Category: Absent friends

In Memoriam: William F. White Jr.

~ Patrick O'Grady ~ 18 Comments
Heather and Bill White in 1996.

She was set to retire in a couple of weeks. He was going to buy her a grill and show her how to use it.

But then what seemed to be a minor bout with some seasonal bug — fatigue, shortness of breath, surely nothing to fret about — became something else altogether.

They went to the ER instead of Home Depot. And seven days later, he was gone.

• • •

William F. White Jr. of Smyrna, Tenn., died May 17 of complications from bone cancer. He was 77.

Bill met my sister-in-law Heather F. Pigeon nearly four decades earlier, when a mutual friend introduced them at a Ruby Tuesday in Antioch, Tenn. He and Heather hit it off, and would’ve gone out together the very next night. But that was Bill’s birthday, and he had plans with his parents. So their first date got pushed back a week.

Two years later, on Aug. 4, 1990, they were married in Oak Ridge, a couple of months after Herself and I tied the knot at Hyde State Park near Santa Fe.

Bill was a Nashville boy. He was born there on March 4, 1949, and graduated from Hillsboro High School in 1967. Then Uncle Sam sent him on a road trip. He served in the U.S. Army from 1969 to ’72, including a year in Vietnam with the 1st Signal Brigade, 1st Infantry Division (The Big Red One). He was based first in Saigon as a typist before being sent to the field to disassemble signal towers.

“Wild Man.”

Back in the States with an honorable discharge, Bill attended Middle Tennessee State University in Murfreesboro, graduating in 1977 with a business degree and the nickname “Wild Man.”

In 1985 he joined Horizon Wine and Spirits, going on to win many sales awards over a 30-year career. The owner of one store on his route said he always looked forward to Bill’s calls because he was the only sales rep he liked.

It saddens me to say that Bill and I didn’t really get to know each other well — Herself and I saw more of Heather than Bill, even after he retired in 2015. But I can see why that store owner enjoyed visiting with him. For a wild man and a sales rep, Bill was remarkably laid back.

We did have some things in common. More hair than was deemed respectable Back in the Day®. Nicknames. And nicotine. Bill kicked the habit after taking a work-sponsored smoking-cessation class — the only one of the 20 men in the class to finish it and kick those butts to the curb.

But his sport of choice was golf. Bill originally played in the men’s league at the Old Fort Golf Course in Murfreesboro, but finally shifted to the senior league, quipping that he “couldn’t hang with the young boys.”

An Eagle Scout (Troop 121, BSA, 1964), Bill also enjoyed hiking Tennessee’s state parks, visiting local farmers’ markets, and cooking. In recent years he’d tried his hand at baking, and cinnamon muffins became one of his faves. Heather loved them too.

• • •

Maggie.

Bill is survived by his wife of 35 years, Heather F. White of Smyrna; a brother, Donald White, and sister, Linda White, both of Nashville; in-laws Beth and Darren Morgan of Woodsboro, Md., the two of us here in Albuquerque; and Magdalene, an 18-year-old tabby cat. Bill and Heather parented eight cats in the years together and fostered many more.

He was preceded in death by his parents, William F. White Sr., and Nannie (Nan) Louise Whitfield White.

Funeral arrangements are pending. In lieu of flowers the family suggests donations to Second Harvest Food Bank of Middle Tennessee or WMOT Roots Radio.

But don’t anyone start a GoFundMe for the grill. Heather will buy that herself.

Coyotes 1, hummingbirds 0

~ Patrick O'Grady ~ 6 Comments
Open for business, but traffic is slow.

The hummingbirds are scarce so far this April. But Herself reported seeing a coyote just down the street as she drove to work this morning.

Ain’t that just the way it is? God’s Dog is on the job while Her colorful little buzzbombs are off screwing the pooch somewhere.

Hope the ICEholes haven’t scooped ’em all up. That would be the cutest detention center ever.

R.I.P., Gregg Bagni

~ Patrick O'Grady ~ 22 Comments
The Bagman cometh. And he bringeth … cheerleaders?

Gregg Bagni was too much for this world. Possibly because he was not of this world.

Or so he said, anyway. Ack ack ack.

The former Schwinn pitchman and Dispenser of Alien Truth has returned to the Mothership after a snowboarding accident in British Columbia, according to Bicycle Retailer and Industry News. He may have been 72, but it’s so hard to tell with these extraterrestrial types. I mean, just look at Doctor Who.

Like the Doctor, Bagni had been known to get around and about. In November 2009 he emailed to mention, among other things, being fresh off a little spin through the Dolomites — 650 miles with nearly 68,000 (!) feet of climbing — in the company of Clif Bar’s Gary Erickson.

I had skipped Interbike that year, so I don’t know what Bagni might’ve been up to in Sin City. But if he had been there, it would’ve been something. That was the one sure thing at Interbike, year in and year out. The Bagman would be up to something, and his act was always worth the price of admission.

For Schwinn’s 100th anniversary he hired 100 Elvis impersonators to march down the Strip, led by Fr. Guido Sarducci.

In 2003 he was stalking the show with what I described in BRAIN as “a large, garishly painted wrestler who will be delighted to tie you into a granny knot while the Bagman snaps away with his Polaroid.”

And way back in 1999 — I think it was 1999, anyway — he drove a herd of cheerleaders to the VeloPress booth, where I was to be signing copies of my freshly minted collection of VeloNews cartoons, “The Season Starts When?”

I have no idea whether I was on his schedule. I do know that I didn’t want to be doing any goddamn book-signing, in public, unarmed, where all my many enemies could relish my humiliation, because I was certain that precisely nobody would want the book, especially if they had to deal with me to get one.

But I wound up signing a ton of books and people were pleasant and appreciative and I can only attribute it to extraterrestrial intervention.

Bagni was a prolific correspondent, and wrote in the manner of Archy from Don Marquis’s column in the New York Sun of the 1900s. Archy was a defunct vers libre poet reincarnated as a cockroach who borrowed the columnist’s typewriter from time to time. He had to dive head-first onto the keys to work them, but couldn’t operate the shift key, and thus Archy’s works were all sans capital letters.

In April 2021 Bagni wrote on Medium, in lowercase, about a few “great lessons” he’d learned and been able to put into play after having had a gun shoved in his face— twice — deciding he would not live past the age of 30, and “living [his] life accordingly.”

“frankly … been pretty lucky being able to ride this crazy blue ball this long.

If you read it you’ll get a good idea of how he turned out. And if you never met him, you’ll wish you had.

Peace to Gregg Bagni, his family, friends, colleagues, and co-conspirators. Ack ack ack.

Idiocracy 2026: Older but no wiser

~ Patrick O'Grady ~ 24 Comments
“Ah, Jaysis, tell us he’s not at it again so. …”

What with having a drop taken and/or a mind wandering common on both branches of the family tree it behooves a fella from time to time to test-drive what remains of his wits, if any.

It struck me recently that for perfectly sound (har de har har) reasons I hadn’t done an episode of Radio Free Dogpatch since February 2025. But times pass and things change and people clearly aren’t getting any smarter, especially me.

So here we are so, dusting off what few of the mad skills I possessed only in theory not so very long ago and taking them for a spin around the old podcasting studio to see what falls off.

For openers, the 24-inch LG display that now supplements the 14-inch M4 MacBook Pro in my main office is no longer attached to the MacBook Pro in the studio, which is 10 years older and an inch smaller, displaywise, and I cannot recommend such a tiny stage for audio theater as senescence staggers forward, trying to remember where it left its spectacles (atop its head).

Auphonic is no longer a strictly free app, which failed to astonish me in this, the New Gilded Age, so creator and audience must deal with what they call a “Jingle” fore and aft. Jingle me bollocks, boys … I’ll be looking for some other way to give me chin music a tuneup before I next set it out on its street corner to busk for nothing.

Finally, Libsyn has gotten a makeover as well, but if you’re reading this you can be sure that I managed to negotiate their maze. An old ratoncito can still cut the cheese. Find the cheese! I meant find the cheese! Where the hell are my spectacles? Oh … never mind.

Could this be the start of something big? Probably not. Mostly I wanted to see if I could still get ’er done. Also, I was bored. Giving the old brain-box a wee scrape and a splash of paint is a fine way to stay out of the wind, which is full of allergens and other evil tidings. Extra credit to anyone who can find the Firesign Theatre reference in this mess.

• Click here for the latest episode.

• Technical notes: RFD uses the Ethos mic from Earthworks Audio; Audio-Technica ATH-M50X headphones; Zoom H5 Handy Recorder; Rogue Amoeba’s Audio Hijack; Apple’s GarageBand, and Auphonic for a wash and brushup. Clip from Mike Judge’s “Idiocracy” lifted from YouTube. Booing crowd, kicked-in door, and Celtic tune from Freesound. “Out of Step,” which you’ve heard here before, comes from Audio Hero via Zapsplat. Special guest appearance from Miss Mia Sopaipilla, who despite a screechy meow is healthy as a horse as she approaches her 19th (!) birthday.

Remembering Jethro

~ Patrick O'Grady ~ 14 Comments
Foreground, from left: Jim Martinez, who advised a mayor; Chris Coursey, who became a mayor; and Your Humble Narrator, in his final incarnation as a newspaperman, who would go on to blog about whatever to a small, deeply disturbed audience. Background, from left: Rudi Banuelos and Michael Brangoccio.

Chris James Martinez, a.k.a. Jethro, Santiago, Jim, et al., gave us the slip one year ago today.

You left us way too soon, homes. Some of us never got the chance to say “Adios” until you were dust in the wind.

Well, dust in a Chock full o’ Nuts coffee can, anyway.

After you hit the door running for the final time Larry, Kelly, and William got the old band back together and then some, first at the Bull & Bush in Glendale, and again in Alamosa, trying to sing you back home.

Sorry if it sounded more like the howling at the moon that was No. 1 on our El Rancho Delux hit parade Back in the Day™. Weren’t none of us exactly Jimmy Ibbotson, even then. More like Jimmy Beam, and near the bottom of the bottle, too. Talk about your long, hard roads.

Anyway, our serenades kept going to voice mail, or maybe to that answering machine I bought you way back when. It’s probably under those Glendale mondo-condos next to the Bull, with the rest of El Rancho. There’s an artillery piece at the Alamosa boneyard in case you want to call us back.

Thinking of you today, my brother. And of Lucy and Lawrence, too. Give them un abrazo for me.