PATRICK MCVAY

WRITER

My Musings

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Pardon Me?

I recently had breakfast with several of my lawyers, and one of them informed me that I can totally pardon myself, if, for some reason, I need to.

Not that I need to. Why would I need to pardon myself? Heh heh. Like, what, if I burp? Jim Kong Hun would probably not pardon himself if he burped, but I would. Because that’s what we do in America. We burp in public to indicate to the chef that the food was awesome. Then we officially pardon ourselves.

Because we Americans don’t need a handout when we belch. Having someone else pardon you is like taking charity. Come on, buddy, pardon yourself instead of relying on someone else to pardon you! I pardon myself left and right and really enjoy it. I don’t ask someone else to pardon me when I push past them in a shopping mall or collude with the Russians. I just manage the pardoning on my own.

Believe me, I’m going to trust this one lawyer of mine when it comes to pardoning.

Not that I need lawyers.

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It's A Wet Bah

 

Back in the day, I had a girlfriend who moved in with three other people into a new construction townhouse after we graduated college. I’d visit frequently, making a pest of myself and becoming best friends with one of her roommates (Roy!), making me an even more frequent visitor.

Consequently, I got to know the landlord, who always seemed to be hanging around, just like I was. This particular landlord, a fella named Jimmy Georges, possessed a first rate Boston accent. I mean this guy should be in the hall of fame of Boston accents. I’d been living in the area long enough to have encountered the Boston accent many times each day, but I had never heard it as perfectly rendered as when spoken by Jimmy Georges.

Anyway, there I was one day when Jimmy Georges happened to be at the apartment, caulking something or collecting a rent check or whatever, and I asked him about an oddity of the apartment: why was there a forlorn-looking countertop and sink out there in the living room? I was a young, green newcomer to “the big city” from a smallish town; to me, it seemed like an architectural boner. So Jimmy Georges explained, “It’s a wet bah.”

A wet bar? I know you think that a high-class person such as myself would have had several wet bars in his childhood manse, but I had never actually heard of such a thing. I was informed that a wet bar is where you make the drinks.

How embarrassing! I was known at that time for making drinks, or at least for drinking the drinks that other people made, so for me to display such social unawareness about a drinking matter cast me in a totally different light to the drinking public.

At that moment, I decided I would never suffer such embarrassment again. One day, I would have my very own wet bar. It might take my becoming a captain of industry, or maybe just a wet bar salesman with easy access to factory seconds, but one way or another I was going to be making drinks in my living/dining area.

Still waiting for my big wet bar sales job opportunity.

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Opening Soon

 

Eventually, I’m going to retire from my current role as a quiet player in backroom diplomatic negotiations that foster world peace, and when I do I’m going to open a shop called “Pat’s Bike and Brew.” I’ve always wanted to open a shop that combines two of the things I most love in this crazy, mixed-up world of ours. This will be a place where you can get your bike serviced, purchase tools and parts, and get maintenance advice. Or just shoot the breeze over a couple of Belgian golden ales, brewed right there on site. Needless to say, I’ll brew the beer. It’s not like I don’t have significant experience with it. 

It’s just occurring to me, and probably already occurred to you, that authorities may not be so pleased with a bike shop serving beer. Can you imagine a car dealership serving beer to patrons while they wait for their alternator to be replaced? I’m sure you can, and so can lawyers who have made a career out of suing car dealers. 

So I have a better idea: “Pat’s Watch and Clock. And Beer.” As a person with many watches and clocks, several of which don’t work, I’m just the right person to show enthusiasm for your love of old mechanical timepieces, which are easily outperformed by cheap plastic devices with Disney characters on their faces. As we talk about the beauty of grandpa’s old Illinois Regulator watch and all its little gears and springs and jewels, we can uncork a couple of Abbey Ales. Just don’t spill any droplets into the movement, because my Abbey Ales have a fair bit of unfermentable sugars in them and will make a sticky mess of grandpa’s precious pocket watch.

With this in mind, it may be best to go with “Pat’s Radio Repair, and Good Beer.” I like old radios, especially when you can find a baseball game on them. And I like good beer when I’m listening to baseball. In my radio repair shop, you can bring in an old Telefunken tube radio that used to play The Shadow in the 1940s. I will find the offending dead tube and get a replacement from an online supplier that has purchased the whole world’s remaining supply of radio tubes. And then you and I toast me with a glass or two of my dry-hopped Hefeweizen while listening to the staticy a.m. signal, until you, as a lightweight, get drunk on my beer and pissed off that the radio only plays “traffic on the 3s” and foreign language radio programs instead of The Lone Ranger. And then you throw the radio across the room, smashing it to bits.

Maybe I’ll just open a beer tasting room instead. 

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The Master Chef

Am I seriously thinking about getting my family a vacation in North Korea before the next war shuts the place down permanently? No. But let me tell you a secret: if we did visit the land of Jim Kong Hun, I’d definitely want to visit his new restaurant and get a sampling of some of the vittles the portly dictator has a hankering to be fixin’.

I’m told he does the cooking himself!

Kim Jong Un Opens Restaurant 2 resized

Jim Kong Hun Running Through The Dinner Menu with His Sous-chefs

What’s most exciting is being able to engage him in a conversation when the meal is done, as I heard he can be rather affable and is only too happy to come out and talk about how he prepared each dish. Needless to say, questions are limited to dishes ordered and cannot veer into politics. (I may test that theory if/when we visit North Korea.) Yelp users say that although he comes across sometimes as a brusque blowhard when he is reading prepared statements on state media, he actually has a really kind and gentle demeanor when he dons his chef coat. Just don’t piss him off.

I'm most interested in the velvety, chocolatey, gooey dessert that he calls “The Atomic Bomb.” (The menu states, “Must Try!”)

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Daily Haiku

 

Cats oft’ void their guts.

They cough out fur balls. They puke.  

We tread carefully.  

 

College Tuition

We dig ourselves a deep hole

Need a second job.

 

Now that I’m sixty

People think I’m a wise man

Probably, I’m not

 

I’m in my Fifties

But tomorrow I’m Sixty

Will need a sports car

 

My PCP Says

“Keep doin’ what yer doin’”

Prob’ly I should not

 

It’s St. Patrick’s Day

We eat beef that has been corned

Whatever that means

 

Robots and A.I.

I will make use of these soon

To do my taxes

 

Strange Oscar night end

Pacino failed to mention

Best pic nominees

 

Who’s this Katie Britt?

Scary. Wierd. We could have used

A Trigger Warning

 

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