Hair today, gone tomorrow

Rick Perry
"OK, lessee here. I got a boot fulla pee. Directions printed on the heel, y'say? Aw, c'mon, Newt old buddy, gimme a hand here."

In heaven, Molly Ivins smiles: Gov. Goodhair will be taking his carefully coiffed clown act off the national stage and slinking back to the Lone Star State (sorry ’bout that, all y’all in Austin).

The contest for the Pachyderms’ pestilential nomination has been particularly feeble this time around, like watching a herd of blind pigs try to find an acorn buried deep in their sty, and it’s caused me to consider whether we need a knucklehead tax on would-be candidates.

Here’s how it would work. If you are so woefully ill-prepared to hold high public office that thoughtful people snicker at the very sound of your name, you still get to run — this is America, after all, despite the Kenyan Muslim socialist occupying the White House — but should you drop out because you can only muster the level of support one might expect from a Nazi at a bar mitzvah, the fund-raising ceases at once, the debt comes due with a vengeance, and you have to pay back every dime contributed to your campaign by people who, frankly, should have known better.

True, it’s something of a poll tax. But it’s levied against candidates, not voters. And it would be a net job creator, too, because all the late-night talk shows would have to rehire their writers instead of just running with Associated Press copy.

Drop the SOPA

Doug Lamborn
Rep. Doug Lamborn (R-Slops) was unavailable for comment.

I briefly considered blacking out the DogS(h)ite in solidarity with Drop the SOPA Day, then decided against it. This ill-conceived legislation is not of your doing. So why punish you, Dear Readers, by denying you my whizdumb in these dark days?

Instead, I contacted one of our senators, Mark Udall, via his website, and thanked him for opposing the Senate’s version of the House’s Stop Online Piracy Act (SOPA), called the Protect Intellectual Property Act (PIPA).

Alas, the websites of Rep. Doug Lamborn and Sen. Michael Bennet — a co-sponsor of PIPA who is suddenly reconsidering his support — were FUBAR for some reason (pirates off the port bow, arr?). Happily, Bennet seems to be getting the message without further prodding from me, and talking to Lamborn is a complete and utter waste of time, right up there with trying to teach a Yorkshire pig to whistle “The Internationale.”

The call for an Innertubes blackout has proven problematical, according to The Christian Science Monitor — while thousands of sites are said to be participating, with Wikipedia and Reddit the biggest digital dogs on that virtual porch, others are staying up while linking to more information about the legislation and its opponents.

That made sense to me, so here I am in all my link-dispersing, informative glory. You’re welcome.

Flogging the dog

The Soma Double Cross in winter configuration
The Soma Double Cross in winter configuration, sans rear rack.

One of the best things about saying adios to that part-time web-editing gig is that I have my weekends free for the first time in several years.

We left Weirdcliffe for Bibleburg in part so I could reconnect with other cyclists. But a guy who works on Saturday and Sunday misses a lot of group rides, and I found myself riding mostly solo, as I had among the hill people. There’s nothing wrong with that — OK, it does cause the hair on your legs to grow — but it sure doesn’t prepare you for cycling in company.

This I relearned yesterday when I joined my first group ride in the better part of quite some time.

It was a small group and a short ride, and I failed to distinguish myself (surprise, surprise). There were a few small hills, the pace was a little quicker than my usual slothlike advance, and my rusty pack-riding skills had me out in the wind more often than necessary. Plus I was riding my second-heaviest bike, complete with fenders and burly 700×32 Vittoria Randonneur Cross rubber.

However, as we all know, it’s not about the bike. Nope, nossir. It’s about the booty, and I’m presently wearing too much of it.

At least I wasn’t the first guy to holler “Slow down!”

Rouleurs and Stooges and ’cross, oh my!

Edward R. Furrow
Never give a mad dog an open mic'.

Friend of the site Larry T., commenting over at VeloNoise, directed me to a witty review of cyclo-cross commentary American style by his pals at Rouleur magazine.

Naturally, I was inspired to bang out my own take on things.

Maybe it’s that I’ve spent too many years working alone from a home office, but I find myself less tolerant of racket in my advanced geezerhood. And that’s what I find most homegrown cycling commentary to be.

No disrespect intended to Dave Towle, Richard Fries or Brad Sohner, who had a more restrained delivery than his two comrades. It takes ’nads to put yourself out there, mic’d up and on camera, and then crank up the old P.T. Barnum for a few hours (“Hur-ry, hur-ry, hur-ry!”). I’d just like to see them dial down the theatricality a click or two or three. That sort of bombast is hard on an iMac’s speakers.

There’s plenty of drama inherent in the racing. No need to slather on more. It’s like watching someone take a can of Krylon to a Moots.

Meanwhile, my fellow geezers are mixing it up at the 2012 masters cyclo-cross worlds in Louisville, and all the usual suspects are serving up the whup-ass from a muddy 55-gallon drum. It would be fun to be there.

But it would be even more fun to be there in 2013, when Eva Bandman Park hosts the UCI Cyclo-cross Elite World Championships. Hell, if I can get there I might be doing some hollering my own bad self. “One to go! Onetogo onetogo onetogo!”

The knuckle-draggers from Amen Corner

Christ, we get more bad shit out of Texas Republicans than a zoo vet does out of a whole herd of sick elephants.

The latest GOP dungheap will be accumulating at a ranch near Austin, where a gaggle of “social conservative leaders” — read “wealthy rednecks who either misconstrued Christ’s message or deliberately chose to pervert it” — will spend the weekend trying to decide whom they wish to assume the position before as the pestilential erection looms.

Ho, ho. As if it matters.

These self-righteous, sanctimonious pricks are in the same boat as we lefty-loonie, tree-hugging commies. When it comes to the big prom in November, we have no choice as regards dance partners.

Frankly, it’s an abusive relationship for both parties, the hard right and the hard left. Obama figures we’re not going anywhere, and whichever double-talking fascist finds himself out in front of the Tea Baggers, Elmer Gantrys and bow-tied Beltway boneheads knows he’s got that lot locked up.

It’s all about getting the base to the dance while also snagging the lion’s share of the so-called “independents,” who mostly have already made up their minds but won’t tell the pollsters.

So, yeah, “social conservative leaders,” good luck with that KKKaffeeklatch outside Austin. Will rubber chicken and plastic knives defeat a Chocolate Jesus? Stay tuned.