Miss Mia Sopaipilla has clearly been overexposed to Islamic socialism, Christ-free “holiday” seasons and the liberal media.
This morning, after brazenly toasting her po-po on our DSL modem she stalked into the living room and ruthlessly deposed The Man — the snowman, that is, the one that this time of year sits atop the subwoofer to our home theater system.
Oh, the humanity. Snowmanity. Sean Hannity. Whatever.
The Brakeman, a.k.a. Dr. Demento, Dr. Doom and Dr. Christopher T. Thompson, is up for sentencing today in the Mandeville Canyon road-rage case, if I recall correctly. VeloNews.com, which covered the trial from gavel to gavel, should have a story up tout de suite with my doppelgänger Patrick Brady on the case.
I don’t know about you, but I’m very interested to see what the judge lays on him. He has 10 years coming, and I’d like to see him serve every second of it.
Meanwhile, nobody will be mistaking Bibleburg for Southern California anytime soon. It was 8 degrees when I arose, and we are anticipating a “high” of 15. The Turk’ has asked to go outside exactly once, and after about five minutes of frigid freedom he’s parked on a sunny spot on my drawing board.
• Late update: Dr. Frankendick’s sentencing has been postponed to next year. The BikingInLA website reports that the continuance was due to — wait for it — a swine-flu-triggered lockdown at the slammer holding the good Herr Doktor. And to think they said irony was dead.
Thanksgiving is always a tad offbeat around the DogHaus. Turkey is rarely on the menu, though as an omnivore I have nothing against consuming them. As Freewheeling Franklin once said during an argument between Phineas and Fat Freddy, “Naw, it’s okay to eat turkeys. That’s just God’s way of punishing them for being so stupid.”
I’m just naturally contrary, I suppose. If everyone else is going that way, well, I’m going this way. Nothing personal. It just looks less crowded over there.
So today Herself and I, joined by the Sis and Bro’-in Law, will enjoy chicken cacciatore over fettuccine with sides of arugula with roasted red pepper, green beans in a soy-sesame seed-garlic sauce, and ciabatta with dipping oil. Raspberry cobbler for dessert.
And wine, of course. Not Italian (there he goes again). We have a French white (Domaine du Tariquet 2008), a Spanish rosé (Protocolo 2007) and a couple of French reds (Domaine des Rozets Coteaux du Tricastin 2007 and Georges Duboeuf Beaujolais Nouveau 2009).
Here’s hoping you and yours have lots to be thankful for today. Miss Mia Sopaipilla certainly does. For starters, she’s thankful to have a fine Motorola DSL modem to sit upon on chilly November mornings.
Winter laid a bit of the nasty on us yesterday, but it lasted about as long as a horny Republican with a boy toy in a cheap motel. Today the temps hit the 50s and I got out for a quick ’cross spin through Palmer Park, trying very hard not to kill myself on the deteriorating single-track.
I’ve had a number of “Wild Kingdom” moments on rides lately. On Sunday, I interrupted a long-tailed weasel’s pursuit of a rabbit just north of Criterium Bike Shop; today, I saw a couple smallish mule deer tiptoeing through the trees east of the Goose Gossage ballparks.
And when I got home there was a white tiger lounging in the backyard. Turkish was in a particularly sour mood yesterday, as his notion of a good time does not involve being outdoors in subfreezing temps and stiff winds. But today he was a new cat, taking full advantage of the late-October sunshine.
The Big Yellow Ball is back, and just in time, too — I nearly hit the deck thrice on ice in the past couple of days, and I was only walking, not cycling or running.
My closest call came this morning as I was stumbling out to chisel two days’ worth of ice from Herself’s Subaru so she could motor off to work in Denver and make me some whisky money. A bit of black ice on the backyard sidewalk sent me into windmilling-spastic mode, and the only thing that kept me up was the deck railing, which was there to catch my right shoulder as I was going down. Good times.
The cats are equally amused. Turkish insists on going out the back door only to come right back in the front, and on one of his go-rounds Miss Mia Sopaipilla escaped into the frosty grass, where she slammed to a halt with a “WTF?” expression on her furry little face. She’s used to a soft, warm lawn, and it probably didn’t help that a startled Turk’ gave her a swat as she rocketed past and into the yard for an icy bit of satori.
Happily, with the sun out the frost is in full retreat and the trees are dribbling a combination of leaves and water. The weatherman is calling for a high near 50. Fat city.
