The snot locker

May 14, 2025 ~ Patrick O'Grady ~ 10 Comments

Apologies for the extended hitch in the blogging gitalong.

Herself returned from Maine on Saturday with a case of The Bug, and thanks to the recent heavy rains I have been enjoying an extended allergic reaction to just about everything, including, as you have seen, bloggery.

The Boss is feeling much better now, thanks to rest, tea, posole, and television. I remember when rest, Canada Dry ginger ale, Lipton’s chicken noodle soup, and comic books did the trick for me. So it goes.

Despite a surfeit of snot I have been out and about on the Soma Pescadero, and you may expect an Adventure Cyclist-style review here in the very near future. Of the Soma, not the snot.

It’s been interesting to see how the Pescadero stacks up with the rest of the Merry Sales family — my two Soma Sagas (one rim brake, one disc); the Double Cross (my oldest Soma); and the New Albion Privateer. Marketeer Stan Pun says the Pescadero is “probably our most under-the-radar frame,” which is a pity, because it’s a smooth blend of past and present. It should be flying high.

Anyway, more on that later. Right now it’s time to ride.

Or so I hope, anyway. We have a largish fire burning at the Arizona-New Mexico border, another one freshly pissed out in an industrial district north of downtown, an air-quality alert, and a red-flag warning.

If I were smart I’d stay inside with the doors and windows shut. But if I were smart, I wouldn’t have mowed the lawn yesterday.

Paging Mr. DeMille

June 20, 2024 ~ Patrick O'Grady ~ 13 Comments

“Holy Moses. … this may be the worst staff infection I’ve ever seen.”

Shit is getting Biblical here in the Land of Enchantment, a division of Netflix, Inc.

We have the fires and floods in and around Ruidoso, another blaze in El Malpais National Monument, and a dust storm up by Algodones that caused a 17-vehicle pileup, closed Interstate 25 in both directions, and sent 18 people to the hospital — plus two more to the calaboose after they acted the fool in the presence of law enforcement.

Quite a kickoff to the summer solstice. I don’t think we have to worry about the Rio Grande turning to blood, though. That’s what Central Avenue is for.

Shot with a water back

November 10, 2023November 11, 2023 ~ Patrick O'Grady ~ 23 Comments

It’s an ill wind, etc.

Yesterday a real window-rattler blew through, stripping all the brown needles from the pines and scattering them along our driveway and into the cul-de-sac. Also, and too, the back yard.

Then overnight, we got a little drizzle, followed by a soupçon of — wait for it — actual snow this morning.

Little accumulation is expected, but our widget said we’d gotten 0.06 inch by 8:15 a.m. (which became 0.22 inch by 4:15 p.m.), so ’ray for us, amirite? Something to blog about other than genocide, sedition, and creeping idiocy, against which a vaccine there is not.

Speaking of which, Herself got the latest Bug shot on Tuesday and it knocked her flat on her teensy little keister. Spent most of Wednesday in the bed and lost all interest in the delicious meals prepared thrice daily by Your Humble Narrator.

Yesterday she began shambling around and about a bit and today she seems much more like Herself (haw), though her appetite remains AWOL; breakfast was coffee and a bite of whole-wheat toast with butter and jam.

I haven’t gotten stuck yet. My last shot was almost exactly a year ago, at one of the local senior centers, and I suppose I should go get myself the latest and greatest, though it apparently targets the variant before the one that is currently dominant.

But goddamnit it, I like my food. And blogging from the bed is unsatisfactory.

On that topic, no word from the Happiness Engineers about the overwrought comments window, which seems to have magically downsized itself overnight to the version I saw over at Better Burque.

I suspect that some of our WordPress issues might be resolved if I were to abandon the Classic Editor for the Block Editor, but I consider this a last resort.

A theme change might help — as I’ve mentioned before, this one, Kubrick, has been “retired.” But I like its simplicity and several test drives have failed to turn up any suitable replacement that doesn’t somehow start inching me into that goldurned, consarned, dadblasted Block Editor, like some old fart tottering into assisted living with Big Nurse on his six.

Not yet, goddamnit. Not yet.

Marching forward, looking backward

March 26, 2023March 26, 2023 ~ Patrick O'Grady ~ 21 Comments

Calm down, ye amadáin, I’ve not a drop taken: That’s a Guinness 0 so.

Birthdays. Some of us get overserved, others get 86’d with the cork barely out of the bottle.

Whoever’s in charge of this party seems a bit random. Can’t tell the top shelf from the well, the class from the dross. Proper ladies and gents given the shove while the most appalling tossers have the run o’ the place.

Take me, if you can bear to. Here I sit, roaring up on an age at which I had fully expected to have been stone dead for at least 39 years. Upended many an office pool I did.

“Who picked 69? 69? Well, doesn’t matter, because the bugger is still alive!”

Meanwhile, there’s many an empty stool in this shabby shebeen. Where’d everybody go? They were all here just a minute ago. …

Herself is back east with family and friends to raise a belated parting glass to a lifelong friend carried off by COVID last fall.

I’m right here, having charge of the cat. But recently I spoke with one of my old pals, the former Live Update Guy Charles Pelkey, who has taken a few sucker punches since a cancer diagnosis a dozen years ago but is still on his feet in Laramie, all bouncers be damned.

It may be my birthday that’s on tap come Monday, but I’d buy Charles a round to celebrate his most recent lap around the sun, may it not be his last. Lucky for me and my 401(k) I don’t drink anymore; I don’t think he does, either. ’Tis unknown the amount of money our younger selves could piss away in a proper pub.

At the publisher’s expense, of course.

But that’s neither here nor there.

And anyway, it’s the thought that counts.

So belly up to the bar — unbeknownst to the landlord, who is manhandling another tray of industrial lager to the hoops-watching gobshites glued to the TV in the back of the pub, we’re uncorking an 18-year-old, double-cask, single-malt episode of — yes, yes, yes — Radio Free Dogpatch. And sláinte to yis.

P L A Y R A D I O F R E E D O G P A T C H

• Technical notes: There was an inordinate amount of racket in and around El Rancho Pendejo this week, but after a series of false starts I was finally able to nail something down using my trusty Shure SM58 mic and the Zoom H5 Handy Recorder. Editing was in Apple’s GarageBand, with a sonic bump from Auphonic. Music and sound effects are courtesy of Zapsplat, Freesound, and Your Humble Narrator.

Bugged

November 29, 2022 ~ Patrick O'Grady ~ 16 Comments

Have you ever noticed that when you get sick, there’s no restorative food in the house, especially if you feel like maybe you could eat a little sumpin’-sumpin’?

If you’ve caught a stomach bug and have trouble keeping air down, as was the case the last time I fell ill in November 2019, you have all manner of delicious items rotting in the fridge because you dassn’t even think about food or it’s back to The Big White Telephone for another call to your old pal Ralph. Or worse.

But if it’s a case of Snotlocker Surprise, like the one Herself fetched back from Maryland via flying aluminum test tube, the cupboards are practically guaranteed to be bare.

I thought I had dodged this particular bullet, but nope. Shortly after the sis-in-law flew home I was hacking in harmony with Herself, thankful that the gals had loaded up on Kleenex during a trip to Costco and sleeping — well, “not sleeping” would be more accurate — in the spare room.

The Boss is past it now, it seems, and has toddled off to work. But I’m stuck here, making “Andromeda Strain” noises, slurping cups of hot tea, and wishing I had made a pot of chicken soup instead of turkey chili, which is pretty much it for medicinal purposes around here unless you count the bottle of Herradura Silver tequila hidden away behind the breadmaker, which I do not. I don’t think there’s a lick of chicken in there.

In case you’re wondering, given the events of the past couple of weeks, yes, indeed, I did take a COVID test and it was negativo, as we say south of the border. This means exactly jack shit, of course, but I’m going with it because this bug feels familiar. It has caught me between grocery trips before.