It was one of those days. First we saw the hare; then we saw the tortoise. They weren’t racing, though.
Herself noticed this armored gent during our ride through High Desert this morning, and I inquired whether he knew Mitch McConnell.
“That asshole,” he replied. “Fuck that guy. He’s a snake on his mother’s side, you know. Gives us all a bad name.”
The operator of this gas-powered scooter was appallingly sober.
In less than a week after rentable electric scooters hit the mean streets of Albuquerque, we’ve collected our first e-DWI. ¡Salud!
I suppose we could look on the bright side here. Had our early adopter not gotten popped for allegedly e-scooting under the influence — the cops say she got all beered up at Marble Brewery and had planned to hit at least one more grog shop downtown — she probably would’ve clambered into her land yacht and driven home to Belen, an hour or so to the south, depending on how many ditches and medians one inspects en route.
Or tried to, anyway. ¿Quien sabes? Having had some small experience in these matters I expect it’s a lot easier to hide one’s impairment from the John Laws behind the tinted windows of a four-wheeled Ford than on one of their two-wheeled throwaways.
Just say no, kids.
I have been behind the 8-ball, and I have been in front of the 8-ball — more than once, too. And after a few too many taps on the glass I usually wound up looking about like this fellow here.
Our preposterous and apparently endless allergy season has me feeling as though someone stepped a little too hard on my Peruvian marching powder — say, with Drano, kitty litter or aluminum oxide — and so instead of riding the bikey bike I have been riding the couch, which is not nearly as fun because it never goes anywhere.
Dr. Mark Schuyler, chief of the Division of Allergy and Immunology for the University of New Mexico Health Sciences Center, said back in April that we could expect this season to run through mid- to late May, and he did not lie.
Or at least I hope he didn’t. If I watch much more TV, put on a few kilos, and shed a few I.Q. points, I’m liable to wind up president.
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.”
Well, I’d say that load is done.
The Wall Street Journal and Daring Fireball consider the clusterfuck that is the Samsung Galaxy Fold.
Ho, ho, etc.
Samsung didn’t give a rat’s ass about their top-loading clothes washers exploding like land mines in laundry rooms. What makes anyone think they’ll lose sleep over $2,000 smartphones that snap like Olive Garden bread sticks when the rubes try to fold them?
We owned a Samsung top-loader once and it became the subject of a Radio Free Dogpatch episode. After dogpaddling across that customer-service vale of tears I wouldn’t buy a life jacket from the sonsabitches if I were standing on the stern of a sinking ship in the North Atlantic, surrounded by sharks wearing bibs with my mugshot on them.
But I’m sure somebody would. And so is Samsung.
• Editor’s note: Speaking of washers, Kevin Drum explains that tariffs caused Americans to spend 12 percent more on these devices than they might have had Beelzebozo kept his big bazoo out of things he doesn’t understand, which is mostly everything. MAGA, etc.
Temps remain a bit below normal in the Duke City, but you don’t have to shovel cool.
Stop? Not me.
It was a gorgeous St. Patrick’s Day in the Duke City, and everybody and his/her granny was out and about, trying to sweat out the remnants of Gaelic brain eraser.
I awarded myself a day off from riding other people’s bikes and used one of my own, the Steelman Eurocross pictured in yesterday’s post.
The great thing about a ’cross bike — the original gravel bike, don’t you know — is that you can ride it pretty much anywhere. And that’s exactly what I did. Pavement, good and bad; singletrack; two-track, whatever.
For instance, it’s great fun to zip down Tramway Road from Juniper Hill, pull a U at the bottom, and ride back up the gullied trail that parallels it instead of grinding along next to the hordes of goggling tram-bound tourists.
It would be easier on a modern gravel bike, like Salsa’s Journeyman Claris 650, with its 2.1-inch 650b’s and low end of 30×34. The Steelman maxes out at 700×33 and a bottom of 36×28.
But if God wanted our lives to be easier He wouldn’t have given us Il Douche.
We’re burning the furniture and roasting the slower neighbors while we wait for the Red Cross to airdrop emergency supplies.
* a.k.a. “bum cyclone.” Everybody sing! (To the tune of “Supercalifragilisticexpialidocious!” from “Mary Poppins.)
Bombcyclonesnowpacalypticarmageddonado
Winter’s piling record-breaking drifts on Colorad-o
If you have some snowshoes to the pub you all may wade-o
Bombcyclonesnowpacalypticarmageddonado!
Looking west from El Rancho Pendejo. Somewhere over the horizon Flagstaff is taking another pounding.
Yahweh is supposed to have another go at us over the next couple of days, and then the weather is expected to return to something more in keeping with late February in the upper reaches of the Chihuahuan Desert, which is to say sunny and warmish.
Meanwhile, DeeCee is getting all hot and bothered over rumors that it will be Mueller Time almost any second now, no shit, really, this time we’re not kidding, it’s for reals, duck and cover, etc., et al., and so on and so forth.
Can you imagine how many Old Wise Heads will explode if he hits us with the prosecutorial equivalent of “Heckuva job, Trumpie?” Or if the Justice League buries the report down at the Waste Isolation Pilot Plant with a 24/7 guard of Terminators? Maybe has China express-mail the sucker to the far side of the moon?
“The public is welcome to inspect the report there,” says Justice Department media liaison Phuq Yu. “We are nothing if not transparent.”
“Sure, I can send that message, but I think they already got it.”
Anybody who didn’t see this coming hasn’t been paying attention. Dude telegraphed this shit like ol’ Sam’l Morse.
Sure, there are legal options to explore. But this dude likes getting sued. Especially when he’s spending other people’s money on both sides of the argument.
“Top threat to the U.S. … hmm, lemme think for a minute. Can you give me a hint? ‘Fat, dumb, mean, orange?’ Nope, doesn’t ring a bell.”
This should be a short hearing. I mean, it should be. Doesn’t mean it will be.
• Update: Il Douche’s own minions seem to think he is full of orange shit, from clodhoppers to combover. It’s a helluva commentary on your fabled deal-making and management skills when your people are saying — out loud and in public — that you’re building Walls® in all the wrong places.
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