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.

His number didn’t come up

March 13, 2026 ~ Patrick O'Grady ~ 9 Comments

Our aeronaut was logging his flight time before Friday the 13th could have a go at clipping his wings.

A thousand thank-yous to everyone who wished Herself a happy (mumble-mumblth) birthday yesterday.

The eldest neighbor kid popped by after dinner to give her a hug and sing “Happy Birthday.” Lord, is she ever growing like a weed. A wee babe in arms she was when first we laid eyes on her, and what would become El Rancho Pendejo, during an open house back in the summer of 2014. And now she’s a middle-schooler as tall as Herself.

Earlier in the day, after cake for breakfast, Herself and I went for a 5K jog in the foothills, which is where we saw the paraglider above, setting up for a landing near the Menaul trailhead.

Fun to watch, but as pasatiempos go it’s not for me. Two broken ankles later when faced with a tall curb I long for an escalator.

Especially on Friday the 13th. I ain’t superstitious, but after 70-odd years of acting the fool from coast to coast, something — or Someone — is bound to be out to get me.

Let them eat cake

March 12, 2026 ~ Patrick O'Grady ~ 12 Comments

By “them” I mean Herself, and by “cake” I mean “half a cinnamon roll,” and why on earth should Herself be eating cake for breakfast?

Because it’s her birthday, that’s why.

There was but a single candle on the “cake,” because record-low snowpack, record-high temperatures, drought continues, red-flag warnings, etc., et al., and so on and so forth. I lit it up and we hopped around the kitchen like crazed bunnies to The Beatles’ “Birthday,” blaring from a JBL Clip 2 fed a YouTube video by my iPhone 13 Mini. Can’t say we Revered Elders are helpless when it comes to managing all these doggone, consarned, newfangled whizbangs, whatchamacallits, and comosellamas, even the ones whose “new” is mostly wore off leaving only the “fangled” bits.

Once breakfast is in the rear view there will be a short trail run followed by some medium-light shopping, a lunch without so much cake in it, and a delicious dinner that may or not conclude with cake, depending upon whether we can get to The Range before they run out and/or close, which happens early in these dire days, when no one can afford gasoline, much less three servings of cake per diem.

You wouldn’t believe the tariff on cake. And you can trust me, because I’m in the media.

The cat’s meow

March 27, 2023March 27, 2023 ~ Patrick O'Grady ~ 31 Comments

Mack awakened, started up, stretched, staggered to the pool, washed his face with cupped hands, hacked, spat, washed out his mouth, broke wind, tightened his belt, scratched his legs, combed his wet hair with his fingers, drank from the jug, belched and sat down by the fire.

— John Steinbeck, “Cannery Row”

“Men all do about the same things when they wake up,” Steinbeck continued.

Maybe so. But my morning ritual departs from the norm in subtle ways.

There is no pool, jug, or fire by the bed; the nightstand holds a lamp and glass of water, and a sink is just a few steps away.

Once I’ve tumbled out of bed I snatch up bits of clothing at random and dress in the dark just to see what happens. This morning when I turned on the bathroom light I saw the pea-green T-shirt I’d selected complemented my fetching pallor. Thanks to an overlong winter that has spilled over into spring I looked like a scoop of pistachio ice cream with eyes.

It didn’t help that Miss Mia Sopaipilla had begun singing “Happy Birthday” to me around 2:30. I thought I was prepared, having gone to bed early, but nothing prepares you for a cat singing “Happy Birthday” at 2:30 in the morning. Especially when you know it’s not “Happy Birthday” she’s singing.

Who knows what makes a cat sing anything at 2:30 in the morning? Not me, because I refuse to get up and find out. I rolled myself up like a burrito in the blankets, put a pillow over my head, and stayed put until 5.

Shortly after I finally arose to serve Her Majesty I heard an ambulance, but I wasn’t in it.

At least I don’t think I was. But I’ve only had two cups of coffee so all bets are off.