Rock and roll

February 5, 2016
¡Hot plate, señores!

¡Hot plate, señores!

Bad citizen. Instead of watching last night’s debate, I made chicken-quesadilla platters using leftovers from previous cookery — a spicy chipotle chicken filling for tacos and pinto beans— and some freshly made Mexican rice.

I had been thinking in terms of bean burritos and rice, smothered in green chile, but we both had green chile stew for lunch and a second round seemed a bit much, as did the thought of watching the Wicked Witch of Whitewater and Comrade Eeyore braying at each other.

Don’t get me wrong. Barring some hellish catastrophe I expect to pull the lever for Eeyore in the primary and then, if need be, hold my nose and vote for the Witch in the general. But I’m too old a hoor to pretend I’m enjoying it.

As usual, Charles P. Pierce makes the salient point: If a Donk wins, he or she will still face a GOP-controlled House full of hacks, eejits and loons, and as with the Socialist Mooslim Kenyan Usurper-In-Chief, getting them to agree on the time of day will be an uphill push that will make Sisyphus’s little pasatiempo look like shooting marbles. He adds:

“The idea that Hillary Rodham Clinton will bring these people to heel, given the fact that most of them were raised in a conservative political culture that regards her as Maleficent Of The Ozarks, strikes me as just as fanciful as anything Bernie Sanders has said on the subject of student loans or health-care reform.”

Word. If either should become the nation’s Commander-In-Chief, neither Comrade Eeyore nor the Wicked Witch of Whitewater will be able to order the Flying Monkey Caucus to straighten up and fly right.

From Muscatine to muscatel

February 2, 2016
It's morning in America.

It’s morning in America.

It seems Iowa Republicans would rather be poisoned than shot.

As for their Democratic counterparts, they split right down the middle between Billary of Wall Street and Groucho Sanders, The Last Marx Brother. Kindly Father Martin O’Malley won the third stool from the door at the Red Rooster Grill in Iowa Falls and decided to call it a campaign.

The editorial board at The New York Times appears to be about two martinis away from jumping out a window over the GOP clusterfuck. As for the Donks, the board opines that the contest has become one between head and heart. Guess which candidate is which body part. There will be a prize.

“With a few of the weakest candidates starting to drop out, weary voters can only hope that the campaign will further clarify itself and become more substantive in coming weeks as it moves to New Hampshire and beyond,” mutters The Times.

Ah, yes, that ol’ hopey-changey thing. Hope in one hand, shit in the other, see which one fills up fastest.

 

February made me shiver

February 1, 2016
It was a dark and stormy ... morning?

It was a dark and stormy … morning?

I was burrowed deep under the covers and Herself was in the bathroom, getting ready for work and making noises about breakfast.

When I mumbled that she had not yet sung the “Please Get Up and Make Me An English Muffin” song, she replied with something about a beating, and so up I got. She’s small but fierce and a dick-punch before coffee always gets the day off to a rough start.

After being properly muffined, Herself bustled off to the Death Star. Me, I got the trash and recycle bins to the curb and was back inside before the snow started blowing around and about, announcing February’s triumphant debut in the Duke City.

Doesn’t look like we’ll get much in the way of snow, but it’s going to be chilly for a few days, and the knee warmers I was wearing on yesterday’s ride will go right back into the drawer. Uniform of the day will be tights, long-sleeved tops (two), tuque, gloves, wool socks and running shoes. Hep, hoop, hreep, horp. …

Evil weather is forecast in Iowa, too, where The Des Moines Register is covering the mortal shit out of the caucuses. So, too, is Charles P. Pierce.

Maybe Larry can enlighten us as to why Iowa enjoys this outsize influence on our political process every four years. I spent a lot of summers in Sioux City, and one in Iowa Falls, and I consider the state to be about as representative of America as a whole as a nursing home in the Pecker Woods of North Dakota.

Still, it should be amusing. If Iowa sends a few rats over the side of the GOP’s listing cruise ship, I’ll consider it a net positive.

Editor’s note: Oh, yeah, and some asshole brought a motorized bike to cyclo-cross worlds. Naturally, it is Someone Else’s Fault®, as per usual. Jesus wept. I am so over bicycle racing.

The path is the way

January 30, 2016
The bike paths in these parts are better than the roads in some of the towns I've lived in.

The bike paths in these parts are better than the roads in some of the towns I’ve lived in.

Yesterday I decreed it would be Ride Your Own Damn Bike Day, and so I dug out the Nobilette, which has been neglected lately, aired it up, and took it out for two and a half hours of delightful sunny goodness.

The sprinkler system is A-OK.

The sprinkler system is A-OK.

No biggie — easy pace, just 32.5 miles on rolling terrain — but still, it’s refreshing to ride one of my own damn bikes* for a change, and for more than 90 minutes at a stretch, too.

There was only a little bit of old snow and ice hiding in the shady bits, mostly toward the end of the ride on the Paseo de las Montañas trail.

I’m guessing that’s where I picked up whatever flattened the front tire, probably a goathead thorn, though the culprit could have been some errant glass from earlier in the ride. Swear to God, it looked like someone chucked an entire case of Heineken out the car window on Tramway between Manitoba and Spain. There was so much green glass scattered around I wondered whether Ted Cruz had been practicing his carpet-bombing techniques in the Duke City.

It's a beautiful morning.

It’s a beautiful morning.

Today the weatherpersons are predicting a high of 62 (!) so I decided to power up the sprinkler system for the first time in quite a spell. Nothing exploded. This is what we sprinkler-system owner-operators call “a good thing.” Because nothing makes so much sense as a nice green lawn in the Southwestern desert.

Indeed, the forecast proved so enticing that Herself declared herself ready for her first bike ride of 2016. And just in time, too. There’s rain and gloom predicted for Monday and Tuesday.

* Incidentally, in case you’re wondering, it’s still possible to ride a steel bike with cantilever brakes and come to a stop without Flintstoning or caroming off cars, trees and light stanchions. I know, it’s against the conventional wisdom, but you can rely upon me. I’m in the media.

 

 

With a bang and a whimper

January 29, 2016
We can put a man on the moon, but just you try getting four of 'em out of a bird sanctuary.

We can put a man on the moon, but just you try getting four of ’em out of a bird sanctuary.

Sounds like the Redneck Revolution is on its last legs … well, outside Burns, Oregon, anyway.

The fuzz capped LaVoy Finicum, who appears to have charged them, first in a vehicle, and then on foot. Didn’t even get to draw down on them with his bad nine, yo. And the occupying army is down to four. Like the Black Knight, they’ll be happy to call it a draw. Um, no. Not until you do the Silly Walk.

I think these guys watched too many John Wayne movies and didn’t read nearly enough books. Their only point was to be found above the eyebrows and under the Stetson. Definitely time to fire the PR guy.

Whoops. Too late.

 

Free dumb (handling charges apply)

January 27, 2016
C'mon. You just knew it was gonna end badly.

C’mon. You just knew it was gonna end badly.

Sounds like there’s an opening in the PR department at the Dildopolis National Dipshit Preserve near Burns, Oregon.

I beg your pardon. It appears that the opening is in the PR guy.

If you have a knack for misunderstanding the Constitution, a big mouth and more firearms than an African warlord, send your résumé to Al Bundy, Dildopolis National Dipshit Preserve, Princeton, OR 97721.

No pay, but plenty of free dumb.

Also, one (1) tinfoil beanie will be issued. Size small. Nicely ventilated. See quartermaster and human resources director Sid Icious.

• Late update: This just in from Minister of War Nathan Haleoimustbegoing: “Give me liberty or give me dea … uh, a few minutes to pack.”

Fear and loathing … but mostly loathing

January 26, 2016
Fear and Loathing, Campaign Trail style

The more things change, etc.

Every time I read a story like this I wish someone could reanimate Hunter S. Thompson and send him lurching back out on the campaign trail.

Wouldn’t you like to get the take on Ted Cruz, Donald Trump and Marco Rubio from the guy who wrote: “Any political party that can’t cough up anything better than a treacherous brain-damaged old vulture like Hubert Humphrey deserves every beating it gets. They don’t hardly make ’em like Hubert any more — but just to be on the safe side, he should be castrated anyway.”

Or of the inevitability of Richard Nixon: “This may be the year when we finally come face to face with ourselves; finally just lay back and say it — that we really are just a nation of 230 million used car salesmen with all the money we need to buy guns, and no qualms at all about killing anybody else in the world who tries to make us uncomfortable.”

Or: “Jesus! Where will it end? How low do you have to stoop in this country to be President?”

Bluesday

January 26, 2016
There's a slight chance of snow this morning. Doesn't matter, I'll be inside cooking chicken soup as a deterrent.

There’s a slight chance of snow this morning. Doesn’t matter, I’ll be inside cooking chicken soup as a deterrent.

The Crud is undefeated and still champeen. It finally got Herself, the last holdout in the Maryland Four, and as I understand it the past couple of days have been as unpleasant as a close working relationship with Ted Cruz.

She’s on her way home as we speak, and I hope she (a) left The Crud back in Maryland, and (2) in her weakened condition doesn’t collect another bug from the pressurized aluminum test tube busy folks use as transportation in these modern times (que viva Air Subaru, baby).

Freelance rumormongers don’t get sick days. We don’t work, we don’t eat. Especially if we’re too busy barfing to cook.

Snowmopocalypseageddonzilla!

January 24, 2016

Photos: Herself | Mad Dog Media East Coast Bureau

Deep doodoo

January 24, 2016
Nope, no snow up there.

Nope, no snow up there.

Thirty-six inches: That’s the final tally from Maryland, where the digging out has commenced.

"It snowed how much? Where? Let's never go there."

“It snowed how much? Where? Let’s never go there.”

Adding insult to inundation, the gut rumble that started working its way through the kinfolk beginning with the brother-in-law has so far claimed 75 percent of the clan, with only Herself spared (so far).

Meanwhile, the mom-in-law’s flight back to Tennessee got croaked by the storm, so Herself the Elder is enjoying a little extra recovery time before clambering into an aluminum tube full of fresh viruses for the trip home.

This whole clusterfuck was intended to give her the chance to inspect a couple of properties with an eye toward relocating somewhere down the road.

I bet the trip made Albuquerque look like the Garden of Eden. The place has its warts like any other, but the snow rarely arrives three feet at a time and the only time anyone ever shits themselves is at the thought of living in Maryland.

"'Maryland,' you say? Sounds like Hell to me."

“‘Maryland,’ you say? Sounds like Hell to me.”


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