Author: Patrick O'Grady

After decades with his scabby little nose pressed to various grindstones of journalism, Patrick O'Grady came away with plenty of mental scar tissue, a good deal less hair to cover it, and an undiminished appreciation for three subsets of the craft: drawing cartoons, writing commentary, and composing headlines. All three are short, punchy attention-getters, the literary equivalent of yelling, "Hey, look at me!" before hanging a moon out the school-bus window, and thus own a natural appeal for an overgrown class clown with the attention span of a rat terrier raised on angel dust and bong water. And thanks to the Internet, the best thing to happen to journalism since the invention of movable type, he gets to do all three of them without having to go to work at a newspaper, where management has slowly devolved into a button-down mutant hybrid of the worst aspects of the Spanish Inquisition, the dental bits in "Marathon Man" and the DMV of your choice. He and his wife, the long-suffering Shannon, share an adobe hacienda in The Duck! City with their cat, Miss Mia Sopaipilla.

A time to be born, a time to die

March 12, 2009November 16, 2010 ~ Patrick O'Grady ~ 3 Comments

Happy birthday to Herself, who celebrates another lap around the sun today. I won’t tell you how many, as I wish to continue breathing in and out. I had hoped to give her something she’s wanted for more than a month now — a completely restored basement office and bathroom — but the mitigation gods did not smile upon us. So we settled for a birthday breakfast at the Olive Branch downtown and will share a sparkling rosé tonight when she gets home from Denver.

We’ll raise at least one glass of that bubbly to Josie, a.k.a. JoJo, Demon Spawn, who until yesterday had been the last dog standing of the fabled German shepherd troika renowned throughout Santa Rosa, California, and beloved of Wes, Mary and Lo. Writes Lo:

Josie “JoJo” “Demon Spawn” died peacefully and without pain at home on Wednesday with Wes and Mary at her side. She knew all along that you can make it a wonderful life. Just the day before she was out walking with her Dad, and got to play in the creek. She loved the water so much! — like a moose — and she also loved her walks in the park. She is the last of the (in)famous Santa Rosa German Shepherd trio, and she now has joined Darcy and Ritchey in the Big Beyond and also in Pet Cemetery at the Dog House, resting along with her blanket, toys and a stick. She left behind plenty of fur to keep us cleaning up after her, which she is certain to supervise from the Beyond — always happy to have her people cleaning up after her instead of leaving on their bikes. Best of all, Josie left us with the happiest of memories and a love for life and for us that will entertain and sustain us for the rest of our lives. Here’s to JoJo!

By all means, here’s to JoJo. Slainte! I’ve stood dry-eyed on the shore as many a human relative hung ten on the River Styx, but shed oceans of tears for four-legged family members — my own mutt Jojo, his daughter, Fuerte, our final dog, Bandit, and the famous Weirdcliffe felines Ike and Tina Turdherder.

This being March and St. Patrick’s Day so near, I’ll reference an Irish short story I’ve always loved: “Requiem,” by Frank O’Connor. It’s about a woman who asks a priest to say Mass for her departed poodle, Timmy. The priest, though touched, refused, saying Timmy had no need of the Mass because he could not incur guilt.

The woman took the priest to task, saying, “I’m as good a Catholic as the next, but I’d say it to the Pope himself this minute if he walked into this room. They have souls, and people are only deluding themselves about it. Anything that can love has a soul. … And I know as I’m standing here that somewhere or other I’ll see him again.”

Tom Joad lives

March 11, 2009November 16, 2010 ~ Patrick O'Grady ~ 3 Comments

Times have gotten so hard here in Bibleburg that even cute little kittens find themselves forced to live in drawers.

If they’re not crowding into shitbag motels, they’re setting up tent cities by the river — welcome to “Grapes of Wrath II: From Hotels to Hoovervilles.”

In Sacramento, a tent city that has sprung up near the American River already has some 300 residents and is growing like the proverbial weed as working-class people join the chronically homeless in life in the great outdoors.

A spokeswoman for a Sacramento non-profit that provides “survival services” for the neo-homeless told The New York Times that the number of unsheltered people in her town rose 26 percent in one year:

“We have lots of folks living in their cars. People are buying storage units and living in them. People are trying to do what they can to put a roof over their head. Sometimes people romanticize camping, that they are free spirits. In fact, it’s an act of desperation.”

There are many such Hoovervilles in Bibleburg, albeit on a smaller scale. Walk 10 minutes north or west from Dog Central and you will see a cheap tent here, a ragged bedroll there; head south along the Monument Creek trail and you’ll see the po’-folks’ version of the RV camp — battered shopping carts and bicycles, and the soup kitchens and shelters just a short hop away.

Seven hundred people eat daily at the Marian House Soup Kitchen, up 40 percent from last year, according to the Gazette. And with unemployment up to 8.1 percent as of January — the highest level in nearly 17 years — they’re not likely to get lonely anytime soon.

Elsewhere, a Yale student is suing US Airways over a lost Xbox 360. He wants a million smacks for his pain and suffering, plus $1,700 to replace the hardware. A guy could buy himself a sweet little tent for that kind of money, and maybe a shopping cart to go with it.

A little Mac attack

March 11, 2009November 16, 2010 ~ Patrick O'Grady ~ 5 Comments

My mighty Mac: A G4 450 MHz "Sawtooth" Power Mac, circa 1999, with enhancements that include a 1.1GHz processor upgrade, a USB 2.0 card, a DVD burner, 2GB RAM and a second internal HD. I picked it up for the cost of shipping it here from California: $50.

March went and got all lionesque on us here — the temp was down around 11 when I got up this morning, and it still hasn’t cracked the freezing point as of 11 a.m. It’s tough to get excited about taking a bit of vigorous outdoor exercise when even a short run requires wearing everything in the closet. So I’m staying inside and buying shit over the Intertubes, hoping to jump-start the economy.

No, a new Mac is not in the works — not yet, anyway. But I am dropping a bigger hard drive in the old one while I wait for the product line to shake itself out. You can pick up an HD for chump change anymore, and there’s nothing easier to work on than a G4 Power Mac, so I’m going to clone the OS X volume from the old 20GB master drive, drop in the new drive, zap the boot volume to it, and enjoy about 100GB of breathing room. I might even do without the OS 9 partition, since I haven’t booted from that sucker in, well, forever. I use Classic to run Photoshop 4.0 — yes, that’s 4.0 — but there’s an unused copy of Photoshop Elements sitting right here next to the desk, so this may finally mean hasta la vista to OS 9.

Meanwhile, my fellow MacGeeks will appreciate learning that Apple is expected to release some type of netbook in 2009, perhaps as early as summer. No doubt it will pack big style points and an even bigger retail price. Asus must be shitting themselves. Or not. Thanks and a tug on the black turtleneck to MacRumors.com.

Soup kitchen

March 7, 2009November 16, 2010 ~ Patrick O'Grady ~ 11 Comments

While we wait for Wall Street types to do the right thing and start jumping out of windows, we’re making soup as a hedge against the harsh economic climate. This particular pot has its roots in an old Better Homes and Gardens cookbook, but has flowered in a variety of odd directions depending upon my mood and what I have on hand.

Score yourself three pounds of crosscut beef shank and put it in a big pot with about 18 ounces of tomato juice, six cups of fluid (water, beef stock, vegetable stock or a combo), a handful of chopped onion, three or four crushed cloves of garlic, a couple teaspoons salt, a half-dozen peppercorns, a shake or two of Worcestershire sauce, a bay leaf, a dash of cumin, a pinch of Mexican oregano and whatever chile powder you may favor and can bear (this batch has a rounded teaspoon each of mild and medium Chimayo red, plus another of chipotle). Cover and simmer for two hours.

Remove the beef, chop into cubes, discard the bones, feed the marrow to your wife. Well, mine likes it. Strain the broth and skim the excess fat, unless it’s cold outside, which it is, so fuck it. Return the meat to the strained broth, add a cup or so of diced spud, another of corn, a can of red, black or white beans (drained), another of crushed roasted tomatoes, and anything else that strikes your fancy. I usually plunk a bit of roasted, peeled and chopped green chile in there, just ’cause.

Slap the lid back on and simmer for another hour. Check the seasonings and serve with a side salad and maybe some organic corn chips to crush and add for roughage. A little grated Parmigiano-Reggiano or Black Diamond cheddar makes a nice garnish. What the hell, chop a little flat-leaf Italian parsley and sprinkle that on, too. Double up on the recipe and take half to your neighborhood hobo jungle.

This is good with a French red, a Spanish rosé or a U-nited States of America beer, in this case an Obsidian Stout from Deschutes Brewery. Eat, drink and be merry, for tomorrow. …

Below the belt(way)

March 7, 2009November 16, 2010 ~ Patrick O'Grady ~ 11 Comments

The Mighty Turk views with alarm as winter returns to Bibleburg, however briefly.

I’ve been trying very hard to ignore the Repuglicans’ screeching, holding of breath and stamping of pudgy widdle feet, reasoning that, like Oscar Wilde — or perhaps a gasbag with a microphone who is better fed than taught — they have decided that the only thing worse than being talked about is not being talked about.

But damn, am I sick of the racket.

I don’t agree with everything going on in the Obama camp, either, perhaps because I’m not smart enough to unravel the grand design. But after eight years of enduring that other guy, I’m willing to give Obama a little time to assess the situation and determine his response, free of snarky asides about how he’s already going gray or uses the teleprompter more than Honest Abe.

And seriously, if you voted for that other guy the last two outings, you really need to shut the fuck up for a while. Firefighters at work are not obliged to take criticism from arsonists.

Another advocate of reasonable behavior in the face of idiocy, Robert Sullivan, argues in The New York Times that cyclists have begun acting like cars instead of people. He never really defines himself as a cyclist (commuter? recreational rider?), though he does sneer weakly and tritely at Lance Armstrong wanna-bes and fixie kids. And his essay wanders around more than I’d like. But his basic point is one I support — treat others as you would be treated. It’s hypocritical to bitch about psycho motorists if you ride like a bonehead.