My friend and colleague Charles Pelkey has a couple reasons to celebrate today.
First, he’s over the hump as far as his chemotherapy treatments go — just nine rounds left.
Second, the former VeloNewser — who got his cancer diagnosis and a pink slip on the same day — is taking his popular “Explainer” column to Red Kite Prayer, an online project by another friend and colleague, my dopplegänger Patrick Brady (you have no idea how many Patrick Bradys and O’Gradys there are in the journalism biz).
In welcoming Charles aboard, Patrick called his decision in part “a protest against MBAs who focus on the bottom line above all other considerations.” But he added: “The greater truth here is that I love his work and I believe by bringing him into our fold I increase the value of this blog to both you our readers and our advertisers.”
Truer words, etc. Where Charles goes, eyeballs will follow. Congrats to both Charles and Patrick. I think this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship.
30 percent less suckitude than Pueblo or your money back!
Once again satire runs a very poor second to reality: Bibleburg recently pissed away $111,000 to come up with a new tagline — “Live It Up!” — along with a logo that would look right at home on a bottle of something or other.
The new tagline is reminiscent of a similar campaign in Richard Russo’s “Nobody’s Fool,” led by a dimwitted huckster of a bank president who has the brainstorm of hanging a street banner that reads “Things Are Looking ↑ in Bath,” equating its brilliance with the fabled “I ♥ NY” campaign.
The citizenry and merchants of Bath “were not fetched by this argument,” wrote Russo. “They were waiting for something tangible. …”
As are the citizenry and merchants of Bibleburg, no doubt. Given our reputation for religious intolerance and right-wing idiocy, perhaps “Live It Down!” might have been closer to the mark.
Or how about this? “We’re Jobless, Broke and Hungry, and We Can’t Eat Scenery.” Or bullshit, either, for that matter.
Comrade Buddy strikes a Socialist Realism pose while defending Occupy Caramillo Street against The Man.
The 21st century with its instant access to evil tidings can be hard on a news junkie. Real-time updates about the billionaire Mayor of Wall Street sending cops out to slug city councilmen and jug reporters whenever they’re not otherwise occupied fixing tickets or kicking the shit out of the citizenry are guaranteed to raise the blood pressure and trigger the deadly head-desk effect (thud, ow, thud, ow, thud, ow).
Occupy Wall Street’s muddled message doesn’t resonate with everyone (though OWS does poll surprisingly well). But even those who dislike the movement should agree that the government has no business manhandling the media as they struggle to figure out and explain to the curious folks Occupying their couches just what class of something is happening here (what it is ain’t exactly clear).
Since when do U.S. cops get to arrest journalists, ignore court orders and in general behave like SA brownshirts? Who thinks the militarized police attacks on protests in NYC, Oakland and Chapel Hills were smart strategically, tactically or financially? Since when does repression quell expression?
Jesus. I finally had to leave the office to Occupy Palmer Park for an hour, me and the Voodoo Nakisi. Neither of us got beat up, arrested or even had our First Amendment rights violated.
A guy can't eat Mexican 24/7, f'chrissakes. One must think of the neighbors. Leave the gas attacks to the coppers at Occupy Denver.
In honor of Silvio Berlusconi’s departure and Larry T’s extended Giro d’Italia — and because we’ve had an overlong run of beans, green and red chile, and posole around the DogHaus lately — I whipped up a skillet of buffalo bolognese tonight and laid it out over spaghettini.
Herself assembled a green salad and tackled post-dinner KP, while as per usual the cats and dog contributed exactly jack shit to the common good. Why we let all these critters Occupy Caramillo Street free of charge remains a mystery. Oh, yeah, they’re cute. Mystery solved. You know my methods, Watson.
Bloggery was nonexistent this weekend thanks to an unusually large pile of VeloNews, which caused me to mumble many words of four letters and one syllable as I shoveled away.
I wrote five race reports thanks to the miracle of streaming video; fielded quotes, updates and wisdom from Brian Holcombe, our man on the ground at USGP Louisville; posted a mess of results and bits of this, that and the other from Euro’ scribe Andy Hood and other contributors — and yet, when I look at the homepage, somehow it doesn’t look like there was much going on. It just took a long time to get it up there.
Meanwhile, for some reason I’ve decided to resume “running,” if your idea of “running” involves five minutes of same sandwiched between two 10-minute segments of walking. My knees were bugging me earlier this year, so I 86ed the ground-pounding in hopes that a respite might spare me a trip to the doc. Bad news I can get right here in the office for pennies via the Innertubes.
But on Saturday I did the walk-run-walk thing, and I repeated it today — ramping the “running” segment up to seven and a half minutes — and while I can’t say that it feels as pleasant as getting a hot-oil rubdown from Elle MacPherson and Tyra Banks after a double Talisker, it’s not as painful as watching Rick Perry or Herman Cain demonstrate how woefully unqualified they are to hold any position loftier than that of Wal-Mart greeter in Undescended Testicle, North Dakota.
The portion dealing with the federal lands transportation program reads as follows:
(d) BICYCLE SAFETY—The Secretary of the appropriate Federal land management agency shall prohibit the use of bicycles on each federally owned road that has a speed limit of 30 miles per hour or greater and an adjacent paved path for use by bicycles within 100 yards of the road.
No, no and hell no, thanks all the same. As the League of American Bicyclists notes, this egregious bit of transportation segregation “ignores our fundamental right to the road.”
There’s a perfect example of why this is a ridiculous notion right here in Bibleburg. North 30th Street is a narrow, high-speed road that cyclists use to get to the Garden of the Gods or to the hilly roads around the Flying W Ranch. There is an alternative route — a “multipurpose path” east of the street that connects to a serviceable west-side path — but the eastern leg is in woeful condition, a hodgepodge of lumpy, thousand-year-old chip-seal and pulverized-granite road base that erodes at the slightest bit of run-off.
I don’t mind riding it, but I’m usually on a old steel cyclo-cross bike. Some more sensitive types with five-figure plastic fantastics find the trail less navigable and so stick to the road.
And why shouldn’t they? These are our roads, as in everyone’s, not just the folks texting their office-mates, kinfolk and sweethearts while barreling along behind the wheel of a multiton hunk of Detroit iron.
The choice to use road or path is and should remain an individual one. The League is on this like a sweaty jersey, but if you’d like to add your voice to theirs, sign their petition reminding the Senate that bikes have a right to the road. Tell the silly sods to Occupy the clues closet for a change.
A tip of the Mad Dog Media riot helmet to Khal S., LAB rat and longtime friend of the DogS(h)ite.
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