Pick me! Or not. …

Housekeeping! (knock knock knock) Housekeeping!

Ho, ho. USA Cycling would like it known far and wide that four who served the Dark Lord on U.S. Postal/Discovery asked pretty please could they be removed from consideration for sentencing to the U.S. team bound for LimeyLand and the 2012 Watney’s Red Barrel Memorial Olympic Hide and Seek.

And who can blame them? My paternal granda fled the English for Canada and then the Benighted States, and none of his descendants has exactly been in a hurry to retrace his flight in bass-ackward fashion.

I don’t even have a passport, as if that would make any difference in my travel plans. I can’t even manage to get out of this fucking town, much less the country, both of which would probably be happy to see me go, if only for a little while so they could catch their breath.

I don’t suppose this has anything to do with Texus Maximus getting his Band-Aided triathlon titties sucked up into USADA’s wringer. Naw. Y’think? Naw.

Meanwhile, the furnishing of the Robert A. Heinlein Memorial Crooked House® continues apace. After locating a bargain queen-size bed on Craiglist Herself surfed today’s Old North End garage sale and came up with a stylin’ Ethan Allen Mission-style frame, plus some bedding and towels that look better than similar items that we use our own bad selves. I contributed, too, shifting an espresso machine, a bean grinder and some other kitchenware across the way between paying chores.

Sheeeeeee-yit. If we just installed a bimbo with a taste for the bizarre over there we’d have the mortgage covered before you could say, “Hel-lo, sailor.”

Up periscope!

Our house back East
Motel 666: We’ll keep the fire hot for you.

Hm. Rough seas ahead. Texus Maximus has fleas again, nobody who served the Dark Lord on Discovery/U.S. Postal made the U.S. Olympic road/TT team, and the 40th anniversary of Watergate is upon us. Down ’scope, rig for silent running.

Christ, it’s been a long week. Deadlines and related editorial chores out the wazoo, the basement remains very much a work in progress, and we’re slowly furnishing, piece by piece, our second house back East (east of our driveway, that is).

Planning a visit to our scenic dingbatopolis? Forget that seedy Motel 6, folks, we have substandard accommodations for you right here, the Robert A. Heinlein Memorial Crooked House®, with all the comforts of home — a table, a chair, a bed, and crazy drunkards with guns right next door. There’s even beer in the ’fridge. We’ll leave the light on for you.

Hail, hail, the bang’s all here

Hail
Ice, ice, baby. …

Interesting weather around the ol’ rancheroo lately. One minute it’s hotter than the proverbial hubs of Hell and drier than a popcorn fart, and the next the trees are all sideways and the hail is bucketing down like Someone tipped the bed on a celestial gravel truck.

I don’t even want to think what the trails look like this morning. And from the look of things out the office window, there’s more on the way.

Just as well, I suppose. An unholy convergence of deadlines means I’ll be logging some hard miles in the office chair over the next couple of days instead of sluicing through the goo. And me with three befendered bikes in the garage, too. Oh, the shame.

Meanwhile, I’d say something filthy about what took place in Wisconsin on Tuesday if Charles P. Pierce hadn’t already said it, funnier, better and faster, too. What say we all move to Italy and sponge off Larry and Heather until the Republic comes to its senses?

Adios, Ed Quillen

Ed Quillen
Ed Quillen

Longtime Colorado scribe Ed Quillen went west on Sunday. He was just 61.

When I was a young punk in the journalism program at the University of Northern Colorado at Greeley, where Ed had run the student paper some years earlier, an exasperated adviser told me Ed was probably the only editor in the state who would hire me.

And he did, eventually — though not to work at the Longmont Scene, the Middle Park Times in Kremmling, the Summit County Times in Breckenridge or the Mountain Mail in Salida. I’d burned through a half-dozen newspaper gigs in 12 years and had turned free-lancer before Ed finally hired me to do a thing or two for his Salida-based magazine, Colorado Central, which goes to show you how much academics know about the real world outside their ivy-covered cloisters.

Once, when I was seriously overtrucked and living outside Weirdcliffe, my friend and colleague Hal Walter, then and now a Colorado Central columnist, prevailed upon me to loan Ed a vehicle so he could drive to a speaking engagement in Trinidad. At the time, Ed smoked like a landfill fire, and I asked him not to befoul my ’83 Toyota’s cab with nicotine (though I myself had smoked in the thing back in the Eighties). Ed agreed, and the trip took a good deal longer than it should have because he stopped every 15 minutes or so to step out and burn one.

When Ed and his wife, Martha, weren’t wrangling Colorado Central he wrote for The Denver Post, High Country News and HCN’s Writers on the Range syndicate. A selection of his Post columns was published in 1998 as “Deep In the Heart of the Rockies,” and you can read a number of his more recent pieces in the Post‘s archive.

Ed was always worth reading, an old newshound who sought to comfort the afflicted and afflict the comfortable. Finley Peter Dunne had his Mr. Dooley — who is enjoying something of a renaissance at Charles P. Pierce’s Politics blog — and Ed had his Ananias Ziegler, media relations director of the Committee That Really Runs America.

Here’s hoping they’re enjoying smokes and jokes at the Thirty Club. Ed, you will be missed.

Ed Quillen is survived by his wife, Martha; their daughters, Columbine and Abby; and a few million words squirreled away on his website. My condolences to his family, friends and many readers.

More about Ed:

• High Country News: Farewell to a wise curmudgeon.

• The Denver Post: Ed’s obit.

• Westword: Michael Roberts pens a remembrance.