What the heck, it’s just some wet bricks in the deck.
Probably not a great day to bury the bullion in the backyard.
We got about a quarter inch of rain overnight, and the weather wizards say more is on the way, through Monday at the very least.
Anyway, you want to bury your treasure in the dead of night so the neighbors can’t get a fix on its location. You come home from the grocery and find a big empty hole in the ground where your portfolio used to be and it will flat spoil the rest of your day.
Still, it might be safer under the sod than in a bank. I’m the last person on Earth you’d call a financial genius, but when all the wiseguys seem to have their heads up their holes maybe your wealth should go down one, where they can’t get their greedy little fingers on it without some manicure-wrecking shovel work.
Her Majesty recovers from the stress of entertaining.
With one birthday down and one to go, things are back to what passes for business as usual around El Rancho Pendejo.
As you can see, Miss Mia Sopaipilla is greatly relieved. She is a creature of habit and not a fan of company, especially when said company evicts her from her bedroom.
And yes, of course Miss Mia Sopaipilla has her own bedroom. What are we, Nazis?
Meanwhile, our friendly local roof wizards have waved their wands overhead, just in time for what looks like a bit of spillover from the atmospheric river giving California such a brutal hosing.
Jiminy Chris’mus, South Lake Tahoe is starting to look like the ice planet Hoth, only with leaking roofs, exploding propane tanks, and rental cars stuffed into snowbanks, abandoned by fleeing tourists.
Here, the worst we can expect is a bit of drizzle, maybe a soupçon of snow. And of course, the usual seasonal allergies as everything from azaleas to zinnias checks the long-term forecast and decides to scatter pollen far and wide, and all at once, too.
Kelli and Shannon take a brief break from eBay Madness.
Huzzah to Herself, who started another lap around the sun today, and an hour early too.
Pal Kelli came out from the Great White Midwest to celebrate the milestone with her (and do a little eBay bidness on the side).
I (not pictured) have been serving as cat wrangler and chief cook-slash- bottle washer. Also, eye candy. You’ll have to trust me on this last one. No paparazzi!
Your Humble Narrator in the salad days, covering a race in Bibleburg.
A bitter wind continues to thin the herd of cycling journalists struggling to make headway in the bloody gutter of vulture capitalism.
Yet even as the ravens screeched “Nevermore!” for Zapata Espinoza and two colleagues at Hi-Torque Publications, Wade Wallace and Caley Fretz were crowing over the news that they had signed up enough committed members to launch their new venture, “the best damn cycling website on the planet,” a.k.a. Escape.
Turn your radio on.
The notion of journalism underwritten by membership is not new, not even for cycling journalism. The Greater Outside Globe-Spanning Vertically Integrated Title-Killing Paywalled Conglomerate relies on memberships (and vulture-capitalist beggary), and The Cycling Independent (which we help prop up with a monthly tenner) strives to get by on subscriptions.
It’s a rough old road, no matter how you ride it. The sport is pricey to do, and even more so to cover. Memberships and subscriptions can only take you so far. Advertising is a hard sell.
And the vulture capitalist? Basically a pimp who says things like “synergy,” “scale,” and “best in class,” instead of “bitch,” “hoe,” and “Shit, it’s five-o.” He might not take a straight razor to your lips if you don’t bring in the Benjamins, but he will cut the hell out of your masthead. He didn’t add you to the stable because he liked the look of your legs, honey; he thought you’d be a good earner.
The wild card in this bum hand at Casino Velo is the audience. A lot of people think information wants to be free. They want to be paid for whatever they’re doing for work, when they can find it, and actually show up to do it. But you, pal, don’t you bogart that information.
Lucky for you, you’ve stumbled into the cheap seats. We’re serving up another episode of Radio Free Dogpatch, absolutely free of charge, and we guarantee it’ll be worth every penny you paid for it.
David Lindley has taken his act on the road for the final time.
Damn, but that dude could play. And play anything with strings, with anyone who was up for it, according to his obit in The New York Times.
His collaborators included Jackson Browne, Bob Dylan, Dolly Parton, Warren Zevon, Ry Cooder, Iggy Pop, Graham Nash, and David Crosby. And that’s just the shortlist.
Writes Alex Williams:
Ever on the hunt for new sounds and textures, Mr. Lindley had “no idea” how many instruments he could play, as he told Acoustic Guitar magazine in 2000. But throughout his career he showed a knack for wringing emotion not only from the violin, mandolin, banjo, dulcimer and autoharp, but also from the Indian tanpura, the Middle Eastern oud and the Turkish saz.
That’s a dude you want on your album. He could probably play Celtic harp, rusty bedsprings or a chain-link fence if you needed it.
My people and me, we mostly knew Lindley from his work with Browne on albums like “For Everyman” and “Running on Empty.”
That first album was a who’s who of the musical world when it came out in 1973. Hear that raging piano in the background of “Red Neck Friend?” That would be Rockaday Johnnie, a.k.a. Elton John. Also in the mix on “For Everyman” — Crosby, Joni Mitchell, Sneaky Pete Kleinow, Jim Keltner, Don Henley, Glenn Frey, and Bonnie Raitt.
Our musical world is running a little closer to empty without Lindley, but that big band in the Next World just keeps on filling up.
Mad Blog Media 
