PATRICK MCVAY

WRITER

Welcome! Please take off your shoes.  I want you to be comfortable while visiting my website, and I think you would be more comfortable if you weren't tracking dirt around. You may be asking yourself, how did I end up here, and how do I leave? Please, stay for a moment, I beg you. Read more

Daddy's Little Helpers

 

When my kids write their memoires, they’ll probably cast me as an eccentric parent who drags them out to horse country in Dover, MA, to live in a 240 year old house. And once there, separated from their friends and bored to tears, I task them with drawing up plans to convert the little office on the property into a “guest house.”

Guest House! Get off it, Dad! It’s an old billing office for a water company for crying out loud!

But I’m undaunted: “Look, son. And you too, daughter. You’ll never be able to solve the world’s great problems, which my generation is working feverishly to saddle you with, if you can’t tackle this minor puzzle of how to take a little office cottage which, frankly, smells, and make it an inviting place for our visitors to stay in. Now get on it! If you need me, I’ll be in the barn making beer.”

The book’s climax comes when the brewery I start, dubbed "L'Abbaye de St. Pat", starts to generate serious profits and my kids are able to buy themselves BMWs and tell their friends in Dover-Sherborn Regional High School that we’re “off to Paris for Christmas.”

Cue the vomit bags.

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Now Performing

 

From here on out, my life is going to be one long performance art piece. Every word I speak, every movement, every bite of sausage at Fenway and path I choose to pedal my bike down, hour after hour, mile after mile, will be specifically calculated to make this the greatest work of art ever concocted, and humanity can pay me back for it by making contributions to my family after I die and the performance piece ceases to exist.

Except it hasn’t ceased to exist. Because down there, in my casket, or as ash and chunky bits of charred remains in an urn, I am still evolving as a dead person, and therefore my art piece lives on.

Don’t worry, humanity, you won’t have to pay for quite a long time, as, first of all, I plan to survive many decades into the crowded future, long enough in fact to frolic in newly-opened resorts in the far upper reaches of the Hudson Bay, once we get rid of all that cold air. This means you’re going to be able to foist the cost of this massive work of art onto some other generation of humans, who will curse you and spit on your graves.

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I begin by claiming to be a celebrated fashion designer, credited with developing the “saggy hood” streetwear design. This gets me and members of my streetwear family invited to parties all night (sporting saggy hoods, of course).

Can I have a volunteer to tally up the monetary value of my art so humanity can be billed at a later date?   

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The Thinker

 

For obvious reasons, you must imagine that I’m thinking all the time, but actually I’m not. Sometimes my brain is turned off, even if I’m driving along the interstate or looking straight into your eyes and nodding, or doing both at the same time.

So what, exactly, is going on in my brain?

That’s what scientists want to find out. My agent says the scientific community believes it can learn a lot from studying my brain when it’s not being used, which is surprisingly often. I’ll have to wear some of that headgear that will scan what’s going on in my head 24/7, and in return I’ll be handsomely paid.  Heck, I'd consider doing it for less handsome remuneration because I know how much this study will benefit humankind.

Patiently waiting for scientists to send my agent and me the contract.

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In The Next Phase Of My Professional Life...

 

While friends of mine are getting mind-blowing jobs overseas or are expecting to reap enormous riches from selling medical devices, I’m kicking back in my Barcalounger and laughing, fully aware that my future is even rosier than theirs. Because while those guys are doing not much beyond improving humans’ longevity and helping mold the citizens of the future, I’m going to be opening “Pat’s Bike & Brew”. You think to yourself, “What’s so great about that?” Nothing, unless you think putting smiles on people’s faces is great.

Hear me out:

Bicycles are getting more and more popular in Boston and the surrounding brownscape, notwithstanding winters like the one we just had, which means there are more and more occasions when bikers will break a spoke or get a flat tire and will be in desperate need of service.

And beer!

How many times have you wasted hours waiting for your vehicle to get fixed with no access to something fresh and bubbly and full of life-affirming yeasty flavors? It’s happened to me more times than I can count.

Looking for investors, bike mechanics, and lawyers who can protect me when people ride off into the dark night a little tipsy from Pat’s Black Saison (currently fermenting). It’s a limited time offer; get in on the ground floor.

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Produce This Audio Play!

Ever wanted to produce a radio play?  Think you have the mettle?  Read on!