Author and former New York Times reporter Tim Egan has apparently visited Bibleburg and observed the splash from the corporate money shot released by the strong right arm of the Roberts court. Here’s hoping he was wearing his raincoat.
Category: Bibleburg
From our oft-ignored Good News Department
I had just wrapped up a bit of leaf-raking this afternoon and was vigorously applying water to what serves us as a lawn when my friend, neighbor and bicycle adviser John Crandall of Old Town Bike Shop rolled by to exchange pleasantries.
John, as you may recall, was involved in a horrific bike-auto accident a year and some months back, and in his recovery has suffered the trials of Job. He has been carved like a Thanksgiving turkey (and more than once); had parts installed and replaced; taken steps backward as well as forward; and endured physical therapy that would make the Grand Inquisitor say, “Aw, c’mon, guys, ease up.”
And now he’s cycling again, on the road; has been for a couple of weeks. Ten miles is a good day. He’s trying to figure out whether he can still ride a motorcycle, which must be an agonizing decision for a throttle-twister of some four decades’ standing.
But at least John is back on the bike. I should’ve taken a picture. He looked so happy.
The weather is here, wish you were beautiful
Deadlines suck. Like The Turk, I’ve been indoors more than I care to be lately, in my case generating bicycle comedy for fun and profit (well, for profit, anyway, and only just barely). This is particularly irksome because we’ve been enjoying a stellar fall here in Bibleburg. It’s 76 right now — 76! — at 5:45 p.m. on Oct. 15. Imagine my amazement.
This will change, as it must. Tomorrow and Sunday look pretty damn’ nice, and wouldn’t y’know, I have to clock in for a couple of shifts in the old VeloBarrel. Come Monday, the weather should become a bit more seasonal, as in 50-something with a chance of showers. Ick.
After that, it’s the Colorado lottery, which means exactly what it sounds like — a total meteorological crapshoot, which I must say keeps life interesting, like the wining jug in John Steinbeck’s “Cannery Row,” a punch blended by understudy barkeep Eddie using any booze left in glasses by the patrons of La Ida. A Palace Flophouse roommate, Jones, first pans, then praises the concoction:
“You take whiskey,” he said hurriedly. “You more or less know what you’ll do. A fightin’ guy fights and a cryin’ guy cries, but this —” he said magnanimously — “why, you don’t know whether it’ll run you up a pine tree or start you swimming to Santa Cruz.”
That’s the sad part. Pine trees we got. But Santa Cruz … not so much.
Dave’s not here — but Cheech, Chong and Glenn are
Every now and then you get the idea that Someone is playing a massive practical joke on you.
Actually, I have that feeling all the time. But The Farce is strong with me now, perhaps because both Cheech and Chong and Glenn Beck are coming to Bibleburg.
Not at the same time, of course — the universe would explode. But still. Damn.
I wonder whether Sister Mary Elephant would approve.
Real wool socks and virtual ravioli
Thank Buddha for wool socks. The only way to get a gas flame around the DogHaus today is to light one’s own farts.
Happily, it is October, not February — which means it’s about 55 outside and 65 inside as we speak at 10 a.m. Bibleburg time. That ain’t bad, though I confess I miss our old Weirdcliffe wood stove. It, unlike our rooftop solar unit here, worked even on cloudy Sunday mornings like this one.
Meanwhile, Friend of Dogpatch Larry T. sends word of his raviolipalooza. Watch and weep as you nibble your shredded wheat.
Mad Blog Media 