Archive for the ‘Vacation’ Category

Back to business

January 23, 2017
The Turk contemplates the New World Ordure.

The Turk contemplates the New World Ordure.

Thanks to one and all for minding the store in my absence. Turns out I needed more than a day off, so I took the weekend.

Herself’s friend Leslie popped round from Colorado and the two of them joined the women’s march in Santa Fe (sorry they missed you, Khal and Meena).

Me, I stayed home, with The New York Times, NPR, The Washington Post, Albuquerque Journal, Twitter, Mother Jones, The Nation, Charles P. Pierce and the blog all held in abeyance.

I listened to a lot of music — Bob Dylan, Steve Earle, Miles Davis, Mozart, Bach and Beethoven — sat zazen, went for a run, read some poetry and a bit of E.B. White, oversaw the menagerie, scribbled a bit of paying copy.

More later as I ease back into the routine.

United sucks (No. 162,376,201 in a series)

October 9, 2012
Lost: The Story of Flight 1200

The United Airlines flight that vanished without a trace. We were told Herself was booked on this one, but subsequent inquiry revealed that UA, as usual, was completely full of shit.

If humans were meant to fly, we would have wings, plus pouches for carrying those itty-bitty bottles of in-flight hooch.

And thus we would have even less use for United Airlines, which yesterday managed to disrupt the travel plans of yet another O’Grady. Back in March the bastards got me, but this time they discomfited Herself, who managed to fly all the way from Kailua-Kona to Honolulu despite having booked a flight to Bibleburg via Los Angeles. (Editor’s note: They got her in March 2007, too.)

Pigasus, circa 2007

I Photoshopped this image after Herself took a beating from United in 2007, en route from Bibleburg to Knoxville, Tennessee.

I can’t fault United for the original problem, some class of mechanical that required diversion to Honolulu for repairs.

I can and do fault the anonymous fuckwit in Honolulu who told Herself that she had been rebooked onto a flight leaving at 11 a.m. local time Tuesday — a flight that vanished mysteriously shortly after I confirmed this reservation with United customer service, which as you will recall is operated out of Spaminacanistan, Lower Intestinopolis, or some other exotic locale in which the native tongue is Squinch and the English competency limited to the phrase “I am sorry for the inconvenience, sir.”

During a follow-up call I was told that Herself had in fact been rebooked on a flight due to leave not at 11 a.m., but at 7 a.m. By this time, of course, there was no way she could make it a few hours earlier United had shipped her off to a hotel 10 miles from the airport and that 7 o’clock bird was practically taxiing as customer service and I chatted so enjoyably at the top of my lungs.

We discussed a variety of alternatives, some merely whimsical, others outrageous and physically improbable, to say nothing of deleterious to various internal organs should one prove successful, before I finally got Herself a seat on a 7:28 p.m. flight that should put her in Houston — Houston! — around 8:13 a.m. on Wednesday, and have her home by 10:40 a.m., a mere 24 hours behind schedule.

It goes without saying that Big Tex could have triathloned it faster. But then Herself gets around and about on nothing stronger than the occasional beer or glass of wine.

And of course, if you’re to be stranded somewhere, there are worse places than a Waikiki Beach Marriott. And I plan to suggest that United customer service go there directly, just as soon as Herself has the wheels down in Bibleburg.

• Late update: After double-checking the latest arrangements, I found that thanks to a late incoming plane out of San Francisco, Herself was now looking at a 90-minute delay exiting Honolulu. This meant she would miss her connector from Houston to Bibleburg and would have a tough time beating Jesus here, even if she drafted Big Tex. After a little more rooting around online I found a late-night Honolulu-Denver-Bibleburg deal, but trying to book it over the phone as The Boss cabbed it to the airport proved impossible (“I am sorry for the inconvenience, sir. …”). And thus I threw up my hands, told Herself to get a chokehold on the first English-speaking United agent she found in corpus and book that fucking flight. And lo and behold: The agent was helpful, if slightly uninformed, and once she had the 411 she even laid an aisle seat on Herself without any pressure applied to her carotid artery.

Big Island holiday

March 19, 2011

Since it seems more or less like the setup, I thought I’d test-drive the free-version WordPress gallery tool with a few more shots from our Big Island getaway. Click a thumbnail and you get a larger photo with caption, plus the ability to navigate fore and aft throughout the gallery.

So in case you feel the need for a getaway from whatever’s crawling up your butt — airstrikes in Libya, dope fiends on bicycles or eejits in DeeCee — pull on your grass skirt, add a coconut brassiere and prepare to get lei’d.

Back in the saddle

March 18, 2011
Palms at the Place of Refuge

Pu'uhonua O Honaunau ("Place of Refuge") was one of the spots that took a beating from the tsunami. Hunter S. Thompson wrote of it in "The Curse of Lono," describing another of his "Fear and Loathing" outings.

With vacation a thing of the past it’s back to business as usual in the DogHaus, and that means a fresh rant has been posted at I fear the Pulitzer committee will give it a miss, as I suffered from a touch of the old post-St. Paddy’s Day brain scramble whilst composing it. Plus it contains the word “dick,” which always makes the judges queasy.

The whole race-radio thing is taking on Wisconsinian dimensions, with Paddy McQuaid as Scott Walker and the riders as the pissed-off working stiffs, albeit without the dubious and transitory benefits of collective bargaining. When last I looked the VN homepage had four stories on the topic. And here you thought we were all about bike racing. Maybe tomorrow, when Milan-San Remo takes the stage.

McQuaid’s open letter to the riders on the UCI website is a real piece of work, a Dale Carnegie moment guaranteed to win him many friends in the peloton. He says he has plenty of pals sending him love notes from the bunch, but names no names, while basically calling the others pussies, tools and dopers. One of his BFFs will not be Jens Voigt, who would probably like to gouge out one of Paddy’s eyes, eat it, and then skull-fuck him through the empty socket.

Ah, the joys of velo-journalism. The party never stops. To give your mind a brief respite from the rancor, here’s another shot from our vacation on the Big Island, taken at Pu’uhonua O Honaunau, otherwise known as Place of Refuge. No dicks were harmed in the making of this picture, not even Paddy McQuaid.