A snapshot from the cul-de-sac last evening, at the conclusion of The Boo’s walk.
Albuquerque has its problems, to be sure. Joblessness, crime, drivers who should not be permitted to operate grocery-store scooters … but it flat brings the sunset.
* The headline is from Ed Abbey’s “The Monkey Wrench Gang,” which featured another elderly, bearded weirdo from Albuquerque.
Go home, Fatso, you’re drunk.
Following in the tricksy footsteps of sneaky newsmakers everywhere, we hereby present your Friday Bad News Dump:
Live Update Guy will not be calling this year’s Tour de France.
LUG-in-Chief Charles Pelkey and I have mulled it over a time or two — should we stay or should we go? — and the simple truth of it is we’re both busy and tired and three weeks of following Le Tour would leave us only more so on both fronts.
There’s a chance we might pop up guerrilla-style to do an epic mountain stage, but I wouldn’t bet the ranch on it.
It’s been fun, and p’raps some day it will be fun again. Maybe when the robots take over.
A rose (grave not included).
The Senate’s Elefinks have released their double-secret “health care” bill, and it’s just about as bad as you might expect.
It boils down to: “Oi! You there! Sickies, crippies, olds and poors! Mind giving us a hand with this yuuuuuge sack of cash? We’re taking it over to the richies! Try not to sneeze or bleed on it, will you?”
The good news is, they won’t forget to put roses on your grave.
Oh, who are we kidding? Of course they’ll forget.
I raised up my head and I asked, “Is this where it is?”
And you know something is happening but you don’t know what it is.*
Do you, Mr. Jones?
* OK, so I’ll tell you. It was a short bike ride on my Jones 29er, early in the ayem, before it got too bloody hot (100.5° right now). The one-eyed midget stayed home, where the air conditioning is. I don’t know how Bob Dylan found his way into this post when he couldn’t even make it to the Nobel ceremony.
Gonna be another hot one for us ‘Burqueños today.
The photo above is my arteeeeestical interpretation of Democratic heads exploding from coast to coast over the party’s failure to elect Jon Ossoff in Georgia.
C’mon. It’s fuckin’ Georgia. Chill out, yo. Think of things sweet and clear, like moonlight through the pines.
The Boo keeps his tongue handy because you never know when something edible might wander by.
As the outdoor temperature crept slowly toward the century mark, Mister Boo, sleeping off a medium-heavy solstice snack, gave quiet thanks to Willis Carrier, inventor of the modern air conditioner.
• Late update: Boom. Made it. The century mark. Good times. Maybe not.
Somebody has parked a laser cannon overhead.
Hm. ‘Bout time to crank up the ol’ solstice ritual, looks like.
The weatherman says it’s 97 out there at 4:44 p.m. Duke City time, and I believe him, just having taken a lap of the ‘hood on the Vespa to keep the battery topped off.
And it only gets worser as the week drags on. Ninety-seven, 101, 102 … you get the idea.
Nothing like what Pat and Sandy are enduring down in Arizony, I imagine. Shucks, those folks have to get up before they go to bed if they want to get a coolish ride in.
The Boo doesn’t even bother to get out of bed on days like this. He dosses down right next to an air-conditioning vent in the floor and pretty much stays there.
Deer me.
Wall didn’t even slow him down. Says his name is John. I wanna see the birth certificate.
It’s a long hard road.
Not even dinner and a movie first?
Yeah, I’m still on the right side of the lawn. But that doesn’t mean I’m not covered in deadlines, allergens and whatnot.
The few times I’ve surfaced for a peek at the news my outlook was not improved. It seems everyone’s nuts, armed and lawyering up.
Well, at least I don’t need any lawyers. Not right this moment, anyway.
Meanwhile, as a respite from the tyranny of evil men, have a listen to Hal Walter, who is trying really hard to be the shepherd.
Drink the Kool-Aid
Words and pictures on the DogPage © 2016 by Patrick O'Grady/Mad Dog Media. All rights and most lefts reserved. This material may not be published, broadcast, rewritten, redistributed, laser-printed, photocopied, crocheted into a sampler, knitted into sweater, tattooed on a floozy, spray-painted on an overpass, tapped out in Morse code, sublimated onto a jersey, shared in whispers in the back row of an adult theater, shouted from the rooftops, scored for tuba and banjo, translated into Squinch, or communicated via telepathy without the permission of and hefty payment to a heavily armed, whisky-addled cyclo-cross addict who knows your IP address. Bonehead shysters and the simpletons who employ them, take note: The opinions expressed on the DogPage contain toxic quantities of hyperbole, satire, parody and humor. Pah-ro-dee. Hyyuuu-mor. Acquire a sense of same or read at your own risk.
