Damme if Steve “The Colonel” Cropper wasn’t in my ear from day one.
Booker T. & the MGs. Sam & Dave. Otis Redding. Leon Russell. John Lennon. Wilson Pickett. Levon Helm.
And, of course, the Blues Brothers, with his teenage bandmate Donald “Duck” Dunn, “Blue” Lou Marini, Matt “Guitar” Murphy, Tom “Triple Scale” Scott, Tom “Bones” Malone, Steve Jordan, and all the rest of ’em, including John Belushi and Dan Ackroyd, who could actually play (drums and harp) when they weren’t busy being funny.
Man. The Pearly Gates Bar & Grill has one hell of a house band.
God of War Henery “Pistol Pete” Hegseth (major, National Guard, ret.). Apologies to Chuck Jones/Warner Bros.
When the going gets tough, the tough get going, and God of War Henery “Pistol Pete” Hegseth is no exception.
Left unsatisfied by (and roundly criticized for) sinking small craft in America’s Oceans® — including a double-tap that finished off a couple survivors of one such strike — the retired National Guard major and Faux News foghorn set out after bigger game.
Not that he’s taking the credit for that particular kill, mind you.
Writes Stars and Stripes:
“Secretary [Pete] Hegseth authorized Adm. [Frank M.] Bradley to conduct these kinetic strikes. Adm. Bradley worked well within his authority, and the law, directing the engagement to ensure the boat was destroyed and the threat to the United States was eliminated,” White House press secretary Karoline Leavitt said.
The buck stops where? Tell you what, grunt — uh, pardon me, admiral, sir — you don’t want to be on duty when that particular dollar lands in your lap.
Just ask Herbert “Spermwhale” Whalen, a major in the U.S. Air Force Reserve who flew in World War II and Korea before joining the Los Angeles Police Department. Speaking of a superior officer in Joe Wambaugh’s novel “The Choirboys,” the burly street cop observed:
“I always knew he was behind us. I felt him there many times.”
Not exactly a Jack London hellscape, but still … first snow.
Well, December got right down to business.
So, too, did our Geezer Ride leader, who after checking the weather forecast for today pulled the ripcord on Sunday:
Monday is too wintry for me to ride and Tuesday may not be any better. In fact, we have entered the wintry season, which is too cold to plan bike rides. I don’t plan to send out any more emails until warm weather returns.
So it goes.
Anticipating a rideless Monday I made sure to saddle up yesterday, taking the Soma Double Cross out after lunch for a 90-minute sampler of roads, trails, and sandy washes. Even so, temps in the 40s had me sporting two long-sleeved jerseys, tights over bibs, wool socks, a tuque, and full-fingered gloves.
Only once did I feel slightly overdressed, while gutting it up a long, sandy grade leading to the Indian School trailhead. But then this is why God made zippers.
Right now, at 10 a.m., I’m looking at 36° with a brisk wind out of the northwest. I’ve set out and retrieved our trash and recycling bins, and I think that’s about it for the operation of human-powered wheeled vehicles today.
Black Friday? Not entirely. As long as you avert your eyes from the news, that is.
And from your email in-box, too. Jaysis H., etc. Everybody and his bookkeeper is trying to sell me something. Take a break, f’chrissakes. I’m still digesting last night’s feast.
Well … truth be told, as feasts go it was fairly light dining. Green chile stew, salad, freshly baked cornbread, and raspberry cobbler with whipped cream. Fake beer for me, real beer for Herself.
While feasting we watched a couple episodes of the old HBO series “Deadwood,” a tale of unfettered capitalism ascendant in which much of the dialogue sounds like Pestilence Piggy addressing the press.
In one episode a gambler and whoremonger growing fat on fear of and hatred for the government ordered the newspaper office ransacked, its machinery vandalized and shat upon.
So, yeah, ripped straight from today’s headlines. Art imitating life; horseshit and gunfire.
Before we sat down to eat I slipped out for a bracing 90 minutes on the Soma Double Cross, tooling around the Elena Gallegos Open Space and a few of its neighboring trails. Lots of folks out, hoofers and rollers, either working up an appetite for Thanksgiving dinner or sweating out the gravy. And no wonder, with temps in the low 50s, though there was still a bit of mud in the shady spots after last Thursday’s rain.
The DC is a good choice for EG: 42mm Soma Cazadero tires at 30/35 psi, a low end of 24x34T, and grippy IRD Cafam cantis for when shit gets real. Eight-speed bar-cons and XT/Ultegra derailleurs. The 54cm frame is small for me, but has a longish top tube, so I don’t look like a frog trying to hump a helmet when I’m in the saddle. The little sucker is really frisky in the swoopy, twisty bits.
I enjoyed myself so much that I went right back out and did it again today. One more thing to be thankful for. Like leftovers.
Plenty of room on the Group W bench. Slide over, litterbug.
The dump is closed, all the wrong people are in cuffs, and there ain’t enough SNAP in the EBT for turkey but there’s a big ol’ ham living large in the White House.
Oh, well. We can still sing. Sing loud. You know the words.
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