I’d love to stick around, but I’m running behind. …
The power went out at 12:53 a.m., and the heat went with it. The wind is howling, and the snow is flying.
So this is a quick-and-dirty post via iPhone hotspot of a companion piece to yesterday’s post that I had hoped to nail up here last night, only to be derailed by the fabled technical difficulties.
Yes, yes, yes, it’s another abbreviated edition of Radio Free Dogpatch.
• Technical notes: Still using the Ethos mic from Earthworks Audio; Audio-Technica ATH-M50X headphones; Zoom H5 Handy Recorder; Apple’s GarageBand, and Auphonic for a sonic massage. The gunfire comes from Freesound. All the other bad noise is courtesy of Your Humble Narrator.
The Not-So-Great Pumpkin is floating into The Duck! City this fine brisk fall morning, a fat orange gasbag too late for the International Balloon Fiesta.
But just in time for Halloween. Boogity boogity boogity.
Nobody knows just why he’s visiting. ’Burque, BernCo and New Mexico in general tilt reliably blue, last I heard. Oh, we have our cultists like everybody else, flying their flags upside down, hanging banners, erecting statues and the like.
Freedom of religion, etc. Their god is not dead. He just smells like it.
Maybe the last time he drifted through he found a Mickey D’s that suited his peculiar tastes. Maybe they let him work the fries station. I have my fingers crossed that he’ll need a job soon. No, not that one. Having Max Factor one stroke away from the Resolute desk is the scariest thing I can think of this Halloween.
We’re skipping the rally, same as we did back in 2016. If we crave some bad noise we can always tune in to the dulcet tones of dime-store street racers Steve McQueening it up and down Tramway.
And if you crave some bad noise, why, you can tune in to this week’s special Halloween episode of Radio Free Dogpatch.
Shades of autumn in the Elena Gallegos Open Space.
O, the weather outside is far from frightful. And the fires are mostly prescriptive. And since we’ve no place to go … even so, let’s just hold off on the snow for a while, if you don’t mind.
Fall rides are my favorite rides. While I occasionally miss aspects of Interbike — the paydays, the feasting and roistering on various publishers’ credit cards, the simply Getting Out of Dodge — I do not long to waste another week of prime cycling weather motoring to and from Sin City in a clattering Nipponese four-banger, with long miles of trudging from casino to expo and back again through the low-hanging clouds of Marlboro exhaust and Bud Light sweat.
On Friday I was muscling the Co-Motion Divide Rohloff around the Elena Gallegos Open Space when I came up on a couple mountain bikers standing about where I saw a good-sized rattler in the grass on Tuesday. So I stopped to see what was what.
They’d seen a tarantula hairy-legging it across the trail and stopped for a peek, so I had one too. Didn’t take a pic, because I always feel like some sort of half-assed journalist — or worse, a tourist — when I’m doing that sort of thing where people can catch me at it. But it’s always educational to see one of the critters who actually belong here in the Upper Chihuahuan Desert.
Speaking of things that go bump in the desert, thanks to everyone who lent an ear (sorry, no returns) to the revival of my long-dormant Radio Free Dogpatch podcast. I have no idea what’s next — I mean, shit, do any of us 10 days away from the pestilential erection? — but as soon as I do, you’ll hear all about it. Oyez, oyez, etc., et al., and so on and so forth.
I’ve been casually pestering my friend Hal Walter, telling him he should launch a podcast to support his magnum opus recounting his adventures with son Harrison as the two navigated the postsecondary labyrinth at Colorado Mountain College in Leadville.
Whether this was a good idea is open to debate. Because it got me to thinking about my own long-neglected sonic sideline, Radio Free Dogpatch.
I have a love-hate relationship with the goddamn thing. It’s kind of like an old bike in a garage full of them. It’s been gathering dust out there, and you can’t remember what it was that you liked about it, so you pull it down from its hook, air up the tires, and take it for a spin around the block.
And holy hell, it all comes rushing back to you. Nothing works like it should. It makes funny noises. And you can’t quite remember how to make the old dog hunt. Is the braking U.S. or Euro style? Is the indexing buggered or are these friction shifters? And what in sweet holy motherfuck is all that racket?
Finally you manage to herd the beast back into its slot in the garage, mop the fear-sweat from your forehead, and limp into the house (because of course the sonofabitch bit you somewhere).
And you think: “Well, that wasn’t so bad. Needs a little work, but it’s not like I have a bunch of other stuff that needs doing. …”
The road to Hell is paved with good intentions. Also short on gas stations, rest areas, and cute hitchhikers. Might as well unplug the Bluetooth and surrender to the yellow fangs of the first Radio Free Dogpatch of 2024.
Our young pistache erupted in leaves practically overnight.
It was a gloomy morning, or maybe it just felt that way because I slept poorly.
Weird dreams and plenty of ’em, with lots of abrupt and unscheduled wake-ups. I didn’t check the clock because I didn’t want to know. What little remains of my mind was churning like a Samsung clothes washer on the brink of catastrophic failure.
My restlessness could’ve been due to seasonal allergies, which have been unusually fierce this spring. Or perhaps it was the upshot of two consecutive nights of Sarah DiGregorio’s chipotle-honey chicken tacos. I did opt for two sizable chipotles in their preparation. And I did eat two of those fat tacos both nights, topped with diced avocado, accompanied by a large green salad.
Maybe at 70 it’s time to reconsider the spicy foods?
Nah.
I’ve been eating chile since I was 8 and it hasn’t killed me yet. And if it ever does, I’ll depart this vale of tears with a smile on my face and the bedclothes floating a few aromatic inches above the rest of me. I can sleep when I’m dead.
• Editor’s note: Speaking of my mind and how it works (or doesn’t), when I went to Radio Free Dogpatch for the Samsung-washer link I was reminded that it’s been a year since I recorded a podcast. So here it is, a rerun from April 16, 2023.
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