Posts Tagged ‘The Shit Monsoon’

Tick, tock

October 19, 2012
Sinton Trail, Oct. 19, 2012

The yellow leaves are fading fast and falling to earth. There’s a metaphor here somewhere; I’m sure of it.

Now we wait. The UCI has announced that it intends to disclose its course of action in USADA v. TCWSNBN on Monday, but tonight the object of their intention is addressing a gala hoedown marking the 15th-anniversary of Livestrong, once known as the Lance Armstrong Foundation, which remains its official title.

This means that ink-stained and pixel-pocked wretches worldwide must postpone the drinking of lunch, dinner or breakfast until Big Tex either (a) says, “It’s a fair cop, but society is to blame,” or (2) re-enacts the Hitler-in-the-bunker scene, but this time in first-person Texican instead of German and without the postage-stamp ‘stache. Either way, the poor bastards will have to file something, which will only make them bilious and vengeful come Monday.

I already did my little bit of business this morning, fielding a few e-mails from editors and watching a vanity not get installed in the downstairs bathroom (see “Return of the Shit Monsoon). So I left the revelation watch to others and took the All-City Space Horse out for a pleasant 90-minute ride, which seems to be just about my speed lately,

I had been prepared to be critical of the bike, because I had noticed some knee discomfort while riding it that didn’t occur while astride anything else. The pedal-shoe interface seemed without fault, as I have Shimano SPDs on several other bikes.

Finally I broke out the tape measure and checked saddle height against two other bikes that weren’t bugging me and lo and behold: The Space Horse was way off. I’d sack that mechanic if he didn’t know me so well. Dude reads my mail and knows all my passwords and is wearing my pants as we speak. So much for my chops as a fount of velo-wisdom.

Now I’m back at the ranch and enjoying a delicious glass of dinner because I’m not the guy who has to write the story, when and if there is one. And my knees don’t hurt, either.

• Late update: A standing o’ for The Boss and no fresh revelations. A third option (iii) that I hadn’t even considered (see “fount of velo-wisdom,” above). Still, it’s good news for me. The last time I lost a bet on a Big Tex story I had to dress up as Betsy Andreu for a week.

The stink also rises

May 31, 2012
Destruction zone

Yes, those smelly old elves are at it again in the basement.

Tell you what: When it rains, it pours, especially in our basement.

The water heater is on the fritz now, pissing all over the floor like a badly trained dog, and I would shoot the fucker two or three times if I weren’t afraid of inflicting collateral damage upon the humidifier, which in this climate is the only thing keeping me from bleeding to death through the nose.

Speaking of noses, when the temps creep up into the high 80s, low 90s, what a man wants is a basement free of raw sewage. They say that shit rolls downhill, and speaking as a longtime resident of the valley I will say that they do not lie.

But the stink from same, like the sun, also rises. And a man with a litter box in his office upstairs doesn’t need any more of that sort of annoyance than he can achieve through a diet rich in the foodstuffs of Northern New Mexico, which at least smells good going in.

So much for the bad news. The good news is that chats with the insurance company have not led to extended bouts of weeping; an expert is en route today to lay hands upon the water heater (rather than 158-grain, semi-jacketed, .357 Magnum hollow points); and Ted at Old Town Bike Shop resolved an issue with the front disc brake on the latest test bike, for which I owe him some beer and many thanks.

The Return of the Shit Monsoon

May 25, 2012
The Shit Monsoon Redux

They say the job ain’t over ’til the paperwork is done, but I think this one’s gonna take more than one roll of toilet paper.

Well, shit. And I do mean shit. As in shit fountaining out of the downstairs toilet for the second time in three years.

Here’s the long and the short of it: Herself and I were enjoying a glass of the finest European sidewalk-softener and a bit of TV last night when she hears a bubbling sound from downstairs. She goes to investigate and I hear another kind of sound altogether, reminiscent of the racket I was making in 2009 when the exact same thing happened to me.

So now it’s wash, rinse and repeat time again. The carpet is coming up, along with the tile, and some drywall is coming out. We’ve already relocated Herself’s office to the kitchen, where the cats may use her keyboard as a springboard to the windowsills for perimeter inspection.

My office, meanwhile, houses the 1st Feline Home Defense Regiment and its equipment, to wit, one (1) sand-filled polyurethane waste receptacle, i.e., the litter box. Not exactly a box of roses, but hey — when the whole house smells like a toilet, what’s another turd or two?