- Published on
"It Has to come from your Toes" -MVDP
Thank You Mathieu Van Der Poel for digging deep on Sunday.
You are back on my Christmas card list.
...I take back anything bad I may have said about your Tacky Richard Mille.
The Vuelta is Yours if you even want it still.
Anyway, Thanks.
See you in September.
- Published on
If you knew the day, the time, and the way you were going to die, what would you change right now? Some whack-tastic experimental treatment? Sex-change?, Boob-Job? ...a Bavarian Nudist colony?, Sky-dive?, Fly to Mars, Eat nothing but Waygu, and French Ice-cream? Steal a plane and land it on the white-house ball-room?
Bet it all on a single Race?
If I've got a hard time getting my cycling friends to listen to "The Cycling Podcast", how the fuck could anyone get Non-Cyclists to wear a thong, paint themselves green, & run through the Tour De France Crowd? Even if you still don't know what "Off-Sides" means, you can cheer for the world cup.
In Futbol There will be upsets, because player can't be choosey.
**[DISCLAIMER: Tadej Pogačar is an amazing Athlete, and NOT at all like Lance Armstrong... as far as I know but he is bad for Cycling as a "Sport"]
As Usual, I have no Idea what I'm talking about, ...But the current TDF is a fucking bore, [SPOILER ALERT], There will be no upsets this year. No Underdog story, No Podium Upsets, No Mystery -- In short, No Joy. It's a repeat.
Groundhog day. Even if Number two breaks his collar bone, the outcome is still assured. A messianic annunciation of one uber-mensch. Sorry Del Toro.
Friends of the sport, and hostiles alike just can't get any joy from a race where the outcome is assured. The Tour De France is bad break-up sex without orgasm. A reminder that you should have kept your zipper up.
Sure there are exciting moments, Like when Focaccia lets a team-mate win a stage or two.
It's death in straight sets, A 5 - Nil soccer score.
When someone else wins the time trial, it's just to make things seem fair. But scattering some obstacles under the Monster-Truck is ONLY for the fan's satisfaction of splintering wood, and crushed barrels. The Monster-Truck is unstoppable, brutal, stinky, but it's not a sport.
Ignoring sports-washing by Gulf States. Ignore the Ads for Lux Duty Free Shops, masquerading as Desert Spas, There are no happy endings out back.
"Please come to our Disney-esque water-parks in an impossible oil-desert". We'll manage the kids, dad gets a rub and tug, while we empty mommy's account. Today's TDF is chugging de-sal pumps burning dinosaurs into blue water to fill swimming pools, But it's NOT amazing. It's 3D printing saddles, and bespoke carbon one-offs, but it's ignoring the sport. For sport to exist, we need athletes, and fans in a careful balance. If you can ignore $25,000. bikes, Poop-Transplants, Uber tacky Ricard Mille's, McLaren's, and the Monaco jet-set... What is a race for Third-place worth to you? Are we really so fanatical that we prefer Kings, Tsars, and Caesars over Art, Craft, Adventure, and Underdogs? Do we want to see our favorite band at an intimate club show?, or a Stadium Tour?
Relax, You cant afford this.
Suspend your disbelief, and embrace the UAE as the world's largest cruise ship, selling obscure Daytona's, Vuitton, Stainless Colnago's, and Patek's at the gift shop. When you disembark .0001% of attendees can afford the souvenir scarf or mug. As if it were not difficult enough to get your friends to watch a single stage of the TDF with you -- This race holds nothing but heartbreak. Other teams are holding bake sales to buy innertubes, and taking neutral support bikes to cut costs, while Oil Barons fix the fight by SMS.
We now have a void of competition. A single outcome. A surety that money talks and everyone else could either pander a Gulf state for an allowance, or sit on their fucking hands. There are NO underdogs, No surprises, No magical thinking which will change the outcome. Competitors will struggle and suffer as in any real race, but they wont podium. These are indeed strange times.
Bet it all on a single Race?
If I've got a hard time getting my cycling friends to listen to "The Cycling Podcast", how the fuck could anyone get Non-Cyclists to wear a thong, paint themselves green, & run through the Tour De France Crowd? Even if you still don't know what "Off-Sides" means, you can cheer for the world cup.
In Futbol There will be upsets, because player can't be choosey.
**[DISCLAIMER: Tadej Pogačar is an amazing Athlete, and NOT at all like Lance Armstrong... as far as I know but he is bad for Cycling as a "Sport"]
As Usual, I have no Idea what I'm talking about, ...But the current TDF is a fucking bore, [SPOILER ALERT], There will be no upsets this year. No Underdog story, No Podium Upsets, No Mystery -- In short, No Joy. It's a repeat.
Groundhog day. Even if Number two breaks his collar bone, the outcome is still assured. A messianic annunciation of one uber-mensch. Sorry Del Toro.
Friends of the sport, and hostiles alike just can't get any joy from a race where the outcome is assured. The Tour De France is bad break-up sex without orgasm. A reminder that you should have kept your zipper up.
Sure there are exciting moments, Like when Focaccia lets a team-mate win a stage or two.
It's death in straight sets, A 5 - Nil soccer score.
When someone else wins the time trial, it's just to make things seem fair. But scattering some obstacles under the Monster-Truck is ONLY for the fan's satisfaction of splintering wood, and crushed barrels. The Monster-Truck is unstoppable, brutal, stinky, but it's not a sport.
Ignoring sports-washing by Gulf States. Ignore the Ads for Lux Duty Free Shops, masquerading as Desert Spas, There are no happy endings out back.
"Please come to our Disney-esque water-parks in an impossible oil-desert". We'll manage the kids, dad gets a rub and tug, while we empty mommy's account. Today's TDF is chugging de-sal pumps burning dinosaurs into blue water to fill swimming pools, But it's NOT amazing. It's 3D printing saddles, and bespoke carbon one-offs, but it's ignoring the sport. For sport to exist, we need athletes, and fans in a careful balance. If you can ignore $25,000. bikes, Poop-Transplants, Uber tacky Ricard Mille's, McLaren's, and the Monaco jet-set... What is a race for Third-place worth to you? Are we really so fanatical that we prefer Kings, Tsars, and Caesars over Art, Craft, Adventure, and Underdogs? Do we want to see our favorite band at an intimate club show?, or a Stadium Tour?
Relax, You cant afford this.
Suspend your disbelief, and embrace the UAE as the world's largest cruise ship, selling obscure Daytona's, Vuitton, Stainless Colnago's, and Patek's at the gift shop. When you disembark .0001% of attendees can afford the souvenir scarf or mug. As if it were not difficult enough to get your friends to watch a single stage of the TDF with you -- This race holds nothing but heartbreak. Other teams are holding bake sales to buy innertubes, and taking neutral support bikes to cut costs, while Oil Barons fix the fight by SMS.
We now have a void of competition. A single outcome. A surety that money talks and everyone else could either pander a Gulf state for an allowance, or sit on their fucking hands. There are NO underdogs, No surprises, No magical thinking which will change the outcome. Competitors will struggle and suffer as in any real race, but they wont podium. These are indeed strange times.
So why Bother?
When will it end? When will the Yankee's stop winning? When will Jonas just say "Fuck This" Tumble over his handlebars, and retire? Why are we doing the Lance Dance all over again? I'm not suggesting that Focaccia is cheating, I'm suggesting that the struggle of teams to make ends meet as compared with boundless wealth pumped like Crude from the Emirate's means that whomever of your "Favorite Rider" -- Everyone else will remain a "Runner-Up". This is the TDF. If you don't sign with a Sultan, then you are the "Bad News Bears", (a sweet talent-show) -- unbound for Broadway. You will need to play dirty for airplay.
What gets me, is everyone fawning over the incumbent as though THE GOLDEN BOY KING, is good for pro cycling?
HOW, Pray Tell?
Let's have a snack, and protract our myopic narrow-minded opinionated vitriol into the broader world of sport. When Men's Swimming surrounded a single web-handed giant, all comers either pissed the pool, or exhausted themselves as runner-up. Nobody else won, and American's ordained their athletic anomaly as Messiah. Ironically, it's hard for a swimmer to sell Nike, so Phelps sells Underwear and Spas.
When Nadal was at his Zenith, every contender showed up merely for their thrashing.
When Shawn White hit the Bowl, Couched fans hit their bowl, shot-gunned a Coors Light and took a piss, No clapping, just another 2160 -- The outcome was assured.
When Lance raced, American's stoked a small fire which would expand cycling to record sales, sell some Treks, and then crash like a blimp.
When Lance reluctantly quit the dope he struggled to reinvent himself as the same toxic Male, but now criticizing everything but sponsored sports drinks & tech bros.
Lance, the fraud is sipping tea with Greg Mortenson.
His basement bully pulpit, spartan, A musky pundit for angry white males nursing a grudge.
For any film-maker, building audience suspense is a full time job. IF your pal spoils the surprise ending... Then the thrill is gone, because you know what to expect.
"Oh, Hey!... I've seen this one" ...It's a Re-Run. Everyone tries to catch this guy, and some crash hard, but in the end he sweeps everything. Is that Sport, or slaughter? Is it fun waiting for him to break the record and retire, so other riders can have a swing? I've already seen this one... He betters the current record and then steps down gently to ease out of his day job -- Retiring with a Gulf Stream, and a Calatrava.
It's a Re-Run!
Why bother, Yawn!... when you know the outcome? Why pour another box of Cocoa Puffs and sink into the couch, If you know the ending? "These Days", watching SNL waiting for the skit to land an actual joke, is a quarterly affair at best. We've devolved into stale Trump Impersonations, Country-Pop musical acts, and Sleepy Colin Jost.
Mbappe', Messi, Novak, Woods, The Fucking Yankees... are not all bad for sport, mostly because they don't cherry pick their challengers. When Focaccia choses to miss the Giro, or Vuelta, I'm tuning in for the duration.
We watch the TDF as though Pogacar is a Rabbit pacing greyhounds around a track. "While the children adore him"... I see him as a tacky stickered pace car, all Ricky-Bobbied out, leading teams to the flag.
So now we wait for the GOAT to break all the records, and burn up in the sun. As with Lance, we can then get back to bike racing.
So Siexas sleeps. Sitting out a year or two, until a gap opens. Why not fantasize? Why not imagine a game where anyone can win?, Even a French guy.
Because without some imagination, the game is lame, The outcome is assured, and teams are systematically dismantled for lack of funding.
Yawn!
By the rules, UCI cycling is unwittingly pushing people toward Gravel, and Epic Races such as Unbound, Cape Epic. Rogues, and Privateers fill the void, because while the TDF has great food, beautiful scenery, and good wine, the theater is empty. Clap for the underdog.
This movie is re-run of a stale sequel.
- Published on
It's Hot and Damp, and I've been Thinking about Fish Tanks, and the cleanliness of one's water -- As small flakes of food and poop settle upon neon gravel, I'm reminded of the sadistic joy of capturing lightening bugs in a jar in late-June. Because I'm "Mature" I remember Sea-Monkeys, and Ant Farms, Trips to the Zoo, and to the Aquarium -- All as a primer for how to capture and keep a "pet". This was the training, I'd suppose... A macabre primer for how to conduct oneself at weddings:
A. Don't pull anyone's wings off.
B. Be sure they eat, regardless.
C. Never ask anyone "What they Do".
and...
D. Never explain anything by showing them your fucking phone.
The smarter thing behind the glass eventually escapes, and / or dies there. -- And likely it suffers the profound indignity of blisters, nausea, and a huge credit card bill. Summer weddings, are practice for prison. Like a parochial school, Church Camp, or In-Patient Detox -- Wedding captivity removes one's locus of control, gently explaining that "THIS is how we will be doing things now..., followed by some shit-tastic line-dancing -- All while you slowly starve to death -- Impeccably dressed, but wasting away
When we place specimens in a terrarium, we think they will love all the conveniences we have provided... Alcohol, Airline Food, and Alprazolam.
As On Mars, this charade is where we grant our captors a day-pass to glare down at us from lofty table dressing. They torture us under fluffy white archways laced with Lilys and crinoline. A film set terrarium of stretched polyester over filthy plywood folding tables. Within this Terrarium is an excruciating weekend re-education camp. Alas, once completely humiliated, de-fanged, and bankrupt, survivors are released back into the wild to reclaim their lives.
"We did try to provide a comfortable environment", She Claims... "...With all mod cons".
But in the end captivity, incarceration, and reform school, simply harden the haters, and damage the meek. -- Within the bubble, We can only dream of a spectacular Bond-film escape.
But let's not hire a madman to rocket us into space just to find our tranquility. Send a Gift and your regrets, because with or without A.I. we aren't heading to Mars. We just want to go for a bike ride, and a Huge Fund-raiser group ride is superb cover for missing the wedding.
Welcome to the Pleasure-Dome
Dystopia was a hard sell in the fifties, simply because authors lacked the tools to portray something more dreadful than modern warfare. With War still just in the American rearview: Authors lacked the people's appetite for much more than End of Days fiction and Sci-Fi. Meanwhile, People were busy doing outdoors things, like walking, talking, playing, edging the lawn, waving to the postman, and earnestly building a synthetic version of the "Middle-Class This construct promised white picket prosperity, TV Dinners, Two weeks of vacation, a tow-behind camper, and a place "UP North". If you already lived "Up North", then you naturally drove South, trailering your boat to Destin FLA. Classic Rock wasn't yet a thing, and so all of this wood chopping, and small motor repair occurred without a Creedence Soundtrack.
Whether we could fuck Christie Brinkley quickly, before being vaporized -- was a matter of good timing.
Anyways, when the cold war came into full focus for America, Anxiety was born from a complete lack of control over two crazy fuckers with big red buttons -- Much like your young friends who'd waited far too long to get married. These two zealots kept everyone in a damp suspension.
Music, truly creative music, and cinema flowed as protest. But What began as the safeguard of having amassed a dome of Uber weaponry, became dreadful fear of an outcome beyond "The People's" control. This smug surety began to scare the shit out of citizens everywhere. Because I recall that shitty dread of having given up... I know that captivity is where you land when you give into the machines. So it is no surprise that Silent and desolate Space would soon become a trillion dollar IPO. Are you ready for a dreadfully sub-par Wedding that never ends?
If a "DEEP TRACK" at your wedding is Motley Cru, then you have failed your constituents.
As the Nukes became sub-sonic, and the world shrank, we spoke of bubbles, and domes The flight time of an ICBM defined one's final hurrah. Whether we could fuck Christie Brinkley quickly, before being vaporized -- was a matter of good timing. As with singles at a wedding, The seating chart could define one's final moments on this planet. Daily news forecast precisely when a snowy Nuclear-Winter would blanket your town. Even in Nebraska, a family could imagine living atop a secret Nike missile silo which would inevitably become the direct target from a volley of ICBM's. Later that same fear quelled into numb acquiescence, like living along a fault-line, beside a volcano, or attending a wedding, where you just did not give a fuck.
Better to eat before you attend.
In those days, fear and anxiety bloomed from a complete void of curbs in place to prevent two zealots from pounding a Whisky - Vodka, before taking humanity with them to the fucking cleaners... And, Like a wedding nothing has changed.
A. Don't pull anyone's wings off.
B. Be sure they eat, regardless.
C. Never ask anyone "What they Do".
and...
D. Never explain anything by showing them your fucking phone.
The smarter thing behind the glass eventually escapes, and / or dies there. -- And likely it suffers the profound indignity of blisters, nausea, and a huge credit card bill. Summer weddings, are practice for prison. Like a parochial school, Church Camp, or In-Patient Detox -- Wedding captivity removes one's locus of control, gently explaining that "THIS is how we will be doing things now..., followed by some shit-tastic line-dancing -- All while you slowly starve to death -- Impeccably dressed, but wasting away
When we place specimens in a terrarium, we think they will love all the conveniences we have provided... Alcohol, Airline Food, and Alprazolam.
As On Mars, this charade is where we grant our captors a day-pass to glare down at us from lofty table dressing. They torture us under fluffy white archways laced with Lilys and crinoline. A film set terrarium of stretched polyester over filthy plywood folding tables. Within this Terrarium is an excruciating weekend re-education camp. Alas, once completely humiliated, de-fanged, and bankrupt, survivors are released back into the wild to reclaim their lives.
"We did try to provide a comfortable environment", She Claims... "...With all mod cons".
But in the end captivity, incarceration, and reform school, simply harden the haters, and damage the meek. -- Within the bubble, We can only dream of a spectacular Bond-film escape.
But let's not hire a madman to rocket us into space just to find our tranquility. Send a Gift and your regrets, because with or without A.I. we aren't heading to Mars. We just want to go for a bike ride, and a Huge Fund-raiser group ride is superb cover for missing the wedding.
Welcome to the Pleasure-Dome
Dystopia was a hard sell in the fifties, simply because authors lacked the tools to portray something more dreadful than modern warfare. With War still just in the American rearview: Authors lacked the people's appetite for much more than End of Days fiction and Sci-Fi. Meanwhile, People were busy doing outdoors things, like walking, talking, playing, edging the lawn, waving to the postman, and earnestly building a synthetic version of the "Middle-Class This construct promised white picket prosperity, TV Dinners, Two weeks of vacation, a tow-behind camper, and a place "UP North". If you already lived "Up North", then you naturally drove South, trailering your boat to Destin FLA. Classic Rock wasn't yet a thing, and so all of this wood chopping, and small motor repair occurred without a Creedence Soundtrack.
Whether we could fuck Christie Brinkley quickly, before being vaporized -- was a matter of good timing.
Anyways, when the cold war came into full focus for America, Anxiety was born from a complete lack of control over two crazy fuckers with big red buttons -- Much like your young friends who'd waited far too long to get married. These two zealots kept everyone in a damp suspension.
Music, truly creative music, and cinema flowed as protest. But What began as the safeguard of having amassed a dome of Uber weaponry, became dreadful fear of an outcome beyond "The People's" control. This smug surety began to scare the shit out of citizens everywhere. Because I recall that shitty dread of having given up... I know that captivity is where you land when you give into the machines. So it is no surprise that Silent and desolate Space would soon become a trillion dollar IPO. Are you ready for a dreadfully sub-par Wedding that never ends?
If a "DEEP TRACK" at your wedding is Motley Cru, then you have failed your constituents.
As the Nukes became sub-sonic, and the world shrank, we spoke of bubbles, and domes The flight time of an ICBM defined one's final hurrah. Whether we could fuck Christie Brinkley quickly, before being vaporized -- was a matter of good timing. As with singles at a wedding, The seating chart could define one's final moments on this planet. Daily news forecast precisely when a snowy Nuclear-Winter would blanket your town. Even in Nebraska, a family could imagine living atop a secret Nike missile silo which would inevitably become the direct target from a volley of ICBM's. Later that same fear quelled into numb acquiescence, like living along a fault-line, beside a volcano, or attending a wedding, where you just did not give a fuck.
Better to eat before you attend.
In those days, fear and anxiety bloomed from a complete void of curbs in place to prevent two zealots from pounding a Whisky - Vodka, before taking humanity with them to the fucking cleaners... And, Like a wedding nothing has changed.
Yesterday Anthropic, (an advanced purveyor of A.I. systems), disabled their premier functional model, to curb potential Armageddon. Soon they will begin advertising Armageddon on TV -- (e.g. a careful Ken Burns-esque slide show of human suffering), in hopes that their 30 second spot during the World Cup may convince a nervous public on how AI "could prevent the ants on display from suffering excessive heat, flooding, and loneliness.
But, AI doesn't consider the ants, nor the bugs in the jar, it just compiles human nonsense and feeds it back to us, in any voice you desire. The Robots and the Wedding Planners believe that we will totally love the appetizers, the seating chart, and a puck of dry chicken breast.
Fish Flakes waver and wiggle downward through dark liquid until they settle to the bottom.
Picture menu's in a wedding binder, Airline food, and dog chow -- ALWAYS resemble that savory steak on the bag. But they all suck, because like Astronaut and Prison food, you don't have options.
A.I. is a VR wedding where tacky bride's-maids stroke an old college fling, drowning in tequila, hoping to forget who is in charge, and to survive until morning. Can I make it 'til tomorrow to have a real breakfast?, Or will they drop the bomb tonight?
Today in My Bubble the AQI was 401. Its damn Hot in My Ant Farm, and the Particulates are killing the colony.
These days -- I'll take the bomb before Breakfast.
Our Bubble is a real thing... It's where you dwell every day of your life. Making it smaller and more cramped only matters if you'd prefer to put the phone down and venture outside. On Mars that's impossible. No mailman, No bike-rides, and no verdant plains to roll through.
Welcome to the Terror-Dome
Protest Music isn't keeping up with the mayhem on this side of the glass. Where are the Punk Bars? They have been sterilized. Wallflowers at the wedding are not necessarily scared to dance, They simply cannot relate to the music on offer. Throw on Minutemen, Sleaford Mods, or Black Flag, and you may break the paradigm, along with a few tables and chairs.
Today We have little stomach for protest anthems, for much the same reason as riding bareback on a bomb, seems futile to make a doomsday point. We are far too lazy to climb aboard. Even Bombs are too analog for attendees. We are simply too full of white-washed country-pop, and daily freak-shows, to have a stomach for protest agendas, or punk rock. Meanwhile, the Loonies want to relocate to Mars. Me, I personally want them to leave ASAP...
Sporadic Smart people romance refugee status, any place but in America.
Queue "Two Tribes" by Frankie Goes to Hollywood.
"WHERE SEX AND HORROR ARE THE NEW GODS"
But, AI doesn't consider the ants, nor the bugs in the jar, it just compiles human nonsense and feeds it back to us, in any voice you desire. The Robots and the Wedding Planners believe that we will totally love the appetizers, the seating chart, and a puck of dry chicken breast.
Fish Flakes waver and wiggle downward through dark liquid until they settle to the bottom.
Picture menu's in a wedding binder, Airline food, and dog chow -- ALWAYS resemble that savory steak on the bag. But they all suck, because like Astronaut and Prison food, you don't have options.
A.I. is a VR wedding where tacky bride's-maids stroke an old college fling, drowning in tequila, hoping to forget who is in charge, and to survive until morning. Can I make it 'til tomorrow to have a real breakfast?, Or will they drop the bomb tonight?
Today in My Bubble the AQI was 401. Its damn Hot in My Ant Farm, and the Particulates are killing the colony.
These days -- I'll take the bomb before Breakfast.
Our Bubble is a real thing... It's where you dwell every day of your life. Making it smaller and more cramped only matters if you'd prefer to put the phone down and venture outside. On Mars that's impossible. No mailman, No bike-rides, and no verdant plains to roll through.
Welcome to the Terror-Dome
Protest Music isn't keeping up with the mayhem on this side of the glass. Where are the Punk Bars? They have been sterilized. Wallflowers at the wedding are not necessarily scared to dance, They simply cannot relate to the music on offer. Throw on Minutemen, Sleaford Mods, or Black Flag, and you may break the paradigm, along with a few tables and chairs.
Today We have little stomach for protest anthems, for much the same reason as riding bareback on a bomb, seems futile to make a doomsday point. We are far too lazy to climb aboard. Even Bombs are too analog for attendees. We are simply too full of white-washed country-pop, and daily freak-shows, to have a stomach for protest agendas, or punk rock. Meanwhile, the Loonies want to relocate to Mars. Me, I personally want them to leave ASAP...
Sporadic Smart people romance refugee status, any place but in America.
Queue "Two Tribes" by Frankie Goes to Hollywood.
"WHERE SEX AND HORROR ARE THE NEW GODS"
Vendetta I'd suppose you could say became the Modus of so many Cold War nightmares, where people dreaded two world leaders in a grudge match, wiping out everyone. And Weddings, like AI prognostication, is a bit like children fondling a pistol in a closet, expecting great outcomes.
We now have a phone in hand, on the toilet, out to dinner, while driving, and at the beach. On a faster path to Armageddon, we bury our heads in an APP to tune it all out, while having Claude write your vows, and your eulogy
As in a wedding ceremony where pedantic priests pressure people to assist the new couple to keep their shit together -- The same priest is forbidden from knowing anything about marriage whatsoever. It's not that Marriage is gloom and doom, quite the opposite, but going into marriage via the gauntlet of a party one is certain will outshine all others, is a bit naïve.
Bright-sides, of course, remain that Bicycles and being outdoorsy became way more popular back when, than hand-guns, or A.I. Also, for the older crowd, it was still popular to go outdoors, to exercise, and to ride around on bikes. I mean really popular -- And everyone who wanted a bike, likely had one. People actually pedaled them all over the place. For Ice-cream, To the beach, to the Park, to play baseball, to deliver pizza, newspapers... And even to go on a date.
Today the Throttle bike, is a dreaded missile which brings fear, anxiety, and destruction to The idyllic respite of the bicycle's charm. E-Bikes, A.I., the Atom Bomb, and the modern Wedding, are rogue carcinogens. But who really gives a fuck! It's ludicrous to equivocate these fears.
Punctuation, like the pedal bicycle is a dead leisure construct.
A.I. seldom even has those two periods punctuating a proper abbreviation. Punctuation, like the pedal bicycle is a dead leisure construct. Missiles still point straight at your dick, but nobody is dwelling upon that crap. What's important now is the movement toward self-immolation by Device. Devices will be the death of us all, and what better place to enjoy a touch screen, and some A.I. than on the dashboard of your throttle bike, Your church wedding or the dinner table?
Analog Living includes rejecting dumb shit like E-Bikes, Pop Country Music, A.I., and outsourcing one's creativity to the Internet. Evidently writing dumb shit about Bikes and Robots is way lame.
Go someplace. Suffer a bit. Embarrass yourself. Listen to Music loudly, and don't show anyone your fucking phone at a dinner table. NEVER put your fucking phone on your handlebar. Don"t even bring it to a wedding unless you need to call a Lyft for exfil.
Just as Thumbs used to type this shit out -- A.I. now writes the AD copy, for a "Go anywhere" electric thingy. Or the IPO for a rocket maker who is selling vapor-ware, empty space, and branded cold weather gear.
Hop aboard a rocket ship and blast-off to Mars, and or the Moon, for a bit of R&R. When you touch-down, you will find wealthy mice on a wheel, spinning in synchrony with a peloton phony, sipping Soylent, suffering behind the bubble. Voluntary Captivity remains a big joke. Space doesn't want me, I don't want It., nor do I want A.I. to read to me at bedtime. I certainly don't want my bike to pedal for me.
OH, and I also don't want to go to your wedding.
Whilst questions no longer use these things ??? "Quotation marks" no longer ascribe an individual with the words they've written. Bots read your unpunctuated messages just fine. Who really needs punctuation when poor Adverb's have been dead for a decade or more?
Remember that thing which once modified the verb. Words ended in LY. Like Quickly, Strangely, Carefully Nobody needs those anymore because all this change came quick as fuck. (NOT QUICKLY) Sorry Adverbs... We don't do anything safely, so Fuck you "L.Y".
What is punctuation anyway? Plagiarism is the new creative. We are all imitating, Faking it.
Why use anything mechanical, when you can use a motor. Why count with a calculator. Why make change when we have daddy's Mastercard. Competency, (An old-person fetish), like grades, and manners died on the vine about 20 years ago. Which, as history goes, is a massive acceleration toward haptic isolation in a small glass terrarium, where all of one's needs and wants are attended to, by the ROBOT zoo-keeper. Much like Willow and Autumn's summer Wedding day.
Why worry about spelling "fear" while you are swimming in it.
I'm thinking of getting a place "UP NORTH", ... You know, off the grid, but not too far off the grid that I cannot brew Single origin washed Guatemalan Coffee. I'm thinking about joining a cult-ish coop, where we make our own tools, but still have access to Cool Carbon Bikes, Shimano Components, and Recovery Drinks. Up North, I can get back to nature by getting dirty, pedaling, and catching fireflies. As long as Canada remains sovereign.
Just Before I got your wedding invitation, all of my existential dread, came from fiction books, like "Fahrenheit", and films Like "Strangelove", or "Austin Powers". Now I have to consider the seating chart at your fucking reception -- for who I'll grab when the shit hits the fan.
Nearly every Sean Connery film for two decades handled the topic of Humanity's Certain Annihilation by some Jillionaire evil leader. I wonder if Sean knew while he was peddling Propaganda that people quietly munching popcorn, would soon give in to it all. No heroics, and no saving humanity from a giant space laser... Just captive idiots on cruise ships staring blankly into phones. Just give up James Bond, and Mike Meyers, your mentorship for two generations of dickhead Autocrats is now complete. The world is run by TV Bad-Guys, and malevolent Wedding planners. I re-watched a few Bond films which centered around laser-beams, death-rays, and nukes. Comparing them to Dr. Strangelove -- I then I doubled my search for that Place UP NORTH. I figure when I'm off the grid, I'm immune to all this, and immune from "Save The Date" cards.
Space-X, is making more rockets, and they are all going nowhere really fucking fast. There is NO sanctuary beyond this sky which would ever compete with the dark stars "up north". In fact you cannot get to rural Vermont, Maine, Alaska, or Montana by rocket, and if you could the noise would certainly ruin the scene. Which is a bit like riding your E-Bike out into the woods looking for AC Mains. To zip in on a buzzing electric throttle bike to take in some bird-watching, some camping, some beach yoga, or a swim... is like a camper running a generator all night beside a bike-packer with a tent. To make that trip work, you need to install outlets all along the way. Whereas a real human could carry a banana, and go a bit further into the wilderness. Fuck E-Bikes, Fuck Wedding Planners, and Fuck A.I. I've got some dumb-shit cycling event scheduled for next month, and am using that as my excuse to miss your stupid Wedding.
It's ironic that the most profitable Ponzi scheme next to wedding pageantry on our planet is to get people to buy into rockets and fly into empty space. This is a bit like the E-Bike in the woods. Rockets, like Throttle Bikes beget the singular prophetic question... "Where are you gonna fucking go when the battery dies?"
We now have a phone in hand, on the toilet, out to dinner, while driving, and at the beach. On a faster path to Armageddon, we bury our heads in an APP to tune it all out, while having Claude write your vows, and your eulogy
As in a wedding ceremony where pedantic priests pressure people to assist the new couple to keep their shit together -- The same priest is forbidden from knowing anything about marriage whatsoever. It's not that Marriage is gloom and doom, quite the opposite, but going into marriage via the gauntlet of a party one is certain will outshine all others, is a bit naïve.
Bright-sides, of course, remain that Bicycles and being outdoorsy became way more popular back when, than hand-guns, or A.I. Also, for the older crowd, it was still popular to go outdoors, to exercise, and to ride around on bikes. I mean really popular -- And everyone who wanted a bike, likely had one. People actually pedaled them all over the place. For Ice-cream, To the beach, to the Park, to play baseball, to deliver pizza, newspapers... And even to go on a date.
Today the Throttle bike, is a dreaded missile which brings fear, anxiety, and destruction to The idyllic respite of the bicycle's charm. E-Bikes, A.I., the Atom Bomb, and the modern Wedding, are rogue carcinogens. But who really gives a fuck! It's ludicrous to equivocate these fears.
Punctuation, like the pedal bicycle is a dead leisure construct.
A.I. seldom even has those two periods punctuating a proper abbreviation. Punctuation, like the pedal bicycle is a dead leisure construct. Missiles still point straight at your dick, but nobody is dwelling upon that crap. What's important now is the movement toward self-immolation by Device. Devices will be the death of us all, and what better place to enjoy a touch screen, and some A.I. than on the dashboard of your throttle bike, Your church wedding or the dinner table?
Analog Living includes rejecting dumb shit like E-Bikes, Pop Country Music, A.I., and outsourcing one's creativity to the Internet. Evidently writing dumb shit about Bikes and Robots is way lame.
Go someplace. Suffer a bit. Embarrass yourself. Listen to Music loudly, and don't show anyone your fucking phone at a dinner table. NEVER put your fucking phone on your handlebar. Don"t even bring it to a wedding unless you need to call a Lyft for exfil.
Just as Thumbs used to type this shit out -- A.I. now writes the AD copy, for a "Go anywhere" electric thingy. Or the IPO for a rocket maker who is selling vapor-ware, empty space, and branded cold weather gear.
Hop aboard a rocket ship and blast-off to Mars, and or the Moon, for a bit of R&R. When you touch-down, you will find wealthy mice on a wheel, spinning in synchrony with a peloton phony, sipping Soylent, suffering behind the bubble. Voluntary Captivity remains a big joke. Space doesn't want me, I don't want It., nor do I want A.I. to read to me at bedtime. I certainly don't want my bike to pedal for me.
OH, and I also don't want to go to your wedding.
Whilst questions no longer use these things ??? "Quotation marks" no longer ascribe an individual with the words they've written. Bots read your unpunctuated messages just fine. Who really needs punctuation when poor Adverb's have been dead for a decade or more?
Remember that thing which once modified the verb. Words ended in LY. Like Quickly, Strangely, Carefully Nobody needs those anymore because all this change came quick as fuck. (NOT QUICKLY) Sorry Adverbs... We don't do anything safely, so Fuck you "L.Y".
What is punctuation anyway? Plagiarism is the new creative. We are all imitating, Faking it.
Why use anything mechanical, when you can use a motor. Why count with a calculator. Why make change when we have daddy's Mastercard. Competency, (An old-person fetish), like grades, and manners died on the vine about 20 years ago. Which, as history goes, is a massive acceleration toward haptic isolation in a small glass terrarium, where all of one's needs and wants are attended to, by the ROBOT zoo-keeper. Much like Willow and Autumn's summer Wedding day.
Why worry about spelling "fear" while you are swimming in it.
I'm thinking of getting a place "UP NORTH", ... You know, off the grid, but not too far off the grid that I cannot brew Single origin washed Guatemalan Coffee. I'm thinking about joining a cult-ish coop, where we make our own tools, but still have access to Cool Carbon Bikes, Shimano Components, and Recovery Drinks. Up North, I can get back to nature by getting dirty, pedaling, and catching fireflies. As long as Canada remains sovereign.
Just Before I got your wedding invitation, all of my existential dread, came from fiction books, like "Fahrenheit", and films Like "Strangelove", or "Austin Powers". Now I have to consider the seating chart at your fucking reception -- for who I'll grab when the shit hits the fan.
Nearly every Sean Connery film for two decades handled the topic of Humanity's Certain Annihilation by some Jillionaire evil leader. I wonder if Sean knew while he was peddling Propaganda that people quietly munching popcorn, would soon give in to it all. No heroics, and no saving humanity from a giant space laser... Just captive idiots on cruise ships staring blankly into phones. Just give up James Bond, and Mike Meyers, your mentorship for two generations of dickhead Autocrats is now complete. The world is run by TV Bad-Guys, and malevolent Wedding planners. I re-watched a few Bond films which centered around laser-beams, death-rays, and nukes. Comparing them to Dr. Strangelove -- I then I doubled my search for that Place UP NORTH. I figure when I'm off the grid, I'm immune to all this, and immune from "Save The Date" cards.
Space-X, is making more rockets, and they are all going nowhere really fucking fast. There is NO sanctuary beyond this sky which would ever compete with the dark stars "up north". In fact you cannot get to rural Vermont, Maine, Alaska, or Montana by rocket, and if you could the noise would certainly ruin the scene. Which is a bit like riding your E-Bike out into the woods looking for AC Mains. To zip in on a buzzing electric throttle bike to take in some bird-watching, some camping, some beach yoga, or a swim... is like a camper running a generator all night beside a bike-packer with a tent. To make that trip work, you need to install outlets all along the way. Whereas a real human could carry a banana, and go a bit further into the wilderness. Fuck E-Bikes, Fuck Wedding Planners, and Fuck A.I. I've got some dumb-shit cycling event scheduled for next month, and am using that as my excuse to miss your stupid Wedding.
It's ironic that the most profitable Ponzi scheme next to wedding pageantry on our planet is to get people to buy into rockets and fly into empty space. This is a bit like the E-Bike in the woods. Rockets, like Throttle Bikes beget the singular prophetic question... "Where are you gonna fucking go when the battery dies?"
- Published on
Perusing the Forums for a few gear recommendations, I took a wild trip through the mysterious "curmudgeon zone".
Bike-Packing is theoretically fun, and can be a blast with proper preparation, But it's possible to age out of this sport without knowing the lexicon of why.
Preparedness to go it alone into the wilderness, or merely rural America, doesn't require the Prep a "Prepper" may do in anticipation for the next apocalyptical MAGA revolution. ...But proper preparations will verify one has Just what is needed, and nothing more, for this adventure. This process assures Comfort (and every practical chance of survival), while counting ounces, to prevent becoming a soggy "Pack-Tard".
When you have everything laid out, you'll again begin to purge back all the sundry shit that definitely wont get used, and is for sure not needed. These tableaus of sundry shit are way popular so I thought I'd quantify just what you will not need, once you delve into the rabbit-hole of 'Bike-Packing'. There is always room to reduce your pack volume. This is where you may decide, (for example), That the Saw, The Axe, Air-conditioner, Bug-zapper, Camp-Chair, and your neglected pack-raft, need to stay behind.
Bike-Packing is theoretically fun, and can be a blast with proper preparation, But it's possible to age out of this sport without knowing the lexicon of why.
Preparedness to go it alone into the wilderness, or merely rural America, doesn't require the Prep a "Prepper" may do in anticipation for the next apocalyptical MAGA revolution. ...But proper preparations will verify one has Just what is needed, and nothing more, for this adventure. This process assures Comfort (and every practical chance of survival), while counting ounces, to prevent becoming a soggy "Pack-Tard".
When you have everything laid out, you'll again begin to purge back all the sundry shit that definitely wont get used, and is for sure not needed. These tableaus of sundry shit are way popular so I thought I'd quantify just what you will not need, once you delve into the rabbit-hole of 'Bike-Packing'. There is always room to reduce your pack volume. This is where you may decide, (for example), That the Saw, The Axe, Air-conditioner, Bug-zapper, Camp-Chair, and your neglected pack-raft, need to stay behind.
'Bikepacking' would like to remind you that this is No country for old men.
But these are smug fucks from Berkley, and The Outer Sunset, and not practitioners from enchanted tribes of indigenous American bush-craft. Just pot-heads slinging Instagram moments on radically ordinary geri-bikes.
The Bike-Packing Curmudgeon Zone reminds me of a few college bike co-ops, where I would become a "member" to access a work-stand, a truing-stand, or a few spendy tools I didn't have the money to buy. These primitive peoples were never "My Crowd" and they were not genuinely life affirming, nor very welcoming -- Any more than a crabby bike shop Mechanic is today. In fact it is proven that basically every Bike shop mechanic is genetically linked to this prehistoric Co-op's ancient DNA, which formed the silent resentful tribe of the first Curmudgeon Peoples from what is now The Franco-Italian Monegasque Riviera. (A Border area between current Italy and France, where banners still wave for Pantani, and Merckx.
People like to sugar coat things while evoking the Term "Birth-Channel" -- As in, "I came into adulthood fully formed through the "Birth-Channel" of perhaps the world's most dysfunctional Bike Shop. Mick Jaggar, famously used the endearment "Toothless Bearded Hag"... But whatever your right of passage, it's fair to tell you that I know a few things about what I speak. It is also bad form to diminish any mother with such a grotesque idiom.
I know, Right?
But these are smug fucks from Berkley, and The Outer Sunset, and not practitioners from enchanted tribes of indigenous American bush-craft. Just pot-heads slinging Instagram moments on radically ordinary geri-bikes.
The Bike-Packing Curmudgeon Zone reminds me of a few college bike co-ops, where I would become a "member" to access a work-stand, a truing-stand, or a few spendy tools I didn't have the money to buy. These primitive peoples were never "My Crowd" and they were not genuinely life affirming, nor very welcoming -- Any more than a crabby bike shop Mechanic is today. In fact it is proven that basically every Bike shop mechanic is genetically linked to this prehistoric Co-op's ancient DNA, which formed the silent resentful tribe of the first Curmudgeon Peoples from what is now The Franco-Italian Monegasque Riviera. (A Border area between current Italy and France, where banners still wave for Pantani, and Merckx.
People like to sugar coat things while evoking the Term "Birth-Channel" -- As in, "I came into adulthood fully formed through the "Birth-Channel" of perhaps the world's most dysfunctional Bike Shop. Mick Jaggar, famously used the endearment "Toothless Bearded Hag"... But whatever your right of passage, it's fair to tell you that I know a few things about what I speak. It is also bad form to diminish any mother with such a grotesque idiom.
I know, Right?
Anyway, I have been immersed in the back-bile of the bike shop ooze, and have formed views from the walls of that passage. Perhaps I'd tagged those walls myself. Today, as a veteran, I can say that Mechanically speaking -- Bike shops are a sort of galactic incubator for Odd Fuckers. Each one with an ankle bracelet made by KMC. Which has a lot to do with why they struggle so much. Smart ones come and go, but lifers become the wrench. Much like your favorite coffee shop -- Where else can you regularly be insulted, berated, and flat out loathed before Noon? All while a smug fuck side-eyes you for a 28% tip on your parents debit card?
And so back to History 102: At the last half of the 19th century; starting perhaps with Wilbur Wright, in America's pursuit of a bike that can fly -- Wacky creations were coming hot and fast. Perhaps as rapidly as the primitive glottal stops born from shop mechanic failures and frustration the Franco-Sussex language tilted into full-monty-expletives, such as "What the fuck do you think this bike needs Ma'am?" to, "Just Don't Talk, I'm the F.N. Mechanic here, Emkay Brah?" This is how the modern Brand "Muc-Off" adapted their kitschy lube brand from the ancient Latin Noun: "Velo Mech" whose etymology stems from the Proto-French Phrase: "Va te faire foutre, which is the Old franco-anglo term for "Fuck-Off" So 'Fuck Off', is where bike-packing gear searches will lead you. This slippery slope may be similar to searches for P.C.T., and A.T. Adventure gear. To come of age in a millieu where D-Bags pretend to own the master recording, and are not selling any records, is a headache of inclusive High-fives. Fun Fact... There is no secret sauce to Bike-Packing. One need only bring a sense of adventure, on a normal bike, sporting a bag and tent, to get into the club. It turns out that you don't have to lean toward wacky, not tilt toward the lycra skin-suit. You can have it all as soon as you step out that door.
Fast forward three decades where I now own basically every imaginable tool, and bike gadget -- The trick becomes to pare down all these "necessities" like the axe, and the bar end mirror, back to "the essentials". Today, forums such as BikePacking Dot Com lean heavily into that gothic rock genre of sporting Flannel, Waxed-Cotton, Tarp-Camping and some strange-ass bespoke cargo-bikes; Most with small front wheels. What you may not find there, is a modern gravel bike, a drop bar bike, or a self styled bike-packing bike. What you will discover is a lot of gear recommendations adorning hard-tail mountain bikes.
Here comes the fairy-tale overlap with that 'One High-school guy' who'd alleged to be listening to vinyl from bands who, "hadn't yet been formed". Later he would become your neighborhood Bike Mechanic. Obscure bike Brands, "...you couldn't possibly know of", peddled for obscurity's-sake. Once you enter this coven, resentment rears for riding any more "main-stream rig" on actual road-ways. Bike Packing needn't bend so far into the Brooks zone, as it has -- However there is definitely a deep damp musky Birkenstock scent which pervades this subculture. As for popular websites, which masquerade as Granola-Grungy, while taking huge sponsor dollars and paid click-ads to send people deep into odd-ball remote bleakness -- BikePacking is at the apex of it's curmudgeon game -- Balancing the canvas Circus tent with Dyneema.
And so back to History 102: At the last half of the 19th century; starting perhaps with Wilbur Wright, in America's pursuit of a bike that can fly -- Wacky creations were coming hot and fast. Perhaps as rapidly as the primitive glottal stops born from shop mechanic failures and frustration the Franco-Sussex language tilted into full-monty-expletives, such as "What the fuck do you think this bike needs Ma'am?" to, "Just Don't Talk, I'm the F.N. Mechanic here, Emkay Brah?" This is how the modern Brand "Muc-Off" adapted their kitschy lube brand from the ancient Latin Noun: "Velo Mech" whose etymology stems from the Proto-French Phrase: "Va te faire foutre, which is the Old franco-anglo term for "Fuck-Off" So 'Fuck Off', is where bike-packing gear searches will lead you. This slippery slope may be similar to searches for P.C.T., and A.T. Adventure gear. To come of age in a millieu where D-Bags pretend to own the master recording, and are not selling any records, is a headache of inclusive High-fives. Fun Fact... There is no secret sauce to Bike-Packing. One need only bring a sense of adventure, on a normal bike, sporting a bag and tent, to get into the club. It turns out that you don't have to lean toward wacky, not tilt toward the lycra skin-suit. You can have it all as soon as you step out that door.
Fast forward three decades where I now own basically every imaginable tool, and bike gadget -- The trick becomes to pare down all these "necessities" like the axe, and the bar end mirror, back to "the essentials". Today, forums such as BikePacking Dot Com lean heavily into that gothic rock genre of sporting Flannel, Waxed-Cotton, Tarp-Camping and some strange-ass bespoke cargo-bikes; Most with small front wheels. What you may not find there, is a modern gravel bike, a drop bar bike, or a self styled bike-packing bike. What you will discover is a lot of gear recommendations adorning hard-tail mountain bikes.
Here comes the fairy-tale overlap with that 'One High-school guy' who'd alleged to be listening to vinyl from bands who, "hadn't yet been formed". Later he would become your neighborhood Bike Mechanic. Obscure bike Brands, "...you couldn't possibly know of", peddled for obscurity's-sake. Once you enter this coven, resentment rears for riding any more "main-stream rig" on actual road-ways. Bike Packing needn't bend so far into the Brooks zone, as it has -- However there is definitely a deep damp musky Birkenstock scent which pervades this subculture. As for popular websites, which masquerade as Granola-Grungy, while taking huge sponsor dollars and paid click-ads to send people deep into odd-ball remote bleakness -- BikePacking is at the apex of it's curmudgeon game -- Balancing the canvas Circus tent with Dyneema.
Sure, Why not travel in luxury.
I remember a river guide once who smelled so foul while hosting an intestinal parasite, for a few years, while she lied to herself that she was "fine", while starving herself to get clean of the worm, because she either didn't trust doctors, or didn't have the money for medicine. This lesson presents in the context of BikePackingDotCom, as there is a clever balance between gore-tex, Flannel, wool, and wet sneakers -- Exchanging cool Modern clipless Wizardry and bleeding edge fly-weight fabrics for edgy Co-op styled low-tech natural fiber stuff. It seems that what is in constant tension is to be "that river guide" -- Where a pride in being a dead-head, precludes one from exchanging real currency for comfort -- Health for Life-style, and not wanting to align with modernism (whatever that may be). It is in this spirit of obstinance that I sought entry into the dark art of gear lists, and I came out the other side unscathed, but perhaps enlightened. It turns out I would end up using Clipless pedals on a carbon bike, with electronic shifting, and even a 3D printed saddle -- Gasp!, without feeling excluded from the club.
So it is no surprise that some of Bike-Packing's edgy Garage-builds are adorned with a combination of kitschy Lo-Fi Bags, Bells, Stainless Racks, Canvas Camping gear and waxed lap-tarps, as though Thru-hiking and biking strolled in kilts into the sunset betwixt in a romantic "Fuck-You" to the Big Three Bike Brands.
Try as you may, to seek out home-made shit -- MSR, MontBell, Patagonia, and Enlightened are still pedigreed makers of solid gear, with an outdoor avantgarde ethos. While ArcTeryx, CotoPaxi, & NorthFace are just Fashion Houses these days to the die-hard D-Bag.
So it is no surprise that some of Bike-Packing's edgy Garage-builds are adorned with a combination of kitschy Lo-Fi Bags, Bells, Stainless Racks, Canvas Camping gear and waxed lap-tarps, as though Thru-hiking and biking strolled in kilts into the sunset betwixt in a romantic "Fuck-You" to the Big Three Bike Brands.
Try as you may, to seek out home-made shit -- MSR, MontBell, Patagonia, and Enlightened are still pedigreed makers of solid gear, with an outdoor avantgarde ethos. While ArcTeryx, CotoPaxi, & NorthFace are just Fashion Houses these days to the die-hard D-Bag.
Absolutely Not allowed to be used for BikePacking.dot.com.
But does membership matter?, And does this primitive "exclusive club" mean we should all suffer to have a good time? Absolutely, Yes? One has to be pelted by Baseball hail, and icy gales to garner bragging rights.
This Careful slack-line dance, gives credence to Gore-Tex, and Pertex, and Polartec, while trying to protect that ditsy-hippie vibe that Made "Topo" and Cotopaxi" so reprehensible today. To Be Filthy, and damp seem to be baked into the Bike-Pack & Pack-Raft, sales-pitch. To do it in the most obscure way, wearing that record from that band which hasn't even formed yet, gets you on the podium.
Bike-Packers want you to ride a margin of insecure suffrage, to get you out of your comfort zone, but they don't want you to share any of your high-tech shit or practical advice with them. Nor can you talk about your High-tech Carbon Gravel Bike, unless it's fibers are made of Reynolds 753, 531, or something from Columbus. What bad things could happen when you left -- All you sported was a rain slicker, a packed puffy and an AMEX Card? Who knows? It's simply uncharted luxury to not go in wet sneakers. Remember when every through hiker got fitted for Donners, Vasques, or Sportivas at the REI?... Now they all depart in Sneakers.
Bike-Packers do not want to hear about your Single Origin nor your Titanium Flask with single malt whiskey, Because they are busy selling, Ramen, Straining tea through a sock and downing the occasional Kwik-Trip Stroh's. Damp mornings are for unmixed Matcha, and a heady Black Tea. Are we all supposed to wear duct-taped sandals, or Crocks? Who are we anyway?
So it goes that Bike-Packing has some devilish pact with the scent of a splintered 32 year old Brook's-Saddle from the (fuck-off) Grunge Gods. We present as Rivendell Curmudgeon, while endeavoring to keep sponsors on the payroll. Sure... Ride high and dry and sleep in a hydrophobic Big Agnes. Drag your stickered OG toxic Nalgene all over God's Green Earth but Don't talk about it; and never present as comfortable.
We are selling the softened-rough-edge of a fuck-off exposure.
This Careful slack-line dance, gives credence to Gore-Tex, and Pertex, and Polartec, while trying to protect that ditsy-hippie vibe that Made "Topo" and Cotopaxi" so reprehensible today. To Be Filthy, and damp seem to be baked into the Bike-Pack & Pack-Raft, sales-pitch. To do it in the most obscure way, wearing that record from that band which hasn't even formed yet, gets you on the podium.
Bike-Packers want you to ride a margin of insecure suffrage, to get you out of your comfort zone, but they don't want you to share any of your high-tech shit or practical advice with them. Nor can you talk about your High-tech Carbon Gravel Bike, unless it's fibers are made of Reynolds 753, 531, or something from Columbus. What bad things could happen when you left -- All you sported was a rain slicker, a packed puffy and an AMEX Card? Who knows? It's simply uncharted luxury to not go in wet sneakers. Remember when every through hiker got fitted for Donners, Vasques, or Sportivas at the REI?... Now they all depart in Sneakers.
Bike-Packers do not want to hear about your Single Origin nor your Titanium Flask with single malt whiskey, Because they are busy selling, Ramen, Straining tea through a sock and downing the occasional Kwik-Trip Stroh's. Damp mornings are for unmixed Matcha, and a heady Black Tea. Are we all supposed to wear duct-taped sandals, or Crocks? Who are we anyway?
So it goes that Bike-Packing has some devilish pact with the scent of a splintered 32 year old Brook's-Saddle from the (fuck-off) Grunge Gods. We present as Rivendell Curmudgeon, while endeavoring to keep sponsors on the payroll. Sure... Ride high and dry and sleep in a hydrophobic Big Agnes. Drag your stickered OG toxic Nalgene all over God's Green Earth but Don't talk about it; and never present as comfortable.
We are selling the softened-rough-edge of a fuck-off exposure.
WE ARE ALL EATING NUTS AND BERRIES.
I now have a list of shit you wont ever need, and a clever drone shot of bike-packing bag-filler bull-shit, which you could leave at home. None of which is needed if you simply wish to ride your bike for days and days from Hotel to Hotel. If interested in a "BikePacking" Adventure... And you have the fortitude to converse with an actual Bike Mechanic -- Well then, we can help outfit you... But you will have to stand bare before the curmudgeon bike-packing troll, who now runs this blog, to be told that you are doing it all wrong.
All Fucking Wrong.
A Bike-Packing Bicycle starts with a 3x throwback mechanical, cable actuated mech shifted at the bar-ends, using CNC'd deraileur technology from an Santa Barbara Brand you may never have heard of. Your frame began as a forest green 531 frame that is now adorned with vintage kit. This is basically a stretched clown version of a 26'r Mountain Bike, with a 20" front wheel, a flat bar, and a recumbent seat. The Panniers are riding low as balls on a rack which was [Naturally] hand-jigged and fillet-brazed in Portland. While the waxed fabric Bags are spun on a Loom by Amish Widows in Massachusetts, [Wherever the fuck that is]. The Water Bottles and cages are Stainless steel Bidons c. 1906, while The paint and solution Dyed fabrics are made from foraged berries, Flax, and bees wax. Your Chain is braided from a blonde Mennonite virgin's pigtails. The rest of your shit comes from (carbon-neutral) Brooklyn, by bike messengers, Naturally... without the use of deisel, or BPA's (you fucking jag-off!).
What the Velominati are to Road Cycling, the Bike Mechanic is to Bike-Packing, so prepare for the tongue-lashing, and beware that you do not actually ask a question you don't already know the answer to.
...And, Hey! Fuck the fuck off".
In full due respect to "BikePacking Dot Com" many noteworthy Bike Mechanics, and Those interesting fuckers who sprinkle color over gobs of black carbon sameness -- It is fair to say that these resources, are useful, enriching, and entertaining and not without merit.
For the rest of us, this list could suffice to get you there on a real bike. stuffing all of this in Apidura Bags, and using the most magical of all corporate accessories, which is linked here: Topeak Backloader (anti-sway attachment).
Unless you have a credit card, and then you could choose to hotel hop. (You Fascist Cunt!)
Please Enjoy!
This is my "Bike Packing" Kit.
Tent: Big Agnes Pitch Pine 1.5 VST poles packed separately in TT Bag
Bag: Sea to Summit Spark 7c
Stakes: BA Alum
Spare Stakes: ZPacks Carbon UL
Tent Footprint: BA PitchPine
Tent Bag and Pillow:
Dyneema ZPacks UL Polartech UL fleece reversible
Straps: By Voile Straps
Complete Dry Meal Nutrition: Huel Thai Green Curry etc.
Eyewear: Cheap Tifosi Photochromic
Cap: Rapha or Any basic
Rain coat: Santini Magic Pocketable
Lights: Trek Zion 200 2x Front and Rear
EM Poncho: SOL reflective
Gels and Powders:
SIS Go Electrolye Isotonic Liquid IV
Windbreaker: Rapha Pack Light Tiny Jersey Pocketable
Gloves: REI GoreTex Mitten, Rapha High Reglective Light, Santini Polartech Alpha
Sleep Pad: ThermaRest NeoAir Uberlite
Pad Pump: Flextail 2.0 1 oz
EM blanket/ Tarp: Space Blanket Gold
Battery Pack Flextail Carbon, SRAM Battery knock-off By FaceRide
Mini Waterproof Bag:
by ZPacks Dyneema
Locks: Abus Boris Lite Mini 6055c, Retractable Cable Lock 4 digit
Bike Pump: CycPlus Ultra 2.0
Headlamp: Fenix NM50R 2.0
Navi Computer: Coros Dura
Axe: Gransfors Bruk Pocket.
Stove: MSR Windburner w JetBoil Micro Mo Burner, and Tank.
Cup: Snow Peak Ti handle w Hot Lips
Coffee Dripper: GSI Pakable no filter needed
EM Kit: Adventure Medical Ultralite .5 w Extra Bandages.
Pocket Knife: Kershaw Leek Sandvik 1660CBBW Smiths Sharpener
FireStarter: SOL Flint Sparker
Dry Lube: Gemini Fluid
Spare Tubes: WTB and Schwalbe Aerothane
Wipes: Off Full DEET and Botanicals, NeoSporin, Flents ISO
Pocket Tool:
WolfTooth Complete Compact
Bad Guy Repellant: CN TearGas and Pepper by Byrna
Helmet: Giro Spherical,
Illumination by Trek ION 200 light
All Fucking Wrong.
A Bike-Packing Bicycle starts with a 3x throwback mechanical, cable actuated mech shifted at the bar-ends, using CNC'd deraileur technology from an Santa Barbara Brand you may never have heard of. Your frame began as a forest green 531 frame that is now adorned with vintage kit. This is basically a stretched clown version of a 26'r Mountain Bike, with a 20" front wheel, a flat bar, and a recumbent seat. The Panniers are riding low as balls on a rack which was [Naturally] hand-jigged and fillet-brazed in Portland. While the waxed fabric Bags are spun on a Loom by Amish Widows in Massachusetts, [Wherever the fuck that is]. The Water Bottles and cages are Stainless steel Bidons c. 1906, while The paint and solution Dyed fabrics are made from foraged berries, Flax, and bees wax. Your Chain is braided from a blonde Mennonite virgin's pigtails. The rest of your shit comes from (carbon-neutral) Brooklyn, by bike messengers, Naturally... without the use of deisel, or BPA's (you fucking jag-off!).
What the Velominati are to Road Cycling, the Bike Mechanic is to Bike-Packing, so prepare for the tongue-lashing, and beware that you do not actually ask a question you don't already know the answer to.
...And, Hey! Fuck the fuck off".
In full due respect to "BikePacking Dot Com" many noteworthy Bike Mechanics, and Those interesting fuckers who sprinkle color over gobs of black carbon sameness -- It is fair to say that these resources, are useful, enriching, and entertaining and not without merit.
For the rest of us, this list could suffice to get you there on a real bike. stuffing all of this in Apidura Bags, and using the most magical of all corporate accessories, which is linked here: Topeak Backloader (anti-sway attachment).
Unless you have a credit card, and then you could choose to hotel hop. (You Fascist Cunt!)
Please Enjoy!
This is my "Bike Packing" Kit.
Tent: Big Agnes Pitch Pine 1.5 VST poles packed separately in TT Bag
Bag: Sea to Summit Spark 7c
Stakes: BA Alum
Spare Stakes: ZPacks Carbon UL
Tent Footprint: BA PitchPine
Tent Bag and Pillow:
Dyneema ZPacks UL Polartech UL fleece reversible
Straps: By Voile Straps
Complete Dry Meal Nutrition: Huel Thai Green Curry etc.
Eyewear: Cheap Tifosi Photochromic
Cap: Rapha or Any basic
Rain coat: Santini Magic Pocketable
Lights: Trek Zion 200 2x Front and Rear
EM Poncho: SOL reflective
Gels and Powders:
SIS Go Electrolye Isotonic Liquid IV
Windbreaker: Rapha Pack Light Tiny Jersey Pocketable
Gloves: REI GoreTex Mitten, Rapha High Reglective Light, Santini Polartech Alpha
Sleep Pad: ThermaRest NeoAir Uberlite
Pad Pump: Flextail 2.0 1 oz
EM blanket/ Tarp: Space Blanket Gold
Battery Pack Flextail Carbon, SRAM Battery knock-off By FaceRide
Mini Waterproof Bag:
by ZPacks Dyneema
Locks: Abus Boris Lite Mini 6055c, Retractable Cable Lock 4 digit
Bike Pump: CycPlus Ultra 2.0
Headlamp: Fenix NM50R 2.0
Navi Computer: Coros Dura
Axe: Gransfors Bruk Pocket.
Stove: MSR Windburner w JetBoil Micro Mo Burner, and Tank.
Cup: Snow Peak Ti handle w Hot Lips
Coffee Dripper: GSI Pakable no filter needed
EM Kit: Adventure Medical Ultralite .5 w Extra Bandages.
Pocket Knife: Kershaw Leek Sandvik 1660CBBW Smiths Sharpener
FireStarter: SOL Flint Sparker
Dry Lube: Gemini Fluid
Spare Tubes: WTB and Schwalbe Aerothane
Wipes: Off Full DEET and Botanicals, NeoSporin, Flents ISO
Pocket Tool:
WolfTooth Complete Compact
Bad Guy Repellant: CN TearGas and Pepper by Byrna
Helmet: Giro Spherical,
Illumination by Trek ION 200 light
SOMETHING WICKED THIS WAY COMES. OR SIMPLY THE CIRCUS NO LONGER RIDES THE RAILS.
Sure, But... Make Space for the Axe!
- Published on
So Many Seconds Saved... These aero gains should leave time for four or five tasteless Michelob Ultras, and even a Cheeseburger.
Show me a kid struggling above poorly set training wheels and I will despair for the future. Show me an innertube, and I will show you a problem which didn't need fixing.
Show me a throttle bike and I will show you how a good stick fits neatly between the spokes.
Show me a vintage Steel Bike and I will extoll it's obsolete yet elegant virtues.
Show me a new gadget, and I will destroy it, just to see how it had been made, and once worked.
But Show me a Shaved-kitten Tri-geek in a skin-suit pumping their Shiv-Machine under a mirrored lens aero helmet -- Water bottle tucked neatly between their ass cheeks, and I will show you someone who should perhaps learn to swim better.
Show me a throttle bike and I will show you how a good stick fits neatly between the spokes.
Show me a vintage Steel Bike and I will extoll it's obsolete yet elegant virtues.
Show me a new gadget, and I will destroy it, just to see how it had been made, and once worked.
But Show me a Shaved-kitten Tri-geek in a skin-suit pumping their Shiv-Machine under a mirrored lens aero helmet -- Water bottle tucked neatly between their ass cheeks, and I will show you someone who should perhaps learn to swim better.
I truly have no idea what these resistance apparatus are, nor why this image is so fucking retarded... But I can tell you that this D-Bag could enjoy a Mich-Ultra far sooner if he'd only shaved his armpits.
Scientists don't know for certain which happened first -- That you are born a douche, or that your aero-bike made you that way
The extent to which all of that Aerodyne wizardry will benefit anyone is of course measurable, but still witchcraft., and a total waste of Carbon. The extent to which victory in full aero mode will bring you lasting joy is dubious.
Just to build it, means that engineering gets a shot at marketing's job. But, As for the slicing through the wind part, the aero, Tri-geek, Time-trial course always remains levelled out, and the corners always softened. Even in trainer mode... The Tri-geek mounts a Wahoo, where courses are straight and flat as Kansas. Aero Bullshit and Circling the drain for watts is reserved for Keirin, the Velodrome, and the muddy finish of Paris to Roubaix. Aero is the Dolby Atmos of Bike shit. 9.2 channels of sound that nobody asked for, nobody has room for, and that a Pair of kick-ass speakers did way better three decades prior.
In ancient times, the classique Drop bar bike allowed the rider to utilize "The Drops"
Aero, Like the dumbest part of a stage race, happens in full frontal, like a figure skater conned into a stupid leotard, at the last moment. T.T. happens when everybody agrees to quit the peloton, have a nap, grab a sandwich, and then take turns riding down a plywood ramp sporting bad fashion just to give aero-engineers their lap-dance in broad daylight. If Keirin is a heritage of Aero done right, and TT is a group hug and a blue star for, softies -- Then Tri-Geek Aero, is the undoing of what once made cycling cool. It never gets easier, you just go faster, so why use a motor, or a crutch? To simulate being faster.
The D-Bags you'd hated on the bike path, (You know the ones who'd cursed and spit on kids for learning to ride their bikes far too slowly?) now get a chance to podium, Which is is well and fine, but... Fucking Lame!
Tri-Bikes are fucking silly, full-stop. end of story -- And Time Trials in a Grand Tour are a bit like stopping Le Mans for a nappy, followed by a light snack, just before wiping mayo from one's mouth, and sprinting for the finish on foot, all Ricky Bobby style. There is Simply no sporting fun during the pretense of a land-speed record -- When you actually came to edge out your competition elbow to elbow. And there is no legitimate reason one could not do the same exhaustive, and un-fun dance far more elegantly, without the Cat-woman skin-suit.
Bikes are fun, learning to ride is fun, being a cyclist is kinda-cool, and fun, and even a bit edgy and sexy -- If you do it right. But when you 'kind of suck,' and you ride stupidly , and are measuring watts, and cadence, and when your shades are built into your aero helmet, and you are yelling at young kids and strollers along an otherwise blissful bike path, Then you have alas become the aero-choad, who resents cycling.
In ancient times, the classique Drop bar bike allowed the rider to utilize (wait for it)... "The Drops", to lower ones drag relative to oncoming resistant winds, and even to pull ones elbows inward, and lower ones head to cut more resistance, and to foil the wind. For Nearly a century Cyclists have even learned how to zip up their jersey to reduce wind pocketing upon their chest, reducing wind drag, to go faster. To Go Faster, has nothing to do with Watts, Aero Bars, Cadence, Internally routed sippy-cups, and one-piece anything. Going Faster is a matter of hardening the fuck up, and Hard Men roll Cyclocross, and perhaps pull a pack in the Peloton. They certainly do not write a number on each of eight limbs using a greasy marker, only to charge out of the water and board an Aero-Bike.
Rule Number 42: A bike race shall never be preceded with a swim nor followed by a run.
Researchers have uncovered several new secrets in aerodynamics, using the fitment of Kam-tail Shaping, In-molded carbon foils, and internally routed cables hoses and sippy straws to defy the wind, and to make bikes insanely shitty to work on. Studies using FEA (Finite Element Analysis) and Laminar Boundary surface treatments now improve break-up and flow, dynamically making fucktards just a wee bit faster, and bikes more stupider.
Scientists don't know for certain which happened first -- That you are born a douche, or that your aero-bike made you that way, but It is now considered likely that people hate you, and you them...simply because you've brought home your second Aero Bike. Aero Bikes are a currency spent on a problem nobody has, and perhaps in pursuit of something else missing in one's life. It is because of you, of course -- And also because of your Aero Gains, that you've shaved legs, grams, watts, and perhaps shaved the joy right out of cycling for everyone.
Aero is Bullshit!
Aero is Still Bullshit.
P.S. Learn to swim faster.
- Published on
MEPPS ANNO: 14, October 1938
The Mepps Aglia is an international currency in sport-fishing -- Often cast frivolously like a coin into a fountain, with a single wish.
To catch fish can take some time and what better way to squander some time than to learn to cast, properly?
A shimmering gold coin coveted by committed anglers. A French trinket treasured by dads, nearly as iconic, subtly popular, but as sustaining as the Eiffel Tower -- The MEPPs Aglia hails from Paris, then from Nice, and then from rural Wisconsin, where it swelled like orange cheese in popularity.
Curiously under-celebrated, This Lure is more enduring than most popular brands -- MEPPS and in particular the "Aglia" [Super Shimmy] rotating spoon, remain both the Air Jordan and the Coca-Cola of anglers. MEPPS have been the gold standard lure longer than most notorious brands. These spinners are at once ubiquitous, elegant, and intrinsically valuable. It is fair to say that every single tacklebox has once held this 'Classique' in it's accordion tray. The Original MEPPS Spinner has caught more trophy fish than any other casting lure, except perhaps the lowly worm. Nearly as many people have suffered the indignity of snagging one upon a branch or a log. And the frequency of this mishap is owing solely to it's ubiquity, and lack of practice. Perhaps because a MEPPS is a "Secret Weapon" for those with and without fishing skills of any kind, MEPPS are often rediscovered along shorelines and in strange sand castles. If you can't cast, and you cannot golf..., at a certain age, you can blame your Dad, for both, but the blame wont fix that void.
Practice.
For many children, a parent's selfish cruelty is first revealed beside the water's edge. Here an unwitting kid haplessly tosses a cheap popper, or a snell and bobber with a plunk! -- Frightening the fish, parents will shush...! their children, teaching them nothing but the quiet zen of patience. Soon, Dad will snag his second precious spinner on a reed, or a branch proving one should practice what they preach.
To learn to cast, is a cruel school without good instruction, and every novice believes they have skills, until they lose a favorite lure. This is a lesson imparted from one patient person to the next, but who has patience any more. Skill cannot be learned on youtube, only the mechanics...
Most amateurs steer clear of fly fishing, and Tenkara, because they never graduate Spin-Casting 101. Most people never advance beyond the Zebco 202.
From the perspective of a child of six or seven, subtle subterfuge from Dad would seem inconceivable. That a $3.50 lure would be his guarded secret -- Even lorded over by a parent is soon discovered by every child. Concealed like a chemical addiction -- A parent keeps the good stuff (the real lures) for themselves, as if to guarantee their catching success. This very same discovery is shared by children all over the world every spring.
By Mid-Summer, the "family vacation" predicts that a small child will bear witness to another inconceivable parental phenomena. Shortly after dad snags his secret lure on a branch with another bad cast... All the rules of fishing become moot. The very mistake he'd tried to prevent his kid from making, brings brief madness, as dad works to recover his "precious lure". He pulls-up a tiny anchor winds tightly his reel's drag, and then literally powers his small craft toward the stuck lure by reeling-in alone. Aghast, the silent witness attends to dad's imminent cursing. When suddenly with a screech, Daddy lurches losing his footing as he breaks his 12lb test, mid-route to an out-of-reach lure snagged up on a branch.
There it hangs, glistening and lovely, but just out of his reach.
With 12 more Jigs, 2 Rapalas, 9 Plastic Worms, and 1 lil' Cleo, in the tackle box, any sober child would find no reasonable excuse for dad to be so bereft at the loss of one tiny lure... Yet there it hangs, glistening and lovely, but just out of his reach. Alas, with such a setback, the day is called off, just as an unwitting child hooks a bass.
Et MEPPS alors?
André Meulnart, ingénieur chez Peugeot, passionné de pêche et de mécanique, à l'époque de l'avènement du lancer léger dans les années 30 met au point pour son usage personnel des cuillères et des moulinets à tambour fixe (le Vamp et le Baby Vamp)
Son succès grandissant, il crée en 1938 une entreprise à Paris : la Manufacture d'Engins de Précision pour la Pêche Sportive (MEPPS)
The English Translation: www.mepps.com/information/aglia-dressed-aglia/121#B3%20G
André Meulnart, an engineer at Peugeot, passionate about fishing's mechanics, at the advent of light throwing in the 1930s, developed both spoon lures and fixed drum reels (the Vamp and the Baby Vamp).
His success growing, in 1938 he created a company in Paris: the Manufacture d'Engins de Précision pour la Pêche Sportive (MEPPS)
To catch fish can take some time and what better way to squander some time than to learn to cast, properly?
A shimmering gold coin coveted by committed anglers. A French trinket treasured by dads, nearly as iconic, subtly popular, but as sustaining as the Eiffel Tower -- The MEPPs Aglia hails from Paris, then from Nice, and then from rural Wisconsin, where it swelled like orange cheese in popularity.
Curiously under-celebrated, This Lure is more enduring than most popular brands -- MEPPS and in particular the "Aglia" [Super Shimmy] rotating spoon, remain both the Air Jordan and the Coca-Cola of anglers. MEPPS have been the gold standard lure longer than most notorious brands. These spinners are at once ubiquitous, elegant, and intrinsically valuable. It is fair to say that every single tacklebox has once held this 'Classique' in it's accordion tray. The Original MEPPS Spinner has caught more trophy fish than any other casting lure, except perhaps the lowly worm. Nearly as many people have suffered the indignity of snagging one upon a branch or a log. And the frequency of this mishap is owing solely to it's ubiquity, and lack of practice. Perhaps because a MEPPS is a "Secret Weapon" for those with and without fishing skills of any kind, MEPPS are often rediscovered along shorelines and in strange sand castles. If you can't cast, and you cannot golf..., at a certain age, you can blame your Dad, for both, but the blame wont fix that void.
Practice.
For many children, a parent's selfish cruelty is first revealed beside the water's edge. Here an unwitting kid haplessly tosses a cheap popper, or a snell and bobber with a plunk! -- Frightening the fish, parents will shush...! their children, teaching them nothing but the quiet zen of patience. Soon, Dad will snag his second precious spinner on a reed, or a branch proving one should practice what they preach.
To learn to cast, is a cruel school without good instruction, and every novice believes they have skills, until they lose a favorite lure. This is a lesson imparted from one patient person to the next, but who has patience any more. Skill cannot be learned on youtube, only the mechanics...
Most amateurs steer clear of fly fishing, and Tenkara, because they never graduate Spin-Casting 101. Most people never advance beyond the Zebco 202.
From the perspective of a child of six or seven, subtle subterfuge from Dad would seem inconceivable. That a $3.50 lure would be his guarded secret -- Even lorded over by a parent is soon discovered by every child. Concealed like a chemical addiction -- A parent keeps the good stuff (the real lures) for themselves, as if to guarantee their catching success. This very same discovery is shared by children all over the world every spring.
By Mid-Summer, the "family vacation" predicts that a small child will bear witness to another inconceivable parental phenomena. Shortly after dad snags his secret lure on a branch with another bad cast... All the rules of fishing become moot. The very mistake he'd tried to prevent his kid from making, brings brief madness, as dad works to recover his "precious lure". He pulls-up a tiny anchor winds tightly his reel's drag, and then literally powers his small craft toward the stuck lure by reeling-in alone. Aghast, the silent witness attends to dad's imminent cursing. When suddenly with a screech, Daddy lurches losing his footing as he breaks his 12lb test, mid-route to an out-of-reach lure snagged up on a branch.
There it hangs, glistening and lovely, but just out of his reach.
With 12 more Jigs, 2 Rapalas, 9 Plastic Worms, and 1 lil' Cleo, in the tackle box, any sober child would find no reasonable excuse for dad to be so bereft at the loss of one tiny lure... Yet there it hangs, glistening and lovely, but just out of his reach. Alas, with such a setback, the day is called off, just as an unwitting child hooks a bass.
Et MEPPS alors?
André Meulnart, ingénieur chez Peugeot, passionné de pêche et de mécanique, à l'époque de l'avènement du lancer léger dans les années 30 met au point pour son usage personnel des cuillères et des moulinets à tambour fixe (le Vamp et le Baby Vamp)
Son succès grandissant, il crée en 1938 une entreprise à Paris : la Manufacture d'Engins de Précision pour la Pêche Sportive (MEPPS)
The English Translation: www.mepps.com/information/aglia-dressed-aglia/121#B3%20G
André Meulnart, an engineer at Peugeot, passionate about fishing's mechanics, at the advent of light throwing in the 1930s, developed both spoon lures and fixed drum reels (the Vamp and the Baby Vamp).
His success growing, in 1938 he created a company in Paris: the Manufacture d'Engins de Précision pour la Pêche Sportive (MEPPS)
It should, perhaps always come as a surprise when a lure actually works, and a naive Fish takes the bait. Afterall, a lure is a rather crude object when we consider just how un-like dinner it should appear to a fish. Another mesmerizing fact is that the first real English bible of fishing, complete with snell and lure designs, knots, illustrations, and instructions for anglers, in varying water depth and temperature was written and published in the 15th century by a brilliant Benedictine Nun named Juliana Berners. Her Book: Treatyse of Fysshynge wyth an Angle, c.1496, along with her books on falconry, and hunting, innovated sport fishing nearly as much as Ron Popiel's "Pocket Fisherman". The term 'angle' from the old English angol meaning fish hook, is a more or less modern invention in fishing, as compared to a spear, a rock, a net, dynamite, or using one's hands. This first English illustrated guide to fishing, was (to me) revelatory, and still provides valuable pro tips for modern fishing. The fish have perhaps evolved some since 1496, and some are a bit more wary -- But a magical lure is still a bit more magical when one considers the fish they pursue, and that a glittery smashed penny could angle a fishy.
Visiting Kauai, New Zealand, or any island fishing culture in Oceana -- City folks discover local's tattoos, T-shirts, and necklaces celebrating home-made whale bone hooks, and harpoons. Big game fisherman have learned how to empty the sea without the need for these throw-back technologies, but the "Angle" and the modern hooked lure fascinate us as we acknowledge both their heritage, and their simple elegance. Fishing after all brings at once a primal sense of conquest, trickery, and wonderment. As a bow is to a shotgun, fishing remains a rather refined skillset. A primitive hook can still be effective to angle a fish in much the same way the MEPPS lures do. The above illustration is of a Maori Hook from the turn of the last century. A Modern knock-off can be found today on Amazon for sixteen bucks, is likely plastic, and has no special power. By Contrast the original MEPPS Aglia design is also available nearly everywhere, it is still made in France, and still out catches, nearly every lure globally. According to MEPPS, The Aglia Lure (nearly as old as the relic above) is claimed to be the most effective lure ever sold. In the years that immediately followed it's import, MEPPS had sold more than 3 million lures annually.
Visiting Kauai, New Zealand, or any island fishing culture in Oceana -- City folks discover local's tattoos, T-shirts, and necklaces celebrating home-made whale bone hooks, and harpoons. Big game fisherman have learned how to empty the sea without the need for these throw-back technologies, but the "Angle" and the modern hooked lure fascinate us as we acknowledge both their heritage, and their simple elegance. Fishing after all brings at once a primal sense of conquest, trickery, and wonderment. As a bow is to a shotgun, fishing remains a rather refined skillset. A primitive hook can still be effective to angle a fish in much the same way the MEPPS lures do. The above illustration is of a Maori Hook from the turn of the last century. A Modern knock-off can be found today on Amazon for sixteen bucks, is likely plastic, and has no special power. By Contrast the original MEPPS Aglia design is also available nearly everywhere, it is still made in France, and still out catches, nearly every lure globally. According to MEPPS, The Aglia Lure (nearly as old as the relic above) is claimed to be the most effective lure ever sold. In the years that immediately followed it's import, MEPPS had sold more than 3 million lures annually.
French Fishing Ingenuity Jumps the Pond:
When MEPPS came to America it was out of frustration, as most great discoveries come to be. It could be said that good things come to those who wait, and great discoveries come to those who stick it out year after year, refining an idea. Brilliance, and landing a fish seems to come once everyone else has abandon the idea. This is where fables are constructed.
The development and subsequent popularity, (but not the invention itself) of the MEPPS spinning spoon is linked to a sportsman and outfitter from Antigo Wisconsin.
Todd Sheldon, an American fisherman had a frustrating day fishing. Which is of course far better than a good day at the office -- But when in mid-summer 1958, nothing was working in his tackle box, Sheldon took a chance on something new ...ish. Before heading home with an empty creel, he tied on a lure which had remained unused for years in his tackle-box. A friend gave him the lure, two years prior, but He'd not cast it before, as he'd not considered it's potential for local waterways. While trying the MEPPS lure for the first time, Sheldon pricked four trout straight away... Combined, his catch weighed in at 12 lbs, and For Sheldon, this strange (new) French spinner was a revelation.
Owning a chain of sporting outfitter stores that offered fishing tackle, Todd Sheldon immediately contacted his GI friend, Franck Velek who'd brought him back the original MEPPS as a gift from France, where he'd been stationed during his service. Franck in turn contacted André Meulnart, (it's inventor) whom he then put directly in contact with Todd Sheldon. Todd and André quickly became friends and business partners, and MEPPS would soon invade the US market.
Back then, the MEPPS company based near Nice, employed 70+ people (mostly women), making fishing tackle. Using its own copper alloy, brass windings, and stainless steel, MEPPS lures became the gold standard in light casting Lures. Today the company has grown globally, and distributes its spoons worldwide, with the original model, still produced in France, and still in the catalog after more than 80 years.
When Todd Sheldon first started importing Mepps spinners from France, he'd realized that the people who'd been assembling them since the war were mostly women, but were also incredibly efficient workers. He saw no imperative to expand production to the US, and He also found out that they'd worked faster when they had a steady supply of nylon stockings. Nylon and silk were scarce in post-war Europe, and the French workers were eager to trade countless lures for new or used silky hosiery. Todd went about marketing lures to sportsmen, and paying for many in barter.
Soon Sheldon started sending nylon stockings to the Mepps factory in exchange for spinners! For a time, his most reliable source of lures came not through exchanged currency, but through stockings. Mepps even advertised this arrangement back in the late fifties, and early sixties with slogans like “Send us your worn nylon stockings and get a fishing lure in return".
Interestingly MEPPS still barters with consumers, providing discounts on tackle, or swag, in exchange for raw materials used in lure production. By the early 60's fellow MEPPS anglers near Antigo Wisconsin had adapted the original MEPPS to lure different fish species, and in different conditions. Darker skies, warmer temps, more tannic water... all moved anglers to modify the original MEPPS spoons, with paint, or even by tying squirrel hair around their hooks. Later, the following season (and even today), MEPPS would adapt lure versions with fur to conceal the hook, provide buoyancy, and to provide unique turbulence below the water's surface... Subsequently the "Squirrel Tale" lure was "invented" with fur hula-skirts prepared around the hooks, and MEPPS would sell them ready for service for a few cents more. Today MEPPS still rewards locals for bringing them a steady supply of squirrel tales, which are triple washed, and sometimes dyed colors for various lure designs. Another fun fact is that a squirrel tail is unique because it is hair and nor fur, making the long hairs perfect for luring fish, whereas fur, doesn't share that same excitement. The Rest of the wiley Squirrel is "Fur", and not "Hair", and hence unsuitable for Lure designs.
What is most fascinating about MEPPS is just how popular they are, and how many people use them. In a sporting store the MEPPS are likely in the back, forcing consumers to pass many other fascinating tackle options en-route to the sure-fire solution, The MEPPS Aglia.
Today fishing still requires perhaps as much dumb luck as skill -- But a proper tackle-box arsenal will always lean heavily upon the MEPPS if all else fails.
A good angler can tie many effective knots; And a good sailor will warn, that if you cannot tie a good knot, then you should tie lots of them. Which is how most people approach fishing.
Both using the lure properly, and keeping the actual lure require some skill to cast, and perhaps that patient Zen of silence. Fishing is, I suppose, a bit like golf. Both may involve warm beer, a bit of boredom, and teach gobs of patience. Whereas many senses are tapped to focus on, or even tune-out many things at once: wind, waves, sun, shade, sounds, birds, insects, falling leaves and of course fish. The glimmer of the object once it leaves your hands, is sublime... In Fishing, Unlike golf, the cup is always moving, the fairway is under water, and generally the pin is never visible, until like lightening, it strikes you.
And just like golf..., The price of the rod, reel, tackle, vest, line, lure, and even the net won't make a great Angler -- But a MEPPS Aglia 3 can lower ones handicap significantly.
As the Bowline is to the sailor..., any angler should know how to tie on a hook.
When MEPPS came to America it was out of frustration, as most great discoveries come to be. It could be said that good things come to those who wait, and great discoveries come to those who stick it out year after year, refining an idea. Brilliance, and landing a fish seems to come once everyone else has abandon the idea. This is where fables are constructed.
The development and subsequent popularity, (but not the invention itself) of the MEPPS spinning spoon is linked to a sportsman and outfitter from Antigo Wisconsin.
Todd Sheldon, an American fisherman had a frustrating day fishing. Which is of course far better than a good day at the office -- But when in mid-summer 1958, nothing was working in his tackle box, Sheldon took a chance on something new ...ish. Before heading home with an empty creel, he tied on a lure which had remained unused for years in his tackle-box. A friend gave him the lure, two years prior, but He'd not cast it before, as he'd not considered it's potential for local waterways. While trying the MEPPS lure for the first time, Sheldon pricked four trout straight away... Combined, his catch weighed in at 12 lbs, and For Sheldon, this strange (new) French spinner was a revelation.
Owning a chain of sporting outfitter stores that offered fishing tackle, Todd Sheldon immediately contacted his GI friend, Franck Velek who'd brought him back the original MEPPS as a gift from France, where he'd been stationed during his service. Franck in turn contacted André Meulnart, (it's inventor) whom he then put directly in contact with Todd Sheldon. Todd and André quickly became friends and business partners, and MEPPS would soon invade the US market.
Back then, the MEPPS company based near Nice, employed 70+ people (mostly women), making fishing tackle. Using its own copper alloy, brass windings, and stainless steel, MEPPS lures became the gold standard in light casting Lures. Today the company has grown globally, and distributes its spoons worldwide, with the original model, still produced in France, and still in the catalog after more than 80 years.
When Todd Sheldon first started importing Mepps spinners from France, he'd realized that the people who'd been assembling them since the war were mostly women, but were also incredibly efficient workers. He saw no imperative to expand production to the US, and He also found out that they'd worked faster when they had a steady supply of nylon stockings. Nylon and silk were scarce in post-war Europe, and the French workers were eager to trade countless lures for new or used silky hosiery. Todd went about marketing lures to sportsmen, and paying for many in barter.
Soon Sheldon started sending nylon stockings to the Mepps factory in exchange for spinners! For a time, his most reliable source of lures came not through exchanged currency, but through stockings. Mepps even advertised this arrangement back in the late fifties, and early sixties with slogans like “Send us your worn nylon stockings and get a fishing lure in return".
Interestingly MEPPS still barters with consumers, providing discounts on tackle, or swag, in exchange for raw materials used in lure production. By the early 60's fellow MEPPS anglers near Antigo Wisconsin had adapted the original MEPPS to lure different fish species, and in different conditions. Darker skies, warmer temps, more tannic water... all moved anglers to modify the original MEPPS spoons, with paint, or even by tying squirrel hair around their hooks. Later, the following season (and even today), MEPPS would adapt lure versions with fur to conceal the hook, provide buoyancy, and to provide unique turbulence below the water's surface... Subsequently the "Squirrel Tale" lure was "invented" with fur hula-skirts prepared around the hooks, and MEPPS would sell them ready for service for a few cents more. Today MEPPS still rewards locals for bringing them a steady supply of squirrel tales, which are triple washed, and sometimes dyed colors for various lure designs. Another fun fact is that a squirrel tail is unique because it is hair and nor fur, making the long hairs perfect for luring fish, whereas fur, doesn't share that same excitement. The Rest of the wiley Squirrel is "Fur", and not "Hair", and hence unsuitable for Lure designs.
What is most fascinating about MEPPS is just how popular they are, and how many people use them. In a sporting store the MEPPS are likely in the back, forcing consumers to pass many other fascinating tackle options en-route to the sure-fire solution, The MEPPS Aglia.
Today fishing still requires perhaps as much dumb luck as skill -- But a proper tackle-box arsenal will always lean heavily upon the MEPPS if all else fails.
A good angler can tie many effective knots; And a good sailor will warn, that if you cannot tie a good knot, then you should tie lots of them. Which is how most people approach fishing.
Both using the lure properly, and keeping the actual lure require some skill to cast, and perhaps that patient Zen of silence. Fishing is, I suppose, a bit like golf. Both may involve warm beer, a bit of boredom, and teach gobs of patience. Whereas many senses are tapped to focus on, or even tune-out many things at once: wind, waves, sun, shade, sounds, birds, insects, falling leaves and of course fish. The glimmer of the object once it leaves your hands, is sublime... In Fishing, Unlike golf, the cup is always moving, the fairway is under water, and generally the pin is never visible, until like lightening, it strikes you.
And just like golf..., The price of the rod, reel, tackle, vest, line, lure, and even the net won't make a great Angler -- But a MEPPS Aglia 3 can lower ones handicap significantly.
As the Bowline is to the sailor..., any angler should know how to tie on a hook.
THE PALOMAR KNOT
- Published on
Independence Day celebrates the freedom to make bad fucking choices.
"happy fourth!"
I am no Muscle car, but this July Fourth, rears fearful memories of rednecks peeling out of the corner bar, where they'd just cashed paychecks. Angry Americans who've slammed several beers, right before racing to the state line to fill Nova & Chevelle trunks with lethal fireworks. History is littered with such cautionary memories. Masculine, yet shitty cars define the 'american man', and perhaps America. Defending dumb-shit nostalgia, and un-deserv-ed freedoms, is the 'American Operating System 1.1'
Me personally, ...I am perhaps a Pontiac Fiero..., A decent enough looking attempt at a sports-car, but just as lame. The facsimile of something fast, but wimpy, and scaled-down -- perhaps effeminately sexy, but with no redeeming features whatsoever, except that it doesnt look like a pick-up truck, thank god!
America is a has-been muscle-car, obsolete, uninspired, and in need of nut and bolt restoration.
Like a Corvair, or Karmann-Ghia. I am underpowered, dim, and anemic, ... [you know, like a Fiero]. My interior is spartan, dashboard confusing, and the AC is broke. I was built in America, mid-day Friday, right before the holiday weekend began. No skilled labor on this production line, and no one is trying to impress management the day before a July 4th holiday. This factory is working it's way towards the door, not towards Quality.
Just before Pussy Fiero sales fizzled-out -- This relic, (a pretend muscle car in drag), was perhaps briefly cool. Today the Fiero, and so many other Pontiacs line the bottom of the scrap-yard, even their second-hand parts go un-used. Which is basically where America now celebrates independence.
In the 80's auto workers hustled to slap sections together, wandering the factory floor beneath day-dreams of charcoal briquettes, potato-salad, and picnic blankets -- But never working on car quality. So it happened that my underbody immediately began to rust through -- my clear coat fades by the day, timing chain was slack, and the cylinder head split. But I know who I am, and that I live in a strange republic full of red-necks, risk, and dark forces. Independence Day means different things to many "Americans", but to me, it means sticky vinyl car-seats, plastic-chrome window cranks, leaky metal coolers, and pre-catalytic smog. It is a season of snagging carp, piss-warm shit beer, and mosquito bites. There isn't much else to regale on "The Fourth", but its fair to mention I don't feel half as free today as when this Fiero rolled off the line. I'd feared a small part of America back when I was young, but now I shudder at most of what I witness.
“A clown with a flamethrower still has a flamethrower.”
American Anthems steer us 'down to the levee', but the nostalgic levee is hot, dry, and masked ICE agents are waiting below the bridge to arrest dissenters. Awkwardly, we all gather around as friends with a few kilos of TNT to celebrate how things used to be. Because... why not blow some shit up to celebrate our freedom to blow some shit up?
"If we had a fast car -- Maybe together we could get somewhere". -Tracy Chapman.
Me personally, ...I am perhaps a Pontiac Fiero..., A decent enough looking attempt at a sports-car, but just as lame. The facsimile of something fast, but wimpy, and scaled-down -- perhaps effeminately sexy, but with no redeeming features whatsoever, except that it doesnt look like a pick-up truck, thank god!
America is a has-been muscle-car, obsolete, uninspired, and in need of nut and bolt restoration.
Like a Corvair, or Karmann-Ghia. I am underpowered, dim, and anemic, ... [you know, like a Fiero]. My interior is spartan, dashboard confusing, and the AC is broke. I was built in America, mid-day Friday, right before the holiday weekend began. No skilled labor on this production line, and no one is trying to impress management the day before a July 4th holiday. This factory is working it's way towards the door, not towards Quality.
Just before Pussy Fiero sales fizzled-out -- This relic, (a pretend muscle car in drag), was perhaps briefly cool. Today the Fiero, and so many other Pontiacs line the bottom of the scrap-yard, even their second-hand parts go un-used. Which is basically where America now celebrates independence.
In the 80's auto workers hustled to slap sections together, wandering the factory floor beneath day-dreams of charcoal briquettes, potato-salad, and picnic blankets -- But never working on car quality. So it happened that my underbody immediately began to rust through -- my clear coat fades by the day, timing chain was slack, and the cylinder head split. But I know who I am, and that I live in a strange republic full of red-necks, risk, and dark forces. Independence Day means different things to many "Americans", but to me, it means sticky vinyl car-seats, plastic-chrome window cranks, leaky metal coolers, and pre-catalytic smog. It is a season of snagging carp, piss-warm shit beer, and mosquito bites. There isn't much else to regale on "The Fourth", but its fair to mention I don't feel half as free today as when this Fiero rolled off the line. I'd feared a small part of America back when I was young, but now I shudder at most of what I witness.
“A clown with a flamethrower still has a flamethrower.”
American Anthems steer us 'down to the levee', but the nostalgic levee is hot, dry, and masked ICE agents are waiting below the bridge to arrest dissenters. Awkwardly, we all gather around as friends with a few kilos of TNT to celebrate how things used to be. Because... why not blow some shit up to celebrate our freedom to blow some shit up?
"If we had a fast car -- Maybe together we could get somewhere". -Tracy Chapman.
Whatever your opinion of American Muscle cars, the best ones are well in our past, despite what Corvette & Mopar owners may claim -- And perhaps, the past is where they, and their owners belong. Stellantis, doubled down on gaudy muscle cars heaving Hemi Engines, from zero to sixty, and eventually... Regardless of the 'Turner Diaries' reconstruction, America will abandon stupid muscle cars altogether. Gasp!, Stellantis is looking at a few billion dollar short-fall this quarter, mostly on throwbacks, and muscle cars. Eventually even tacky boxy NASCAR crap will be Electric. Sometimes, on a holiday such as this, the "glory days" is just so fucking unbearable. Watching people cling to the past. Watching drunk paralytic tongues resuscitate Seeger anthems, imagining themselves stoned in a pit-crew, spraying fuel into a fake muscle car, tells the tale. The cars rolling around the actual track are so far and away from what you can buy at the dealer, that the game of pretense that you are 'kind of' a race car driver, is a joke. Post apocalypse, the same proud red-necks who'd frightened youth, are still with us, but they are now running "government". While one may hope that they expire in a blaze of inglorious petrol on a riding mower... This dumbass muscle car never goes out of style. Your neighbors are pushing the same white-cleanse agenda from before the noughties. The mass extinction of masculine hubris will alas take more time to fizzle out.
Around this time four years ago, Charlie Sykes said during an appearance on MSNBC, “A clown with a flamethrower still has a flamethrower.”, and that is where we sit to celebrate our "Independence".
To me, the pageantry of the Independence Day parade, (which is full of clowns by the way), is where we reflect upon a trunk full of ice, beer, wieners, and quarter-sticks of dynamite. July Fourth is always framed in front of a hot grill, with a masculine maniac in a mullet squeezing a can of Gulf Lite into a blaze. It is a fearful season marked by a fuck-ton of potential energy, that can (and does) go really quickly the wrong way.
Relax...! this is all senseless drivel, and America is stronger than ever before.
But the Clown still has a flamethrower...
Setting the whole shebang ablaze is the birthright of All Americans, and for anyone named Larry, Gary, Don, or Rod, as these clown names require no Green Card, nor Citizenship documents.
Self Immolation of American evil cannot happen quickly enough, and it's fucking hot out today. And... Oh, "The Clown still has a flame-thrower..."
But fireworks, and hunting rifles are merely prequel plinking practice for America's next celebrity school shooter. Here in america, we get a break from the media clown-car only when liberal bastion gets shot up, or flooded.
A Rocket's Red Glare will soon bring us together around a funeral, and a celebration where C.C.R. & Eagles anthems, along with white pride, fill smoky skies. The sulfur themes of racial enslavement are coming up the rear. This year, [on the 4th] we will blow some shit up, just before our hangover wakes us up to the fact we are no longer free -- So what's with the fireworks? We are so un-free, that even "South Park" is pulling punches, stating, "I don't know what else we can say about Trump", (or even Trumpism).
Strange to celebrate civil liberty, when we are far from free. Not in the press, not in public, not free to protest, and not free to travel, not free to worship... We are not free from taxation without representation, and we are certainly not free to love whomever we desire. So grab a can and burn some shit, because fire is cleansing. Man it's hot outside!
Around this time four years ago, Charlie Sykes said during an appearance on MSNBC, “A clown with a flamethrower still has a flamethrower.”, and that is where we sit to celebrate our "Independence".
To me, the pageantry of the Independence Day parade, (which is full of clowns by the way), is where we reflect upon a trunk full of ice, beer, wieners, and quarter-sticks of dynamite. July Fourth is always framed in front of a hot grill, with a masculine maniac in a mullet squeezing a can of Gulf Lite into a blaze. It is a fearful season marked by a fuck-ton of potential energy, that can (and does) go really quickly the wrong way.
Relax...! this is all senseless drivel, and America is stronger than ever before.
But the Clown still has a flamethrower...
Setting the whole shebang ablaze is the birthright of All Americans, and for anyone named Larry, Gary, Don, or Rod, as these clown names require no Green Card, nor Citizenship documents.
Self Immolation of American evil cannot happen quickly enough, and it's fucking hot out today. And... Oh, "The Clown still has a flame-thrower..."
But fireworks, and hunting rifles are merely prequel plinking practice for America's next celebrity school shooter. Here in america, we get a break from the media clown-car only when liberal bastion gets shot up, or flooded.
A Rocket's Red Glare will soon bring us together around a funeral, and a celebration where C.C.R. & Eagles anthems, along with white pride, fill smoky skies. The sulfur themes of racial enslavement are coming up the rear. This year, [on the 4th] we will blow some shit up, just before our hangover wakes us up to the fact we are no longer free -- So what's with the fireworks? We are so un-free, that even "South Park" is pulling punches, stating, "I don't know what else we can say about Trump", (or even Trumpism).
Strange to celebrate civil liberty, when we are far from free. Not in the press, not in public, not free to protest, and not free to travel, not free to worship... We are not free from taxation without representation, and we are certainly not free to love whomever we desire. So grab a can and burn some shit, because fire is cleansing. Man it's hot outside!
Every Billboard on my holiday drive is for Fireworks, and Personal Injury Attorneys. Which is to say plainly, more than a bit ironic. People role play, burning shit down, blowing shit up, and shooting things, perhaps so that they don't advance to the next round.
When Independence Day rolls around [again], people either stock-pile dangerous explosives, or are trying to escape those with them.
As I steer cautiously toward a rural cottage beside a lovely lake, I understand that the sweaty Orange sunset will soon bleed with purple, pink, and brown... while explosives smolder It's fore-ground. two inches to the right and we would have moved away from our dread... but today we fear the desperate red-necks more because the gloves are off on white pride.
I’d suppose in the whole of the world, there has never been a paradise like America so enamored with its sordid conquests, slave history, neck tats, and danger that we celebrate, NOT independence from autocracy... And our freedom to fuck shit up. Sweaty drunks coated with bug-spray and sunblock, squirt lighter-fluid, unleashing wild flames and ruin upon a lovely landscape. Children dance and twirl sparklers, and here again we slump, to gaze over our gut as the lit wick of independence sputters out.
Independence day, and the vacancy of government, are a mirror of America's disrepair. Seriously, who drives a Chrysler "muscle car" anyways?
"But, I can't go for that." -Hall and Oats
And why shouldn’t our “leaders” posses the full measure of our basest instincts. Waxing an old muscle car, like polishing a gleaming weapon, is how we lovely Americans now relate to our post apocalyptic World. We have strange cars, strange tools, and stranger Fashion. Those who still do their own car repairs, and their own grocery shopping, on balance betray our belle-epoch with fistfuls of refined sugar, warm beer, wieners, and vapes.
From our revolutionary war through the cold war, fashion never revealed so much [sigh] about American supremacy as it does today. Beneath a proud muffin-top, a track-suit, a tatted neckline, and velour airport pajamas -- Free expression in America's fashion defines the coach-class slave we are today. We see ourselves as celebrities,, influencers, but we are pretty vacant. Everyone rides in Steerage, imagining themselves as influential. Today, haute couture is measured in Fleecy slippers, Ironic T's, and it's washed down with a 96 OZ Big Gulp thermos.
American celebrity status is measured by "limited edition" Sneakers, stretch-pants, and elastic waistbands. Our true brilliance reflected in a gleaming gigantic Costco shopping cart. To see one's reflection in these thin chrome bars is at least a bit slimming.
Independence Day means that America is now free to consume buffalo wings, lick it's fingers, and then lose them to a firecracker. All we 'Free Americans' need to understand this holiday is found scrawled along the rural-route through Indiana, or Georgia. Banners for Injury Attorneys, Casinos, Fast Food, and Fire-Works, beg allegiance. That Star Spangled Banner yet waves, yes -- But it has been defiled, misappropriated, and soiled. Luckily it comes with extra bacon, and ghost pepper sauce.
Even the mega-church is seeking new parishioners, but they too fly the flag upside-down out on the lawn -- An unsubtle nod to restoration of America's white racist Christian tyranny.
Bright-sides...!, you can now hire an attorney with or without missing fingers using a QR code whilst speeding to the E.R.
Any reasonably advanced civilization, Is measured by it's cart-size, waistline, and heartrate. We are growing, so to speak, into our role as a "has-been" empire, ruled by a has-been emperor like Jabba.
Healthcare is reactive. Statins, E.D. Drugs, Glucose Monitors, Dialysis, and botulinum, are OTC self-care without question for their medical efficacy. We can do it all ourselves while romancing a Half-Pound-Dog & Big-Gulp super-combo.
"Happy Fourth", he said awkwardly.
Wherever a screen-door slams, into a sweaty July 4th, “has-been” America is simmering in its transitional juice from scrappy republic, to nostalgic smug-fuck, to short-lived social disaster, to political holocaust. We watch the fireworks, together, as the whole empire collapses under it's largess.
For me, little pink houses, screen doors, picket fences, and swimming-holes, still mean something… but not in that, twangy “set a spell”, way… Perhaps in the truly affirmative knowledge that what we have lost to recent tyranny, will not return to an immoral majority, so I try to find value wading through elegiac feelings. What we have forgotten to do today, lives in the music, somewhere. We have forgotten how to be free. We should adore simplicity, inhale its majesty, feel awe, and touch something meaningful. But we just want to blow shit up, and blame others for a wet fuse, our own failure to launch. Behind the glare of a glowing gadget, is a world pressed like a flower -- desiccated, and well beyond resuscitation.
Independence, is perhaps now only the freedom to imagine the past fondly, where we once heard freedom ring -- Where we'd looked out for one another. Where we are at now, is a fucked up capsule, sealed off hermetically from whomever we were supposed to care about.
Since the "Civil War" we have been trying to outdrive rednecks that resent those of us who can type.
When I drive a car, I enjoy the privilege of knowing I am (of course) the only good driver, and everyone else is a motherfucker. ...And we are all trapped beneath glass and steel, shouting at each-other. Today, we all live in the same conceited capsule. hiding behind the machine. And we are all driving them poorly. We believe we are free from influence, and sovereign in our own thoughts, but we don't have original thoughts any longer. We are wasting our time talking about politics, and who we pledge allegiance to. We cannot all become stoics overnight, and hence, we are doomed. We are not free, because the machines, have already won. They have already picked out your cheeky cut-of shorts, what explosives you will buy, and how you will light them ablaze.
Independence means different things to different people. Here in America, freedom means you have the right to choose your own facts, your own explosives, and perhaps what janky car you'll drive aggressively -- But you cannot outrun the genetics of this failing republic. Since the "Civil War" we have been trying to outdrive rednecks who resent those of us that can type. Ignorance builds relic muscle cars, in the face of far more efficient machines. And although fireworks only show up in the darkness, a redneck will still set some off midday.
This holiday, instead of celebrating independence day; Just say, "Happy Fourth", without any feeling, and then blow some shit up.
We've got your back, and will keep your fingers safe in a ziploc.
When Independence Day rolls around [again], people either stock-pile dangerous explosives, or are trying to escape those with them.
As I steer cautiously toward a rural cottage beside a lovely lake, I understand that the sweaty Orange sunset will soon bleed with purple, pink, and brown... while explosives smolder It's fore-ground. two inches to the right and we would have moved away from our dread... but today we fear the desperate red-necks more because the gloves are off on white pride.
I’d suppose in the whole of the world, there has never been a paradise like America so enamored with its sordid conquests, slave history, neck tats, and danger that we celebrate, NOT independence from autocracy... And our freedom to fuck shit up. Sweaty drunks coated with bug-spray and sunblock, squirt lighter-fluid, unleashing wild flames and ruin upon a lovely landscape. Children dance and twirl sparklers, and here again we slump, to gaze over our gut as the lit wick of independence sputters out.
Independence day, and the vacancy of government, are a mirror of America's disrepair. Seriously, who drives a Chrysler "muscle car" anyways?
"But, I can't go for that." -Hall and Oats
And why shouldn’t our “leaders” posses the full measure of our basest instincts. Waxing an old muscle car, like polishing a gleaming weapon, is how we lovely Americans now relate to our post apocalyptic World. We have strange cars, strange tools, and stranger Fashion. Those who still do their own car repairs, and their own grocery shopping, on balance betray our belle-epoch with fistfuls of refined sugar, warm beer, wieners, and vapes.
From our revolutionary war through the cold war, fashion never revealed so much [sigh] about American supremacy as it does today. Beneath a proud muffin-top, a track-suit, a tatted neckline, and velour airport pajamas -- Free expression in America's fashion defines the coach-class slave we are today. We see ourselves as celebrities,, influencers, but we are pretty vacant. Everyone rides in Steerage, imagining themselves as influential. Today, haute couture is measured in Fleecy slippers, Ironic T's, and it's washed down with a 96 OZ Big Gulp thermos.
American celebrity status is measured by "limited edition" Sneakers, stretch-pants, and elastic waistbands. Our true brilliance reflected in a gleaming gigantic Costco shopping cart. To see one's reflection in these thin chrome bars is at least a bit slimming.
Independence Day means that America is now free to consume buffalo wings, lick it's fingers, and then lose them to a firecracker. All we 'Free Americans' need to understand this holiday is found scrawled along the rural-route through Indiana, or Georgia. Banners for Injury Attorneys, Casinos, Fast Food, and Fire-Works, beg allegiance. That Star Spangled Banner yet waves, yes -- But it has been defiled, misappropriated, and soiled. Luckily it comes with extra bacon, and ghost pepper sauce.
Even the mega-church is seeking new parishioners, but they too fly the flag upside-down out on the lawn -- An unsubtle nod to restoration of America's white racist Christian tyranny.
Bright-sides...!, you can now hire an attorney with or without missing fingers using a QR code whilst speeding to the E.R.
Any reasonably advanced civilization, Is measured by it's cart-size, waistline, and heartrate. We are growing, so to speak, into our role as a "has-been" empire, ruled by a has-been emperor like Jabba.
Healthcare is reactive. Statins, E.D. Drugs, Glucose Monitors, Dialysis, and botulinum, are OTC self-care without question for their medical efficacy. We can do it all ourselves while romancing a Half-Pound-Dog & Big-Gulp super-combo.
"Happy Fourth", he said awkwardly.
Wherever a screen-door slams, into a sweaty July 4th, “has-been” America is simmering in its transitional juice from scrappy republic, to nostalgic smug-fuck, to short-lived social disaster, to political holocaust. We watch the fireworks, together, as the whole empire collapses under it's largess.
For me, little pink houses, screen doors, picket fences, and swimming-holes, still mean something… but not in that, twangy “set a spell”, way… Perhaps in the truly affirmative knowledge that what we have lost to recent tyranny, will not return to an immoral majority, so I try to find value wading through elegiac feelings. What we have forgotten to do today, lives in the music, somewhere. We have forgotten how to be free. We should adore simplicity, inhale its majesty, feel awe, and touch something meaningful. But we just want to blow shit up, and blame others for a wet fuse, our own failure to launch. Behind the glare of a glowing gadget, is a world pressed like a flower -- desiccated, and well beyond resuscitation.
Independence, is perhaps now only the freedom to imagine the past fondly, where we once heard freedom ring -- Where we'd looked out for one another. Where we are at now, is a fucked up capsule, sealed off hermetically from whomever we were supposed to care about.
Since the "Civil War" we have been trying to outdrive rednecks that resent those of us who can type.
When I drive a car, I enjoy the privilege of knowing I am (of course) the only good driver, and everyone else is a motherfucker. ...And we are all trapped beneath glass and steel, shouting at each-other. Today, we all live in the same conceited capsule. hiding behind the machine. And we are all driving them poorly. We believe we are free from influence, and sovereign in our own thoughts, but we don't have original thoughts any longer. We are wasting our time talking about politics, and who we pledge allegiance to. We cannot all become stoics overnight, and hence, we are doomed. We are not free, because the machines, have already won. They have already picked out your cheeky cut-of shorts, what explosives you will buy, and how you will light them ablaze.
Independence means different things to different people. Here in America, freedom means you have the right to choose your own facts, your own explosives, and perhaps what janky car you'll drive aggressively -- But you cannot outrun the genetics of this failing republic. Since the "Civil War" we have been trying to outdrive rednecks who resent those of us that can type. Ignorance builds relic muscle cars, in the face of far more efficient machines. And although fireworks only show up in the darkness, a redneck will still set some off midday.
This holiday, instead of celebrating independence day; Just say, "Happy Fourth", without any feeling, and then blow some shit up.
We've got your back, and will keep your fingers safe in a ziploc.
- Published on
Superstition /soo͞″pər-stĭsh′ən/
noun
Consider Golf. As with most male superstition, Large Club Size has the mythical aberrant of fulfilling a promise of competence. But, ability comes from practice, and perseverance,. and not specifically one's gigantic tool. I once knew a guy who'd walk onto a course early spring, or late autumn, with range balls, and two clubs... A seven iron and a wooden shafted putter. He'd shoot PAR or below without a pig-skin glove, dorky shoes, or blousy chinos. He'd play 7 or 16 avoiding the cups closest to the clubhouse, because he was playing for free. Practice makes the difference, as in most endeavor... But we still seek advantages, even status, from cool gear instead of putting in the work. Every year the department store sells a pre-strung tennis racket which likely won Wimbledon the year prior, and yet, most hold out for the latest un-strung technology. This is to say that we are easily tempted by marketing, and superstition, [mostly Bull-shit], to hit further, drive straight, and go fast. We ignore the lessons of raw talent, and hard work, preferring to believe that the latest gadget will ease the pain, open the door, and create opportunity. I am in awe of those raw talents who approach nearly every endeavor with patience, and a watchful calculus, like local surfers bobbing behind waves, waiting for the right moment.
By contrast I get exhausted in the waves climbing on every one.
I have a friend who rides a shitty bike, refusing to upgrade. He deserves it, but some monastic celibacy precludes his ascendence. Just the same, he is a terrific cyclist. We all know a guy who betters seasoned riders without any sophistication, or even practice. (His initials are J.B.)... But for most... 'hard work', and NOT 'hi-tech' makes the difference.
Laughably I seem to be heading way too fast toward some end-game, where I cannot be helped.
noun
- An irrational belief that an object, action, or circumstance not logically related to a course of events influences its outcome.
- A belief, practice, or rite irrationally maintained by ignorance of the laws of nature or by faith in magic or chance.
- A fearful or abject state of mind resulting from such ignorance or irrationality.
Consider Golf. As with most male superstition, Large Club Size has the mythical aberrant of fulfilling a promise of competence. But, ability comes from practice, and perseverance,. and not specifically one's gigantic tool. I once knew a guy who'd walk onto a course early spring, or late autumn, with range balls, and two clubs... A seven iron and a wooden shafted putter. He'd shoot PAR or below without a pig-skin glove, dorky shoes, or blousy chinos. He'd play 7 or 16 avoiding the cups closest to the clubhouse, because he was playing for free. Practice makes the difference, as in most endeavor... But we still seek advantages, even status, from cool gear instead of putting in the work. Every year the department store sells a pre-strung tennis racket which likely won Wimbledon the year prior, and yet, most hold out for the latest un-strung technology. This is to say that we are easily tempted by marketing, and superstition, [mostly Bull-shit], to hit further, drive straight, and go fast. We ignore the lessons of raw talent, and hard work, preferring to believe that the latest gadget will ease the pain, open the door, and create opportunity. I am in awe of those raw talents who approach nearly every endeavor with patience, and a watchful calculus, like local surfers bobbing behind waves, waiting for the right moment.
By contrast I get exhausted in the waves climbing on every one.
I have a friend who rides a shitty bike, refusing to upgrade. He deserves it, but some monastic celibacy precludes his ascendence. Just the same, he is a terrific cyclist. We all know a guy who betters seasoned riders without any sophistication, or even practice. (His initials are J.B.)... But for most... 'hard work', and NOT 'hi-tech' makes the difference.
Laughably I seem to be heading way too fast toward some end-game, where I cannot be helped.
Twice, each year we get a reminder of the things we have not yet accomplished: New Years Day is spent in quiet reflection of one's regrets, and missed opportunities -- We double-down with resolutions to change. We approach our Birthdays with the reluctance, of a doctor's check-up -- We lift our drooping chin in a morning mirror, with the confidence that we are aging gracefully. These days, we fidget reflectively, pensive, if a bit disappointed in our results.
I want to be adored, we all do... and I work tirelessly toward that end, BUT with my poor technique, and nasty nature, I fail. e.g., people tend to stay clear of my cloud.
Most days, I know that I am not special, nor deserving of adulation. Should we stumble upon our birthday and not feel worthy of a party, it's likely that we are well past our "deserving phase". There will always be some adult twat who believes they are intrinsically special, and should be adored daily... especially upon Birthdays, but most of us will simply buy ourselves some new stuff in hopes of improvement, and keep our head down. Me, I'm still waiting for my bionic upgrade and my Jet-Pack, "Happy Birthday, dumb-ass!, Take this shit... you will need it!"
I've always been mediocre, and at nearly every endeavor, I could use a little daily affirmation to feel whole, or even competent. Alas, I don't get much positive feedback. I get zero "Kudos", zero "Likes", and far less adoration. Nevertheless, I try a lot of things on, in hopes of finding a competency which fits me well. Alas with my figure, nothing flatters. So, I've settled upon the maxim that it's better to be lucky, than to be good at anything at all. Mediocrity inspires my defeat, which brings a strong head-wind, and no aero-bike will fix that.
Aero is Bullshit anyway -- As are gigantic club-faces, brand-new shitty surfboards, Electric Fishing Poles, and $400. baseball bats. To get good at something takes practice. The right swing, and proper focus. Struggling to get good at something which one has no business attempting is bull-shit too. One need only scan the Running path for evidence of the un-adapted. I have been trying to "get good at" so many things simultaneously, but have come to realize my repeat defeat cannot be practiced into competence. Realizing that I have no business in marathons, a swimming pool, transmission repair, golfing, or hang-gliding... I've settled into my mediocrity.
Taboo talisman that it is... "Aero" is the "Surround-sound" end game of a dying hobby. Aero was invented to level out the classics, using Time Trial bikes as marketing for strange tech, that no mortal will ever actually ride. Aero was created for D-Bags who cannot swim nor run, but want to gain 9 watts.
What wont make me a better cyclist is an Aero Bike; nor aero anything for that matter. I keep my head down, and bring my elbows in, when riding in my drops. I tuck down low while descending, but find no gains from novel aero sanctuary.
Aero Bikes are the New "Surround-Sound", a giant club for lonely men, which has in a few decades outlived it's usefulness, and has alas marketed itself to death. This began with a "kick-ass", (but shitty sounding) college stereo, pointing a Cerwin-Vega speaker out of one's window, in hopes of Bro-recognition... (Lonesome men hoping someone will share in their relish of "Rush 2112"), These lonely guys gobbled up the Surround Sound Evolution, like cheese fries at a rave, and Soon enough "Red Barchetta" broke into "Quadrophenia", which gave way to the inevitable Subwoofer. Before too long, music and film were dissected into tiny packets, and spread over a shit-ton of stupid anemic speakers, paired with subs, birthing 5.1, 9.1, 9.2, and even 12.4 channels of soulless surround-sound, Too Fucking many marketing guys in the incubator, killed the whole titanic shit-storm. Today we have stupid shitty sound-bars, and tiny Bluetooth portables which sound impressively tinny, like a squirrel is locked in a bucket... and today, nobody even buys a kick-ass stereo.
(Well, except for lonely old guys who'll likely buy an aero bike and a rear-view eyeglass mirror, without much convincing).
Death is the inevitable end game of any hobby which evolves unnaturally from Fat 'club-face" into sticker adorned Aero -- Or Surround Sound. Aero is what they sell you, when you've forsaken that cool vintage bike in your garage, believing you have graduated into velo-topia.
Taboo talisman that it is... "Aero" is the "Surround-sound" end game of a dying sport. Aero is the Gigantic Club Face which wont make you a better golfer, but promises you will get noticed, (...for all the wrong reasons).
Long live the Kool kids who ask their parents for a Bike for their birthday. Viva the natural talents, and the jalopy riders. Today, let's celebrate those who ride bikes well into their old age!, even if they wear tacky neon, tennies, as long as they DO NOT ride stupid-ass aero bikes.
When Specialized re-introduced the Shiv, with a "Nutrition Pouch" the die was cast to dismantle cycling's dynasty for the last time. As if the throttle bike wasn't bad enough; That too will soon be aero.
P.S.
Trump Don't Surf !
I want to be adored, we all do... and I work tirelessly toward that end, BUT with my poor technique, and nasty nature, I fail. e.g., people tend to stay clear of my cloud.
Most days, I know that I am not special, nor deserving of adulation. Should we stumble upon our birthday and not feel worthy of a party, it's likely that we are well past our "deserving phase". There will always be some adult twat who believes they are intrinsically special, and should be adored daily... especially upon Birthdays, but most of us will simply buy ourselves some new stuff in hopes of improvement, and keep our head down. Me, I'm still waiting for my bionic upgrade and my Jet-Pack, "Happy Birthday, dumb-ass!, Take this shit... you will need it!"
I've always been mediocre, and at nearly every endeavor, I could use a little daily affirmation to feel whole, or even competent. Alas, I don't get much positive feedback. I get zero "Kudos", zero "Likes", and far less adoration. Nevertheless, I try a lot of things on, in hopes of finding a competency which fits me well. Alas with my figure, nothing flatters. So, I've settled upon the maxim that it's better to be lucky, than to be good at anything at all. Mediocrity inspires my defeat, which brings a strong head-wind, and no aero-bike will fix that.
Aero is Bullshit anyway -- As are gigantic club-faces, brand-new shitty surfboards, Electric Fishing Poles, and $400. baseball bats. To get good at something takes practice. The right swing, and proper focus. Struggling to get good at something which one has no business attempting is bull-shit too. One need only scan the Running path for evidence of the un-adapted. I have been trying to "get good at" so many things simultaneously, but have come to realize my repeat defeat cannot be practiced into competence. Realizing that I have no business in marathons, a swimming pool, transmission repair, golfing, or hang-gliding... I've settled into my mediocrity.
Taboo talisman that it is... "Aero" is the "Surround-sound" end game of a dying hobby. Aero was invented to level out the classics, using Time Trial bikes as marketing for strange tech, that no mortal will ever actually ride. Aero was created for D-Bags who cannot swim nor run, but want to gain 9 watts.
What wont make me a better cyclist is an Aero Bike; nor aero anything for that matter. I keep my head down, and bring my elbows in, when riding in my drops. I tuck down low while descending, but find no gains from novel aero sanctuary.
Aero Bikes are the New "Surround-Sound", a giant club for lonely men, which has in a few decades outlived it's usefulness, and has alas marketed itself to death. This began with a "kick-ass", (but shitty sounding) college stereo, pointing a Cerwin-Vega speaker out of one's window, in hopes of Bro-recognition... (Lonesome men hoping someone will share in their relish of "Rush 2112"), These lonely guys gobbled up the Surround Sound Evolution, like cheese fries at a rave, and Soon enough "Red Barchetta" broke into "Quadrophenia", which gave way to the inevitable Subwoofer. Before too long, music and film were dissected into tiny packets, and spread over a shit-ton of stupid anemic speakers, paired with subs, birthing 5.1, 9.1, 9.2, and even 12.4 channels of soulless surround-sound, Too Fucking many marketing guys in the incubator, killed the whole titanic shit-storm. Today we have stupid shitty sound-bars, and tiny Bluetooth portables which sound impressively tinny, like a squirrel is locked in a bucket... and today, nobody even buys a kick-ass stereo.
(Well, except for lonely old guys who'll likely buy an aero bike and a rear-view eyeglass mirror, without much convincing).
Death is the inevitable end game of any hobby which evolves unnaturally from Fat 'club-face" into sticker adorned Aero -- Or Surround Sound. Aero is what they sell you, when you've forsaken that cool vintage bike in your garage, believing you have graduated into velo-topia.
Taboo talisman that it is... "Aero" is the "Surround-sound" end game of a dying sport. Aero is the Gigantic Club Face which wont make you a better golfer, but promises you will get noticed, (...for all the wrong reasons).
Long live the Kool kids who ask their parents for a Bike for their birthday. Viva the natural talents, and the jalopy riders. Today, let's celebrate those who ride bikes well into their old age!, even if they wear tacky neon, tennies, as long as they DO NOT ride stupid-ass aero bikes.
When Specialized re-introduced the Shiv, with a "Nutrition Pouch" the die was cast to dismantle cycling's dynasty for the last time. As if the throttle bike wasn't bad enough; That too will soon be aero.
P.S.
Trump Don't Surf !
- Published on
Looking down, we discover Newtonian irritation in, well
...basically we are irritated with you.
The Thing is... Everyone does the work, right? struggling to the summit; We wait at the top for our friends... then We all coast. We go someplace to earn barely enough for a new bicycle, and some of us will use it properly. We ride someplace on it for fun... A waterpark, lunch, a church, a hike, perhaps a bike ride up to the top of Mt Crumpet? Then, reluctantly we return to our caves, with stupid stories and stuff acquired along the way. Perhaps a Medal or a jersey laden with sponsors whom we don't give a shit about.
A filthy Medal, Lactate burning Lungs and Legs, Some Costly Carbon Bling... A Sour-Patch Stomach rumbling beneath a snug lycra uniform... A few gummies, a new Gel or a Gooey Tonic, enhance and unsettle the whole mess. But it's you. We are cheering for you.
We all strive a bit -- Some on Strava -- carefully stenciling the outline of our beloved's chin on a real roadway. We may choose to live an illusionary drama through pretend "Likes". citing data to prove we were there first. Others suffer in their lonesome basement with a Virtual ride atop a $10K mail-order bike strapped to motors and such, following Fake Plastic trees, atop magnetic mountains in upside-down land.
Many give it their all on a real road, without keeping score -- Without fanfare. With or without "Likes". A loathsome few, actually ride their bikes into the wind and rain, because they like to feel something real. Pissing of their bike-shop mechanic who nary gets a summer day out of doors to play nor suffer. These "Outsiders" do it to enjoy the ratcheted spree of a whirring freewheel, and the separation of thought from action.
A pencil-thin Puerto Rican pulls past into oncoming city traffic, slick wet pomade on raven-black hair, No helmet to douse the sheen. Carbon tri-spoke front wheel -- Some Blue spoky abomination behind it. Zero Brakes... Back-stroking to slow his single speed, with a final inhale, and his last kick-back before his fixie pride and his perfect hair land atop the hood of a Lexus. Thud!
He will survive his lunacy, (sans brakes), In-fact he will roll off the bent hood and blame a Soccer-Mommy for his hobby. But he will never know the thrill of the coast. The Buzz of the pawl heating up against a hardened circle of tool steel, as the descent becomes real. Really loud clicks purr, tears tickling cheeks, as the doppler fades whirring clacks to black numbness.
It's all in the coast. Rolling without regard for time, work, or worry. The descent is where we all level out. Fat fucks, Clydesdales, and Scrawny dicks, we all drop like stones as velocity heats beneath our calculated braking. The ratchet winds up to the ultrasonic pitch of a hummingbird's, We scream down a slope for 20 full minutes numbing hands and minds. The Coast... It's all about the coast.
The fixie fanatic, is an enthusiast, true, riding the razor's edge through traffic to feel something. To impress oneself with the unchallenged feeling of invincibility. Sovereign soaking head-nods from adoring friends for swerving just in time. But enlightenment never comes. The coast will elude this kid until they come of age.
We are ALL FAST IN THE FUCKING DOWNHILL!. Aren't we?
...I identify as Fast Motherfucker, so please afford me this one moment and Get the Fuck out of my sight on this one descent. Unless of course your jersey plainly states: "I'm doing this for Pussy" or has a Cigarette or Whisky sponsor, then you can cut in line, of course you can.
IF, you use your bike like a dildo, rolling through the motions on a magneto in your basement throughout summer, citing humidity and covid as a reason to remain "sheltered in place", You are not the problem, just stay where you are. You may be the VR analog of the clown-like pubescent kid that just guilted a coffee-clutching Yoga Mommy into 400 bucks for a bent fork -- But you will not know what it means to ride, without a freewheel. You suck only slightly less than the fool who races me in the downhill. DONT RACE ME IN THE DOWNHILL, Dumb-ass. We are all fast in the downhill, Duh!... you fucking idiot. Lithe, fat, thin as a triathlete's aero ass... we all have to do the work to get up the fucking hill, and the just desserts for said spent energy is this moment -- My Moment, The Coast. Kick Kick Coast. We the people, celebrate this sublime recipe of spent energy. We WORK toward this moment, because we are sledding, we are skitching, we are skiing slalom down the hill and we didn't bring an E-Bike to this gunfight. We earn the summit & the downhill. So my friend, could you please spare us all the humiliation of your smug face passing me on the interstate at 60 MPH and queue up behind my ugly gleeful ass... because my silent scorching ratchet whirrrs for me alone, It's mine..., and I need a bit of space to walk through my buzzing Zen garden alone melting brake pads tiny hot pawls and all, in a perfect whine. WITHOUT seeing your smug ass 2006 jersey from some Team-building exercise, or your Fake KOM jersey sponsored by some orthopedic hospital or worse an investment firm. Please!
I need you to kindly stand the fuck down while I listen to my ratcheting freehub warm with the lightening-fast click of the surrounding cicadas. I've earned the right to descend "My Mountain" with MY thoughts and even if we are on the same Fucking Fondo... I'd appreciate some respect as I burn some lithium grease without your fat spooging waistline rolling up beside me.
I'd like to descend alone, and without consideration of your chamois, your pseudo-sponsored jersey, and your unmatched bar-wrap. Leave this to me, and I will try not to encroach upon your decal'ed cloud.
No gripe with you folks who don't know how to enjoy yourselves out of doors. Hand Solo at home...? I'm good with you. No issue with you monkeys pressing backwards to avoid obstacles across town on your fixie-bike which never coasts. What IS annoying, however is the heavy-weight who has something to prove whence he arrives upon summit, and is dead-set to make up his sloven performance on the hill-climb. Really? My complaint is with the fair-weather downhill roller. My complaint of course, (Mr. Portnoy) was with my right to climb and plummet and contemplate my own chamois chafe without some hack making up his glacial ascent time in a tuck, while I'm forced to consider his in-grown thigh shag.
Peace is afforded when we all do the work together, but alas we descend alone, and when we all grant the space to enjoy the fruits of that labor, within the intimacy of one's descent we are whole.
Lay back! ...Lest I get my super-tuck on, and glow past your damp ass with a whirr only the cicadas respect.
We are all fast in the descent, aren't we? ...And as with skiing, there is a flat beer waiting for the first fucker to cop my line in the downhill. We know who you are, and we don't appreciate you ruining what we have worked for.
...basically we are irritated with you.
The Thing is... Everyone does the work, right? struggling to the summit; We wait at the top for our friends... then We all coast. We go someplace to earn barely enough for a new bicycle, and some of us will use it properly. We ride someplace on it for fun... A waterpark, lunch, a church, a hike, perhaps a bike ride up to the top of Mt Crumpet? Then, reluctantly we return to our caves, with stupid stories and stuff acquired along the way. Perhaps a Medal or a jersey laden with sponsors whom we don't give a shit about.
A filthy Medal, Lactate burning Lungs and Legs, Some Costly Carbon Bling... A Sour-Patch Stomach rumbling beneath a snug lycra uniform... A few gummies, a new Gel or a Gooey Tonic, enhance and unsettle the whole mess. But it's you. We are cheering for you.
We all strive a bit -- Some on Strava -- carefully stenciling the outline of our beloved's chin on a real roadway. We may choose to live an illusionary drama through pretend "Likes". citing data to prove we were there first. Others suffer in their lonesome basement with a Virtual ride atop a $10K mail-order bike strapped to motors and such, following Fake Plastic trees, atop magnetic mountains in upside-down land.
Many give it their all on a real road, without keeping score -- Without fanfare. With or without "Likes". A loathsome few, actually ride their bikes into the wind and rain, because they like to feel something real. Pissing of their bike-shop mechanic who nary gets a summer day out of doors to play nor suffer. These "Outsiders" do it to enjoy the ratcheted spree of a whirring freewheel, and the separation of thought from action.
A pencil-thin Puerto Rican pulls past into oncoming city traffic, slick wet pomade on raven-black hair, No helmet to douse the sheen. Carbon tri-spoke front wheel -- Some Blue spoky abomination behind it. Zero Brakes... Back-stroking to slow his single speed, with a final inhale, and his last kick-back before his fixie pride and his perfect hair land atop the hood of a Lexus. Thud!
He will survive his lunacy, (sans brakes), In-fact he will roll off the bent hood and blame a Soccer-Mommy for his hobby. But he will never know the thrill of the coast. The Buzz of the pawl heating up against a hardened circle of tool steel, as the descent becomes real. Really loud clicks purr, tears tickling cheeks, as the doppler fades whirring clacks to black numbness.
It's all in the coast. Rolling without regard for time, work, or worry. The descent is where we all level out. Fat fucks, Clydesdales, and Scrawny dicks, we all drop like stones as velocity heats beneath our calculated braking. The ratchet winds up to the ultrasonic pitch of a hummingbird's, We scream down a slope for 20 full minutes numbing hands and minds. The Coast... It's all about the coast.
The fixie fanatic, is an enthusiast, true, riding the razor's edge through traffic to feel something. To impress oneself with the unchallenged feeling of invincibility. Sovereign soaking head-nods from adoring friends for swerving just in time. But enlightenment never comes. The coast will elude this kid until they come of age.
We are ALL FAST IN THE FUCKING DOWNHILL!. Aren't we?
...I identify as Fast Motherfucker, so please afford me this one moment and Get the Fuck out of my sight on this one descent. Unless of course your jersey plainly states: "I'm doing this for Pussy" or has a Cigarette or Whisky sponsor, then you can cut in line, of course you can.
IF, you use your bike like a dildo, rolling through the motions on a magneto in your basement throughout summer, citing humidity and covid as a reason to remain "sheltered in place", You are not the problem, just stay where you are. You may be the VR analog of the clown-like pubescent kid that just guilted a coffee-clutching Yoga Mommy into 400 bucks for a bent fork -- But you will not know what it means to ride, without a freewheel. You suck only slightly less than the fool who races me in the downhill. DONT RACE ME IN THE DOWNHILL, Dumb-ass. We are all fast in the downhill, Duh!... you fucking idiot. Lithe, fat, thin as a triathlete's aero ass... we all have to do the work to get up the fucking hill, and the just desserts for said spent energy is this moment -- My Moment, The Coast. Kick Kick Coast. We the people, celebrate this sublime recipe of spent energy. We WORK toward this moment, because we are sledding, we are skitching, we are skiing slalom down the hill and we didn't bring an E-Bike to this gunfight. We earn the summit & the downhill. So my friend, could you please spare us all the humiliation of your smug face passing me on the interstate at 60 MPH and queue up behind my ugly gleeful ass... because my silent scorching ratchet whirrrs for me alone, It's mine..., and I need a bit of space to walk through my buzzing Zen garden alone melting brake pads tiny hot pawls and all, in a perfect whine. WITHOUT seeing your smug ass 2006 jersey from some Team-building exercise, or your Fake KOM jersey sponsored by some orthopedic hospital or worse an investment firm. Please!
I need you to kindly stand the fuck down while I listen to my ratcheting freehub warm with the lightening-fast click of the surrounding cicadas. I've earned the right to descend "My Mountain" with MY thoughts and even if we are on the same Fucking Fondo... I'd appreciate some respect as I burn some lithium grease without your fat spooging waistline rolling up beside me.
I'd like to descend alone, and without consideration of your chamois, your pseudo-sponsored jersey, and your unmatched bar-wrap. Leave this to me, and I will try not to encroach upon your decal'ed cloud.
No gripe with you folks who don't know how to enjoy yourselves out of doors. Hand Solo at home...? I'm good with you. No issue with you monkeys pressing backwards to avoid obstacles across town on your fixie-bike which never coasts. What IS annoying, however is the heavy-weight who has something to prove whence he arrives upon summit, and is dead-set to make up his sloven performance on the hill-climb. Really? My complaint is with the fair-weather downhill roller. My complaint of course, (Mr. Portnoy) was with my right to climb and plummet and contemplate my own chamois chafe without some hack making up his glacial ascent time in a tuck, while I'm forced to consider his in-grown thigh shag.
Peace is afforded when we all do the work together, but alas we descend alone, and when we all grant the space to enjoy the fruits of that labor, within the intimacy of one's descent we are whole.
Lay back! ...Lest I get my super-tuck on, and glow past your damp ass with a whirr only the cicadas respect.
We are all fast in the descent, aren't we? ...And as with skiing, there is a flat beer waiting for the first fucker to cop my line in the downhill. We know who you are, and we don't appreciate you ruining what we have worked for.
"I'm slow right? But even though I'm slow, I want to go slow faster" -Gerard Vroomen
- Published on
Do we really have to correct another historical record again so soon? Because nobody gives a fuck about history any more, and even gray liberals are normalizing the fall of Democracy; as it's written -- Let's begin our day with a slice of jelly toast in upside-down-land. It is all white-noise to comment upon such daily chaos. In our news vacuum we watch Orange jelly eaters destroying America like it is a reality show we can turn off. But the failure of America is real. This is happening.
Because the charade of speculative panic about insane tariffs were bandied about the world with outlandish conspiracies as to what they really mean, I too will waste ink to report some truth.
Chump, is a lonely, depraved, senile, failure who once found a lever on a field-trip to the Smithsonian. Here he discovered that African History was legitimately cool, and that slavery made his daddy rich. While the teacher was in the potty. The kids shoegazing around exhibits, and placards, A bored and confused Chump discovered a lever. When he pulled it, the clatter drew so much attention, faces in the diorama illuminated, and an amazing animatronic calliope clattered to life. The giggles from classmates implored him for more. Naturally, all the kids in class stared in awe at the defiant kid who would certainly be punished, or expelled for touching the levers. Initially, no guards nor docents, and no teachers saw him hit that lever, and nobody spoke up because they'd hoped the idiot (who'd surely soon be expelled), would do it again.
And, of course nobody can take their eyes off a train wreck... Frankly they would love it if he was dumb enough to do it again before their teacher marched out of the ladies room and began her trademark reprimand. There were "Ooh's", and "Oh man is he busted..." "...Sooo Busted", "In Sooo much trouble", etc... But because the teacher had been up all night drowning in a bottle of Chardonnay, she didn't give a fuck, and so the class moved on to the next exhibit without incident.
This President has absolutely no original ideas, but as a class clown, and a bully, he would combust without constant attention. and so he keeps pulling that lever. I'm not completely stupid -- I do know that Chump and his boy band bet heavy on Futures and made a mint in the maelstrom. I know that there are all sorts of side-room deals, but these criminal mob ideas are not only NOT his own, they are also nothing new.
Trump was losing One Trillion dollars a day for 6 days straight.
Their are some far off places where nobody has ever heard of this man, Or jelly for that matter, and they don't speak of Dr Doom every day in panicked histrionics. Nomadic tribes, Sheep Herders, Fishermen, and Bedouins who manage to avoid the tyranny of worrying about what some far off boy-king and his idiot entourage are up to, live free. So when Mr. Crazy asked his loyal yes men where in the world their may be more idiots and savages who didn't yet live in fear of him, he pressed them to bring one into his Television Set. or to bring them this news. [Chump] 'Would soon become a household name even in remote huts, and stone-age tribal communities'; Those who comb sheep for precious downy wool, or those who shoot seals adrift upon massive sea ice. [Chump] 'Wants them to also know that he has these fancy levers to pull, and that they too should fear him'.
But because the "So Called Democrats" keep hoping he will make some epic public blunder, and perhaps literally explode -- They just watch silently the burning train-wreck of America. Silently sheepishly hopeful that there will be enough tiny pieces left to rebuild, if they ever get back in the driver's seat. And just to be clear, when US Bond yields drop our Federal interest rate goes way up, and we are staring at Recession, which would hand the House back to Dems... Basically, Mr. Stable Genius incited a rummage sale at the highest level, inspiring foreign and domestic investors to dump the safest of all treasuries. Everyone is pulling out of the "Safe Space" which had been America. For perspective, Musk claimed to be saving America a Billion here and another Billion There, by laying off a quarter million people in a few months -- Whereas Trump was losing One Trillion dollars a day for 6 days straight. [by MAGA Messiah deal maker Chump.] That's lighting fire to a Thousand Billion Dollars a day from the wealth of his donor's stock! Gone! So there would be a rally, as the bro's high-fived, and chest bumped... but what is gone is gone. America is unreliable -- Not to be trusted. Of course, "In God We Trust", but God can't save your 401K, and Chump cannot be trusted.
The So called Trade war is not that at all. There is no trade war... Just a lunatic, and complicity. Chump needs everyone to be discussing him. EVERYONE to fear him. Even.., everyone to laugh at him. He needs constant combustion to remain in motion, to be relevant. He needs to be doing something, anything, because before him, things just worked, and the "American exhibit" basically spoke for itself. The dark energy of chaos, keeps all eyes on him, lest he fizzle out as the failure he most assuredly is.
Smucker's recently lobbied Chump to tariff the EU, and France in particular so that Delicious French fruit preserves such as Bonne Maman would cost more than Goober-Grape at Costco.. Smucker's even wanted Goober-Grape to cost less than Bonne Maman in France, Belgium, Netherlands, Germany, etc... This "brilliant strategy" was misguided, in the belief that adjusting cost could make literal shit taste better. But more misguided, because Americans and in particular Trump voters love cheap crap.
Imagine this... "If The good stuff cost more..., Americans would prefer Smucker's", to a lovely jar of French or Belgian Preserves. Ipso-facto, the French would adore Smucker's crap at a lower cost, to their higher quality local jams because, well, they couldn't possibly know what they were missing in such an exciting flavor palette: Concord Grape, Squeeze Berry, Goober-Grape, Mint Apple Jelly, and Sweet Orange Marmalade. The reality of this game, is that The French do not give a fuck about Smucker's, because, well they don't prefer that strange American taste; And also... They already have a better product. Much like Germans do not prefer Chryslers to Mercedes, BMW, Renault, Mini or VW, There will always be demand for German Autos in Trump-Land, and IF they build more factories here -- They will likely be robotic, not requiring a cadre of racist white power to run.
Because the charade of speculative panic about insane tariffs were bandied about the world with outlandish conspiracies as to what they really mean, I too will waste ink to report some truth.
Chump, is a lonely, depraved, senile, failure who once found a lever on a field-trip to the Smithsonian. Here he discovered that African History was legitimately cool, and that slavery made his daddy rich. While the teacher was in the potty. The kids shoegazing around exhibits, and placards, A bored and confused Chump discovered a lever. When he pulled it, the clatter drew so much attention, faces in the diorama illuminated, and an amazing animatronic calliope clattered to life. The giggles from classmates implored him for more. Naturally, all the kids in class stared in awe at the defiant kid who would certainly be punished, or expelled for touching the levers. Initially, no guards nor docents, and no teachers saw him hit that lever, and nobody spoke up because they'd hoped the idiot (who'd surely soon be expelled), would do it again.
And, of course nobody can take their eyes off a train wreck... Frankly they would love it if he was dumb enough to do it again before their teacher marched out of the ladies room and began her trademark reprimand. There were "Ooh's", and "Oh man is he busted..." "...Sooo Busted", "In Sooo much trouble", etc... But because the teacher had been up all night drowning in a bottle of Chardonnay, she didn't give a fuck, and so the class moved on to the next exhibit without incident.
This President has absolutely no original ideas, but as a class clown, and a bully, he would combust without constant attention. and so he keeps pulling that lever. I'm not completely stupid -- I do know that Chump and his boy band bet heavy on Futures and made a mint in the maelstrom. I know that there are all sorts of side-room deals, but these criminal mob ideas are not only NOT his own, they are also nothing new.
Trump was losing One Trillion dollars a day for 6 days straight.
Their are some far off places where nobody has ever heard of this man, Or jelly for that matter, and they don't speak of Dr Doom every day in panicked histrionics. Nomadic tribes, Sheep Herders, Fishermen, and Bedouins who manage to avoid the tyranny of worrying about what some far off boy-king and his idiot entourage are up to, live free. So when Mr. Crazy asked his loyal yes men where in the world their may be more idiots and savages who didn't yet live in fear of him, he pressed them to bring one into his Television Set. or to bring them this news. [Chump] 'Would soon become a household name even in remote huts, and stone-age tribal communities'; Those who comb sheep for precious downy wool, or those who shoot seals adrift upon massive sea ice. [Chump] 'Wants them to also know that he has these fancy levers to pull, and that they too should fear him'.
But because the "So Called Democrats" keep hoping he will make some epic public blunder, and perhaps literally explode -- They just watch silently the burning train-wreck of America. Silently sheepishly hopeful that there will be enough tiny pieces left to rebuild, if they ever get back in the driver's seat. And just to be clear, when US Bond yields drop our Federal interest rate goes way up, and we are staring at Recession, which would hand the House back to Dems... Basically, Mr. Stable Genius incited a rummage sale at the highest level, inspiring foreign and domestic investors to dump the safest of all treasuries. Everyone is pulling out of the "Safe Space" which had been America. For perspective, Musk claimed to be saving America a Billion here and another Billion There, by laying off a quarter million people in a few months -- Whereas Trump was losing One Trillion dollars a day for 6 days straight. [by MAGA Messiah deal maker Chump.] That's lighting fire to a Thousand Billion Dollars a day from the wealth of his donor's stock! Gone! So there would be a rally, as the bro's high-fived, and chest bumped... but what is gone is gone. America is unreliable -- Not to be trusted. Of course, "In God We Trust", but God can't save your 401K, and Chump cannot be trusted.
The So called Trade war is not that at all. There is no trade war... Just a lunatic, and complicity. Chump needs everyone to be discussing him. EVERYONE to fear him. Even.., everyone to laugh at him. He needs constant combustion to remain in motion, to be relevant. He needs to be doing something, anything, because before him, things just worked, and the "American exhibit" basically spoke for itself. The dark energy of chaos, keeps all eyes on him, lest he fizzle out as the failure he most assuredly is.
Smucker's recently lobbied Chump to tariff the EU, and France in particular so that Delicious French fruit preserves such as Bonne Maman would cost more than Goober-Grape at Costco.. Smucker's even wanted Goober-Grape to cost less than Bonne Maman in France, Belgium, Netherlands, Germany, etc... This "brilliant strategy" was misguided, in the belief that adjusting cost could make literal shit taste better. But more misguided, because Americans and in particular Trump voters love cheap crap.
Imagine this... "If The good stuff cost more..., Americans would prefer Smucker's", to a lovely jar of French or Belgian Preserves. Ipso-facto, the French would adore Smucker's crap at a lower cost, to their higher quality local jams because, well, they couldn't possibly know what they were missing in such an exciting flavor palette: Concord Grape, Squeeze Berry, Goober-Grape, Mint Apple Jelly, and Sweet Orange Marmalade. The reality of this game, is that The French do not give a fuck about Smucker's, because, well they don't prefer that strange American taste; And also... They already have a better product. Much like Germans do not prefer Chryslers to Mercedes, BMW, Renault, Mini or VW, There will always be demand for German Autos in Trump-Land, and IF they build more factories here -- They will likely be robotic, not requiring a cadre of racist white power to run.
THE ARK CREATION MUSEUM... ONE OF MANY RE-WRITES IN PROCESS.
In the same vein, ETSY -- loosely defined as [A garage-sale of crafty crap scattered across a country lawn in a tornado], will be truly fucked when people have to pay double and a half for crafty junk they didn't need or want anyway. This goes for Dollar Stores, Harbor Freight, Farm and Fleet, and most cottage industries, held and adored by MAGA voters. This Sudden death is real, and the trickle-down of the stand-off will be epic.
The real fact is that MAGA's quiet enablers lack the fortitude to bear this burden. Former Dollar store shoppers, will be having a fuck-ton more rummage sales, bake sales, and the like, to make ends meet. So what happens when a steady stream of broken exercise equipment, and HSN debris stops flowing into 'Merica at below what it could possibly cost to produce? What happens when his entire constituency run out of debris to decorate the lawn? Who will save them when they can no longer buy more cheap junk to decorate folding tables out front? When there is nothing to feed the chickens with?
Archaeologists mostly uncover society's trash piles to reconstruct ancient cultures. Likewise it is an accurate method to get to know a trump voter parked on the shoulder to stroll their Yard Sale. In a world where nobody cares much for history, "Proper Rummage" will elucidate his legacy, just before being burned along with any books about it. In a sense, a 125% tariff on China is the most ecological leap of faith, a Republican lawmaker has ever made.
To believe that pulling a tariff lever will make naive consumers prefer shitty home spun brands to imports is bananas. Another classroom prank in the chaotic arsenal of a boy who never knew a consequence for stupid.
Anyway... Who would purchase shitty trash, just because it's cheaper, more sugary, more disposable, tasteless, even orange, simply because it costs less... Hmm?
Well -- That trick ONLY works on "Stupid Americans".
...So I suppose he may be right to keep his tiny hands on those levers.
The real fact is that MAGA's quiet enablers lack the fortitude to bear this burden. Former Dollar store shoppers, will be having a fuck-ton more rummage sales, bake sales, and the like, to make ends meet. So what happens when a steady stream of broken exercise equipment, and HSN debris stops flowing into 'Merica at below what it could possibly cost to produce? What happens when his entire constituency run out of debris to decorate the lawn? Who will save them when they can no longer buy more cheap junk to decorate folding tables out front? When there is nothing to feed the chickens with?
Archaeologists mostly uncover society's trash piles to reconstruct ancient cultures. Likewise it is an accurate method to get to know a trump voter parked on the shoulder to stroll their Yard Sale. In a world where nobody cares much for history, "Proper Rummage" will elucidate his legacy, just before being burned along with any books about it. In a sense, a 125% tariff on China is the most ecological leap of faith, a Republican lawmaker has ever made.
To believe that pulling a tariff lever will make naive consumers prefer shitty home spun brands to imports is bananas. Another classroom prank in the chaotic arsenal of a boy who never knew a consequence for stupid.
Anyway... Who would purchase shitty trash, just because it's cheaper, more sugary, more disposable, tasteless, even orange, simply because it costs less... Hmm?
Well -- That trick ONLY works on "Stupid Americans".
...So I suppose he may be right to keep his tiny hands on those levers.
