Today through Thursday it will be partly cloudy with a high of about 82° and not much of a chance of precipitation throughout the day. Friday will be sunny with a high of 83°. Saturday thunderstorms should pop up across the world, particularly on the East Side of Albuquerque, causing damnation for about 50-90% of the Earth's population (pesky holy water monsoons). Skies clear up for the end of the weekend on through to next week. See you next week, sinner!
Clouds have been rolling through the metro area all day, so there's seemingly a chance of rain this afternoon. Yesterday it was the same situation but someone decided not to follow through with the rain so we all just had to watch it pass us by. Maybe someone will follow through with the signs that they give today. Tomorrow will be about the same, so we have that to look forward to. Things are going to start to heat up on Friday with a high of 86 degrees Fahrenheit, so don't throw your summer wardrobe in the trash compacter, yet (though advised by The City Fashion Council). Next week will be sunny with mild temps, almost like autumn really exists. But of course it does. We aren't all bodies floating in goo being prodded at by reptilian aliens.
Today has been pretty cloudy and this evening we can expect rain and some wind up to 15 mph. Wednesday will be less cloudy but slightly cooler with a high of 89º. Thursday will be sunny and breezy. Friday will be basically the same as Thursday. Pure sunshine all weekend long with a gentle breeze. Monday looks like it will be as cloudy as today (if not more) and cooler with stronger breezes and some hateful glances from the neighbor that died four and a half years ago, Gods rest their soul. I predict next Tuesday will be rainy. Don't forget; it's a safe bet for the rest of the month that it'll rain during the nighttime, so bring an umbrella when you're escaping your gray alien-invaded home in the middle of the night. Happy monsoon season!
Jones dug the hell out of that first semester at Coronado Hall. It was awesome, even if there always was some dude from Peñasco or Ojo Caliente passed out, drowning in his voluminous post-beer-bong vomit in the third floor head. The world was over for that rascal except for toilets and tile floors thought Jones as he hit the shower.
The Grateful Dead tapestry he put up on the window to shut out the light was, like, a total hit with his roommate and the fellows next door. And damn it all if the food wasn't a gazillion times better than at Allsup's.
With “Yow!” and “Yeah!” serving as enthusiastic interjections, the semester jetted out quick across the blue dome of the world. That spring, Charlie Jones made a grip of ceramic objects, read and decoded two situationist texts and learned how to tinkle out a couple of dances by Bartok.
Jones decided, as sure as eggs was eggs, he could never move home again. Living with the old man wasn't of any use, anyhow. That dude never seemed to get over his Afghan hound Duchess dying early. Twenty years had come and gone and it was still like living on the moon when Dad was around, all silent and dusty.
Reckoning the student ghetto was the way to go, Charlie began exhaustive research focused on finding a shack he could call his own. He did not have to extend himself too much into that realm mostly because he happened to run into his pal Donna in front of the student union.
It was just about May in those parts and Donna was gamboling about on the lawn with a lady friend who was dressed all in white. She was sporting a long skirt and sorta looked like Stevie Nicks, except for her hair. Her mop was as black as crow feathers and was blowing around in the springtime wind like it was trying to fly away into the clouds or something.
After a couple of obligatory hippie-hugs, Donna introduced Zelda and let it out the two of them had found an underground haven. It was a remodeled, carpeted, and suitably dark basement apartment they had found south of campus. The deal was they needed a third person to make the rent.
“You gotta be fucking kidding me,” Jones said as a storm came up and it started to rain like it used to do in Albuquerque before the environmental disaster of 2037.
The next morning, Jones got up early and hauled his sorry ass over to the student ghetto. It was early, with the light just coming over the new jungle of tired elms that framed the place. As Charlie approached the underground pad, a dude dressed like a steam-shovel operator came racing up the stairs with Zelda on his heels in a fashion that vaguely reminded Jones of the German retreat from Stalingrad.
Charlie stood there while the two of them began to argue and cajole, gesticulate and weave. After about five minutes of that, the guy in the industrial costume lumbered over to his El Camino and rolled away while April Wine blasted through the truck’s speakers. Zelda gritted her teeth and extended her right hand, all friendly, acting like nothing at all weird had just happened around there—or anywhere else earth—for that matter.
But Jones sensed she was unsettled about the whole thing. With Zelda standing out there in her bare feet, toeing at the dirt nervously and clad in an oversized wife-beater and sweatpants, he gravely intoned—drawing back a ways as they shook hands—“Tell you what, I'll start bringing my stuff over tomorrow.”
It poured water from the sky for the next two days and the lightning flashed and flashed. When the storm let up, when Charlie Jones finally got moved in, he still thought it was a sweet deal. There was a tiny kitchen at the top of the stairs and the rest of the place really was underground; all the walls were cool to the touch and hardly any light got in at all.
Donna was never home. Sometimes Jones played new wave music recordings in the big room in very back of the joint. Otherwise kept to himself and got up early every morning so as to dutifully haul his sorry ass to school.
He couldn’t tell whether Zelda worked or not. Every time he went by her room, the door was open with Fleetwood Mac songs floating through the air, incense wafting here and there and Zelda reclining languidly on her bed while leafing through books about food and flowers.
She'd usually glance at him wanly as he passed. He'd smile vaguely or give her the Vulcan hand salute. One or the other of them would tilt their head curiously before looking away.
After two months of that, a spot opened up at Harvard House, which was a broke down palace occupied by a collective of artists. Their pad was right down the street from a haunted house; a decent pizza joint was just a block away. That was an easy choice thought Jones as he handed over three Franklins to his new landlord.
Charlie split from the underground chanti just before the sun came up so he didn't have to make eye contact with Zelda. He didn't see her again until a big house party came around just after Thanksgiving. By then it was easy enough for both to pretend they were strangers.
That was the only pretense they chose to preserve as the two began making out on the couch. As their hands entwined, Zelda tried to remember the previous summer while Charlie attempted to recall what sorta tuneage the lady favored. Everyone else was out on the porch drinking tequila, eating pumpkin pie and watching a winter tempest come down from the mountains.
The last day of summer hits Sept. 21. But for most folks, the season has a Memorial-Day-to-Labor-Day symmetry to it: 15 glorious weekends to luxuriate in swimming pools, ice cream trucks and air-conditioned movie theaters. For the box office, however, summer petered out weeks ago, coming to a dead stop the weekend after The Bourne Legacy got released and limping forward for another three weeks on cheap-ass horror movies (The Apparition, The Possession). So, now that it’s all over, who triumphed and what got marked as a tragedy in the dog days of 2012?
Now that Memorial Day is come and gone, the official summer movie season is in full swing. From now until Labor Day, we’ve got dozens of big-budget, explosion-filled films vying for our attention. Hidden among those Will Smith-filled blockbusters are assorted smaller-budgeted indie films worth your attention as well. To help guide you through this crowded battlefield of Hollywood offerings, we give you Alibi’s Summer Film Guide. Week-by-week Film Editor Devin D. O’Leary will provide you with all the pertinent info. Plus, we’ve got trailers! Read it over, mark up you calendar and get to the movies.