Month: July 2012

In the Billy of the beast

~ Patrick O'Grady ~ 16 Comments

Say what you will about Bill Maher — dude ain’t shy. He came to Bibleburg and did a show tonight, and if he was wearing a bulletproof vest, I couldn’t make it out from the cheap seats.

He got a late start but went long, so it evened out. Call it two hours of material, which is impressive. I couldn’t keep my little act running for two minutes even if I doubled up on the fucks.

Now, I won’t pretend that Bill Maher is my favorite standup. Most of my top-10 list is at Open Mic Night in the Great Beyond. And left to my own devices, I would have spent tonight lounging around the estate, irrigating my tonsils with Colorado ale and wondering idly why lawns rarely if ever mow themselves.

But Herself and a couple of pals dragged me away out of my comfort zone, made me eat ribs, potato salad, chips and salsa, and sorbet, and then sat me down in the balcony at the Pikes Peak Center to listen to someone else talking shit for a change.

And finely honed shit it was for the most part. I particularly appreciated Maher’s perplexity at the average American’s eagerness to support plutocrats who would, in a hot New York minute, grind him or her into Soylent Green to be fed to their guard dogs.

The line that stuck with me involved health care. More than a few of our dimwitted countrypersons think theirs is the best in the world (until they actually need some) and bristle at the notion of the feddle gummint getting its boogery comm’nist fingers all up in their doctorin’.

Quoth Maher: “That’s not blood you’re coughing up, Billy. That’s freedom.”

Remember me?

~ Patrick O'Grady ~ 21 Comments
Van Nicholas Amazon Rohloff
The Van Nicholas Amazon Rohloff: Titanium everything, a 14-speed Rohloff hub and Gates Carbon Drive.

Me neither. I used to be that shaven-legged, devil-may-care, funny man about town. Now I’m a hairy old fat bastard striving mightily to find a way to make money without working. Imagine my disappointment.

First, the good news: I have actually ridden a bicycle every day this week. The bad news? It wasn’t my bicycle. And I rode it very, very slowly.

But enough about me. The Olympics are coming up this weekend, and word is that Saturday’s road race will be The World Vs. Mark Cavendish. Good luck with United Nations v2.0, guys. It makes my hunt for free money look like a sure thing.

I lost interest in the Games when pros became involved, and I can’t recall an Olympic road race that was half as interesting as an industrial-park crit, so I will be paying attention only when someone is paying me.

Frankly, the only Olympic sports that have ever meant a rat’s ass to me are track and field, swimming and gymnastics. Running and swimming may be the purest forms of sport, and gymnastics … that’s just plain fun to watch.

But right now I’d rather do than watch. See that bike up there? I’m going to go ride it somewhere, then come back and write about it. Beer may be involved. It’s as close to not working for money as I’m ever likely to get.

Th-th-th-th-that’s all, folks!

~ Patrick O'Grady ~ 18 Comments

Our long international nightmare is finally over.

Tomorrow I can get back to something approximating normalcy, which means sleeping until 7 a.m., dawdling over a cup or two of java while tut-tutting at the news, enjoying a leisurely breakfast starring the chicken, the pig and the spud, and finally riding a goddamned bicycle before the roads catch fire.

I warmed up to ‘Is Lordship a bit over the past few days, watching him do a spot of work for teammates once The Big Shirt was safely in his closet. And I appreciated his brevity on the final podium: “Cheers, have a safe journey home, don’t get too drunk.” Plus the look he gave the Union Jackoff singing his national anthem mirrored the one I gave her through my iMac.

That said, this Tour will not be one upon which I look fondly from my smelly bed in the nursing home. Miguel Indurain was Wiggo’s model, and damme if his Tour wasn’t as dull as the five Big Mig won.

I met Indurain once, and he was a gent who forgave me my retarded Spanish, but watching him win Tours was like watching a steamroller smooth out the wrinkles in fresh asphalt. Win the time trials, defend in the mountains, repeat until no longer possible.

Likewise the Tours won by He Who Shall Not Be Named. That shit got to be like watching the sun rise. You just knew it was going to happen, and at some point the miraculous becomes routine, and therefore unremarkable.

I like watching the no-hopers who look around, mutter, “Doesn’t anybody want to win this race?” and take off. Claudio Chiappucci, Jacky Durand, Jens Voigt, Thomas Voeckler. Fuck a bunch of watts on the power meter, just stick your snoot in the wind and see what happens.

My model is Randle Patrick McMurphy trying a breakaway in “One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest.” It not only didn’t work, it ended badly.

“But I tried, didn’t I, goddamnit? At least I did that.”