The tweetstorm continues without letup, nobody’s in command, and everyone’s just hunkering down in their holes, waiting for Roach Mueller to turn up with his M79.
Rowdy dow dow
A happy St. Patrick’s Day to yis from Arthur McBride, Paul Brady and meself. Paul still has this one nailed four decades later. And here’s a livelier version of the same tune, by Planxty circa 1973.
Someone who is not dancing a jig this morning is Andrew McCabe, who has gotten the heave-ho from the FBI. Quite the happy-birthday present from Il Douche.
I imagine McCabe would love to have a trusty shillelagh with which to come over someone’s head. And who knows? P’raps he does so.
Swamp things
Or something like that.
A brief roundup as we circle the drain:
• Fake news: A truth deficit when it comes to trade.
• Brass balls? Nope, those are gold.
• I am the Walrus: Th’ hell is a walrus doing hanging around a swamp? I thought climate change was a Chinese hoax.
And now, the good news: That water bottle on your downtube? Turns out it’s the Fountain of Youth.
That Voodoo that I do
Remember the “Suburban Singletrack” video I posted a while back? This is a sequel of sorts that takes in some of the foothills trails south of Indian School Road. I threw in some northbound bits, too, including a rocky stretch that I usually reserve for running.
Different trails, different bike: Last time I rode the flat-bar, single-ring Voodoo Wazoo; this time it was the drop-bar, triple-ring Voodoo Nakisi.
What can I tell you? Sometimes it’s useful to have that 22×26 low end.
I’m particularly pleased to have been able to clean one sharp, rocky, left-hand hairpin that’s been confounding me regardless of the bike I’m riding. I’d been going wide, but turns out tight was right.
Who knew? Not me, brother. I’ve been dabbing on the sonofabitch for three years.
Next I’ll have to shoot some video of the Elena Gallegos trails, which I rode today. Those draw a bigger crowd. The trails, not the videos.
The Return of the Cone of Silence
And about time, too. I’m tired of listening to the technologically besotted as they totter hither and yon, chattering boisteriously with their invisible friends. Send them to Coventry.
Mad Blog Media 