dream ranch

You know your day is off to a rough start when the sky looks like the horizon in Cormac McCarthy’s “The Road” and the Twitter dude who calls himself Zozobra announces he has hired you as his press secretary.

As I said in earlier responses on Twitter to  @Old_Man_Gloom, water man @jfleck and others, the statement by Zozobra is inoperative. (RIP, Ron Nessen).

But it’s all so bad — more difficulty breathing and the spectacle of Zozobra trying to portray himself as an innocent victim — all make me think I will just go hide.

I may go north, pick something up on Old Santa Fe Trail, go past Fort Marcy Park, and stop somewhere along the way to Buffalo Thunder, hopefully under a starry sky on a cool mountain night, but I will not be in the company of Forrest Fenn.

I was all set to have a pleasant brunch and marvel at some more @tcboyle short stories, Cooper waiting faithfully for an eventual visit down the hill with his friend Sara, but the glooms keep coming.

We think Sara is going to be fine after her recent surgery, but sister Hope emailed to say an owl had just made off with all of her egg-producing brood except for a single chick. And between the Chinese economy, refugee crises unfolding on several continents, climate change devastation from California to Idaho and the latest Albuquerque Public Schools debacle, I’m not finding much cheer in the news.

I know it’s good for the economy but I’m also feeling a little sorry for Santa Feans. Sometimes the charms of the City Different can be its curses, too: You just get through Indian Market, for instance, and then you’ve got gear up for the fiesta crowds, particularly on the night Zozobra gets his due.

Sometimes I flash on the Frederic Remington painting “Zebulon Pike Entering Santa Fe,” thinking Pike too looks just a little bit gloomy about his new surroundings.