Baldilocks and the three bears

~ Patrick O'Grady ~ 17 Comments
Mama Bear, Yogi and Booboo
There's a reason they call the area "Bear Creek." Three reasons, actually.

I had grand plans this morning. Ride through Bear Creek Park to Gold Camp Road, then take Gold Camp as far as felt sensible — preferably past High Drive, perhaps even around the collapsed tunnel.

That is, until I met the bears.

It’s a lousy shot — never, ever use the lame-ass zoom on an iPhone 3GS — but you get the general idea. There I was, just riding along, when all of a sudden. …

Looks like mama is teaching the kids how to forage in some high-dollar trash cans. There are some nifty properties up there overlooking the Broadmoor, and I’ll bet the garbage is pretty damn’ fine.

Tulips and Tea Baggers

~ Patrick O'Grady ~ 11 Comments
Frosty tulips
The tulips seem to be saying, "If this is spring, you can have it."

This is the second day lately we’ve awakened to a light, slightly crunchy frosting on the ground.

I don’t know whether it’s a light snow or a heavy frost. I do know the lawn drinks it like Birthers chug Insane-O-Tea®. You want a solid argument against evolution, these folks are your poster children. Chimps look at these asshats, shake their heads and say, “I ain’t got nothin’ to do with it.”

On the water(y)front

~ Patrick O'Grady ~ 10 Comments

The Universe is amusing itself at my expense again.

I sez to Herself, I sez, “Watch it start snowing as soon as I get all kitted up for a ride.” And what happens?

I shoulda gone into meteorology, is what. I coulda had class. I coulda been a contender. I could been somebody, instead of a bum, which is what I am, let’s face it.

The Barbour cuts … and runs

~ Patrick O'Grady ~ 7 Comments

Haley Barbour will not be running for the presidency of these here U-nited States of America. Seems he couldn’t find the requisite fire in the belly, and to be fair, it must’ve been quite the hunt.

“I shore thought it was in here some’eres,” said Barbour, sloshing through rancid puddles of barbecue, bourbon, fatback, moonshine, sowbelly, grits and nicotine-drenched jism from Big Tobacco. “Mebbe some nigra stole it.”

Goes to show you how much times have changed since I was a sprout. I remember when you couldn’t find a white guy who would give a black man a job. Now it seems you can’t find one with the balls to take one from him.

This Belgian doesn’t waffle

~ Patrick O'Grady ~ 11 Comments
Easter bouquet
Not much of a snow, but we'll take it. Good for the May flowers, don't you know.

It snowed last night. I know this for a fact because (a) there was snow on the ground this morning, and (2) I was out walking around in it at 1:30 a.m. with a big black flashlight, looking for the bogeyman.

A neighbor happened to be awake and heard a sound she didn’t like, so she rang us up and out I went in my Ten Thousand Waves kimono and a pair of Teva sandals. I left the .357 Magnum hand cannon indoors because there hadn’t been any reports of any terrorist Muslim floorboards lurking in the neighborhood and a 10-inch Mag-Lite makes a pretty good blackjack.

Anyway, I took a quick look around and didn’t see anything, not even an Easter bunny freezing his eggs off. So back inside and to bed I went, and this morning I see Philippe Gilbert is enjoying a very happy Easter indeed. Go thou and do likewise.