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:
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.
"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.
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.
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.
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