The people have always some champion whom they set over them and nurse into greatness. … This and no other is the root from which a tyrant springs; when he first appears he is a protector. — Plato, The Republic
The Congress shall have Power to … declare War, grant Letters of Marque and Reprisal, and make Rules concerning Captures on Land and Water. … — the U.S. Constitution
As long as I was enjoying a rain delay, exercise-wise, I decided to see if I still remembered how to draw a cartoon.
I don’t think Gilbert Shelton, Pat Oliphant, or Bill Watterson have anything to worry about. But this doesn’t look too much worse than the stuff I used to get paid for, before the vulture capitalists et up and shat out all the bicycle magazines.
So I guess the ol’ muscle memory hasn’t gone completely senile. Yet.
We pulled the plug(s) on the 2025-26 holiday season after breakfast this morning.
Herself boxed up all the small stuff — Bicycling Santa, Fat Cowboy Santa, Cat Santa, etc. — and then we disassembled and bagged the fake Christmas tree before dragging the unwieldy sonofabitch out to its corner of the garage, where the bicycles jeer at it.
“Ha ha, ha haaah, ha, you only get out once a year!”
Then I set about pulling down all the lights out front. I got a little carried away this year, adding a strand here and a strand there, until PNM sent us a thank-you card for using more power than the Coronado Center.
As a consequence, dismantling my creation took longer than I had expected, and by the time I started dragging all the bits and pieces back into the house the clouds were right behind me and splish, splash, my bike ride got rained out.
And yes, those are skulls you see in the pile there. Leftovers from Halloween that I decided to leave up for a while.
Far as I’m concerned, it’s still Halloween. It ain’t over until the last ghoul’s been staked and baked. And the White House is still possessed by devils.
Are we going about this whole “new year” thing wrong?
Maybe the new year should kick off with the spring equinox. New life in the offing, and better weather to keep it comfy-cozy.
We were already into the 50s here last March 20. Zach at Two Wheel Drive had found me a Deore derailleur for the as-yet-unbuilt Soma Pescadero, and I went out for a short trail run to celebrate. The next day I was burning up the Elena Gallegos trails on my old red Steelman Eurocross while TWD assembled my new whip. Talk about your bowl of cherries.
January is usually a bowl of something else altogether. The month is named for the Roman deity Janus, god of change, passages, and beginnings: “Better beef up your kit before you head out that door to start your run, Mr. Not-So-Smarticus. Add a base layer, maybe a jacket and cap, looks like rain.”
When I revisit January in old training diaries I see a lot of short runs in frosty temps. Which is fine, as far as it goes, which is not very. And I’ll probably be doing one of those directly, as we seem to be getting sloppy seconds from the ongoing deluge in California. Just because I have fenders doesn’t mean I want to use them. I like my January showers warm, with the bathroom door closed and a space heater on.
But it’s gonna be extra hard to drag my ass out that door this Jan. 1. El Rancho Pendejo smells like simmering black-eyed peas and ham hock, with baking cornbread soon to lend an aromatic hand, and it’s a good thing I have more than a few keyboards around here because I keep drooling into this one.
Happy New Year to one and all.
• Addendum: The cooking process is greatly enhanced by playing “The Allman Brothers Band: A Decade of Hits 1969-1979” throughout.
Here we are once more, not watching the clock tick down to midnight, knowing it will get there without us.
It’s been a good long while since Herself and I stayed awake to greet the new year, and I see no good reason to break that streak this time around.
Impatient celebrants began setting off fireworks 7-ish, which set off the neighborhood dogs; sort of a bonus year-end racket. Miss Mia Sopaipilla remains unruffled, having developed a degree of hearing loss, and never being much frightened of anything anyway, not even the Turk, who could be very scary indeed depending on which one of the voices in his head had the conn at the moment.
Thus we take a page from “Braided Creek: A Conversation in Poetry,” by Ted Kooser and Jim Harrison:
We should
sit like a cat
and wait for the door
to open.
The door to 2026 will swing wide directly. Until then, sláinte to all you cats who spent 2025 helping me fill up the old literature box, clawing the furniture and keeping your tails well clear of the rocking chair. See you next year.
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