The bright side

~ Patrick O'Grady ~ 31 Comments
The Morning Star Grocery, our turnaround point.

“Feeling good about government is like looking on the bright side of any catastrophe. When you quit looking on the bright side, the catastrophe is still there.”
— P.J. O’Rourke, “Parliament of Whores”

It’s true; the catastrophe remains. The bright side — yesterday, anyway — could be found along NM 337 south of Tijeras.

My fellow velo-geezers and I decided to skip our usual Wednesday spin through the Sandia Foothills in favor of an extended climb to the southeast, from the corner of Homeless and Hungry at the eastern edge of  The Duck! City to the Morning Star Grocery, just past the Carolino Canyon Open Space.

From El Rancho Pendejo we’re talking 42 miles round-trip with about 2,400 feet of vertical gain. I rode down to meet my compañeros at H&H, which Google Maps calls “Tramway and Central.” From there, it’s nothing but rolling hills, wide shoulders, and a single stoplight where Old Route 66 meets NM 337.

This is a two-bottle ride in cool weather, which it was; I started out wearing arm and knee warmers. In summer you can resupply as necessary at Los Vecinos Community Center or the Sandia District ranger station; toilets are available at both spots, too. For anyone feeling the urge at the turnaround there’s a porta-john outside the Morning Star.

The ascent from the stoplight to the grocery, nine miles or thereabouts, reminds me of the climb from Manitou Springs to Cascade, which the Mad Dogs did now and then in the Before-Time, when we still had the mighty legs of mastiffs instead of the quivering pins of Chihuahuas.

But while U.S. 24 has the shoulders of a young Calista Flockhart, NM 337’s shoulders are padded and smooth as a zoot suit, especially since both shoulders and highway recently got a fresh coat of asphalt. We got this intel preride from one of our number who reconned the route last Sunday, solo. Most manly.

One of these days I have to stop and snap some pix of this ride. But in a group I tend to get caught up in aimless chitchat interrupted by minor acts of aggression because hey, we may be old but we’re still cyclists. There will be attacks and counters.

Meanwhile, anyone out there feeling the ravages of time and contemplating an e-bike should know that our senior road warrior, who is 82, covered the whole route without electrical assistance and took his pulls in the paceline on the way back, too.

How’s that for a bright side, younguns?

Puppet theater

~ Patrick O'Grady ~ 20 Comments
Charlie McCarthy, former Squeaker of the House of Reprehensibles.

Talk about cutting off your nose to spite your face. The House of Reprehensibles just lopped off their own head because Matt Gaetz (R-Swamp) thought it was a swell idea.

This is like taking investment advice from the smelly in the cardboard condo at the corner of Meth and Fentanyl.

“Now what?” one Republican loudly asks.

Beats me. Christ knows McCarthy was no prize — he made Paul “Lyin'” Ryan look like Uncle Joe Cannon and was as trustworthy as a rat in a cheese shop — but who wants to wear the crown now, with Swamp Thing in charge of the guillotine?

• Ho, ho. And now we have that model of decorum, Newt Gingrich, slithering out from under his rock to say that Gaetz should get the heave, and also the ho, because “some behavior crosses the line.” Pots and kettles, etc.

Dinner and a show

~ Patrick O'Grady ~ 8 Comments
“Adiós, muchachos, compañeros de mi vida … (?)”

The New York Times spent most of yesterday pitching live episodes of “Let’s Make a Deal” from the nation’s capital. And today they’re telling me that nobody could give a shit; they’d all rather be watching “The Golden Bachelor.”

Well. Sounds like poor editorial judgment to me. Should’ve led with another Taylor Swift story.

Whoops, there she is.

Well, I gave a shit — no, not about “The Golden Bachelor” or Taylor Swift, who gets more eyeballs than a TikTok video of kitties in a titty bar — but rather the brinksmanship peacockery so deplorably on display in DeeCee.

It’s a weakness. But I could afford to indulge it.

Dinner was leftovers from Friday night — Melissa Clark’s paprika chicken with taters and turnips — so cooking was a rerun, or, more precisely, a reheat, at 350° for 20 minutes.

This left me at liberty to observe, and screech, and curse, and place bets with myself about what would finally emerge from all the shit-talking, gesticulating, and shoving that usually precedes a whole bunch of nothing happening on the middle-school playground of your choice.

This is pointless idiocy, of course. Right up there with cashing out the 401(k) and putting it all into bitcoin and NFTs; playing poker with a man named “Doc;” or gambling in any of the various casinos masquerading as “sports” in this world.

By closing time, the can had gotten kicked another 45 days down the road and I had lost every bet.

Still, could be worse.

Ukraine must be wondering how they wound up out on the sidewalk with an IOU in one pocket of the fatigues puddled around their ankles. And the woodlice gnawing on Charlie McCarthy’s balsa-sack apparently found out this wasn’t an all-you-can-eat deal.

This morning I decided this class in Political Science Fiction 101 reminded me of a scene from “Cannery Row,” in which John Steinbeck describes the upshot of an uprising by “a group of high-minded ladies” in Monterey demanding the closure of “dens of vice” like Dora Flood’s Bear Flag Restaurant, which was not a sandwich shop but rather a “sporting house.”

Writes Steinbeck:

This happened about once a year in the dead period between the Fourth of July and the County Fair. Dora usually closed the Bear Flag for a week when it happened. It wasn’t so bad. Everyone got a vacation and little repairs to the plumbing and the walls could be made. But this year the ladies went on a real crusade. They wanted somebody’s scalp. It had been a dull summer and they were restless. It got so bad that they had to be told who actually owned the property where vice was practiced, what the rents were and what little hardships might be the result of their closing. That was how close they were to being a serious menace.

You think maybe the high-minded ladies in DeeCee got told who really owns this whore-House? And if so, did they get the message? Who knows? Not me, cousin. But we have 45 days to find out.

Anyway, once the cartoon was over we got straight to the featured attraction, which included the aforementioned leftovers; rewatching “Reservation Dogs,” which concluded its three-season run this past Wednesday; and debating whether we should take down our hummingbird feeders, which hadn’t been getting many (if any) customers the past few days.

I argued for staying open, and boom! Just like that a hummer appeared at one of the backyard feeders, which are visible from the living-room couch. Maybe he was an elder who didn’t care to make the trek to Mexico this fall. Maybe she likes the new landscaping. Maybe they like “Reservation Dogs.” Pronouns are a bitch.

Anyway, we reloaded those two feeders and called it a night. This morning, The Last Hummingbird Standing brought a cousin over for breakfast. It wasn’t Matt Gaetz. I’ll call that a win.

R.I.P., Dianne Feinstein

~ Patrick O'Grady ~ 16 Comments
Sen. Dianne Feinstein.
Photo Mariam Zuhaib | The Associated Press

Dianne Feinstein has finally left the Senate, and the hard way, too.

As the Los Angeles Times wrote:

Feinstein, 90, was a towering political figure for decades. She was the oldest member of the U.S. Senate when she died, and questions about her mental capacity shadowed her final years in office, blemishing her reputation and forcing her to repeatedly fend off calls to resign.

“I’d put my record up against anyone’s,” Feinstein said in a statement as she neared her 89th birthday in April 2022, after a series of news accounts that questioned her ability to do her job.

She ultimately bowed to age and political reality, announcing in February that she would not seek reelection in 2024 to a sixth full term. By then, the race to succeed her was already underway.

A fellow Californian, John Steinbeck, wrote in “Travels with Charley” about chatting up an itinerant thespian he met on the road who declined a refill of the author’s whiskey.

“No,” he said. “No more for me. I learned long ago that the most important and valuable of acting techniques is the exit.”

It’s a tough lesson to learn. Feinstein had her successes and her failures, but for now, at least, all people will remember is that in the end, she overstayed her welcome.

Shine on, Harvest Moon

~ Patrick O'Grady ~ 15 Comments

I wish I could tell you that I’ve been enjoying all the decades-overdue dope-slaps Cheeto Benito has been getting from judges lately. Incidentally, you wanna wash those hands afterward, Your Honors. You don’t know where this mook has parked that fat orange mug of his.

Or that the GOP pestilential “debates” featuring the also-rans — a junior-varsity rogues’ gallery that Batman would hand off to Robin (“Here, kid, take care of my light work. …”) — have been must-see TV. I haven’t watched a nanosecond of them, preferring to let Charles Pierce (“doomed and useless”) and Kevin Drum (“shitshow”) handle that thankless bit of heavy lifting.

No, I’ve mostly been riding my bikes, awaiting tonight’s Harvest Moon — the last supermoon of the year — and fiddling idly with the WordPress Block Editor.

I’ve had several back-and-forths with a WP “Happiness Engineer” name of Liz about the Strange Case of the Spastic Comments, and she’s been very patient with this senile old fool, who basically wants to keep driving his 1954 Studebaker Conestoga of a blog editor until the wheels come off.

Which they may very well be doing. Who knows? My WP theme is retired, and so am I, but at least I remain functional. Most days, anyway.

Anyway, with one eye peeled for that instant when a wheel or two or three passes me and my Studwhacker as we’re getting our kicks on Route 66, I’ve been under the hood of an unused WP blog, banging on greasy bits I don’t recognize with a good hammer and a bad attitude.

Any of yis who are still experiencing technical difficulties with commenting on this blog are cordially invited to visit that one and try to comment, see if its swinging door leads to a jukebox and a barstool instead of the Three Heads of Cerberus (Drunk, Confused, and Angry).

It’s a one-post blog, with a new(er) theme called “Hemingway Rewritten” — yeah, I know, the gall of me — and none of the usual bells, whistles, and aaaooogah horns in the sidebar. Plus, since it’s a free blog, there are ads. Ick.

Frankly, you’d be better served by howling at the moon.