Meanwhile, back at Thanksgiving. …

November 27, 2015 ~ Patrick O'Grady ~ 11 Comments

Chicken cacciatore and a side of stir-fried succotash with edamame.

It was quiet around El Rancho Pendejo yesterday. No friends, no family, just the five of us — Herself, Mister Boo, Field Marshal Turkish von Turkenstein (commander, 1st Feline Home Defense Regiment), Miss Mia Sopaipilla, and Your Humble Narrator.

Ordinarily we do the holidays with my sister and her husband, but with Fort Collins now an eight-hour drive each way, and the road conditions decidedly Novemberish between here and there, we decided to give the road trip a miss and instead treated them to a FaceTime video tour of our new digs.

Thanksgiving Day breakfast: leftover taters smothered in green with eggs over easy, English muffins and a side salad.

This seemed a particularly bright move after we heard from our pal Hal, who did the big U-turn from Weirdcliffe to Highlands Ranch and back again, narrowly avoiding disaster. Via e-mail, he reported that Bibleburg “was dry on the north end and a fucking skating rink on the south end. A six-car pileup happened right in from of me on I-25 and I was lucky to not be No. 7.”

Good times. Maybe not.

So, yeah. We stayed home, and I whipped up a mess of Emeril’s chicken cacciatore with a side of Martha Rose Shulman’s stir-fried succotash with edamame. Herself was detailed to prepare a green salad and a raspberry cobbler but instead chose to lean on her shovel, sipping a glass of vino, and who can blame her? Not me. Plenty of veggies in that succotash, yo. Plus we had a salad with breakfast (right), which included eggs over easy atop spuds slathered in green chile. And we had ice cream for dessert.

Hope your day went as nicely as ours did.

Temporary quarters

November 11, 2015November 11, 2015 ~ Patrick O'Grady ~ 17 Comments

When people think of the sacrifices made by the men and women in our armed forces, they tend to think in terms of deployment, combat and the strong likelihood of getting one’s arse shot off.

But there’s another forfeit that goes unnoticed — home ownership. While the military defends the nation’s homes and hearths, the citizens in uniform often must put their own American dreams on hold.

The old man (back row, right) in one of his earliest temporary billets, in New Guinea during World War II.

I don’t recall knowing any homeowners as a kid. We lived in Maryland, Virginia, Canada and Texas when I was a punk, and the old man either rented or arranged for quarters on base.

Sure, it’s possible to own a home while in the service, and we didn’t move around nearly as much as some folks did, but renting is still easier, even for officers. If you suddenly find yourself transferred from Ottawa to, say, Randolph AFB outside San Antonio, well, you have a house to sell. And in another country, too.

This shit rolls downhill to the dependents. When we lived in Ottawa I wanted a tree house. Nope, said the old man. That’s not our tree.

Between rental houses we got to experience the joys of Visiting Officers Quarters (VOQ), which were the early prototypes for what would become the Motel 6 chain. At least one unhappy customer said in 2008 that it was an open question whether the VOQ at Fort Drum were “preferable to field conditions.” I recall a few that were more KOA than VOQ, for sure.

But all things come to he who waits, and in 1967, when we were transferred from Randolph to Bibleburg, Col. Harold Joseph O’Grady finally got to buy his house (after 25 years of service and one final, astoundingly long run of stays in VOQ, BOQ and actual shitbox motels on Knob Hill, which was seedy even then).

He got to enjoy it for all of 13 years, and after that he took up permanent quarters at Fort Logan National Cemetery.

So here’s to all the troops waiting patiently for their slice of American pie. Try to save ’em some.

Victory

November 10, 2015 ~ Patrick O'Grady ~ 14 Comments

The all clear has been sounded, reports the commander.

El Rancho Pendejo is now firmly back under local control. The invaders have been repulsed, sent packing to Texas, Maryland and Tennessee.

Reached in his command bunker, which looks an awful lot like our kitchen sink, Field Marshal Turkish von Turkenstein took full credit for routing The Enemy.

The doughty commander of the crack 1st Feline Home Defense Regiment noted modestly that for his valor he has been offered a full scholarship to the U.S. Military Academy at West Point, the nomination of the Republican Party as its candidate for president of the United States, and full oversight of the Keystone XL pipeline, which has been repurposed to deliver a steady stream of Feline Greenies Ocean Fish Flavor Dental Treats to an undisclosed location.

Then he knocked a bowl off the counter and blamed it on the media.

55? Do I hear 60? 65?

November 7, 2015 ~ Patrick O'Grady ~ 20 Comments

The road goes ever on and on, etc., et al., and so on and so forth.

I’d like to run away from home. But which home?

There’s the one in Bibleburg, which is under contract. The prospective buyers would like a couple electrical and plumbing issues corrected before the deal goes down, and while they seem to be minor items at casual glance, our plumber has a second home in Hawaii.

Then there’s the one in the Duke City, which has a slight in-law infestation that can’t be eradicated by the usual pest-control outfits. People would talk, especially the ones being eradicated. (Editor’s note to in-laws: I keed, I keed.)

Alas, furthermore, moreover, and too, deadlines loom, with words, cartoons and video all very much in demand and yet proving elusive for some reason(s).

Add a soupçon of inhospitable weather — my God, I’ve actually taken to wearing pants, and indoors, too! — and it’s no wonder a paranoid misanthrope might get the feeling that some stealth contractor is adjusting the walls inward during the night, while Realtors®, repairpersons and relatives harry me through my dreams like the coyotes Herself and I heard singing last night as we walked The Boo.

The only possible solution is — yes, you guessed it — a great big pot of homemade chicken noodle soup. It cures everything. I even got a cartoon done while it was cooking.

Son of Return to Beyond the Valley of Fashion Friday

July 10, 2015July 10, 2015 ~ Patrick O'Grady ~ 10 Comments

Anybody still hanging around here? Hello? (Thump thump thump.) This thing on?

It’s been a wee bit hectic around El Rancho Pendejo since last we chatted.

Le Tour started, and Le Tourists promptly started crashing right the hell out of it.

The mom-in-law popped round from Tennessee.

Deadlines for Adventure Cyclist and Bicycle Retailer arrived and departed, bearing full payloads of merde.

And poor Mister Boo surrendered 10 teeth to the doggie dentist. He is taking his nourishment in gruel form for the next two weeks and I fear for his digestive tract. Also, our brick floors.

But now, the good news: The Old Guys Who Get Fat In Winter jersey shop should be up and running sometime next week at Voler.

Once I get the green light, I’ll announce it here and add a permanent link to the online store at upper right, in the sidebar. Then I’ll just lean back in this titanium-and-carbon La-Z-Boy with a flagon of 2003 Domaine de la Romanèe Conti in one hand and a snifter of cocaine in the other and wait for the money to start rolling in. I’ve already ordered up a sixpack of courtesans, and they ain’t in business for laughs, y’know.