Rio sans pulse

September 4, 2026 ~ Patrick O'Grady ~ 8 Comments

The Rio Gonzo, seen at 10 a.m. Thursday from the Gail Ryba Memorial Bridge along I-40.

If the Rio had a pulse yesterday, I couldn’t find it.

Our local water wizard, John Fleck, noted Wednesday that the Bernalillo County Water Utility Authority, with the Middle Rio Grande Conservancy District and Audubon Southwest, was releasing “a pulse of water” from Abiquiu Reservoir on the Rio Chama in northern New Mexico “as an experiment – what might a several-day pulse of water do to help the aridification-starved riverside forests along New Mexico’s Middle Rio Grande?”

Then he went out to chase that pulse. And on Thursday, I so did I.

What I saw, you see, right up top there. Nada. Niente. Bupkis.

It was a good day for a ride down to the bosque. Not a good day for the bosque. As far as I could see in one quick pass, anyway.

The Journal found something to celebrate, but Matthew Reisen and Eddie Moore may have paid their visit later in the day and/or further north along the Rio, closer to the Alameda bridge than the Gail Ryba. I skipped the Alameda trailhead in favor of the most direct route west from El Rancho Pendejo — Bear Canyon Trail, North Diversion Channel Trail, Paseo del Norte Trail, and finally the Paseo del Bosque Trail.

Everything looked parched along the path. Lots of leaves on the deck already and some very unhappy trees. A smallish crop of roadies in various flavors plus a few dudes rocking gravel bikes on the unpaved trails who were definitely going to want to give a little postride love to their dusty drivetrains. Some water in an irrigation ditch east of the bosque path, but the river was as you see. It seemed an odd day to be riding a bike that takes its name from the Spanish for “fishmonger.”

Fleck hasn’t posted an update yet, but that’s to be expected. He’s the expert, not just another rando rambling along the road to Perdition.

It seemed a very long, hot ride back to the rancho, where water springs from the tap at the twist of a wrist. For the moment, anyway.

Ballot blocks

August 25, 2026 ~ Patrick O'Grady ~ 12 Comments

We vote. But not by mail, not in the strictest definition.

Yes, we receive our ballots via the U.S. Postal Service, but only so we can fill them out at the kitchen table, where last-minute research is easier and the lines shorter.

And then we march them over to the local polling place, an easy milelong stroll along the Tramway bike path. We exchange pleasantries with the nice folks doing the People’s Business, thank them for their service, and feed our sealed ballots into the box.

Then we stroll back to El Rancho Pendejo, secure in the knowledge that we have performed one of the most basic — and most important — duties of a citizen. Tossing rascals out and planting a fresh crop.

But you may vote by mail, for one reason or another, and that’s why you might want to check the shed for pitchforks and torches. Because the federal government — executive, legislative and judicial — seems to think that if they keep putting more roadblocks in our path, a critical number of us might not bother to vote at all.

R.I.P., Frank Beard

August 19, 2026 ~ Patrick O'Grady ~ 7 Comments

He’s bad … he’s nationwide.

Frank Beard has followed Dusty Hill backstage, leaving Billy Gibbons as the Last OG Standing in ZZ Top.

I don’t remember who put me hip to ZZ Top. Could’ve been my old newsie bro the M-dogg, back in our Bibleburg daze, after the release of their sixth album, “Degüello.”

Whatever. I soon backtracked through their catalog, adding “Tres Hombres” and “Tejas” to my box of road-trip tunes. “El Loco” would join them.

I never caught them live, but their MTV videos were killer. It’s always a pleasure to watch folks who enjoy their work.

It wasn’t always fun, of course. I recall one of the ZZs, asked for the secret to the trio’s longevity, replying: “Three tour buses.”

And Frank sure had his issues with the fabled party favors. The band took a three-year break while he got his shit together, which he did, as you can see from the video up top, a clip from the documentary “ZZ Top — That Little Ol’ Band From Texas.”

Billy, Dusty and Frank were my co-conspirators on many a road trip, and I’ll always be grateful for their company. Peace to Frank, his family, friends, and fans.

It never rains, but. …

July 21, 2026July 21, 2026 ~ Patrick O'Grady ~ 3 Comments

Crossing over I-40 near Winrock Town Center aboard the Soma Saga (canti edition).

We’ve been enjoying the occasional sprinkle in late July, all told about a half-inch of moisture in our dusty little corner of the sandbox.

Sure helps keep the mercury on the down-low. The air conditioning gets to take five, as does the irrigation system.

Why, a fella can even wait until 9 in the a.m. to get out for a bike ride without risking spontaneous combustion. Luxury!

I’ve been logging more miles lately — 131 last week, 123 the week before, 130 the week before that — not just because the weather has been delightful, but because it gets me away from the MacBook Pro, which seems to have visited Taco Bell without me and has been shitting all over my desk.

I’ll spare you the links. You’ve seen them all anyway.

Now, I could take a claw hammer to that laptop, make it shut up. But the MacBook Pro is not the news; it’s just a delivery system. It’s not the Beast; it’s not even letting it in. It’s just making it available in case I want a peek.

Remember Parker beating the tar out of Ash in “Alien” and all the good that did him? Ash was a grinning, disembodied head in a puddle of goo — literally a talking head, still bringing the news and analysis, like some interstellar anchorman for “The Weyland-Yutani Newshour” — and before long everyone on the Nostromo was Purina Alien Chow except for Ripley, Jonesy the cat, and the alien.

And Ripley was still getting nothing but bad news. Especially when, just as she was getting ready to back the escape pod out of the garage, up pops the alien with a solid impression of Jack Nicholson in “The Shining” — “Heeeere’s Johnny!” — and she had to have been thinking, “Goddamnit, all I wanted to do was take a little ride, get away from all this ‘Wet cleanup on Aisle 4’ shit for a while. …”

And Ripley didn’t even know about the next three movies in the queue. Talk about your long days in the office.

The bike is my escape pod. I check it for aliens before I hop aboard.

And while I bring a bot along, I keep that sumbitch locked down tight. If he manages to pop off somehow, well … he’s just a feeble old iPhone 13 Mini, and I’m pretty sure I can whup his ass in a fair fight.

R.I.P., Pat Oliphant

July 13, 2026July 13, 2026 ~ Patrick O'Grady ~ 11 Comments

It’s been a real Monday for the folks Down Under.

First we got word that the fine actor Sam Neill had gone west. And following in short order was editorial cartoonist Pat Oliphant.

I never met Neill, born in Northern Ireland but raised in New Zealand, though I saw a ton of his films. The Aussie Oliphant I did meet, through the miracle of serendipity.

Regulars here know the tale. It was 1978, and Your Humble Narrator was a reporter at what then was called the Gazette Telegraph in Bibleburg when Oliphant came to town for an exhibition of his cartoons and paintings at the Fine Arts Center.

I got to interview him over the phone for the paper, and then met him in person at the exhibition, where he was gent enough to hold still for an extremely unprofessional and extended Grilling by Ignoramus about how he did what he did so well. He was generous enough to provide a few tips of the trade without adding a kick up the hole by way of punctuation.

Oliphant was, simply, the best in the business. Imagine being a freshly minted priest from some dusty whistlestop having a chat with the pope. All these years later it reminds me of the time I saw Ned Overend at the Cactus Cup, chatting amiably with a father and son before finally excusing himself, saying he had to finish warming up for his race.

As Ned rolled away dad says to kid: “You know what just happened? We talked to God! And God talked to us!”

Pat Oliphant died on Monday in Santa Fe, according to his son, Grant Oliphant. He was 90. Peace to him, his family, friends, and many, many fans. And thanks, God, for talking to that dumbass kid. You know the one I mean.