Posts Tagged ‘Birthdays’

The worm turns (59)

March 28, 2013
"I'm HOW old?"

“I’m HOW old?”

“You’re 57, right?” my friend inquired.

“Hell no,” I replied. “Try 59. March 27, 1954.”

He didn’t believe me. Neither did I.

But it’s true — I turned 59 on Wednesday, the night of the Worm Moon, the first full moon of spring.

We didn’t make a big deal of it. Herself and I had already enjoyed our group birthday dinner out with friends. And anyway, 59 is kind of a bullshit birthday, don’t you think? I mean, it’s good to be on the right side of the lawn and all, but The Big One is a year off, and for that bad boy I want something special: a freshly cloned body to house my exquisitely twisted brain. Say, something in the mid-20s chronologically, as that’s about when I began to start showing the hard mileage.

That’s not to say I disliked my 30s, what I can remember of them. And hitting the “big” three-oh didn’t bug me at all. I got off work at The Pueblo Chieftain, had a quiet beer or two at the Irish Pub, and went home. I’ve gotten crazier than that on the job.

Forty I did not like for some unknown reason. There was a party. I was the pooper. That shit put a stop to the parties, I can tell you.

Fifty? Meh. The AARP gets you by the plums with a downhill pull and that’s that.

But 60? That’s gonna be the shiznit. You lot better start saving your pennies for my birthday body, as I expect the cloning procedure to be expensive, even with Obamacare. I’d like to have some hair in places other than my nostrils, ears and shoulders, maybe do without the vision correction, and be hung a little better, and ain’t none of that shit covered, not even for Democrats.

Post-birthday nose meets same old grindstone

March 29, 2012

A thousand thank-yous to all who proffered happy-birthday wishes instead of death threats.

The festivities began with a pleasant two-hour bike ride — headwind out, tailwind back — and concluded with a high-speed burst of cookery after Herself invited the neighbors over.

We’ve been to their house for eats a couple of times, but had yet to reciprocate, so never having cooked for them I stuck with my basic skill set — a simple pico de gallo with blue corn chips followed by a pot of pintos in chipotle, which I turned into burritos smothered in hot Pueblo green chile with a side of roasted potatoes in red Chimayo chile.

Herself contributed a salad and a delicious raspberry cobbler. Beer and wine were consumed, along with a dollop of uisce beatha. Laughter ensued, and a fine time was had by all, except for the Turk’, who despises company, especially if it includes an aggro’ Chihuahua named Cujo.

Now it’s deadline time at the DogHaus, and somebody around here needs to get real funny real fast. We didn’t spend much on my birthday, but the White Tornado has a new fuel pump and the upstairs toilet has new guts, and Toyota mechanics and plumbers don’t work for free.

58 laps down, ? to go. …

March 27, 2012

Once again The Associated Press has failed to mention my birthday in “Today In History,” though they have taken the time to mention hacks like Anthony Lewis (85), Michael York (70) and Quentin Tarantino (49). Between these gomers and the Pulitzer people I’m starting to get seriously pissed off.

Other noxious lowlights of the day, for those of you disinclined to click links:

• Spanish explorer Juan Ponce de Leon sighted what we now call Florida, and don’t we wish he hadn’t?

• Milton Berle died of colon cancer in Los Angeles.

• Marlon Brando declined the Oscar for best actor, awarded for his role as Don Vito Corleone in “The Godfather.”

• And March Madness was born in 1939, just days after the Nazis invaded Czechoslovakia. A coincidence? I think not.

Happy birthday to Herself

March 12, 2012

All hail Herself, who today celebrates her … um, well, a birthday. No need to mention which one. You wouldn’t believe it anyway, as she still appears to be around 19.

Cat in a box

"How do you like your birthday gift, honey? Whaddaya mean, you already have one of these?"

We celebrated early with dinner at The Blue Star last night, and as always it was damn’ fine eating. The joint was jumpin’, too, which was nice to see. Maybe all that jabber about the Great Recession having ended is true after all, because The Blue Star ain’t exactly Mickey D’s, yo. No drive-up windows there, is what.

We started with appetizers — stuffed poblano with chipotle orange sauce and flash-fried calamari with sweet Thai chili sauce — then settled into the serious eating. Herself dug into some roasted lamb leg ragout with pappardelle and brown-butter peas, while I went for the ahi crusted with Italian breadcrumbs, cream-of-mushroom beurre, sweet-pea pasta and crispy leeks.

For dessert, we shared The Corleone — vanilla-bean ice cream rolled in graham-cracker crumbs, white and dark chocolate, roasted walnuts, pecans and almonds, cinnamon and nutmeg, drizzled with honey.

Ordinarily we hit some high-end bottle of wine with dinner, as Sunday is half-price night at The Blue Star. But we’ve both been into beer lately, so instead we had a couple drafts of Colorado hop squeezin’s from Boulder’s Avery Brewing — Joe’s American Pilsner and IPA.

This constitutes treason, as Bristol Brewing sits right next door to The Blue Star, and several of their excellent beers are on the menu. But I’ll make up for it this week. We’re looking at a stretch of sunny days with temps in the 60s and 70s, and if that ain’t Red Rocket Pale Ale-drinking weather, I’ve never seen it.

Call of the not-so-wild

March 27, 2010
A dog and his desert, a long time ago in a galaxy far, far away. Photo: Peggy Sax

A dog and his desert, a long time ago in a galaxy far, far away. Photo: Peggy Sax

One week ago I’m in sunny Tombstone, Arizona, getting set to enjoy the final leg of the Adventure Cycling Association‘s Southern Arizona Road Adventure, an easy 23-mile spin into Benson. The high will be 64 degrees, and there will be a light tailwind for most of the ride.

Today I’m marking my 56th birthday in gray, frigid Bibleburg. There is snow on the ground and more on the way. The high is expected to approach 42, with a north-northwest wind of 30-35 mph augmented by the occasional 45-mph gust.

Some years back I began mimicking the practice of John Wilcockson of VeloNews, who rides his age on his birthday. But not even Jack London would tackle a 56-mile ride in this crap, unless he were Belgian, in which case we’d have had to read “The Call of the Wild” in Flemish (“Argle bargle Buck schmecka lecka John Thornton.”). No, thank you.

So instead I’ll do 56 minutes on the trainer. That’s almost the same, right? Riiiight.

You say it’s your birthday?

March 26, 2010
Coming soon to a post-office wall near you.

Coming soon to a post-office wall near you.

A bunch of us enjoyed a mass birthday celebration in Weirdcliffe last night. Herself, as has been recounted elsewhere, turned (ahem) 29 on the 12th. Our burro-racing buddy, Hal, hit the half-century mark yesterday. And tomorrow I will have achieved a venerable 56, like a finely aged cheddar, only smellier and less tasty.

As befits our advanced ages, we gummed down a little oatmeal, did a few shots of Geritol and called it a night around 9 (that’s a.m., not p.m.).

So here’s a tip of the Mad Dog sombrero to Peter for all the Mexican cookery, to Pueblo’s Hopscotch Bakery for the delicious cupcakes and to the Crusty County Sheriff’s Department, which graciously turned a blind eye to the drunken shenanigans in their bailiwick.