Category: Holidays

Many treats, no tricks

~ Patrick O'Grady ~ 28 Comments
Behold the Red Punkin.

Man, am I ever glad I doubled up on the sugar stash. We had a veritable thundering herd of trick-or-treaters last night.

We had been thinking that turnout would be on a par with 2020 — basically, the kids in the cul-de-sac and their minders. But some Voice from the Other World suggested I snatch up a couple more bags of goodies when I was in the store the other day. And as soon as I locate a Ouija board I’ll thank him/her/it for the tip, because the little goblins started hitting the doorbell at dusk and didn’t quit until we croaked the lights at 9 p.m.

Maybe it was the light show. Ordinarily we just plug in the Not-So-Great Pumpkin, set it in my office window, and call it good. But this year I gave it some bush-league mad-scientist backup, planting six bicycle taillights around it to add an eerie red glow: three big Busch-Müller jobs that cast a steady light, and three smaller Cygolites set to “Zoom” mode. Muah haah haaaaaah.

More likely it was just some cabin-feverish parents deciding to air out their munchkins for a couple hours. “No, we’re not watching ‘Frozen II’ again. Now put on this Wonder Woman costume and let’s go make your dentist crazy.”

Whatever. It fairly made my shrunken black knuckle of a heart go all pitter-pat. Halloween has always been my favorite holiday. You get to be somebody else for a day, or at least part of a night, and who doesn’t want to climb out of his or her boring ol’ skin for a spell at least once a year?

With all the evil news-droppings poisoning our spiritual wells day in and day out, it was comforting to see that we can still trust each other a little bit, share a moment now and again.

“Ask, and it shall be given you; seek, and ye shall find; knock, and it shall be opened unto you. … oh, wow, Mom, Snickers!”

Dia de los Viejos Gringos

~ Patrick O'Grady ~ 12 Comments
Nothing says Halloween like a plug-in plastic punkin.

Here we are again, All Hallows’ Eve, boogity boogity boogity.

I don’t have any idea what to expect, trick-or-treatwise. Last year we kept our lights out and restricted candy distribution to the neighbor kids and their keepers. The supplicants included two cats, one cow, a fairy, a princess, and Wonder Woman. The booty was sealed in individual Ziploc bags. We didn’t quite toss it at them from the roof.

“G’wan, gedoudaheeh, y’little Petri dishes! I’m warnin’ ya, I got a bucket a hot bleach up heeah!”

In other news, Ken Layne is back from the road just in time to crank out a Halloween episode for Desert Oracle Radio. Author Tod Goldberg joined him to tell a spooky story, and I liked it so much I dashed right over to Page 1 Books and bought one of his books, “The Low Desert,” a collection of short stories. The first was worth the price of admission. There is a scary clown. I shall say no more.

Me, I don’t have a scary story for you today, or even an original costume idea. I’m dressing as Old White Guy, just like always, because in these dark days I can’t think of anything more frightening. Boo, etc.

Mardi Gras on the rocks

~ Patrick O'Grady ~ 31 Comments
Save your beads, boys. Ain’t nobody pulling off their tops today.

February almost always looks better somewhere else.

In February 2014 I fled Bibleburg for Albuquerque. In 2016, I traded Albuquerque for Fountain Hills.

And this year?

Well, shit. I appear to be sheltering in place, like everybody else.

Well, maybe not everybody else.

At stupid-thirty I looked outside and noted that our neighbor to the west had laid down some tire tracks in the snow that fell overnight. It kept falling, and after sunrise, the neighbor to the east laid down a matching set on the other side of the cul-de-sac.

They both have jobs and munchkins to manage. Me, not so much. I don’t have to be anywhere, and so I’m not going there.

• Lone Star Update: In Texas Monthly Mimi Swartz feels her hurricane reflexes kick in as the power grid is pushed to the limit.

‘Better Call Santa,’ or ‘Breaking Bethlehem’

~ Patrick O'Grady ~ 17 Comments
No snow in them thar hills for Christmas.

Father Christmas has done his usual drive-by on us. A few donuts around the cul-de-sac and off he shot into the frosty Duke City suburbs. Couldn’t ID the plate on that rig, but it was probably stolen, so why bother?

Anyway, all the John Laws on this side of town were tied up with some act of misbehavior down on Copper (and no, the irony did not escape us). We saw their Mickey Mouse ears all aglow to the west like some SWAT-team Star of Bethlehem as we turned off Copper onto Tramway, homeward bound following a visit to Herself the Elder’s assisted-living residence.

Earlier, Herself distributed freshly baked molasses cookies to the neighbors in a brazen act of socialism as I contemplated the verities.

Father Christmas,
give us some money.

We walked off our breakfast pancakes with a brisk hike through the foothills — “Merry Christmas!” shouted a happy family from their backyard hot tub, and no, I am not making that up — after which we motored off for the aforementioned holiday chat through HtE’s bedroom window, like family members visiting a jailed relative.

“I know, I know, you didn’t do nothing, habeas corpus and all that, but they still won’t set bail, and that abogado pendejo Saul Goodman won’t return our calls — ‘Better Call Saul’ my ass — so you’re just gonna have to wait a while longer, OK? Next time we’ll bring cigarettes and commissary money, I promise.”

Back at the shack we rang up my sister and her husband in Fort Fun, after which it was my turn in the kitchen barrel. The main dish was a largish Alaskan salmon filet (h/t Matt Wiebe) drizzled with olive oil, sprinkled generously with salt and pepper, and baked at 425° for 10-12 minutes, after which it got a squeeze of fresh lemon. Sides were white asparagus, arroz verde, and a green salad. Fake beer for me, a nice Provençal rosé for Herself.

As we ate we finished our binge-watching of “Breaking Bad,” because nothing says Christmas like an apocalyptic settling of old scores among meth kingpins.

Speaking of holiday entertainment, at some point during the day I gave ear to “Desert Oracle Radio,” a podcast recommended by Adventure Journal magazine. I’ve only listened to two episodes so far, but I’m gonna give it a tentative thumbs-up based on the Christmas show alone, which touches on our beloved Land of Entrapment and a few of its holiday oddities.

Herself thinks Ken Layne sounds like the Motel 6 guy. (“We’ll leave the light on for you.”) I think he sounds like the Motel 6 guy (with a smack habit). Take him for a quick spin around the Mojave and tell us what you think he sounds like.