One of the many half-assed attempts to create a picture when 300 words were required.
Many years ago a managing editor asked me why I didn’t work harder at writing than cartooning, hinting that he thought me a better writer than scribbler, and now and then I’m forced to agree with him.
Case in point: Today’s Foaming Rant over at VeloNews.com began life yesterday as a cartoon. A couple hours and a half-dozen half-starts later I crumpled up the various rough drafts, shit-canned them and made a sharp left turn from the drawing board to the iMac.
This morning, what had originally been a one-panel sight gag is a 300-word setup for a five-word punch line, with a Photoshopped pic of Paddy McQuaid plus links to McQuaid’s open letter to pro riders and a YouTube video of Elvis Costello and the Attractions performing “Radio, Radio.”
Whether all that’s an improvement over a cartoon is open to debate. But it’s certainly an improvement over the one I was trying to draw yesterday.
Ho hum. Off to the Court of Arbitration for Sport goes Albuterol Clenbutador as the UCI appeals his Spanish get-out-of-jail-free card.
1996 seems like such a very long time ago, doesn't it?
Remember, doping these days is a stage race. There’s the prologue (allegedly winning the actual competition) followed by stage one (defending yourself before your national federation after tripping the Dope-O-Meter®) and stage two (battling either UCI, WADA or both at the CAS). Charles “The Explainer” Pelkey breaks it all down for you at VeloNews.com.
In between (and during) stages there is much bad noise from all concerned, worse than a battalion of drunken Belgians clanging cowbells. It’s particularly hard on the ears to hear Mr. 60% jabbering about “fairness” after cheating his way to his own Tour title.
Meanwhile, Counselor Pelkey warns against expecting a quick resolution.
“The time required by CAS to review documents, entertain motions from both sides, hold a hearing for oral arguments and then render a decision means that we won’t get a final and official word until much later this year,” he writes. “Indeed, we could see this thing pushed into late summer or early fall.”
Oh, goody. This means Clenbutador could race this year’s Giro and Tour before we get the definitive word on who won last year’s Tour.
Better start maintaining those record books online, boys. Makes it easier to airbrush folks out of the podium photos.
Speaking of freak shows, Kevin Drum — who thinks our crypto-Muslim Kenyan socialist overlord is a mortal lock to win in 2012 — is looking forward to the coming GOP primary.
“It looks like Michele Bachmann is going to run, Palin might run, Newt Gingrich is probably going to run, Jim DeMint seems like he might run, and I suppose Ron Paul will run again too. This is a freak show of stupendous proportions, and it would be perfect if Donald Trump really did decide to join all these nutbags on the stage during the debates.”
Parroting the usual insanity won’t make the nut with this lot, Kevin adds, meaning “the crazy wing is going to have to up the ante. …” And here we thought they’d already cranked it up to 11.
Just 'cause it's spring where you are doesn't mean it's spring at 14,110 feet.
Typical oddball Colorado weather today. Twenty degrees cooler than yesterday, a brief spell of popcorn snow from an otherwise blue sky, actual snow atop Pikes Peak, more of the winds from hell, and about umpty-ump pounds of tree pollen blasted straight up my snoot. Blaugh.
In other Bibleburg news, USA Cycling assumed the position — pardon me, assumed the UCI position — on race radios after initially deciding to allow squawk boxes in NRC events. That NastyGram® Paddy McQuaid sent must’ve really read out the old riot act, as in “IOC spank.” Don’t want to throw away your bucket while all that money is still spewing from the five-ringed faucet in downtown Bibleburg, don’t you know.
Who’da thunk race radios would end up being Dire Portents of the End Times, cycling-wise? Silly sods have been gobbling enough dope to bring Hunter S. Thompson back from the dead, mainlining each others’ blood bags and fleeing drug raids through hotel windows, and what finally does the job is Thor Hushovd’s inability to hear Jonathan Vaughters’ sideburns flapping in the breeze from an open window in the team Volvo.
Herself hopped back in the hamster wheel today, leaving Your Humble Narrator more or less at large, so I designated today Me, Myself and I Day.
The first rule of MM&I Day is: Do no work. So I didn’t. I spent the morning hiking and the afternoon biking, and if you overlook the 25-to-50-mph winds it was all pretty damn’ fine.
I ran across a few mountain bikers during the two-wheeled leg and they roundly congratulated me for being stupid enough to ride 700c wheels on single-track. Happily, they didn’t see how badly I was doing it. I managed to clean a couple simple bits just as they spotted me. Then I waited for them to roll off before I got back to spazzing out.
Once I tired of failing to impress myself with my mad skillz I rolled home to check on our baby war, which has many fathers but no daddy. The Euros’ are pissing all over each others’ shoes, the Arab League seems to think that creating a no-fly zone means politely asking Gadaffy to park his air force, and the prez sez that once we’ve popped off a few thousand half-million-smacker cruise missiles we’ll just step the fuck off and let someone else do the heavy lifting. The Republicans, natch, are calling him a pansy.
Like watching the sun rise in the east, that is. Obama couldn’t make that lot happy if he promised them free blowjobs and beer for eternity. “Mind the teeth, and we’d like a hoppier IPA!” Jesus wept. But at least they’ve shut the fuck up about the deficit for a nanosecond. Jillions for bombs, but not one rusty penny for butter. If the lottery were as predictable I’d be able to buy Washington, D.C., and evict all these pompous peckerheads.
Fat tires and drop bars — does it get any better than this?
Y’know, beaches are swell and volcanoes nifty, but there’s definitely something to be said for spending the first day of spring noodling around some familiar single-track on 700c wheels.
Palmer Park was packed, so I had to yield trail quite a bit — mountain bikers, dawdling hikers, one kid on horseback, led by her parents — but it was all good. Everyone was in a chatty mood, nobody was a dick, and Monday doesn’t come until tomorrow. I didn’t even fall off or anything, which always adds to the enjoyment.
As I waited for one pack of mountain bikers to clear a section one grinned, shouted “Crazy cyclo-crosser!” and slapped me on the shoulder as he passed.
“No brain, no pain,” I agreed before clipping in and carrying on.
