Obersturmführer Greg “Jethro” Bodino in an undated file photo.
Double-naught spy Greg “Jethro” Bodino is apparently the designated fall guy — “Sündenbock,” in the original German — for the blitzkrieg in Minneapolis whose blowback may have mussed the coiffures of Kristi “Reichstag Barbie” Noem, her chief of “staff” Corey “Simple Battery” Lewandowski, and their famously erratic patron, Orange Hitler.
Bodino, believed to have been a button man in the notorious Clampett Gang before his appointment as Obersturmführer of the ICEholen SS, reportedly has been banished to El Centro, Calif., where there is absolutely no truth to the rumor that he, his photogenic Nazi greatcoat, and the lifts in his jackboots will be in command of a meter-maid’s Cushman cart.
El Centro grannies beware — you may expect a ruthless press conference if you overstay your welcome while parked outside yarn shops, thrift stores, and doctors’ offices. Also, and too, a good pepper-spraying and perhaps a dozen or so bullet wounds. In the back, of course.
OK, it can’t be all fascism and firearms all the time around here, goddamn it all anyways.
The last of the cornbread went down the rathole with coffee this morning. I miss it already.
Our “new” bread machine.
Happily, we have a “new” Panasonic SD-YD250 “Bread Bakery” to play with. I put “new” in quotes because the thing could share a birthday with my Subaru, having first been released in 2005.
A new model is available for $374.99. We didn’t pay that much. Herself acquired ours at an estate sale, for chump change, and I vigorously ignored it for the better part of quite some time until she finally badgered me into taking it for a quick spin around the kitchen by dragging it from its cubby and starting to fiddle with it. Gimme that!
Loaf No. 3.
The first couple loaves came out looking like a Klingon’s head after Captain Kirk backed over it with the USS Enterprise. But the third looked like a loaf of bread, and tasted like one, too. A little less flour, a skosh more water and yeast, and Bob’s your uncle.
Little puzzles like this are good for staving off the dementia, but not so much for the upkeep of social skills. So I intend to keep visiting the neighborhood bakery from time to time.
It takes five hours to bake a loaf but about 15 minutes to buy one, counting driving time. And they sell delicious scones, brownies, and cookies, too.
I make it maybe two, three inches, tops. Didn’t have to drive in it, so, winning. Did have to shovel it, so Herself could drive in it.
You win some, you lose some.
… and this afternoon.
By the time I got around to shoveling, a lot of what we got proved broomable. Which is excellent, as our steepish, north-facing driveway is an ER visit just waiting to happen.
I work the thing starting from the top, because the top stays in the shade this time of year. Then, as I reach the steepest pitch, I pivot to the stone steps, walk down to the cul-de-sac, and start working my way back up. Any missteps while leaning uphill should involve less velocity and impact. Or so it is to be hoped, anyway.
The cycling is right out. I have been a cyclocrosser, but not since 2004 or thereabouts. There’s a car wash down the way, but I don’t have any quarters, and the last time Herself caught me cleaning a bike in the shower it was damn near all she wrote for the marriage.
So I’ll probably go for a short run in my mud shoes. I ran yesterday between rainstorms, and it looks like I’ll be running again tomorrow. That’s three straight days of running, for you folks keeping score at home, or two more than I can honestly claim to enjoy.
But it beats riding the stationary trainer. I believe getting pepper-sprayed by the ICEholes would beat riding the stationary trainer.
Time to rip off the Band-Aid — or, in this case, the masks.
Eliminate the U.S. Department of Homeland Security. Period. It was a bad idea from the get-go — “homeland” me bollocks, leave that fascist shit in 1933 Berlin where you found it — and it hasn’t aged at all well.
Anyone who’s serious about shrinking the federal government should start with DHS. Tear down the superstructure and let’s see whether any of its components can be salvaged.
One should go straight to the trash: Immigration and Customs Enforcement (ICE). Shitcan the whole shitshow. Anyone who hasn’t already resigned in horror is part of the problem. Anyone who still wants to work there should be encouraged to emigrate (I hear Hell isn’t half full).
Anyone still on the job? Off you go. Lt. Aldo Raine, U.S. Army (ret.) will escort you off the premises after presenting you with a small memento of your service.
Hell, I do this a couple times a year. Drop the Subie downtown for a little love at Reincarnation, ride a bike back to El Rancho Pendejo. Repeat in reverse to collect the old warhorse and drive ’er home. Ain’t no thang.
Except Tuesday, it kinda was.
God damn, but it was cold.
I had been expecting a temp in the low 30s, which for some reason sounds a lot warmer than high 20s, which is what it was. So I wore a jacket over a long-sleeved jersey over a long-sleeved base layer, tights over bibs, wool socks, cold-weather shoes and gloves, and tuque.
Wasn’t enough. Not nearly enough. And I knew it at 9 a.m., a half-block into the 14-mile ride home.
O, lawd, I will never be smart. I had Buff neckwear, beefier tights, an old balaclava, and an even older pair of sure-’nough winter gloves … and they were all in a drawer back at the Rancho.
“Well,” I thought, “at least it’s all uphill.” And so it was, 1,200 feet of up, not including a long stretch of that fabled “invisible hill,” which is to say a damp, bitter wind out of the NNW and straight into Your Humble Narrator’s chattering choppers.
Whoever coined the phrase “What can’t be cured must be endured” was probably not thinking about stupidity. But I was as I grumbled my way up the North Diversion Channel Trail, whenever possible sitting bolt upright with hands tucked into armpits.
At Montgomery I came upon a street person’s smallish campfire underneath the bridge. I couldn’t decide whether to report him or join him. So I did neither. Onward!
By the Arroyo del Oso Golf Course, with six miles to go, I had gained some altitude, caught a soupçon of sun, and warmed up just a bit … so much so that I began contemplating some extra-credit stupidity, to wit, leaving the pavement at Juan Tabo for the trails that wind through Bear Canyon Open Space to the Embudito trailhead.
Now, in my defense, we’re talking extremely non-technical trails here, and I was on the Soma Double Cross with its 42mm knobbies. Easy breezy like a cover girl! Assuming she were properly dressed for conditions and had a pro mechanic to get her rolling again in 30 seconds after a puncture.
I, on the other hand, was dressed for conditions that existed only in my head, which was up my arse as per usual. I would be fixing my own flat with half-frozen fingers, only 80 percent of which are fully functional when warm. It would take longer than 30 seconds. Finally, there was the absolute certainty of some rapid evaporative cooling on the 1.5-mile paved descent from the trailhead to the Rancho.
So for a change I did the smart thing: took the pavement home, slammed a steaming mug of tea, and spent way too much time in a hot shower. Around 3:30 I got back on the bike and zipped down to fetch the Subie. Didn’t even need the jacket for the return trip. Ah, the desert Southwest, with its 30-degree temperature swings.
This is hardly the stuff of legend, or even unpaid bloggery. There was a time when I would drive for hours in much worse weather just to race bicycles in it, then tidy up at the car wash afterward. But that was when I was a man — a slightly better insulated man — instead of whatever it is I am now.
Plus my auto mechanic was only 14 minutes away by bike. Sometimes I’d just run home.
Mad Blog Media 