A shimmering silver pool-floatie passes overhead and by dumb chance two in two hundred and fifty million children happened to be looking up, as its shadow darkens a patch of grass and then over a garage. There is never enough time in the day to look up from one's glowing screen, and who the fuck cares really if a higher intelligence from a far away galaxy were to pay a lunch visit whilst you were thumbing ranch-dressing on your display. Who the fuck gives a shit, if this was really an angel? -- Or if angels and aliens were both made by god. Then, well -- they would look sexy as shit, and not have bulbous heads, and elongated hands and such. If Aliens & the CCP were smart, they'd send some glowing round-yon-virgin angel shit over the Midwest, then over Montana & Nevada, where all them crazy fuckers live, and and perhaps be on its way down to Brazil where the Pope still calls the shots..., and then really get to inspiring people with some grace, and awe. Nothing gets people in line like religious expletives, such as "Holy Fucking Shit" "Did you see that?" "Fucking Miracle Man!" I suppose that actual angels come in many forms, from thin and sexy to John Travolta. They say that we all need a bit more "AWE" in our lives, to humble us, to center us, and to inspire. They, also say that cathedrals were built to blow the average Bronze-age minds. This is why there are so fucking many Christians, So goes the same with the Mosques, and with the Mormons. It turns out that fancy fables of romantic encounters with sacred stones, housed under big tall domes, (also made of stone) have a way of awakening our stoner imaginations. We all get stoned far more than we'd intended. Just like Meeting space aliens in Brazil, these "close encounters" are the perfect opportunity for tiny earthling brains to have their spongy untapped mind's blown... But, sadly we all happened to be looking down at snap-chat the very moment of inspiration. What do they call this 'Close Encounter' of divine inspiration? Epiphany? So it comes as no surprise that the Extra-terrestrials and the Angels (or whatever) -- Come and go freely now and again, and NORAD don't seem to care much whether it be Santa or research Inflatables, (pronounced: Weather balloon) -- lest we miss another episode of "Survivor". In 1999 Avon, (a pyramid beauty distributor with a waning grip on the middle-class feminine beauty market) Introduced a 'limited edition' angelic Barbie complete with a white dove boomerang. Whether this slender vapid alien-esque figure could toss her dove companion like a scimitar and make magic happen, is anyone's guess -- But her sliding grasp on a core market of insecure Christian zealots sold a crapload of idyllic beauty queens to inspire the next gen house-wife to be subservient to a male mono-culture whose invention hoped to keep her in check for another millennia or so. Much like beauty conventions and most other organized religions. If you woke up in your AirBnB, and saw this Angelic Barbie on the nightstand, would you do a double take? So it doesn't surprise me that the "Angels" we occasionally do encounter, whether they appear as Bobble-headed aliens, with impossibly pale and frail features, or vapid coke fueled fashion models, resembling these aliens -- is of little importance. ![]() So we spot yet another UFO floating in our stratosphere, all shimmery and silky, and say something like, "Holy Fucking Shit!" "Is that a UFO?"..., "Or an angel?" No, sorry it's not Space-Alien Nicole Kidman, the holy virgin huntress -- It's just another Chinese Spy Balloon taking some pix of Mormon Tabernacles, Baptist Churches, and oh... Military Missile Bases. Aliens, Like the Chinese Communist Party Elite seem to be asking, "What do we do with all the white people when alas we take over the planet? and do we even want to take over this shit? Do we keep the NBA?, the NFL?, and Hollywood? -- And what about Jay Z? Waaaay back in 2018 China tested a spy balloon with Hypersonic Glide Missiles that floated on a similar lazy (Oops, My bad!) 'weather balloon trajectory', and then dropped some warheads, like candybars. Rapture?, please! I mean... What more could the Chinese need to learn about us. don't they ship us all our personal surveillance devices anyway? We are emphatically cool as Fonzie, as a cultural meme, True! -- But "Americans" (besides R Kelly, and our former racist-in-chief who we offer as an olive branch) offer what?, in terms of intel? It seems like 'Knowing' too much about another person or culture is what leads to envy or resentment, and both tend to be deleterious to the marriage when one becomes tired with what the other has become. So what could an Angelic Barbie, a shimmering Inflatable Pool-floatie, and the Rapture do to juice the agenda of a foreign state actor / actress? OK, so everything tends to appear similar if alien beyond 40,000 feet, and dirigibles floating over ones enemies is so 1640; but can we all agree that being able to criticize our dickhead leaders (here in the US), is a birthright? Aren't we all silver tongued children playing with beach-toys in full awe of nothing whatsoever anyway? So, pretend you are 80 years old, and I showed you a real alien at a distance of say two blocks away, Could you identify it correctly?, or would you think it was an angel, or a fucking "weather balloon". No pressure man! Any given 20-something stands a 1 and 4 chance of answering a yes or no question correctly, and when wrong, a 1% chance of accepting they're wrong. Fairy-Tales, and Foreign Actors, may all be disguised Angels delivering a message, but imagination is often blind. This confirms that, just because you can imagine it, or "think you saw something", doesn't make it real. Oh, and by the way, there is no such thing as French Vanilla, because the French don't give a shit about tasteless crap, and a bit less about the Barbie affair. Anyway, espionage is such a loaded term, and in the end gathering intel about the weather is cool, right? So why worry about a hovering pool-toy? What is there to gather about Americans? What we have to offer is rather cool music, crappy TV dramas, shittier take-out food, two kinds of diabetes, and first person shooter drills. Oh, And lame-ass twerking stripper fashion, falling beltless hip-hop pants, sexy Halloween tropes... and Racist Cops. But in truth the majority of our list comes from China, so could they not cut to the chase, and start dropping our Amazon blimp orders from 68,000 feet? And what of the trail that went cold as I tried to track my package somewhere off the Carolinas? You're right Marjorie... Shame on Biden for shooting down my Jordan's.
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Ezekiel 25:17 -- "The Path of the righteous is beset on all sides by the inequities of the selfish and the tyranny of evil men" My Friend John Says that I'm old, and this is why I cannot get over the "Best Times" (the course record) on my bicycle trainer. Not to feel outdone by younger stronger faster cyclists -- But, as far as that goes, it is absolutely true that no legitimate rider has finished that Passo Valparola Climb in 26 minutes. Especially if my best time is 42.51 minutes. John 20:22 -- also says that I shouldn't be embarrassed if I can no longer clean an Ollie Kick-flip. (largely citing my advanced age) I've decided that instead of dismissing his blaspheme outright -- That it may be good advice to give up on some things which in principle are impractical or empirically un-useful. I cannot ask my apostolic friend Paul for his (always expert) advice, because I'm pretty sure he has moved away, and never mentioned it to me. The true cost of Covid's spiky wrecking ball is to dismantle established relationships. Today, (These Days), the subtle interstice between moving away, and crawling deeper into one's more comfortable cave-dwelling relations, is indistinguishable, save the moving expense. One has to ask oneself lots these days, and unfortunately the first question seems to be, "Who can you save?, and should you even try"? I shaved 11 minutes off of my best time for Passo Pordoi summit in Italy, and 4 minutes from my best time climbing out of Nice up to Col d' Eze -- But this doesn't make any damn difference to anyone but me, as an antidote for gray January Blahs. What IS kind of important is one's sovereign right to imagining one's best self, still striving toward goals both real and imagined. One goal I had this year, (and the year is yet young) is to get back some friends long taken by Covid (Excuses). Friendships once punctuated with nuanced dialogs diminish from Sartre, Aristotle, and Vinyl Collections, to the discourse of Netflix, shitty Take-out food, or even Jell-O. Wherever your line was drawn, you are likely clinging to the myth that it's not worth contacting some of those you feel you have lost to "Covid" (Excuses). It's likely not your friend Paul's Fault that you are a dickhead, or was (at least) at some point behaving badly, c. 2020-2021. Laying about in your PJ's well past midday, and staying home both Friday and Saturday night... But those you've lost to Covid, wont return your calls because they have re-shaped their new efficient lifestyle, and there is no room in top pander to brats, and home-bodies. So-what, if the weekend is no longer a real tangible distinguished part of your week? So-what if you don't go out to the bar to catch a band with a few friends... anymore? What IS most important is that you are right most of the time. You are of course always right and this seems to be where "we" (The collective post-pandemic "WE") have landed. 'Being right all the fucking time is legitimately exhausting, mostly because it forces one into isolation where friends matter less, and doing shit went down the toilet. All of that alone time at home bracketed by stale air, bad carryout, and loathing contemplation, built a tunnel so long that emergence from your igloo is a far away goal, not worth endeavoring. You probably never noticed your confines so much in say 2006, when you didn't spend more than sleeping-time at home. But its not as though you became neater and tidier for it. Last week, you said to yourself after a walk by the lake, "Wow!, I should do this more often"... And then (sadly) -- you don't. It's OK to no longer be able to pull of some sweet skating tricks from your youth, but it is not OK to say you can't pull off those sweaty nacho-cheese coated Pajamas and giving it a try. My Friend John is also embarrassed by my "Track-Stand". He says that old dudes who cling to such youthful balancing acts to prove they are "less old" is an affront to those with the dignity to not try. This indignant boasting is a tough distinction to thread. I mean -- If I can be forgiven for not pulling off a clean Ollie-Kick-flip... but I've been at it for a few weeks on and off, blaming the trucks, or the wheel durometer, or some such... Then it cannot also be true what they are telling me, that I should give up the self effacing Track-Stand, for the benefit of those who can no longer pull them off gracefully at every stop-light. ...And I get the whole potential embarrassment of a broken hip, like this one old dude in my neighborhood who at fifty, hangs out at the school playground cursing each time his shove-it or manual lands with a clack!, and his maple ply skates away solo. Afterall, If one cannot land a good clean ollie, One has no business doing a track-stand right? Well... It IS however, incumbent that one who attempts to do a track-stand at every fucking stop-light, should not be that shaky tree. Because dipping left, leaning right, and on a fixie no less..., with flat pedals is not "Pulling It Off" gracefully -- Wheel cocked sideways, with two full sleeve tattoos that began whilst working for a messenger service in the early 90's? Gracefully, or in the least graciously pulling this off is imperative. The ink may have dried, and the slogans improved, but the fixie track-stand on flat pedals, is bullshit. ...Because, why? A clean track-stand is not done for an audience; Rather it is a holdover from a by-gone era of chrome toe-clips with leather straps which when pulled tightly wrapped the whole foot against a slot in the sole such that getting one's foot free required reaching down to pop the buckle whilst raising the foot to step out. Just as it has taken 30 years for the Snow board to begin to engineer a real clipless option, the legs remain attached for most of one's sport. A clean track-stand is not wandering about an intersection edging into traffic, because one drank too much the evening prior, and now is justifiably off kilter. Doing a track-stand involves no more or less than 1/4 bike length to maintain uprightness. A sense of pride of ownership, comes with staying put, but should not be attempted glibly as one may attempt an Ollie Kick-Flip. Because a skate trick is a 'trick,' and a Track-stand is just part of growing up. Late this fall, I was hit whilst riding home from the typical 50 mile loop, to some shitty coffee shop with mandatory tipping, bad staff, and overpriced drinks served by smug shade-grown children. I was only 3'ish minutes from my garage coming upon an emerging green light when a bike shot through his stop-sign and there was no room to stop. I veered, and he veered, but I hit him just the same broad-side at about 21 miles per hour. He flew from his Hybrid, spilling into the street, before a busy intersection, backpack landing somewhere near his bike, while he slid the other direction. No Helmet. The typical potent chemistry flashed through my brain, Bike OK?, Wheel OK? Bars Straight?, Tire Sealed? Holy Fucking Shit! Everything seems fine. What was particularly unusual was not the fact that No rage welled up in me as would have certainly frothed were this a "car's fault". What was uncanny, was that I was still standing on my pedals, in a track-stand, more or less lording over the lesser lucky rider, before casually unclipping and reaching down to help gather the unlucky person I'd struck. I leaned his bike, and mine against two trees, and helped my fellow cyclist to rest on a porch step, while I gathered the items spilled from his backpack. No helmet, just a knit winter cap -- seemingly no concussion, just a bit off balance, and the quick onset of some stiff aches. "Track-Stands", I'd thought... I was standing fully upright, and attached, with meaningful balance above the victim of circumstance whose bad choice to run the stop-sign, would make him later still for work today. I never unclipped. I was unharmed, and my bike was undamaged. I stood in this track-stand winding down my heartrate from a roll to a subtle back- beat. I was lucky -- He..., less so. We all know that scene from Pulp Fiction when the cowering kid with the pistol springs from the bathroom as Vincent and Jules wax philosophically with his cheeseburger -- Bullets fly, as he unloads the clip into the wall behind his un-scathed adversaries. "Unscathed", I thought... "A Miracle, perhaps?" "the inequities of the selfish and the tyranny of evil men doing track-stands. I got to wondering about Biz, lately -- (actual business, not this guy), I considered climate change, the universe, and possible nuclear annihilation. ...Any way I decided that if one could endure this entire video, That we'd all be fine. We just need the right protective pendant necklace. Anyway, Good Luck. QUOTE: “Every single time I ride my gravel bike past a group of hikers, one of them will ask about my “hybrid” road bike with fat tyres. They ask because they think it’s cool as hell that I can ride a bike from my house to the trail. But “serious” cyclists don’t see the term hybrid that way. We’ve valorized bikes often favoured by beginners as lesser than. Well, it’s time to put that to bed, and if it takes a $2,600/£2,600 flat bar gravel bike to do that, then that’s fine by me.” -Some Dumb-shit writer from Cycling Weekly It’s fucking hard to stand up here and cheer on my favorite “flat bar gravel bike”. Cough! (HYBRID) Cough Cough! It’s tough to stand in front of everyone and, behind some mental ideology your gut knows is myth, maligned and marginalized by bad faith, piss-poor politics, and a false prophet, such as 'Grimace'. My “Flat Bar Gravel Bike” is my best friend and I love her. Sob, sniffle, Absolutely Sure of my resolve and confident, of my conviction, I delve deeper into insanity every day, insisting that my “Flat Bar Gravel Bike” isn’t a “Hybrid”. …And everyone else just doesn’t understand me. I think I’ll strap a comfort animal to the bars, and parade that shit around proclaiming adjectival injustice, and pronoun prejudice. I had this stuffed animal as a kid — A small rabbit with soft fur and a stitched nose. I dragged it around over dirty pews and ledges, into the bathroom, and she lay with fellow dust-bunnies beneath my bunk-bed, never assigned a gender. I never wanted a stuffed bunny, but as easter faded, I thought I really loved her. I wanted comfort, through rough patches, and something to clean, care for, and rub when I felt insecure. She was NOT a doll, but a hybrid solution to bridge the gap between my infantile need for comfort, and restless greed for acceptance, (if by a stuffed friend) -- Down the bumpy road toward adventure. A token, I'd strapped it to my handlebars, as I practiced kick-turns, skids, and wheelies. She was filthy, & comforting, but it was far too late for me to keep her, and keep my peer-group.. ![]() “Man…, I’m never going to talk to those guys again. I’m the one who got Arnold and Dave their jobs in the first place”. -Brad Today I’m a “grown-up” and I’ve long forgotten when I discarded my faux comfort animal, but she taught me that make-believe works only up to the point when it no longer fits the confines of one’s cliché, and someone beats your ass for having imaginary friends. Through the end I’m sure that I held tightly to my bunny and resolve that my aim was true, and my faith was sound and well reasoned. And when its not convenient I developed a “fuck them if they can’t understand” monologue which I'd repeated to my self (perhaps to this day), to guard against having ever been mistaken in my convictions. Of course I’m right about my politics, my faith, and my opinion., I’m always right… And Fuck Dennis Taylor My first bike was as a Schwinn Pixie, the top tube was removable, attached at the seat collar and Headset, for quick conversion to a “Girls Model”. My gender ambivalent two wheeler — the equal of a non-conforming Bathroom, was dark green, with scars of rust, and a rattly paint-matched chain guard. The solvent applied white decals (complete with pin-stripe star), were near illegible. The stripped seat-bolt was one turn away from the dark path of the vice-grip. When I outgrew the Metal Flake Green pixie, the top tube was withdrawn for my Sister’s to ride. She would be the fifth kid to inherit my gender non-conforming bike. I suppose you could say that resting mid-way between the Feminine pronoun, and a “Boy’s Bike” made this a Hybrid. Someplace in the netherworld — Neither XX nor XY. “But Serious Cyclists don’t see the term ‘Hybrid’, that way” -Dumbass Your Stuffed Rabbit is exactly that; A stuffed rabbit. If you later see it zip-tied to the grille of the garbage truck, dangling from a trailer hitch, or upon your lap at the dinner table, It's a stuffed rabbit... Should you expect differing reactions, whether hanging like filthy balls from a snowy trailer-hitch?, or from the bar on your first two-wheeler -- Certainly! ..but it’s a stuffed rabbit. Nothing will change the Rabbit's Gender into a Flat Bar Gravel Bike. No magic spell will make Grimace less creepy, and that Kid from school cannot be a TeleTubby. Scientifically speaking, If I’d prematurely removed the top-tube from my Schwinn Pixie, then it’s gender would not have conformed to my chromosomal skew, and I may be teased, or even beaten. And YOU should also be teased for defending what is clearly a “Hybrid” — This stuffed rabbit you are rolling upon is most certainly NOT a “Flat Bar Gravel Bike”. Yeeesh! ![]() I’ve said it before, but it bears repeating, that all the ludicrous pandering to pussies for non-conformity — All of our erasure of curbs, and leveling of the hills, will create that Vanilla Pudding Khaki Dockers, banner waving prejudice who’s weight becomes unbearable, who’s trajectory un-sustainable, and who’s damage to mores irreparable. We have curbs in place so the sewerage stays in the street, and the cars off the sidewalk, and we build bridges to connect both sides of the tracks, so commerce, and continuity will persist. Siloing every precious thought-bubble in a padded mauve comforter, will yield one singular failure… The failure to engage. “What does little ‘XXY’ want for lunch today?” This question alone will eventually cost us trillions in mental health, confusion, suicide, listlessness, productivity, and a flat GDP. Bygone is the day when you ate what was served, and you wore what came in a box from your wealthier cousins, and you experimented with gender rules when you hit HighSchool. Today, without an inkling of what you may aspire to.., Everyone wants to be a fucking Teletubby. A mountain Bike has a flat bar and knobby tires for patently obvious reasons. A road bike has a gorgeous curved bar blending near perfect form, and function, with lithe tires. A gravel bike is a road cyclist’s opportunity to continue where the sidewalk ends. (see also Cyclocross). A Schwinn Pixie, works to keep you from getting your ass beat for non-conformity (when that mattered). A Hybrid Bike is neither a Mountain Bike, nor a Road Bike, nor a Pixie. It is neither good for hills, nor for trails. A Hybrid bike resides in the margins with your incompetent SUV, and a purple non-conformist diabetic monster. A Hybrid generally rests in the garage 11.875 months out of the year with flat tires. A hybrid bike is the Beige Cotton Dockers, and UnderArmour Polo shirt of the discontented comfort-class. As a child I asked my parents, and siblings about the only un-identifiable character in the play-lot — A giant purple non-conformist called Grimace. Grimace was introduced in 1971, as a thieving pair of purple monster arms who drank Shakes, and stole Cheese-burgers. Like all "Quazi-Bad-guys”, Grimace needed no gender, even when they/them moved from monster status to cheerful dolt. Grimace became the Hybrid Bike, the Schwinn Pixie of the Play-lot. Grimace was welcoming, non-judgmental, and flat out fat, and Grimace made it OK to not give a fuck about what you looked like, or which side of the gender question you landed. Grimace was my fucking filthy rabbit. A scape-goat. The brunt of every joke. Fodder for fun-poking. Grimace is your fucking hybrid bike. Neither monster, nor angel -- Neither patron protector, nor nemesis. Grimace rides poorly up-hill, descends like a fridge, and cannot hold a line in single-track. Grimace laughs at all the wrong jokes, and can neither make up its mind on where to go, nor how to send it, because Grimace’s parents have been doing that for they/them for forever. Grimace is your fucking Hybrid “Flat Bar Gravel Bike”, and Grimace will eat you one day. Josh Hawley says real men value courage. Not many in Trump’s party clear the bar. Reprinted with Full Credit to the Author JOHN F. HARRIS Editor & Co-Founder of Politico 07/07/2022 04:30 AM EDT America, many conservatives believe, is facing a masculinity crisis. The general drift of modern culture, the argument goes, has merged with the anti-patriarchal agenda of the radical left to create a climate in which boys and men are made to feel that there is something inherently suspect or even shameful about their sex. Little wonder, asserted Sen. Josh Hawley of Missouri in a widely publicized address last year, that many men have lost their self-confidence and no longer represent “the traditional masculine virtues — things like courage, and independence and assertiveness.” Hawley’s speech did not take note of how thoroughly masculine virtues, under this definition, have been diluted within his own Republican Party during the Trump era. Nor did he cite the figure who is the most vivid counterexample. The person who is the most credible answer to the GOP’s manhood problem is a woman: Liz Cheney. Liz Cheney: ‘Republicans cannot be both loyal to Donald Trump and loyal to the Constitution’
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