Month: October 2011

Occupy Office Chair

~ Patrick O'Grady ~ 16 Comments
Turkish basks in the afternoon sun
Dr. Turkenstein, I presume?

I’m really starting to hate Sundays. It’s like someone docks a Waste Management truck to my office window and offloads a metric ton of moldy corn dogs, crushed Grain Belt cans and elephant shit from the Iowa GOP caucuses into my iMac.

I clocked in at 7 a.m., just in time for the first lap of the men’s World Cup opener in Pilsen, and I didn’t really find the bottom of the VeloPile until about 4 p.m. Pee-yew. There’s more to be done, of course, but it never found its way to me and thus has become someone else’s problem.

Doesn’t help that I’ve somehow managed to throw out my back again, which adds personal injury to professional insult. Sending two Tylenol Extra Strength tabs after that old refrigerator-delivery injury was like pitting a Boston cream pie against Rosie O’Donnell, without the potentially funny bits.

Happily, as I do my part to help smash the State through Occupy Office Chair I’ve gotten some top-notch attention from Dr. Turkenstein, though I note he is prone to wistful window-gazing. And no black-glove coppers have pepper-sprayed me yet, so I’ve got that going for me.

You can’t spell ‘OMG’ without ‘GM’

~ Patrick O'Grady ~ 29 Comments

A tip of the salt-stained Mad Dog Campy cap goes out to the League of American Bicyclists for taking note of GM’s latest ad aimed at luring college kids even deeper into debt by adding “discount” new-car payments to their student-loan tabs.

“Stop pedaling … start driving.” Really? Jesus. I know the corporate ideal is to keep us fat, stupid and up to the hubs in debt, but could we try being a little less obvious about it, GM? I’m surprised your ad agency didn’t slap a big set of tits on that car. They’re implied, of course, by the sneering bimbo in the passenger seat, which is about as subtle as slapping a giant schlong on the grill of an Escalade. F-minus.

Just what every undergrad needs, right? Instead of a fashionable fixie and backpack — retail cost, oh, what, next to nothing? — s/he can take advantage of a “college discount” on a pick-’em-up truck that sells for $22,000 to $48,000, depending upon options, and gets 12-15 mpg city and 18-22 highway.

Sounds like just the thing. Upon graduation, our young GM owner can live in the truck, staying one step ahead of the repo man, until s/he runs out of gas. Then it’s either Mom and Dad’s basement or a Sally Ann tent under the bridge with the rest of the liberal-arts BAs.

• Late update: GM caves to velo-outrage, pulls ad.

It’s nobody’s business but the Turk’s

~ Patrick O'Grady ~ 8 Comments
When in doubt, sleep
The Turk' cops some Zs and dreams of summertime.

Field Marshal Turkish von Turkenstein is always critical of my weather-management skills on that first really cold, damp day of fall.

Denied access to the great outdoors, he stalks around the house making pointed observations and issuing orders. There is no food in this dish! I will have a drink in the sink! Scratch my ears at once! (And don’t be surprised if I scratch something of yours in return.)

Finally, he naps fitfully on my drawing board, trying to catch whatever feeble rays of sunshine filter through the clouds. Truly, a winter of discontent.

Ice, ice, baby

~ Patrick O'Grady ~ 11 Comments
Pikes Peak
The big hill got a dusting overnight, but nothing like the three feet reported at Wolf Creek.

Thirty-seven degrees this morning. Snow on Pikes Peak. Wearing pants — in the house! I can feel my tan lines fading already.

Now commences the annual ritual of hunting down winter cycling kit. Long-fingered gloves, tuque, long-sleeved jerseys, arm, knee and leg warmers, tights, jacket, all that good shit. It’s around here somewhere, but I’ve been trying mighty hard not to think of it, reasoning that to imagine winter is to bring it on.

Today’s high is expected to reach only the 50s, and the NWS expects rain and snow tonight. Down with the pergola cover, out with the snow shovel, unplug and coil the garden hoses. Good thing I whipped up a big pot of vegetable beef soup last night. There’s a chuck roast in the ’fridge, free-range pork in the freezer and bottles of warming red wine nestled in the rack.

The U.S. Gran Prix of Cyclocross is coming to Fort Collins, but I won’t be there. I’ll be right here, chained to the desk, pushing pixels for The Man. At least I’ll be warm, well fed and wined to the eyeballs.