“Smoke ’em if you got ’em,” says the governor. After June 29, that is.
Just remember what Brother Ray said:
Ain’t no harm to have a little taste
But don’t lose your cool and start messing up the man’s place
Category: Drugs
Just say what?
Not based on my experience with bicycle racing, it isn’t.
OK, I’m bent, twisted, more than a bubble off plumb.
I know this about myself, and I came to terms with it long ago.
But I can’t be the only person who finds this “dose of reality” amusing.
Stupor Sunday
As you can see, Field Marshal Turkish von Turkenstein (commander, 1st Feline Home Defense Regiment) and his adjutant Miss Mia Sopaipilla can’t wait for The Big Game to get under way.
We don’t follow the feets ball here at El Rancho Pendejo, having gotten our fill of artificially augmented athletes at that Boulder-based journal of competitive cycling.
Indeed, we watch no televised sports of any kind, preferring to participate rather than spectate.
Oh, sometimes I’ll watch the U.S. cyclocross nationals, or ’cross worlds, if I can find a free feed uncontaminated by bots, viruses, Trojan horses, poltergeists, pixies, h’ants, djinni, cooties, boogers, and other agents of Chaos.
But I didn’t even watch worlds this weekend. My gal Katie Compton just missed the podium after a poor start, and Mathieu van der Poel — well, let’s just say that the dude might as well have been racing all by himself.
Anyway, this morning I had other concerns. Ironically, they involved my own doping regimen.
As I stumbled into the kitchen Herself intercepts me and goes all like: “Bad news. The coffee grinder’s broken again.”
Happily, she’d managed to brew just enough joe for me to pour a shot in each eyeball and then get to work rebooting the evil sonofabitch.
Writer on the storm
My man Padraig at Red Kite Prayer is having a rough go of it lately — so much so that he has turned to ketamine therapy in his ongoing struggle with depression.
In a word, this takes huevos. In my misspent youth I dabbled with various psychedelics — mostly psilocybin, mescaline and LSD — and I don’t mind telling you that any or all of these can really pop the top off your Jack-in-the-box.
Thing is, Smilin’ Jack isn’t the only fella in there. And he isn’t always the first one to hit the door running.
It’s one thing to hitch a ride on the Magic Bus when you’re young and sprightly, with your script largely unwritten. I’m not certain I’d have the guts to screen my personal in-flight movie a half-century further on up the road. A lot of that footage is on the cranial cutting-room floor for a reason.
So chapeau to Padraig for having the courage to lift the lid (or rip off the Band-Aid) and face what’s underneath. And for inviting us to join him on the trip. I wish him health and happiness.
If you’ve enjoyed his work, why not pop round to his place to say so? I think he’d like to hear from you.
• Extra-credit reading: Scientific American on ketamine therapy. And William Styron’s “Darkness Visible: A Memoir of Madness.”
Don’t forget to put roses on my grave
Some of you may be secretly pleased to learn that after I got all smug about our lovely fall weather I managed to tweak my back just enough to curtail my enjoyment of the extended cycling season.
It’s an old problem that makes an occasional painful comeback, like herpes, malaria or the Republican Party. And it taught me the only thing I really learned in college: When delivering refrigerators for beer money, lift with your legs.
Anyway, from time to time some small movement not involving the relocation of refrigerators triggers a back spasm, and while this one is not as bad as some, it’s bad enough to keep me off the bike this afternoon.
I’m not in my basement room, with a needle and a spoon. But I did munch a little Advil to take my pain away.
Mad Blog Media 