Category: Deep political thought

Orange crush

~ Patrick O'Grady ~ 5 Comments
Happy Indigenous Peoples’ Day to Tommy Orange.

Since Tommy Orange scored himself a MacArthur Foundation award I’ve been rereading his 2024 novel “Wandering Stars,” the followup to his 2018 breakout hit “There There.”

The MacArthur people call it both “a sequel and a prequel” to the previous work, and it’s not a lazy bedtime read. The first pass through I found myself speedreading it, a vile habit I can’t seem to shake. It’s like driving the interstate instead of William Least Heat-Moon’s blue highways. You get where you’re going, but you miss a lot of scenery.

Now I’m taking my time and enjoying it more. Orange, a native of Oakland, Calif., and an enrolled member of the Cheyenne and Arapaho Tribes of Oklahoma, covers a lot of territory as he takes us back and forth in time, from the Sand Creek Massacre of 1864 to the echoes of the climactic gunfire in “There There.”

With one eye on another orange tale-teller I found one passage particularly apt for Indigenous Peoples’ Day.

Opal Viola Bear Shield, who is on the lam for a number of reasons — no spoilers here, read the book — is giving her unborn child a Cheyenne perspective on dogs, white people, and bloodlines (the child’s father is half white, and a white family’s dog, Cholly, is on the lam with them).

He’s one of these mutts you don’t know what kinds of breeds are in him and you don’t much care because he seems all his own in the eyes. Well he’s only got the one eye, but it’s got more life in it than I’ve seen in some men with two. And I’ve seen worse men than those with no life in their eyes. It’s worse when they know what they want and they’re hungry for it, white men in this country, they come to take everything, even themselves, they have taken so much they have lost themselves in the taking, and what will be left of such a nation once they are done?

Freecipitation

~ Patrick O'Grady ~ 16 Comments
Splish, splash, etc.

What a gloomy day. The ceiling is all the way down to the deck and the drizzle is intermittent. Reminds me of Oregon, only without all the ICEholes and Natural Gourds wandering around, growing fungus in their footwear and moss on their north sides.

Ordinarily I’d slip out for a jog between sprinkles, but I’ve already logged two 5K runs this week and fear a third would leave me a smelly puddle of tears, shredded connective tissue, and bone splinters.

Still, slouching around indoors muttering over the news ain’t no day at the beach neither.

That Tennessee explosives factory? Holy hell.

Public “servants” trying to suppress free speech? Par for the course. Public excoriation for thee, but not for me. Shove the First Amendment right up their fat asses by attending your local No Kings! rally on Oct. 18.

Government employees being shown the door because … well, because Rumpleshitskin likes it? Remember his two-word catchphrase from the unreality show he keeps reliving over and over and over again in the throes of his growing dementia. He’s a man of few words, because he can only remember a few, and can pronounce even fewer.

And to top it off I’ve got one lonely, disheveled hummingbird parked at the backyard feeder, like the old soak lost in thought who just can’t seem to hear the phrase, “Last call. …”

Just another manic Monday

~ Patrick O'Grady ~ 11 Comments
“Will you look at the man? He’s a Freudian delight; he crawls with clues!”

Maj. Whiskey Tango “Foxtrot” Sterno was said to be “crawling out of his skin” as the Warfighter in Chief prepared to address the brass hats he has ordered to assemble like so many raw recruits, reminding us not only of “The Caine Mutiny” but also “Lost Weekend.”

OK, so it’s The Daily Beast riffing on a piece from the Daily Mail. Not exactly the Word of God. But I’ll take good news wherever I can find it, especially on a Monday.

Speaking of good news, the clock is ticking to the first shutdown of the federal government in nearly seven years. This has been the goal of the Repuglicunts for as long as I can remember, which hardly makes it breaking news. But this time, who knows? It could stay shut down this time, and the generals and admirals would all have to travel back to their assignments via private transpo ho ho ho ho ho.

There will always be money to blow shit up, government or no government. But I wouldn’t want to be hanging by my nutsack waiting on a Social Security check.

Going off half-cocked

~ Patrick O'Grady ~ 20 Comments
The pen might not be mightier than the pistol, but its output is easier to edit.

I had heard of Charlie Kirk.

That’s about it.

Now I hear of nothing else.

So, thanks for that, to the asshole that killed him, elevating the bloody corpse of a right-wing provocateur light-years beyond any merit he accrued while still walking the earth.

I am opposed on general principle to shooting mouthy nuisances, in part because I have been one myself and may be one again. I may be one right now, depending upon your point of view.

So, please: Don’t shoot. If only because should you miss I may very well shoot back. And then where will we be? I may be a mouthy nuisance, but so many of us are, and ammo and lawyers and bail bondsmen and prisons and funerals are time-consuming and expensive.

Plus every good cult (and the bad ones, too) loves a martyr. The right stiff puts the pinheads in the pews and their pennies in the plate. These Elmer Gantrys don’t need a new angle — they’re doing just fine hawking Genuine Pieces of the One True (Double) Cross to the rubes.

So, instead of potting someone from a rooftop, why not turn up to debate with them? Append a nasty comment to the video! Make a plausible fart noise with one palm tucked in an armpit! Whatever blows your skirt up. Or your kilt. Crotchless panties, tactical boxers, fuck, I dunno, Christ, everybody’s so fucking sensitive these days,

Whatever you wear, or don’t — musn’t forget the nudists! Naturists! Jesus! — keep the Colt in its holster. Or better yet, at home, in the gun safe. Arm yourself with words.

Phone home

~ Patrick O'Grady ~ 7 Comments
The Grand Wazoo meets Elena Gallegos.

Full moon? Two consecutive days of medium-hot posole for dinner? Whatever … Herself and I both had weird dreams last night that seemed to peak around 2 this morning.

In these dreams both of us had lost our phones. Herself was able to borrow one to have an extended chat with her dead mom.

I had a gun, which trumps the phone in anyone’s game. You got a gun, you can talk to anyone and they have to listen. That’s a call doesn’t go to voicemail, y’follow me, Skeezix?

I was talking to someone in a Batman mask without the ears.

Hoo-boy.

To flush that out of my skull I went for a 5K run right after toast and coffee, lifted weights when I got home, and following a more substantial breakfast hit the Elena Gallegos to ride a few trails I’ve been neglecting.

If that doesn’t hit the reset button I don’t know what will.

The usual nightmares continue in DeeCee, of course. But we can’t blame them on posole. Maybe the moon. …