Month: July 2011

Music soothes the savage breast

~ Patrick O'Grady ~ 17 Comments
Turkish in the sink
The Turk' was chillin' in the sink while we listened to Emmylou at the Newport Folk Festival.

After a trying week it’s been pleasant to listen to a little live music from the Newport Folk Festival courtesy of NPR Music.

Yesterday I caught the Decemberists and Gogol Bordello; today it was Amos Lee, Mountain Man, Elvis Costello and Emmylou Harris. Elvis and the Imposters started out a little ragged — I think he used the first couple of tunes for his sound check — but still, it beats the mortal shit out of Prairie Home Companion, lemme tell you, especially when he does “(What’s So Funny ‘Bout) Peace, Love and Understanding?” with a theramin for backup.

If you missed it, NPR Music is archiving audio and video from all three stages, so you can play catchup in the cube farm — assuming your particular business doesn’t get the business because Congress can’t do business, the miserable fucks. Congressional Progressive Caucus co-chair Rep. Raúl Grijalva of Arizona is seriously pissed off, and I’m right there with him. Says Grijalva:

The Democratic Party, no less than the Republican Party, is at a very serious crossroads at this moment. For decades Democrats have stood for a capable, meaningful government — a government that works for the people, not just the powerful, and that represents everyone fairly and equally. This deal weakens the Democratic Party as badly as it weakens the country. We have given much and received nothing in return. The lesson today is that Republicans can hold their breath long enough to get what they want. While I believe the country will not reward them for this in the long run, the damage has already been done.

Preach it, brother, preach it. Where’s Steve Earle when we need him?

• Late update: Pete Seeger joined Emmylou and a crowd of other performers onstage for “Turn, Turn, Turn” and “Where Have All the Flowers Gone?” The old commie’s gone a little wobbly, but he kept up the struggle. When will they ever learn, indeed.

No, that’s not the debt ceiling being raised

~ Patrick O'Grady ~ 9 Comments
Afternoon rainbow
Just think, if we could find the pot of gold at the end of that rascal, we could solve our national debt "crisis" ... by imprisoning the House GOP caucus for treason.

Just a rainbow, courtesy of the afternoon monsoons, which have returned for a while. They sure do cool things down at night.

Meanwhile, in DeeCee, Weepy John Boehner is still leading from the rear, frantically trying to figure out which brand of tinfoil his Tea Bagger buddies want for their beanies. The gang at Talking Points Memo is on top of things as they happen, and for high-quality analysis and snark you can check with Steve Benen at Political Animal and Kevin Drum at Mother Jones.

Suffice it to say that the news is all bad. At least Kevin supplies cat-blogging on Fridays to lighten the mood.

Here in Dog Country we’ll engage in a bit of dog-blogging as a counterpoint. We’ve been crate-training Buddy and so far, so good. He’s (mostly) sleeping through the night and has had no more accidents in the crate since we pulled the bedding out of it. He’s getting at least one longish walk daily and plenty of backyard time. And today he even romped a bit with Herself, gamboling about the DogHaus like a happy pup and even barking a couple of times, just for the hell of it.

The Feline Caucus, of course, finds this incomprehensible. But so far they haven’t tried any nihilistic shenanigans, which goes to show you that pretty much any old four-legged furball is smarter than the average House Repuglicant.

The dog days

~ Patrick O'Grady ~ 7 Comments

There was a smallish wake for Paulette in the neighborhood last night.

Our newest neighbors, Larry and Jill, popped round to tell us of it. They occupy a pivotal corner, the Block of Gibraltar, which overlooks a vast expanse of the ’hood, and being excellent people they are already hip-deep in the goings-on. So we stayed up a bit past our bedtime telling tall tales and sipping champagne in Paulette’s honor.

This morning we were a bit sluggish for some reason, and I skipped my daily ride in favor of a stroll around the neighborhood, which used to be Paulette’s job. She and Bob the chocolate Lab would patrol up and down, east and west, north and south, collecting valuable intelligence in the service of us all.

And a dog helps. Herself learned that today, while walking Buddy (yes, he has officially been christened). Folks notice a dog-walker, especially if they happen to be walking a dog themselves, and stop to chat.

What degree of a dog is that? We’ve not seen you before … oh, wait a minute, you’re the folks on the alley, next to Mike! We thought you were cat people. And you are? How on earth does everyone get along? And so on and so forth.

This has always been a close neighborhood, but it got a little bit closer yesterday. Why, I saw Democrats and Republicans drinking and joking together, and you just know that’s no bullshit, because I’m a professional journalist.

Paulette Flohr, R.I.P.

~ Patrick O'Grady ~ 6 Comments

We lost a friend and neighbor today.

Paulette Flohr was our neighborhood’s early warning system — after more than 20 years here she knew most everything about everybody, and if she had any doubts, she asked questions, point-blank, right up in your grill. She would have made an excellent reporter, but instead crunched numbers for a living, when she wasn’t busy inspecting the perimeter with her chocolate Lab, Bob.

She was a big ol’ gal, with a head of hair that just wouldn’t quit, and you could hear her laugh from blocks away.

But cancer doesn’t care how loudly you laugh, how many friends toasted you at your 60th birthday bash, or who will walk your dog when you’re gone.

Paulette leaves her husband, Steve, Bob the dog, and uncounted family members, friends and neighbors who will miss her beaming smile, booming laughter and progressive spirit.

Getaways, groceries and grifters

~ Patrick O'Grady ~ 9 Comments

There’s nothing like that first day after the Tour folds its big yellow tent and life gets back to normal.

I got out early for a two-hour ride northeast on Highway 24 and enjoyed a tailwind to Falcon. The headwind on the homebound leg wasn’t outlandish, and I considered stretching the outing to three hours before remembering that there was nothing to eat in Chez Dog, someone having been a little lackadaisical about grocery-shopping lately.

So I rolled home, made a list and headed north to Whole Paycheck, pissing away a car payment on bits of this and that to keep flesh on the bones. Last night’s “dinner” involved a tin of smoked oysters, cheddar, crackers and a salad, and that’s just not enough to keep a renowned cycling journalist at the top of his game.

Now it’s raining for a second consecutive day, which is excellent. It’s been hotter than the high-flange hubs of Hell around here lately, and this takes the edge off, as does a little effervescent Austrian rosé.

Alas, we may all be reduced to drinking feeble American lager out of red-white-and-blue cans if the “mine is bigger than yours” contest ends badly in DeeCee, as seems increasingly likely.

These overfed, undereducated pustules afflicting the body politic should be compelled at gunpoint to hold their slapfests in small-town bars and beaneries, in the company of the simple folks these rich fucks profess to care about. Maybe after a few vicious beatings administered by work-hardened knuckles they’d realize their cushy gigs are about people, not politics.

• Late update: Kevin Drum sure wasn’t impressed by either Obama or Punkinhead tonight. I listened to the first few minutes of Obama’s bit while cooking dinner and I wasn’t exactly hearing a clarion call to arms. As for Punkinhead, I unplugged his ass before he even had a chance to start lying. My patience has its limits.