Some of us contemplate replacing our gas appliances and infernal-combustion vehicles with electrical gizmos, whizbangs, and comosellamas in order to help stave off (or at least slow down) global environmental catastrophe.
Meanwhile, in one go, a single wealthy narcissist can spray Mother Earth with a money shot of 15 million pounds of liquid methane-oxygen propellant, a jillion bits of shrapnel from an exploding 120-foot-long dick-missile, and uncounted gigatons of Texas sand, soil, and Christ only knows what … and then call it a learning experience.
I know what I’ve learned. My little electric kettle ain’t gonna git the cattle to Abilene, is what.
Hot water at the touch of a button. Welcome to … the Future!
We bought an electric kettle to save all y’all from our gas cooktop.
You’re welcome.
Now instead of firing up the KitchenAid Death Machine to heat water for the morning pour-over, we punch a button on this OXO Brew and hey presto! Hot water. It’s magic.
Of course, we get our power from a secret plant outside Grants that generates electricity by slow-roasting the homeless. It sells the meat to Mickey D’s. We like to think of it as a win-win.
Presidents Day, hey? Well, given the events of the weekend, the less said about that, the better, perhaps.
At least he’s an ex. Now all the until-death-do-you-part types know what the other folks are going on about when they talk about “the ex.” Lots of hollering, property damage, relationships shattered, neighbors appalled, cops called, lawyers engaged, and tons of money pounded down the rathole.
Then, if you wind up on the wrong side of the judgment, you try to assemble some sort of new life out of the wreckage as the asshole struts around talking shit.
The sun peeks over the Sandias.
But hey, at least we’re all freezing our asses off, right? It’s still February. Ten degrees when I arose and tottered to the kitchen to make the first of three authoritative Americanos with my old friend Mr. Krups.
I have been blessed over the decades to have an early riser for a wife. She made the coffee, and all I had to do was show up and drink it. Until Mr. Coffee went Maoist on me.
“From each according to his ability to each according to his needs?” sneered this two-bit Chicom barista-bot. “What you need is a cup of lukewarm bilge, comrade.”
I beg your pardon?
Mr. Coffee was informed in no uncertain terms that his services were no longer required, and now Mr. Krups and I spend a few brief, enchanting moments together each day, in the bleak frosty darkness of a Duke City morning.
At some point I’m going to have to go outside and shift a little snow around. But not just yet. Mr. Krups has just had a marvelous idea — another cuppa.
There’s a little blue sky island up there to the NNW of Trail 365A.
It’s been warm enough the past couple of days that I haven’t felt compelled to crank up the thermostat the instant I ooze out of bed.
Yesterday I could’ve ridden in knickers and arm warmers. I didn’t, of course, because nobody needs to see my pallid calves on a lovely February morning, not even me. I wore tights and long-sleeves like a white man. A very white man.
The Tramway Time Trial record was never in jeopardy, probably due to the extra weight I was carrying, kit-wise. I took just under a half hour to climb from I-25 to County Line Barbecue. And mind you, I had a tailwind.
Looking back the way I came.
In my defense I’ll note that I was riding 30 pounds of bike (a Soma Saga). But then, I’m pretty much always riding a 30-pound bike, so those hairy, Day-Glo items I call “legs” should not have been surprised.
The previous day I had been aboard a 24.5-pound bike, my old DBR Axis TT mountain bike. Yet somehow I remained unimpressive on the foothills trails. I’d blame the boingy fork and seatpost, or perhaps the 26-inch wheels, but I’m actually starting to regain an appreciation for those bits in my dotage. So it’s operator error once again.
Maybe I can learn some mad skillz from Beta, the new mountain-bike mag’ from Pocket Outdoor Media, the same outfit that owns Bicycle Retailer and a metric shit-ton of other sweat-stained publications.
Then again, “beta” means “a stage of development in which a product is nearly complete but not yet ready for release.” So, maybe not. Still, I wish Nicole Formosa and her crew the best of luck in their new endeavor.
Speaking of mad skillz, we decided to go low-tech on coffee machinery. This morning it was a Thermos pour-over that will require an adjustment to the coffee-water ratio. And with one bloodshot eye aimed erratically toward the future I’ve ordered up a six-cup Chemex and an Aeropress.
Mr. Krups, still going (and brewing) strong after more than a quarter-century on the job.
Mistah Coffee, he daid … again.
Happily, Mr. Krups remains very much on the job after more than a quarter century’s service. I used to take this midget espresso maker with me on road trips, before there was a barista on every street corner in the US of A.
Our latest and final Mr. Coffee machine, as recommended by The Wirecutter, survived just over 16 months before coughing up a pot of lukewarm fluid and croaking this morning.
No memorial service; interment will be at the nearest landfill. In lieu of flowers please send Chemex filters to El Rancho Pendejo, Duke City, NM, etc., et al., and so on and so forth.
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