Radio Free Dogpatch

With having a drop taken and/or a mind wandering being common along both branches of the family tree it behooves a fella from time to time to test-drive what remains of his wits, if any. It struck me recently that for perfectly sound (har de har har) reasons I hadn't done an episode of Radio Free Dogpatch since February 2025. But times pass and things change and people clearly aren't getting any smarter, especially me. So here we are so, dusting off what few of the mad skills I possessed only in theory not so very long ago and taking them for a spin around the old podcasting studio to see what falls off. For openers, the 24-inch LG display that now supplements the 14-inch M4 MacBook Pro in my main office is no longer attached to the MacBook Pro in the studio, which is 10 years older and an inch smaller, displaywise, and I cannot recommend such a tiny stage for audio theater as senescence staggers forward, trying to remember where it left its spectacles (atop its head). Auphonic is no longer a strictly free ap

You think we’re shipping the wrong people to Guantanamo? I’m old enough to remember a time when, if some civilian loudmouth waltzed through your front door barking orders, you could kick him in the plums, give him the old heave and also the ho, and get back to whatever it was you were doing before all the bad noise started. Yet somehow, in the Year of Our Lard 2025, we’ve allowed this porcelain pissant from South Africa to start rearranging the national furniture, to say nothing of the org chart, without so much as a “Just who the hell elected you to anything, anyway, Fisheyes?” Raise a ruckus and you get frog-marched out the door, either to the breadline or maybe a gated beachfront community that doesn't feature in Beelzebozo's plans for the tourist trade. Meanwhile, our media watchdogs just keep licking their own nuts; chasing random brain farts down countless odiferous ratholes; and “fact-checking” the arsonists who are burning down the government faster and more thoroughly than the Brits did during the Wa

The ICE boyos have brought a chill to Chicago, Aurora, and even the desert Southwest as Jesus Hitler starts making good on his promise of mass deportations. Round up the usual suspects. A little song and war dance for the TV cameras. “Dr. Phil” even got in on the act in Chicago. Shock and awe, baby. It works, for a while. But some folks just don’t take kindly to being shoved around. Soon even the fanboys will find the price of admission to the Dingaling Bros-Barnum & Beelzebozo Circus ("There's One Born Every Minute!) just keeps going up, as honest immigrant workers vanish alongside the bad guys, citizens decline to take their jobs in agriculture, construction, manufacturing, food processing and service industries, and goods and services get more expensive and/or harder to find. But never fear. We'll be annexing Canada! And Greenland! And the Sudetenland (whoops, wrong fascists, never mind). The Circus will roll on a Road of Bones until the world is under One Big Red White and Blue Tent (handmade by skill

Blame the Wolf Moon. A vacationing wife. An acid flashback. Whatever. But when I blinked myself awake in the dark on Tuesday morning I had no idea where I was. If dementia runs in your family, as it does in mine, this can freak you right the hell out. But I found it oddly exhilarating. “Where am I? Who knows? Who cares? This is great!" And then I remembered. “Aw, shit. Trumpsylvania.” We're just a few all-too-short days away from the sequel to a movie I never wanted to see in the first place. "Mr. Hyde Goes to Washington" should've been a one-off. But nooooooo. Everything has to be a franchise now. When the Joker started getting top billing we should've known what was coming. It's just one evil clown after another. • Technical notes: RFD favors the Ethos mic from Earthworks Audio; Audio-Technica ATH-M50X headphones; Zoom H5 Handy Recorder; Apple's GarageBand, and Auphonic for a wash and brushup. The wolf howls from Freesound, as do the sad trombones and the vinyl scratching. "Morning Mood" is from "Peer Gynt

Another Jan. 6 has come and gone. This time we managed to skip the armed-insurrection part of the program, so yay for us. Turns out that when they win a presidential election, The System works. Who knew? Watching Vice President Kamala Harris preside over the certification of the 2024 election results this week sent me careening down Memory Lane, revisiting a night in the sneezer in 1977, a Louis C.K. dramedy from 2016, and the last three pestilential erections. Background music comes from Danny O'Keefe, AC/DC, The Cars, and Billy Joe Shaver, all thanks to YouTube. The 2016 dramedy "Horace and Pete" remains available on Louis C.K.'s website. Audio of the 2024 election-results certification courtesy C-SPAN. Dana Carvey as Ross Perot on "SNL" was lifted from YouTube. Bill Clinton comes (har de har har) from the William J. Clinton Presidential Library. The Walk of Shame is from HBO's "Game of Thrones." The headline is a riff on Bob Dylan's "Highway 61 Revisited," not incidentally in honor of RFD's 61st episode. F

I always liked science fiction. Science, not so much. Science always seemed rigid and impersonal. But science fiction, or speculative fiction, if you prefer — especially of the apocalyptic variety — spoke to the gloomy bog-trotter in my DNA. So I studied the fiction instead of the science, with predictable results. When it came time for me to go to college, there was only one in the state that would accept me with my miserable GPA. However, I was excused from freshman comp because I was a fool for words, as long as there were no equations to solve. SF seems best to me when the future isn't pretty, but people manage to muddle through somehow. "A Clockwork Orange." "Alas, Babylon." Or "Station Eleven." We watched the "Station Eleven" TV series on Max, recently watched it again, and afterward I finally got around to reading the book, which as usual is considerably different. Author Emily St. John Mandel was gracious about the changes, though, saying she thought the series "deepened the story in a lot of really

When the John Laws collared their suspect in the CEO assassination he was said to have had in his possession a ghost gun, some fake I.D., and a 262-word "manifesto." By the ghosts of Marx and Engels! That's what I call phoning it in. Except our man didn't use a phone to compose it. Or a laptop. It was handwritten. Whether on papyrus, stone tablets, or a shithouse wall was not made clear. What is abundantly clear, however, is that 262 words do not a manifesto make. And let me tell you why. "The Internationale (Traditional)" and "The Internationale (Death Metal Edition)" both come from YouTube. The typewriter comes from Freesound. The police siren, screeching tires, ballpoint scribbling, and game-show buzzer come from Zapsplat. All other evil racket is courtesy of Your Humble Narrator.

At The Atlantic magazine,  Noah "Fargo" Hawley says too many reporters are writing fiction these days. Meanwhile, in a fund-raising email from Mother Jones magazine, David Corn warns that the legacy media's value-neutral, highly inaccurate reviews of the various hams auditioning for parts in the Pestilence-Erect's latest play constitutes a form of “sanewashing." Hey, our little purse pooch of a podcast may not lift the biggest leg on the journalistical block, but it dearly loves a good pissing contest. While the big dogs go high we'll squeak in a little squirt down low. The music, "Black Fedora" and "On the Job," and the droning sounds of networking and chanting all come from Zapsplat. All other evil racket is courtesy of Your Humble Narrator.

The headline is an inside joke among family and friends, a line of dialogue lifted from the 1978 novel "Panama," by Thomas McGuane. And now it's the title of a Radio Free Dogpatch podcast, a unsubtle bit of misdirection concerning an oversized orange turd that has proven impossible for a confused and bilious nation to flush. My apologies to Mr. McGuane. Sly and The Family Stone contributed a few seconds of "Family Affair" from their YouTube channel. Freesound kicked in a dog whining, a power failure, an internet outage, a garbage truck, and an elephant trumpeting. And Judge Dredd issued his ruling from YouTube.  All the other racket comes courtesy of The Proprietor.

Wherever shalt thou see a man on horseback, there also shalt thou see a horse's ass. And sometimes more than one of them, too. That's Scripture, son! There would be less pearl-clutching in the national media over Orange Julius Caesar doing exactly what we all expected he would do had some button-down editors worn their family jewels to the Big Dance. Alas, they did not, and now they are shocked — shocked! — that a circus needs clowns. Fanfare and gibbons from Freesound. "Out of Step" from Zapsplat. Folding chair to the skull from YouTube. Everything else is the fault of the proprietor.  

There's nothing like getting the old one-two, a bacterial sock to the snotlocker followed by an electoral blow to the breadbasket. For treatment we visit the witch doctors of The Firesign Theatre, SNL's "Theodoric of York, Medieval Barber," and that sniffling eejit behind the mic at Infernal Hound Sound. The background music, "Abandoned," comes from Zapsplat. 

I'm not running away to Canada. I'm just running away from the news. There's lots of bad noise out there on the day after Election Day 2024. So naturally I felt compelled to add to the cacophony. You're welcome. Gunfire by Freesound. The rest of the racket was homemade.

The Not-So-Great Pumpkin is floating into Albuquerque this morning, a bit late for the International Balloon Fiesta, but just in time for Halloween. Nobody knows just why he's visiting a blue town in a blue county in a blue state in the final days of his campaign for The Big Gig. Maybe it's just a pit stop to pick up a bunch of burgers to carry him through until Election Day. For sure he's not popping round to pay us the $200K he owes us for his last visit. If this crook is stiffing Rudy the Mook for legal fees you know we'll never see a nickel. The balloon burner and street-organ sounds come from Freesound. Everything else is my fault.

"He is risen" is not a phrase we associate with Halloween. More of an Easter thing, actually. Unless we're discussing this podcast, which was last seen (heard) alive in Easter 2023. And now, with Halloween cackling on the horizon, the bloody thing has clawed its way out of its grave and is headed for your place with designs on your ears. Music is courtesy of Zapsplat. Crickets come to you from Freesound. All the rotten racket is the work of the moldering old stiff who ramrods this graveyard.

Spring isn't a date on the calendar. It's more of a feeling. A warm one, if you're lucky. For me, the vernal equinox is rarely the starter's pistol. I don't hear that big bang until Herself asks whether her Soma Double Cross is ready to ride after a long winter's nap on its hook in the garage. By that reckoning, spring arrived in The Duck! City on April 9, Easter Sunday. It was a few degrees short of ideal — I like to think of spring as that time when I can unsheath the arms and knees, charge those solar batteries, collect a little free vitamin D. But if we had to roll out in arm and knee warmers, so what? As you know, you go to ride with the spring you have, not the spring you might want or wish to have at a later time. Music and sound effects are courtesy of Zapsplat (shoutout to David-Gwyn Jones for "Looking Back Over the Hill"); the Free Music Archive (a snappy salute to the U.S. Army Blues for "Walk That Dog"), from "Live at Blues Alley"); Freesound; and Your Humble Narrator.

Birthdays. Some of us get overserved, others get 86'd with the cork barely out of the bottle. Whoever's in charge of this party seems a bit random. Can't tell the top shelf from the well, the class from the dross. Proper ladies and gents given the shove while the most appalling tossers have the run o' the place. Herself is back east with family and friends to raise a belated parting glass to a lifelong friend felled by COVID last fall. I'm right here, having charge of the cat. But recently I spoke with my old comrade Charles "Live Update Guy" Pelkey, who has taken a few sucker punches since a cancer diagnosis a dozen years ago but is still on his feet in Laramie, all bouncers be damned. It may be my birthday that's on tap come Monday, but I'd buy Charles a round to celebrate his most recent lap around the sun, may it not be his last.  And I wish I could give Herself's pal Sue a few more birthdays. I've had more of them than I expected, certainly more than I deserve, and her candle was blown out far too soon.

The bitter economic headwinds prove too much for some in the peloton of cycling journalism. It's a rough old road, especially when you ride it on the rivet in the bloody gutter of vulture capitalism. The sport is pricey to do, and to cover. Advertising is a hard sell. Memberships and subscriptions can only take you so far. Old pros lose the wheel; newcomers hope to find some form. Above the course floats the vulture capitalist, riding the ill wind, never missing a musette. It's all feed zone for that scavenger, from the grand depart to the finish line.  Give a thought to your favorite former cycling scribe the next time you can't find any of that information that wants to be free. There's ain't no such thing as a free lunch. Unless you're a buzzard.

The Voices and I have been having a meeting of the minds as to exactly why we want to belly-flop back into this sonic kiddie pool, a shallow backwater that drains feebly and sporadically into the Great Audio River. But apparently we're at least one mind short. However, we do not lack for Voices. And they all have their own microphones because somebody around here got a little acquisitive a couple years back. If we don't pipe them into your heads, they'll keep hanging around in ours. Sorry about that.

The zombie podcast Radio Free Dogpatch awakens after a two-year dirt nap, scuttles out from beneath its filthy blanket of mulch, litter, and snow, and shambles about looking for something (or someone) to eat. Or at least listen.

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.