I’m shocked, shocked, that some people seem to believe that e-bikes are the modern equivalent of the philosopher’s stone.
This just in: E-bikes cure* Parkinson’s, Alzheimer’s, arthritis, erectile dysfunction, post-nasal drip, gout, piles, dandruff, denture breath, and the heartbreak of psoriasis (Christ, you don’t know the meaning of heartbreak, buddy, c’mon, c’mon).
* You will note the caveat buried deep in the piece: “(A)ttaining these health benefits requires tackling the problem of poor street design and infrastructure in America. Everything from high speed limits to wide roads to light timing that prioritizes the flow of vehicles poses a threat to older people walking in their communities … and also creates barriers to people participating in cycling.”
MAGA, etc., et al., and so on and so forth. I’d speculate as to whether Art O. DeDeal is trying to croak the bike biz because of the relentless roasting I’ve given him, but he doesn’t know Schwinn from Shinola.
He apparently wants everyone else to lose money the way he did.
It’s the first day of spring, and nothing says “spring” quite like a change in wardrobe.
Unless you’re in Colorado, in which case “spring” says “snowshoeing to the liquor store.” Or in the Midwest, where it means “building an Ark.” (The Bible is not particularly helpful here. What the hell is a cubit, anyway? I don’t see any “gopher wood” down at the Home Depot, either. Do I have to go to Hobby Lobby for that?)
Unzip over to Voler to join the team! And no, goddamnit, for the last time, it does not come with fries!
But yeah, everywhere else, wardrobe change. And have we got a deal for you. Mad Dog Media and Voler have teamed up on their first-ever Old Guys Who Get Fat In Winter Spring Jersey Sale!
See, we figure you’ve put on about 15 percent over this long, cold winter. So we’re helping you take 15 percent off, and the easy way, too, by buying something. It’s The American Way™. And it’s cheaper than snowshoes, liquor, and kitty litter for the bottom of that Ark.
Just pop round to the Mad Dog corner of Voler, deploy the Secret Code — OLDGUYS15 — and surrender your money, personal data, and the final tattered remnants of your self-respect.
G’wan, y’fat bastid, take the plunge. Join the team. You need the kit, and we need the laughs. Also, and too, the money. Don’t make me stop the Internet and come back there. We are the goon squad and we’re coming to town, beep-beep.
Offer good until April 1, when the usual foolery will resume.
Apple has surprised a bunch of folks (and maybe itself, too) with a less-than-stellar revenue estimate based largely on sputtering sales of iPhones, particularly in China.
Huh. Did everybody suddenly get tired of skimming the kids’ inheritance for a new handheld computer every couple of years, or what?
I’m not Chinese, and I could do with a new iPhone, but I sure wasn’t excited about pissing away $749 for the cheap one. Or about Face ID. Or about paying the AppleCare vig’ because you just know you’re gonna fumble the pricey little mother somehow — spill your coffee on it, drop it in a toilet, or yardsale onto it while shredding the gnar.
I’ve been sort of keeping an eye casually peeled for a refurbished iPhone 8, but that seems to be a unicorn. Either that or the Chinese got ’em all. Refurbed 7’s are available, but even those run $469.
Think about it. Nearly five hundy for a used phone so bots can ring you up in the middle of the night and pitch insurance to your voicemail. And then sell your number to other bots because the whole selling-insurance thing isn’t working out for them.
Plus the impertinent Xr and Xs map your mug before they will do your bidding. And since you didn’t pony up for a new one, you skinflint penny-pincher, you, that cheapo good-enough 7 or 8 is probably programmed to sell your selfies to a deepfaker who’ll fuse them into a viral video in which you are simultaneously the Sonoran donkey and the person of questionable moral fiber who … who … no, let’s not go there. It’s too early in the year for that image.
Y’think Apple will take a hint and make an iPhone in a proper size at a proper price that doesn’t ask more of you than you ask of it? Nah, me neither. It’s only a few billion.
Anyway, the next iPhone will blow the donkey so you don’t have to. Whoops, I went there. Must be later than we think.
The transition from fall to winter is always a sketchy time around here.
I’m not a fan of shorter, colder, darker days. They remind me at a genetic level of why my people invented uisce beatha. And since I no longer indulge in that miraculous restorative I’m at sea without a paddle on these chilly gray mornings, when the hangover is outside my head, at large and in charge, and not even aspirin is of any use.
This is when I await a tot of bad news, the way I once awaited a shot of good booze. The life of the free-range rumormonger is wild and free, until it isn’t, and it’s generally around this time of year when editors count and cull their herds.
“Oh, that one’s got to go. Dumber than three mules, eats like six of ’em, and shits all over the place. Fetch my .30-.30.”
It was fall 2017 when I got the word that Bicycle Retailer and Industry News would no longer require my “Mad Dog Unleashed” column. This was not a surprise. The industry-news biz, and the industry itself, was not exactly flush. Flushed was more like it. And shortly thereafter the publisher who gave the order and the editor who carried it out were no longer with The Organization.
About the same time Adventure Cyclist guessed that they wouldn’t need me at Interbike Reno, the Last Dance in Sin City having demonstrated all the intoxicating power of a half-can of O’Doul’s, a two-wheeled version of P.T. Barnum’s This Way to the Egress. When I heard nary a word about the show afterward I assumed Management had made the right decision. A bored and sober Dog makes a poor companion indeed. Whining and snarling and pissing on things.
And an old Dog, too. Set in his ways he is. ‘Tis a wee bit late to be training him so. Is there a .30-.30 to be had somewhere, d’ye think?
Well, p’raps. But not right now. Until I hear otherwise, I’m to deliver the first “Shop Talk” cartoon of 2019 to BRAIN next week. And a fresh Adventure Cyclist review bike awaits me down at Fat Tire Cycles, one of the few Duke City shops I have yet to visit.
And thus we have this week’s edition of Radio Free Dogpatch: “Cold Blow and the Rainy Night, or Whatever Floats Your Boat.” Give it a listen.
• Editor’s note: The very day I recorded this episode BRAIN announced that the bell had tolled, not for me, but for Interbike, both show and staff. That shit will roll downhill — just how far and fast remains to be seen — and I feel the pain of all those who saw the business end of that .30-.30. Marc Sani, one of BRAIN’s founders and presently its interim publisher, has a few thoughts on the whys and wherefores. As for me, I wrote about the final Vegas show in 2017, and you can read that after the jump.
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