with the
desert but downright annoying and unpleasant about trying to
habitate there. But we'll lay off the complaining about the
heat for awhile, at least until our rose colored sunglasses
have melted on our cracking, egg frying dashboards. For now,
in March, in Tucson, Arizona, there's not much wrong with the
desert at all.
We're not talking
specifically about the habitational attributes of the
surrounding Sonoran desert itself exactly because, although an
abbreviated spring does bloom eternal around this time of year
before dying off and giving way to the scorching heat of
summer just a few weeks later, this period of burgeoning
verdure also fills the temperate air with native and imported
pollens. Many folks loath this time of year since they become
hyper-allergenic snot machines and sputter around miserably
peering out at you through rheumatic eyes. This may actually
serve them right however since it was quite possibly them and
their ilk that were responsible for importing the plants that
have made the area an allergic's nightmare in the first place.
We've heard tell that Southern Arizona used to be the place
sniffling Americans flocked to for relief but not long after
these Michiganders and the like arrived and, no doubt due to
the fact that they were breathing so clearly for once that
they had all this extra energy for various projects, they
looked around and decided that something wasn't quite right
with their new home and what would vastly improve the
situation aesthetically was planting some of that pretty
vegetation they remembered from their childhood. Olive and oak
trees begin sprouting up and soon, the quality of an allergic
person's life in the desert was dropping with the water table.
Continuing to speak
botanically for a moment, the flip side of the above of course
is that March in the desert is also when the orange blossoms,
jasmine stars, honeysuckle, and Southern Magnolia begin
filling the air with their sweet and soothing scents that wash
over central Tucson like a lazy wave. And since the university
area abounds with citrus trees you know life is good and
spring is here when the cool evening breeze is redolent with
orange blossoms, brittle bush, and jasmine and budding leaves
begin to pop back on the pomegranates and grape vines.
Depending on precipitation, the shoulders of the highways are
often strewn with the likes of Desert Marigold, Purple Three
Awn, California Poppy, Desert Globe Mallow, Lupine, Bladder
Pod, Filaree, London Rocket, Popcorn Flower, Desert Rock Pea,
and Fair Duster. With temperatures typically hovering around
80 during the day under sunny skies with the occasional
stretch of cloud cover and moisture mixed in and dropping into
the fifties at night, the desert in March is as pleasant as it
gets. And that's without even mentioning the additional
goliardly pursuits that one can indulge in as others flock to
the area to enjoy the fine weather with us. If we can agree
that the goliardly lifestyle is one infused with both the
partaking and viewing of all sorts of entertainment and
interchange, now is fine time of year.
Horse Racing, as we've
already mentioned in these pages, makes it's annual stop
during February and is perfectly placed on the calendar as far
as a void filling decompression activity goes. An often
blustery weekend afternoon spent at the track watching these
gorgeous animals run is a fine transition from the frenetics
of holiday and football seasons and serves to cleanse the
palate for the new year to come. As the ides of march near,
spring training, march madness, PGA, LPGA....
(More to
come. Too busy out doing the things to write about them)
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the
Goliard
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repository
Day
Three - My head pounds. I reach up and notice that
there's a fresh scab on my skull. And I realize
that I must have banged my head against the
mini-bar last night. The gash under my eye has
caused the whole socket to turn black and blue.
I'm sitting in a Wintburgers in the middle of
nowhere when I notice this. The half-eaten Taquita
Twister in my hand tastes terrible. Grease drips
onto my palms and then down past my elbow. Destiny
is micro chewing and gazing lovingly at the
imaginary bug on the table, unaware that I'm still
quite taken with her. Frank begins to walk over to
our table. We're both holding pens in our hands as
if we're about to duel. 
A Parishioner Cuckolded 