My favorite bits involved eliminating taxpayer subsidies for Big Oil (“I don’t know if you’ve noticed,” the president said, “but they’re doing just fine on their own.”); ending the Daffy-Fudd tax breaks for the Richie Riches; and putting Average Joe back to work.
I also enjoyed watching Punkinhead Boehner looking like he’d set his granny on fire for a water glass brimming with gin. Jesus, talk about a living caricature of a corporate stooge.
I didn’t watch either of the Repuglicant responses because I didn’t feel like plucking out my eyes and throwing them at the TV. But I sure would like to see that lot do something, anything, other than stomp its feet and scream, “No! No! No!” like a spoiled snotnose with the terrible twos.
Word comes from España that Alberto Clenbutador may get a year’s suspension from the Spanish cycling federation. That would cost him last year’s Tour title, and take a great big piss in his 2011 racing season — and perhaps his contract with Bjarne Riis — depending upon when said suspension is deemed to have taken effect.
Whatever the Spaniards decide, the case seems likely to wind up in the Court of Arbitration for Sport, so it’ll be a while yet before we get the final word.
Speaking of meatheads, Congress will entertain the prez this evening during the State of the Union address. I’m less and less interested in this class of political theater these days — more work, less jabber, please — but we’ll probably be watching anyway, just to see if anyone steps on his dick the way Joe “You Lie!” Wilson did during Obama’s 2009 health-care speech.
Interestingly, ol’ You Lie will be sitting between two Democrats tonight — Susan Davis of California and Madeleine Bordallo of Guam. The posturing never stops with this lot. Too bad the Academy doesn’t hand out an Oscar for Pretending to Legislate On the People’s Behalf.
January. Meh. The Turk’ and I both find it too tedious for words.
The upside of cycling in 30-something temps is that your bottles stay cool while your boogers get warm enough for you to bombard the iPod People with drive-by snot rockets as you zip past. The downside is that you have to wear every bit of kit in your footlocker and staying out for more than 90 minutes or so kinda sucks.
Yesterday I thought I’d be smart and toddled off to a nearby junior high school for a bit of solo cyclo-cross on Old Yeller, my favorite Steelman. The grounds there have a rolling nature, there’s a gravel track, some asphalt and a couple of staircases for run-ups, so yeah, perfect for chewing on that cold NNW wind only in tiny bites and getting in some vigorous healthful exercise.
Until the rear tire collected every goathead in Christendom and I had to take five to replace the tube, after first running a finger around inside the tire, probing for sneaky spines invisible from the outside. I found ’em the hard way, as usual. Owie.
This morning the front had gone flat, too. O bugger. That one I fixed indoors, where the furnace is.
I’d like to see a few of these empty suits lining up at their local food banks for a small box of whatever. Looks like the Durango Herald picked the right time to run this piece.
It will be interesting to see which measures manage to win the approval of the steely-eyed budget cutters at the state Capitol. Is it unreasonable of me to expect that the rich might continue to get richer?
Meanwhile, there’s a fresh rant up at VeloNews.com. It has a relatively low venom content and is comparatively foam-free.
I shot this at sunset out of the driver's-side window. Kids, don't try this at home. Or in your car.
We’re back on track here in Dog Country. The most pressing deadlines have been met, a weekend in the VeloBarrel logged, and the exercise regimen has resumed after a stretch of too many miles behind the wheel and too few in the saddle.
Naturally, the weather had gone to hell during my absence — snow on the roads and ice on the trails had me second-guessing my decision to skip a stop at McDowell Mountain Regional Park outside Fountain Hills, Arizona, on the way home from California.
Oh, well. I’d probably have logged about one decent trail ride and then spent the remainder of my desert sojourn frantically cranking out the word count in some wired java shop, half asleep from trying and failing to nod out on the ground in the old Eureka two-man. That first day of camping is always the worst.
And anyway, the credit card was beginning to pulse and glow in my wallet; wisps of smoke periodically leaked from my hip pocket and I thought it might be wise to take it home, air it out a bit, let it heal.
So, yeah. I celebrated homecoming with a splashy run through the goo on Friday, rode for an hour on Saturday, then for 90 minutes on Sunday, and today — well, today was one of those days that makes me wonder why I don’t live someplace where the weather is a tad less psychotic.
It was sprinkling early on, so Herself and I bundled up for a short run. This seemed wise until about 30 minutes in, when the sun popped out and we both started shedding layers like snakes with leprosy. I was sweating like old dynamite and jogging along with a rain jacket in one hand and my hat in the other, gloves having been stuffed down the tights I wished I had left at home.
The sun being out, I considered a ride, but a squint in the ’fridge disabused me of that notion. It was back in the Subaru and off to the Whole Paycheck, where I tallied a personal best — $258, most of it basics rather than larks’ tongues, wrens’ livers or jaguars’ earlobes.
Like I said, we’re back on track here. Can y’smell what the Dog is cookin’?
Mad Blog Media 