36 and counting

May 12, 2026May 12, 2026 ~ Patrick O'Grady ~ 22 Comments

“Is there a bus ticket and some fake I.D. in here somewhere? Goddamnit!”

On this date in 1990 Herself and I embarked on the perilous journey of discovery that puts divorce lawyers in next year’s Maseratis.

They said it would never last, and after she got the LASIK surgery I was certain they’d be proven right.

Nevertheless, here we are, 36 years down that rocky ol’ road of marital blisters and with hardly any scars at all. Visible to the casual observer, that is.

Only half of the happy couple is showing the years and mileage, which is odd, because he’s the one who spent all that time palling around with the Devil. But the dumb sonofabitch was never worth a damn at wealth management — the kind of chump who thought a CD was something by Tom Waits that you slipped into the player of an ’83 Toyota longbed between bumps off the back of one hand and stealthy nips from the bottle in the other while steering with the knees and one bloodshot eye on the rear-view mirror — so whatever he got for that beat-to-shit 1954 soul has long since been pissed away.

And knowing him, chances are it wasn’t eternal youth and beauty anyway. More like another 8-ball and a case of Pacifico. Talk about your cheap dates.

Ol’ Nick probably doesn’t even want to take possession at this point.

“Holy hell, clock the state of Himself, would ye? Looks like the south end of a northbound ghoul. Make a freight train take a dirt road, that would. Shit, he even scares me. Maybe I’ll delay collection on this one, take Stephen Miller for practice.”

So, sorry, Toots. Looks like you’re stuck with me for a while yet. Next time you’re playing blackjack with the gang down at the animal shelter, maybe check your cards before yelping, “Aw, what the hell! Hit me!”

A drop taken

April 10, 2026April 10, 2026 ~ Patrick O'Grady ~ 16 Comments

The start of Tramway’s descent toward Interstate 25.

Never fear, I’m not back on the sauce. This drop taken was down to the bosque, for the first time this year.

It was a lovely day, if a bit windy — high of 80°, 65° when I started — and if I’d had my wits about me I could’ve finally ridden my age (in kilometers).

But I didn’t. After inspecting the state of the Rio Grande below the Gail Ryba bridge (still fluid, in a not-so-solid fashion), instead of pulling a U and heading home via the Paseo/North Diversion/Osuna-Bear Canyon trails, I noodled back to the ranch through Old Town to Odelia-Indian School and the Paseo de las Montañas/Tramway trails. Wound up 8 miles short of a birthday ride. In kilometers. Which is kind of like kissing your sister.

The Bosque Bandido never materialized, but I did notice a John Law parked on the gravel at trailside. We exchanged waves. Didn’t ask to see my papers or nothin’. Which was fortunate, because all I had on me was an elderly iPhone 13 mini, a water bottle, and a stick of Clif Blox. It would’ve been off to County Clare for Your Humble Narrator.

“Ireland? But your honor, my client’s bicycle doesn’t even have fenders!”

“Tough titty, counselor — he should’ve thought about that before his great-granddaddy came here to occupy a barstool that by rights belonged to a nat’chal-borned American. Next case!”

The good news is I missed whatever it was Melania thought she was up to behind the pestilential lectern, where nobody could see the rug burns on her elbows and knees, and that “Property of Satan’s Slaves’ tat’ on her ass.

Isn’t it about time we started relocating some of these Trumps to gilt-free cages in the swamps, deserts, and desert swamps of Wottalottaland, Lower Slobbovia, and Spaminacanistan? I mean, Christ, Boss Hogg is bombing anything he can’t steal, Melanoma’s doing this feeble impression of Richard Pryor’s “Now are you gonna believe me or your lyin’ eyes?” bit, and now Barron wants to start dealing speed in Florida?

Dude thinks he’s being cute by calling it “yerba mate,” which I think is Guarani for “murder tea.” Wait until he hears what the Cartel calls it. “Gringo failing to swim across the Gulf of America while wearing 300 pounds of chains, a jukebox, and a burlap sack,” is what.

See if you can get mommy and daddy to join you for that dip in the shark tank, kid. Your ould fellah could certainly use the exercise. Driving the golf cart and having people killed ain’t getting it done.

• Addendum: Artemis II made it home safely, and about 20 minutes after they were bobbing around in the Pacific off San Diego, boom! We got our first hummingbird of the new year at our feeders. Winning!

El Paddy-o

March 28, 2026 ~ Patrick O'Grady ~ 11 Comments

The backyard maple looks like it’s yearning for that *canale* to deliver a little water. Nope.

Thanks to everyone for the birthday wishes. Off we go for another hot lap around Old Sol.

For a present the Universe gave me a rotten night’s pre-birthday sleep, then followed up with gale-force winds, airborne allergens, dust, and other particulates, and a head full of boogers, so there was no 72-mile bike ride. Not even a 72-minute ride. In point of fact, there was no ride at all.

Except the one in Herself’s Honda to El Patio on Rio Grande for a largish platter of sinus-flushing green chile chicken enchiladas with papas, beans, and sopaipilla, which as always was excellent. We had to eat indoors, though. It’s a rare day indeed when we shun El Patio’s patio.

Today dawned coolish and should remain so for our No Kings rally down at Montgomery Park. I’d like to shoehorn a ride into the day’s activities at some point, but smashing the State takes priority.

If the State tries to deploy chemical weapons, well, I’ll be armed with a little gas of my own. Turnabout is fair play.

27?

March 27, 2026 ~ Patrick O'Grady ~ 37 Comments

After a largely sleepless night that may or may not have been age-related I awakened to the idea of flipping the script on this whole birthday deal.

“Instead of 72 I will be 27,” I decided.

But after further illumination via coffee I concluded that it would be a losing proposition in the long term.

Sure, I’d be 27 this year, 37, the next, then 47 … you get the picture.

But by 2031 I’d be tied with myself at 77 and after that the numbers go sideways at high speed.

So I guess it makes sense to be 72 today.

Beats being a freshly hatched egghead like the one pictured above, in Harundale, Md., circa 1954. What might he turn out to be if he’d gotten his start on March 27, 2026?

No, don’t ask A.I. I don’t want to think about it.

‘What have the Romans ever done for us?’

January 1, 2026January 1, 2026 ~ Patrick O'Grady ~ 14 Comments

There’s a cat in here some’eres. But where?

Are we going about this whole “new year” thing wrong?

Maybe the new year should kick off with the spring equinox. New life in the offing, and better weather to keep it comfy-cozy.

We were already into the 50s here last March 20. Zach at Two Wheel Drive had found me a Deore derailleur for the as-yet-unbuilt Soma Pescadero, and I went out for a short trail run to celebrate. The next day I was burning up the Elena Gallegos trails on my old red Steelman Eurocross while TWD assembled my new whip. Talk about your bowl of cherries.

January is usually a bowl of something else altogether. The month is named for the Roman deity Janus, god of change, passages, and beginnings: “Better beef up your kit before you head out that door to start your run, Mr. Not-So-Smarticus. Add a base layer, maybe a jacket and cap, looks like rain.”

When I revisit January in old training diaries I see a lot of short runs in frosty temps. Which is fine, as far as it goes, which is not very. And I’ll probably be doing one of those directly, as we seem to be getting sloppy seconds from the ongoing deluge in California. Just because I have fenders doesn’t mean I want to use them. I like my January showers warm, with the bathroom door closed and a space heater on.

But it’s gonna be extra hard to drag my ass out that door this Jan. 1. El Rancho Pendejo smells like simmering black-eyed peas and ham hock, with baking cornbread soon to lend an aromatic hand, and it’s a good thing I have more than a few keyboards around here because I keep drooling into this one.

Happy New Year to one and all.

• Addendum: The cooking process is greatly enhanced by playing “The Allman Brothers Band: A Decade of Hits 1969-1979” throughout.