Radio Free Dogpatch Patrick O'Grady

Patrick O'Grady used to wheelsuck the bike magazines to spring break in Arizona or California. Then the biz wised up and he had to stick his own snoot into the breeze.
Until last year, when like many of us, he enjoyed all the travel of a rigid aluminum fork.
And now, in Year Two of the Plague, he's stuck — because he hasn't been stuck.

When Texas sank back into the Ice Age, Patrick O'Grady was reminded of the good old days on a wind-scoured rockpile outside Weirdcliffe, Colorado, where the power shut off whenever it was most inconvenient, the candle lanterns and Coleman two-burner were close at hand, and a Lopi fireplace insert and a tall woodpile kept the toilets from exploding like a bottle of beer left overlong in the freezer.

Or, My Home Really Is On the Range

There's something about February that's guaranteed to set a Mad Dog to howling. This time it's Impeachy the Clown as the opening act for our local bozos and their buses. Did everyone forget to lock their wigs before their moment of simulated exhilaration, or what?

Lockup got you down? Fortress of Solitude starting to smell like feet, fast food, and farts? Well, Clark, turn off that Zoom cam, take off the glasses, and see if you can still clear your top tube in a single bound.

Being on lockdown is like watching a bad movie. Sure, it sucks, but if you bail early, you might miss something. Or catch something.
Why not just lean back, put your feet up, and enjoy (hating) the show? The credits will roll soon enough. And we know who's not getting a best-director Oscar for this hot mess.
Say, is it just me, or does this soda taste like bleach?