Margaret Sullivan at The Washington Postgets this absolutely right: The White House Correspondents’ Association Dinner is less about speaking truth to power and more about “schmoozing in the swamp.” It should be bused promptly to the dishwasher of history.
Do cops and robbers break bread together while a chorus line of hookers can-cans on stage?
Recall your Frank H. Simonds: “‘There is but one way for a newspaperman to look at a politician, and that is down.'”
And these particular scribblers should be grabbing lunch at their desks while they stick to their looking down. Because H.L. Mencken was right:
“On some great and glorious day the plain folks of the land will reach their heart’s desire at last, and the White House will be adorned by a downright moron.”
The acequia just south of Interstate 40 and the Paseo del Bosque.
Chihuahua. I thought I was past the worst of the seasonal allergies until yesterday afternoon, when the ol’ snotlocker went haywire on me again, streaming like autoplay video.
I blame the mulberries, and perhaps the cottonwoods. Though it must be said that doing a three-hour ride down to the bosque and back was probably not exactly what the doctor ordered.
I enjoyed it, though. And it sure beat being reminded yet again that our government is a whorehouse without piano players in which a select few get laid while the rest of us get screwed.
“Excuse me, you wouldn’t happen to have a Kleenex, would you?”
The local allergists must be making money hand over nose.
Between the wind and the drought my snout spent most of this week looking like an undercooked calzone. Or maybe it’s auditioning for the latest addition to the “Alien” canon in which the beast blasts out of its victims’ faces instead of their chests.
I have not sought medical attention for fear that the whitecoats would wish to keep me, to study. “Hm, maybe evolution is bullshit after all.” Instead I’ve been self-medicating with various pills and potions, irrigating the ol’ calzone with saline solution, and periodically steaming it like a pierogi.
Shit. Now I’m hungry for some reason. Maybe not.
Naturally, I’ve been trying to exercise through this, which is like drinking Sterno to quell that nasty ache in your liver. It’s not too bad while you’re barreling along, strafing buzzworms with snot rockets, getting the blood pumping, but back at the ranch it’s all Kleenex and Carmex, sniffling like a Trump capo getting done to a turn on Bob Mueller’s grill.
Night before last God decided He wanted to be John Bonham for a while and played the drum solo from “Moby Dick” on the neighborhood, all night long, using nothing but wind and whatever wasn’t solidly nailed down.
Cooler weather followed and thus I spent yesterday indoors, returning El Rancho Pendejo to a habitable state in anticipation of Herself’s triumphant return from a five-day confab in Virginia, because I know what’s good for me and an ass-whuppin’ isn’t it. God and John Bonham aren’t the only folks who know how to swing a stick.
We’ve had some questions arise about the inaugural Ruta del Rancho Pendejo, slated June 2-3. Here are some answers:
Q. How long are the rides?
A. The Paseo del Bosque Trail is a 32-mile round trip on paved path from the Alameda trailhead south around the industrial Rio Bravo lollipop at the south and back again. Pat O’Brien and I rode it in just over two and a half hours last year. It’s flat, flat, flat, but expect wind (probably in your face for the return leg) and plenty of other trail users. Here’s a detailed description of the route (from south to north). We could skip the loop at the southern end — frankly, it’s not all that scenic —and turn around at Rio Bravo Boulevard for the trip back to the Alameda trailhead.
The Steelman Eurocross on Trail 505 north of Elena Gallegos.
The off-road rides I like cover about 10 to 15 miles, or from an hour to 90 minutes in duration. For longer rides, we could simply add laps, or additional loops, maybe sample both the northern trails around the Elena Gallegos picnic area and the southern trails below Menaul. The Foothills Trails start just a couple blocks from El Rancho Pendejo, and since I ride rigid steel weirdomobiles I tend to seek out the swoopy, flowy, less-technical routes in a network that one local wrench has described as “manicured.” That said, there is a fair amount of climbing, the occasional rock garden, plenty of sand, cacti out the wazoo, and some washboard descents. Here’s a basic description.
I’ve shot some video of the southern Foothills Trails, but none of their northern cousins.
Q. Are rental bikes available?
A. Indeed they are. High Desert Bicycles rents road and mountain bikes. Also, Your Humble Narrator has a dozen machines on hand, with the road, touring and cyclocross models ranging in size from 55cm to 58cm and in technology from eight- and nine-speed Ultegra/XT/Deore and rim brakes to 10-speed SRAM with mechanical discs. Condition varies from serviceable to shameful. My one actual mountain bike is a 23-year-old titanium DBR Axis TT with eight-speed XT/Sachs twist-shifters, V-brakes, a RockShox Judy SL fork and 26-inch wheels. A real relic of mountain biking’s distant past, is what.
Q. Will I get shelled without mercy and left to die alone in the Upper Chihuahuan Desert?
A. No, the usual Darwinian ruthlessness will be held in abeyance. This is an extremely casual, social weekend of riding. Dying is discouraged as it would dampen the frivolity.
• Note for anyone fetching his/her own rig(s): The Duke City goathead thorn is a ravenous and ubiquitous beastie. I recommend riding tubeless tires or using sealant-filled tubes, both on- and off-road. And carry at least two spares and a pump anyway.
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