Recycling?

November 30, 2023November 30, 2023 ~ Patrick O'Grady ~ 14 Comments

The DBR Axis TT and I went for a spin in the Elena Gallegos Open Space on Tuesday as the temps inched back into the low 40s.

Naw. That ain’t trash, waiting to be packed out. It’s just old, like its operator.

So don’t pack us out, for pity’s sake. Ain’t neither of us ready for the scrap heap yet.

Speaking of old trash and scrap heaps, I finally heard from the WordPress people about the comments issue, which seemed to have resolved itself to some degree after my last complaint on Nov. 22. Quoth WP:

The comment reply box has changed to the new box that adds the options of styling or layout changes using blocks. It cannot be disabled, it is the new default.

Fear not, your visitors don’t have to use the blocks, they can simply click into the box, and start typing.

This is the new “Reply” box as I have been seeing it lately.

A limited inspection of the process indicates that leaving a comment is once again fairly straightforward:

1. Place your cursor (or, depending upon your mood at the moment, “curser”) in the “Leave a Reply” box and start typing.

2. You will then be presented with the option of logging in using a WordPress account, Facebutt, or email (the latter method wants your email addy and a name; providing a website is optional). Select a login method.

3. You also are prompted to have posts/comments emailed to you. The buttons are off by default. Make another selection.

4. Hit the “Reply” button at lower right.

I switched laptops and launched Chrome to try commenting using an old email address. But I was not logged into the Gmail account I wanted to use and got a prompt saying so (O, buggah, etc.).

Rather than dive down that rabbit hole (usernames, passwords, and shit, O my!) I switched to Firefox to post my comment and saw it had me already logged in using my WP info.

I don’t have a Facebutt account so I couldn’t evaluate that option.

Anyway, that seems to be where we are at the moment. We don’t have to face that quadruple-decker “Reply” box with all the arcane symbols belonging to WP’s Block Editor (curse its name, yes). Just start typing and let ’er buck, cowpersons.

Anyone still having issues? Leave a note in commaaaaaaaaah ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha. Sorry, couldn’t help myself.

I have good news and bad news

November 30, 2023November 30, 2023 ~ Patrick O'Grady ~ 14 Comments

Guess which is which?

It’s a very Irish sort of day here in The Duck! City, gray and gloomy with a steady drizzle, just the ticket for observing the departure of Shane MacGowan.

He was just 65. But as Jerry Jeff Walker is reputed to have said to an elder, “You’re older than I am, but I’ve been up more hours.” By that reckoning MacGowan may have rivaled Mel Brooks’s 2,000-Year-old Man.

I have the two classic Pogues albums, “Rum Sodomy & the Lash,” produced by Elvis Costello, and “If I Should Fall From Grace With God.”

Every Christmas Eve Herself and I dance in the living room to “Fairytale of New York.” I have never been moved to dance to one of Henry Kissinger’s bleak, self-aggrandizing dirges.

However, I’m happy to let the late chef and author Anthony Bourdain dance a whipsong on Kissinger’s grave. Here’s a passage from his 2001 book “A Cook’s Tour,” forwarded by Hal Walter:

“Once you’ve been to Cambodia, you’ll never stop wanting to beat Henry Kissinger to death with your bare hands. You will never again be able to open a newspaper and read about that treacherous, prevaricating, murderous scumbag sitting down for a nice chat with Charlie Rose or attending some black-tie affair for a new glossy magazine without choking. Witness what Henry did in Cambodia—the fruits of his genius for statesmanship—and you will never understand why he’s not sitting in the dock at The Hague next to Milošević. While Henry continues to nibble nori rolls and remaki at A-list parties, Cambodia, the neutral nation he secretly and illegally bombed, invaded, undermined, and then threw to the dogs, is still trying to raise itself up on its one remaining leg.”

For more of that sort of eulogy, see the Lawyers, Guns & Money blog. I’d give a pretty to see Zombie Hunter S. Thompson arise from the grave and pick up where Bourdain and LG&M leave off. You may recall HST’s Rolling Stone obit for Richard Nixon.

• Late update: Charles P. Pierce also has a few thoughts, as you might expect.

Hasta la vista, John Nichols

November 28, 2023 ~ Patrick O'Grady ~ 8 Comments

When I bought my first copy of “The Milagro Beanfield War” by John Nichols — I have bought several over the years, replacing copies rumpled, thumbed and dog-eared half to death — the clerk at the Alamosa bookstore confided, “You know, this is about us.”

I bet a lot of people thought that, from Saguache to Socorro. “This is about us.”

The New York Times was not impressed. Reviewer Frederick Busch, himself a writer of novels and short stories, observed: “Nichols’s attempt to make his love for an area and his social concern coincide with his often celebrated sense of humor is doomed by his own always visible hand.”

Well, I never read any of Fred’s work. But I read a shitload of John Nichols. And I always came back to “Milagro.”

It wasn’t a great novel. As an editor I wanted to run through it with a cleaver, dispatching various digressions, superfluous characters, and a general flowery wordiness that must have caused a thesaurus or three to burst into flames from overuse. And the movie was pretty awful.

But “Milagro” gave me my first hint that water was not just something that came out of a faucet whenever and wherever you wanted it. And I met some of its characters — Joe Mondragon, Horsethief Shorty, Amarante Cordova, Charley Bloom — in places like Alamosa, Greeley, Española, Santa Fe, and Albuquerque.

Most of all, I enjoyed their wandering, collective story, in which The Little Guys go toe to toe with The Man. Damn the torpedoes, full speed ahead. ¡Vamanos! They won a battle, but the war continues.

Alas, John Nichols does not. He has gone west after a long illness, according to his family. He was 83.

Nothing to fear but fear itself

November 25, 2023November 25, 2023 ~ Patrick O'Grady ~ 31 Comments

The reports of a squadron of heavily armed Bentley Flying Spur medium-heavy bombers targeting the United States from a top-secret Canadian base seem to have been slightly exaggerated, if by “slightly exaggerated” we mean “fabricated out of whole cloth.”

“This confirms our worst fear: the explosion at Rainbow Bridge was a terrorist attack.” — Sen. Ted Cruz (R-Insult My Wife, Please)

“Today’s apparent terrorist attack must be a wake-up call to all Americans.” — Rep. Byron Donalds (R-Finance, Insurance & Banking)

“So it begins. We need to lock down the borders immediately. Full deportation efforts need to begin. The U.S. does not need to be the world’s hospitality suite any longer.” — Rep. Anna Paulina Luna (R-Ashkenazi Catholicism)

Yes, a 2022 Bentley Flying Spur exploded at the Rainbow Bridge connecting the United States and Canada. Yes, two people died. And yes, many more people freaked the fuck out, thanks in large measure to (wait for it) the 101st Half Cocked Rapid Response Team at Faux News (h/t Charles P. Pierce at Esquire).

And then, the other combat boot dropped:

“But the FBI and other assisting agencies concluded within hours that the explosion was not a terrorist act and rather a terrible accident – possibly caused by a medical incident or a vehicle malfunction,” reported The Buffalo News, adding, “In 2021, the Australian government issued a limited recall of Bentleys over problems with the accelerator getting stuck.”

A medical incident. The accelerator getting stuck. The case handed over to local police as a traffic investigation.

Well. That’s entirely different, as Emily Litella might say.

Down here in our little corner of The Duck! City we have some small experience with airborne motor vehicles.

At least thrice in nine years some leadfooted yahoo who failed to grasp the concept that all roads eventually must end has rocketed up Comanche and through the stop sign at Camino de la Sierra only to find the pavement replaced with what appears to be, and in fact is, a short dirt ramp that launches them and their cobbled-together street-racing shitbox through a wire fence and into the cacti-and-rock-studded base of the Sandia Mountains after a brief flight of, oh, I don’t know, three to six feet.

The Wright Brothers did better than that in 1903, and they were just a couple of bike jockeys who took the scenic route to what their descendants would call “hucking,” “getting big air,” or “shredding the gnar.”

So we have never considered going to DEFCON 3 over it. Of course, none of our local test pilots has ever been incinerated. That we know of, anyway. Also, our little wire fence isn’t at an international border, and we don’t dream of it becoming a Wall.

Blank Friday

November 24, 2023November 24, 2023 ~ Patrick O'Grady ~ 15 Comments

Another Thanksgiving feast has come and gone (though leftovers aplenty remain) and here it is Blank Friday already and I haven’t snapped up a single solitary bargain, not one.

Herself had requested Emeril Lagasse’s chicken cacciatore for dinner, and I decided to add the traditional accompaniment, Martha Rose Shulman’s stir-fried succotash.

Somewhere along The Path for reasons unknown we got detoured into butter-cookie construction, and as a consequence I was a wee bit tardy getting started on my own preparations, which are extensive.

These dishes are not complex — the succotash needs just four minutes in the wok — but they involve more than a few ingredients, among them Emeril’s Essence, a spice mix with eight components.

The cacciatore itself has 20 more. The succotash? Eleven. Many cups and bowls for the mise en place, many, many of them.

For the cookery I needed a large Dutch oven, a pasta pot, and a wok. Knives, spatulas, spoons, graters, cutting boards, colander, oven mitts, rubber gloves, yadda yadda yadda. Clean as you go, etc. Stand back, gimme room, and so on.

A memory with fewer holes in it would have been nice, too. For some reason I had it in my head that the simmering phase of the cacciatore would last only 20 minutes, which was 40 minutes short of actuality. This put a slight hitch in my culinary gitalong and thus we were late sitting down to the actual eating, which annoyed Miss Mia Sopaipilla, who is a stickler for schedules (her own).

Didn’t matter. We’d lunched on eggs over medium and pan-fried potatoes, so we weren’t drooling and ravenous. We didn’t have two-legged guests waiting, growing surly with drink, reawakened memories of past slights, and plans for vengeance. And we didn’t have to drive home afterward.

During the final cleanup, which was extensive, we sang along with Arlo, singing loud to end war and stuff. We hope yous all did likewise. There’s a lot of it about.