Month: April 2014

Dumb, dumber and dumbest

~ Patrick O'Grady ~ 27 Comments

Jesus, Teh Stupid is coming so fast and furious lately I can’t possibly keep track of it all.

The racist dummy in Nevada got shoved off the front pages by the racist dummy in California, Oklahoma is about one half-assed dope deal away from killing its death-row inmates with a hammer, and we can’t afford to rebuild our own roads because we pissed away too much money blowing everyone else’s up.

The Nevada dummy’s goons are grilling motorists at checkpoints, Louisiana wants to jail panhandlers and hitchhikers, and Ralph Nader has crawled out from under his rock. (If he sees his shadow, it means six more weeks of racist dummies, botched executions and potholes.)

Thank God for deadlines. This is what I came up with based on a casual glance around between paying chores. Imagine what I could’ve laid on you if I were free-range today.

 

 

Honky if you love freedumb

~ Patrick O'Grady ~ 23 Comments
Cletus don't got nothin' against no Negroes. He thinks ever'body should own one.
Cletus don’t got nothin’ against no Negroes. He thinks ever’body should own one.

Oh, Lord, the air must be thin up there in Dumbass Mountain, Nevada, where the peckerwood forest grows.

It’s not bad enough that we must endure the comedy stylings of Cletus Awreetus-Awrightus, Grand Wazoo* of the Holy Sheet Brotherhood & Posse Comatose.

No, we must hear from his daughter, too.

The wingnut didn’t fall too far from the tree there, now, did it?

I’m old enough to remember when we used to call people who stole things “criminals,” not “patriots,” and those who defended the practice by force of arms, “dead criminals,” or at the very least, “jailbirds.”

The times, she do change.

* And yes, I did manage to find a way to work in a cheap Frank Zappa gag there. Thanks for noticing.

 

Free at last

~ Patrick O'Grady ~ 26 Comments
My No. 2 Steelman Eurocross, a.k.a. Big Red.
My No. 2 Steelman Eurocross, a.k.a. Big Red.

It was Ride the Neglected Bike Day again yesterday. The office was feeling a bit cramped, what with all the computers, books, cartooning tools, audio-video equipment, and voices in my head, and having a bike clamped to a trainer in there — even if that bike was a Steelman Eurocross — didn’t exactly help matters.

So I liberated the Eurocross and myself from bondage. The tire pile in the garage included a serviceable pair of 700×35 Maxxis Razes, so I slapped ’em on and rolled over to Palmer Park to make a fool of myself on the single-track for a spell.

This is one of my old eight-speed racing bikes from back in the day, and like all the others it’s been through some changes, so I forget what I’ve got on it drivetrain-wise — seems likely it’s either 46/34 chainrings with a 12-26 cassette or 48/36 with a 12-28 — but you’d be surprised how well an old feller can go uphill on a bike that’s five or six pounds lighter than what he usually rides.

Today I was back on the Kona Sutra, which is next in line for an Adventure Cyclist video shoot — the old Quentin Ferrentino treatment, ho ho ho. The Sutra weighs 27.2 pounds without pedals, wears a pair of 700×32 Continental Contacts, and no, I did not ride it up any sketchy bits of single-track, thank you very much. Not even in the granny gear.

But I have some burly off-road rubber in that tire pile, and with the Sutra’s racks and fenders off I bet I can squeeze some fatties on, and then look out, Palmer Park. Bologna on a Kona, comin’ through!

April fuel

~ Patrick O'Grady ~ 36 Comments
The Salsa Vaya takes five underneath a recently renovated bridge above the railroad tracks.
The Salsa Vaya takes five underneath a recently renovated bridge above the railroad tracks.

Y’know what they say about April showers? Well, we should be up to our keisters in May flowers if this weather keeps up. We already have a fine crop of dandelions in the front yard.

Deadlines and various chores have monopolized my attention lately. The House Back East™ has new tenants, and I celebrated by doing a bit of raking and bagging, as the back yard has looked a tad funky since our landscaper vanished mysteriously, leaving a mulching undone and his tools behind. Rumor Control hints at an extended visit with the authorities, but as you know we don’t believe the liberal media here at Chez Dog.

The garage was likewise becoming unmanageable. My half of it, anyway. It looked like the lair of a bike thief who was deeply into the art of stealing but contemptuous of the business end. And so today I tidied up a bit in there, too. Got Herself’s ‘cross bike up on a hook and everything, though there’s still an appalling pile of tires in one corner. And for God’s sake, if you’re a neat freak avert your eyes from the workbench.

In between shifts I took the Salsa Vaya out for a few gentle rides. You know, the usual — city streets, back alleys, pulverized granite paths, single-track, concrete bike path, the works. Everything but I-25, and I’ll get around to that before I’m through.

Today’s Bible lesson is “Thou shalt count the teeth on thy cassette.” That 11-30 cogset ain’t nothin’ of the kind. Big plate on that bad boy has only 28 teeth, which when paired with a 39-tooth middle ring makes me feel my years. Don’t make me use the granny without racks and bags, please, Lord. I’ll quit touching myself and everything.