Voyage to the Bottom of the Bathtub

Bibleburg has become a laboratory for neotard Grover Frankenquist’s dream experiment — shrinking government to the point where it can be drowned in a Hilton bathtub by a skinny chickenhawk — and wouldn’t you know it? That darned left-wing commniss media has done took notice.

Naturally, the story in the local cage-liner is about the darned left-wing commniss media taking notice rather than the appalling state of the local body politic, which seems to think that one digs potatoes from gravy and that God will water the parks, if He’s not too dehydrated from pissing on the fags.

This dim viewpoint may have its roots in our economic base, an unholy trinity of the industrial Christian, military and tourism complexes. As another Gaslight story notes, while we enjoy a low cost of living — 7.7 percent below the national average in 2009 — we also make shit for wages, a realization that first drove me out of town in the late Seventies:

“Colorado Springs may seem like a bargain area in which to live, but we are no better off living here because our average wages are 8 to 10 percent below the national average,” said Fred Crowley, senior economist for the Southern Colorado Economic Forum. “There is no prize for this race to the bottom.”

Aw, c’mon, Fred — haven’t you ever heard of the lanterne rouge?

Soup of the evening, beautiful soup

It's not as cold as it looks. It's colder.
It's not as cold as it looks. It's colder.

Feh. Again with the cold and snow. What is this, February in Colorado?

This is soup weather, for sure, and we’ve been through quite a few of my favorite recipes lately, among them a posole from The Santa Fe School of Cooking Cookbook and a Spanish vegetable soup from Martha Rose Shulman, who runs the “Recipes for Health” shop over at The New York Times. We’ve had her vegetable soup for dinner the past two nights and it’s definitely a keeper. A guy could beef it up some with the addition of dead-animal parts, maybe some moderately spicy sausage links sliced into half-inch rounds and sauteéd in olive oil, but it’s fine as is.

Here’s another posole from the Santa Fe folks. I haven’t tried this one before, but it’s early yet and all I need is the chicken thighs. Looks like a visit to the Whole Paycheck is in order. Oboy, my favorite, an icy slide to the corner of Collision and Contusion so I can transfer a century note from my pocket to John Mackey’s.

Meanwhile, I’m trying to decide whether I should go for a mountain bike ride — I still have a few fingers yet to dislocate — or choose the better part of valor and ride the trainer. Maybe I’ll split the difference and go for a run.

A super Sunday indeed

In honor of Super Sunday, I decided to get my inner Belgian on.

It had been snowing feebly all day — zero accumulation, just cold, wet, gray and dreary. I thought briefly about riding the trainer, but after watching today’s Superprestige cyclo-cross online, indoor cycling seemed sissified.

I wasn’t exactly in the mood for cyclo-cross, either, though. ’Cross means filth, and Herself is opposed to same, having logged many hours this weekend doing loads of laundry without end and putting a sparkling shine on the palatial manse. If I were to prance in from the cold sporting a thick coat of goo like a retarded Irish setter, she’d blow me back into it with my own .357.

Thus the flat-bar Voodoo with fenders seemed just the thing. I pulled on wool socks, neoprene leg warmers and bibs, two long-sleeved polypro undershirts, one long-sleeved jersey and a winter jacket, tugged neoprene booties over the Sidis, donned tuque, balaclava, cycling cap and helmet, slipped on the winter gloves and rode off into a brisk north wind.

I had to take five under a bridge to loosen the helmet straps, ’cause the ol’ chrome dome was so heavily swaddled it felt like my lid was screwed down a few turns too tight. Then I gnawed on the wind and snow for about a half hour until I got good and cold and turned around to enjoy a bit of tailwind.

The comparative warmth almost lulled me into a false sense of my own sturdiness. “Hell, I suppose I could stay out a couple hours, log a few more miles,” I thought. And then the wind shifted a bit, firing a warning shot of sleet across my bow. Nope.

So home I went, and quickly too, thinking of hot toddies brimming with Bushmills and humming a bit of Irish doggerel:

Musha rig um du rum da, / Whack fol the daddy O,

Whack fol the daddy O, / There’s whiskey in the jar.

Hey, we can’t all be Belgians.

Tommy the Gun shoots off his mouth again

Tom Tancredo, the gift that keeps on giving. Addressing the so-called “Tea Party convention” in Nashville, the former congressman (R-Tinfoil Beanie) and nativist nitwit said the nation should require “civics-literacy tests” of its voters.

“People who could not even spell the word ‘vote’ or say it in English put a committed socialist ideologue in the White House,” Tancredo oinked in his opening-day speech Thursday. “His name is Barack Hussein Obama.”

Careful what you wish for, Tommy old boy. I’m guessing that most of the homegrown mouth-breathers who inflicted you upon the nation’s capital back in the day think Jefferson Davis was Grace Slick’s old band, a filibuster is a cowboy who specializes in saddle-breaking mares, and cloture is some kind of gay French fashion.

Your base couldn’t distinguish the Bill of Rights from the Communist Manifesto unless it was tattooed on Caribou Barbie’s tits, and thus under your proposal the prototypical Tancredo supporter would have as much chance of voting in an American election as Raul Castro.

Meanwhile, back at the parts bin . . .

My custom Nobilette cyclo-cross bike is getting ready for its closeup.
My custom Nobilette cyclo-cross frameset is getting ready for its closeup.

OK, I’m officially obsessed with cycling again. I actually felt guilty yesterday for doing a short run instead of a long ride. And I have the Adventure Cycling folks to thank for it (this note is for Herself, who will be looking for asses to kick once she sees this month’s credit-card bill).

So I’m rooting around in the garage yesterday, looking ruefully at all the two-wheelers that are going to need stem transplants, forks and bits of this and that to reflect my new position on the road bike, and it strikes me that instead of retro-fitting the entire fleet for the 21st century, I should simply launch a new flagship.

Mark Nobilette built a custom fillet-brazed Reynolds 853 cyclo-cross frameset for me a while back, but I’ve never built it up because I was hunting down stylish parts one at a time — a Race Face compact crankset and bottom bracket here, some Paul Component cantis there — and bike jewelry does not come cheap, even for a shameless beggar with generous friends in high places.

Glancing around the garage at the bikes hanging from the ceiling, surrounded by various boxes full of this and that, I decided it was time to quit looking for The Perfect Build Kit and get the damn’ rubber on the road.

So I snatched up some Time ATAC pedals from last century and an equally elderly Excel Sports Cirrus wheelset from my mango Steelman Eurocross (Mavic Open Pros, Dura-Ace hubs, DT spokes and Michelin Jet tires), Salsa Pro Road handlebars stripped from the now-straight-bar Voodoo, and a secondhand Selle Italia Flite saddle (traded a six-pack of New Belgium beer for it).

A box full of as-yet-unused parts included a cable hanger for a 1-inch steerer; an FSA front derailleur, Ultegra rear derailleur and Dura-Ace nine-speed bar-cons; Ritchey WCS seat post; Control Tech SCR-5 aero brake levers and top-mounted levers; and the aforementioned Race Face cranks and mismatched Paul cantis (black Neo-Retro, silver Touring). I’m still missing an 11-28 cassette, a stem and a chain, but the folks at Old Town Bike Shop have those a-plenty.

And that’s where this frameset just went, as I am qualified to build sentences and paragraphs, not custom bikes. A casually assembled paragraph can be painful, but is rarely fatal.