Top off your lap, sir?

The 13-inch 2011 MacBook Air
All I've ever asked is everything I've ever wanted. Does that make me a bad person?

When Competitor Group Inc. and I parted ways on the first day of the New Year I suggested that Herself should buy me a new MacBook to ramp up my mobility to full rumormongering speed for 2012.

I won’t tell you what she suggested that I do.

Some people hit the pubs or the comfort food as the wolf howls outside the door. Me, I examine the toy box and generally find it lacking a certain something. One wonders why Santa discriminates against the bad kids. There oughta be a law.

It’s not as though I’m lacking for laptops. The main machine is a 13-inch 2.0 GHz Intel Core Duo MacBook circa 2006, but there are others: a 12-inch 1.5 GHz G4 “Little Al” PowerBook, a 14.1-inch 500 MHz G3 “Pismo” PowerBook and even a 12-inch 800MHz G3 iBook that smells like a pencil eraser when I boot it up because of a poor adhesive selection by someone at Apple HQ.

The problem is that they are all old, slow and heavy, like their owner. And also nearing the end of their useful lives, but let’s not go there, even metaphorically.

All still work, but frankly the G3 ‘books are way off the back — still suitable for checking mail, writing screeds and light photo/cartoon editing, but the equivalent of Nash Metropolitans when navigating the modern Infobahn. The G4 is better, but it’s 7 years old — no biggie for a car (my Forester is also a 2005 model), but senior-citizen country for a computer.

And the MacBook? It’s only a year younger and has already disappointed me once, FUBARing a hard drive after less than three years of light use. I’ve never trusted it since — and never really had to, since the lion’s share of my work for the past few years involved helping edit the VeloNews.com website, which is tough to do on any laptop, unless you have a giant external monitor attached.

I used a 2009 21.5-inch 3.06 GHz Intel Core 2 Duo iMac with a second monitor, a 22-inch ViewSonic. Charles Pelkey used a PC with three monitors. His office looks like the bridge of the USS Enterprise.

Having abandoned professional web editing, I no longer require that kind of visual real estate. But I’ve gotten used to the speed of the newer computer, and it’s hard to go back in time when I hit the road, something I’d like to do more of in 2012 if only to rub up against some fresh ideas for irritating people.

Let’s see here — a guy can pick up a refurbished 2011 1.7 GHz dual-core Intel Core i5 MacBook Air for just over a G at the Apple Store. I wonder how much plasma I’d have to sell.

I need to lose a little weight anyway.

Give ’er a hand

Garden of the Gods
Pikes Peak peeks out from behind the Garden of the Gods.

One nice thing about quitting a pain-in-the-ass job and not being pissed off all the time is that I find myself noticing the little things again, now that the red haze of homicide unrealized no longer clouds my vision.

Case in point. Having shot a Velo-sized hole in my wallet I’ve spent a couple of days test-driving grocery stores that are not Whole Foods to gauge the extent, quality and price of their organic offerings. Yesterday it was a Safeway, today a King Soopers. Neither was particularly impressive, barring a real steal on Greek yogurt at the King Soopers.

As I walked into the Safeway some pretty young women of color were walking out, weaving around an elderly white man in a motorized wheelchair. One complained, “I’m hungry.” Another said, “So eat, nigga!” The poor old boy in the wheelchair did a slo-mo double-take, wearing the sort of expression you might expect from a pro-lifer who just saw an abortion-clinic janitor pitchforking defunct fetuses into a Dumpster.

Then today, going into the Soopers, I noticed another attractive young woman who seemed very pleased with herself, strutting along as though she were a model on a runway. I’m guessing her mood had something to do with the dusty, perfect imprint of a left hand on her right butt cheek. That’ll put some spring into the step of just about anybody, even a 57-year-old underemployed rumormonger of the cycling persuasion.

Speaking of which, between bouts of people-watching I squeezed in a nice 90-minute ride today. Goddamn shiftless disloyal Fenian bastards. Can’t hold onto a part-time job for more than 22 years and yet they have the cheek to insult the working man with bouts of casual cycling during business hours.

The cheese does not stand alone

Fear and Loathing, Campaign Trail style
The more things change, etc.

So, dead heat between Mitt Romney and Rick Santorum in Iowa, eh? Guess nobody bothered to write in Haywood Jablomie, Jack Meehoff or I.P. Freeley.

Watching the food fight over the GOP pestilential nomination has been like watching a Coen Brothers treatment of Hunter S. Thompson’s “Fear and Loathing: On the Campaign Trail ’72.” Or maybe a round of musical chairs with all the participants crazed on mescaline.

Mitt Romney keeps smiling because he owns all the chairs, the building in which they sit and the surrounding properties to boot. But that doesn’t make him any less a bag of runny owlshit that nobody’s buying as long as there’s anything else for sale.

The big cheese may eventually stand alone. All the smart money’s on it. But right now he’s doing a tango with Man-On-Dog Santorum, and he can’t be feeling too frothy about it.

Little wheels keep on turnin’. …

Caltrop
Just because you're paranoid doesn't mean they're not out to flat you.

Off the back as usual, I didn’t get around to my first ride of the year until today.

I’m road-testing a couple of bikes for Adventure Cyclist — a Pashley Clubman and a Bike Friday New World Tourist Select — and today it was the folding bike’s turn under the fat bastard. I was gentle, inflicting only an hour’s worth of light spinning on the poor little thing.

Despite some unseasonably warm weather following our last snow there was still a fair amount of ice and snow on the deck, and I found myself wishing I’d ordered up a set of fenders with the NWT. But what the hell? I’ll take a wet butt outdoors over a dry one indoors, especially after a heavy morning of networking via Facebook, Twitter, website comments and phone.

All was going swimmingly until the homebound leg when I heard a tick … tick … tick … coming from down below. I thought I’d picked up a goathead, and saw what I thought was one on the front tire, but it seemed lodged solidly in there — and this was a Kevlar-belted tire, mind you — so I kept on going rather than stop to pull it and then deal with the roadside flat repair.

When I got home, what I thought was the ass-end of a goathead wiped right off the front tire. So I checked the rear tire and found what looked like a homemade, half-assed caltrop in there. Kevlar, Schmevlar — that sucker shot right through it like a small beer through a tall Irishman. I pulled it out and psssssssssshhhhhhhhh. …

So tomorrow I get to fix my first flat on a teeny wheel. Eloi, Eloi, lama sabachthani?

Escape from San Diego

Slainte
Beers to you.

Thanks to everyone who high-fived this old dog after he hit the VeloDoor a-runnin’.

Mostly a scribe doesn’t hear from the readership unless he’s managed to piss them off somehow. This will certainly come as a surprise to longtime readers, but despite my gentle demeanor I myself have received the odd bit of criticism for an occasional lighthearted, vicious attack on All We Hold Dear. So to read all these cheerful comments on my New Year’s Day post really made my day. Kicked 2012 off on a high note.

Today I had planned to celebrate my deeper embrace of underemployment with a long ride, but quickly got tangled up in e-mails, phone calls and social media. So instead Herself and I went for a short run in a nearby park.

It was the kind of January day the Greater Bibleburg Chamber of Commerce wishes it could bottle and sell at single-malt prices — beautiful blue skies, temps in the 40s and nearly windless — and we discussed strategies for moving forward as we … well, moved forward. Very, very slowly. Ask anyone who’s seen me run. So stay tuned.

Meanwhile, the Old Guy Who Gets Fat In Winter is still very much alive, as is the Mud Stud, who hangs around Bicycle Retailer and Industry News. And if you prefer bicycle travel to industry news, I crank out the occasional piece for Adventure Cyclist magazine, too. Thanks to Marc Sani and Mike Deme for keeping kibble in the dish.

But for pure filth — rock-bottom, unadorned snark — this is the place to be.

So thanks again for getting the gags, and I toast each and every one of you. May the road rise up to meet you in a fashion that does not require cosmetic facial surgery.