Should Old Acquaintance be forgot,
and never thought upon;
The flames of Love extinguished,
and fully past and gone:
Is thy sweet Heart now grown so cold,
that loving Breast of thine;
That thou canst never once reflect
On old long syne.

Of course whenever this incantation is sung aloud, it is already too late for reconciliation, but the sentiment and the nostalgic question is noteworthy.  As always the appropriate singer is  a Scotsman, fragrant with Lagavulin, beer & haggis.
What first comes to mind are the torrid letters from a past girlfriend (when we sill called them that); Letters ritually burned in my weber grille just before leaving my old apartment, for a new city and a new beginning... The Bobby Burns song begins by posing a rhetorical question: Is it right that old times be forgotten? The answer is generally interpreted as a "call to remember long-standing friendships".[9]  It is always appropriate to know where one comes from and how they have landed exactly here -- Which begins within the retro-perspectival tunnel of contemplation. Like Dickensian Time-Travel, ghosts revisit us on holidays to poke fun.   But... to become well regarded, is to become wealthy.

Remembering this oft dreadful feeling of kissing goodbye, The songs, and sounds of celebrants as they snore, and sleep off an entire year's worth of forgettable moments, is classic "Old Lang Syne". Half drunk cans of  still beer remains -- Memories, many will try to erase, linger before their inevitable reboot.  Good Morning! What is it which most harkens in the New year? Dread? Is it the pursuit of some mythical newness?, as if a clock tower could ring absolution. Or is it the feeling of cheating on your past, expecting a clean slate for all of one's crimes? Absolution is the auld lang syne.
​
This (largely plagiarized) Robert Burns poem most encapsulates:
A. Post-trump-era funk.
B. The Seasonal affective disorder of January 1.
C. Post-Covid Identity-Crisis malaise.
D. The end of Western democratic mismanagement over all human endeavor. 
E. Selfish dismantlement of social order, whilst taking our lovely contentment for granted.
F. All of the Above

ʃɪd o̜ːld ə.kwɛn.təns bi fər.ɡot
The Internet Bubble having truly popped, smearing hot plastic trash everywhere, broken vacuums, charging-cords, cardboard boxes blanketing our otherwise lovely landscape. We are left to consider, if forgetting isn't (perhaps) better than remembering where we'd gone wrong. The Blahs are indeed real, but they are not a ready replacement for being happy. oːld ə.kwɛn.təns come at a person without invite, and they are hard to ward off. They naturally come mid-winter, when my vitamin D levels have bottomed-out. They reliably arrive on "January One".

Last year I broke up with my entire family, but not over something petty. Nor for semantic differences.  Nor because of Covid, Vaccines, Fauci, Trump, Palestine, nor merely for their actual behaving badly, (as they have), but not before trying -- I left them for my own mental health.
​Considered justifications bounced off of many close friends -- My 'real' relatives, returned similar astonishment as to how my very darling siblings could have become so conceded, so base, and so petty, as to be unwilling to participate in "family" whatsoever for decades -- And then to criticize those who do it well.
As comparisons go, we all split up with friends over politics, babies, pets, recycling, global warming, sports teams, venereal diseases...  And for many, having moved to some smug suburb, ostensibly keeping their families safe, this broadens the gap of our very different lives. But Family had, (until now), seemed immune to dissolution. And our differences had seemed not so far apart. Our cohesion mandatory, unwavering.

There is nothing new in the act of falling away from former friends. As one discovers, adjusts, and rearranges how they'd like to be perceived.  People change -- Plain and simple.  Families also change, but unlike "All In The Family", or "The Brady Bunch", there is no special connective tissue preventing a family from decomposing. Few of us consider how to navigate our lives with the goal of later being well regarded.  Instead we adopt a new crowd when the old one no longer suits our interests.
Moving away from old college friends, or relocating for work... A family, nearly always appeared as this thing which (I'd imagined) was permanent.  Much like the home one grows up in, had seemed a hub to a wheel of growth. Elastic bands stretched out like rays from our parent's curved coffee table, allowed broad leeway, and the freedoms to invent oneself.  Yet... Retracting rubber-bands always returned siblings to it's core year over year, for what (I'd believed) was intractable, (Generally around the Holidays).
​Many rediscover religion during crisis, or death. They may attend Church during a tragedy, or Only at Christmas when feeling un-moored.  Some may say a prayer at a funeral,  But, the realignment of family always seemed nonfungible.  A warm permanence. 

​"We two have paddled in the stream,
from morning sun till dine;
But seas between us broad have roared
since auld lang syne."

It's not you, it's me, and I understand the consequence for not having worked on some relationships. Especially the ones we may take for granted.  I know the heavy lift required to reinforce these bonds.  This year however, in spite of trying my level best, I found out that family is not actually permanent. Nor in the way I'd expected, is it always there when you need it.  Should old acquaintance be forgot, and never brought to mind?
Is it broken, or even worth fixing? 

"Auld Lang Syne" fairly epitomizes the wishful New-Years page turn. 

I got pocket dialed by an old friend today, News Years Day. And of course, I'd received all sorts of strange out of the woodwork texts from friends, past and obscure. But the pocket dial seemed more to me that someone called to tap that Auld Lang Syne, and lost their nerve. As Holidays trace the life-lines which construct us, I'm sure that we'd all conjured similar memories for and of, those who'd helped shape our current world.  And so it goes that we reflect when we are idle enough to do so, upon our missteps, and those myriad souls who've shaped our understanding of the self. 

Whether I'm locked in prison figuratively today, or (for fuck sake) actually incarcerated... Having enough pause to reflect upon where we come from, and the connective fractals of our being, "Auld Lang Syne" fairly epitomizes the wishful New-Year's page turn.   This non-literal shortest day of the year, is always (fucking) New Years Day.  It is one generally without chores.  Where we perhaps fix the boiler, or wipe down the bar, but today, we mostly reflect upon relationships for auld lang syne ["Old Long Since"].   "Since basically forever", ...or more appropriately "Since you'd last thought about them".  Or, simply... "For Fuck-Sake".  And as the poem goes, "Auld Lang Syne's" latter verses wander through meadows picking flowers,  sharing pints, paddling rough streams... Together and apart, reminding us of what a dickhead we may have become. Nostalgia rears to shore up patterns within our human experience which bring both joy and sorrow.

My Family collapsed when my Mother died, burdened with shame and true sorrow. And as my siblings were inventing new ways of behaving badly, slinging blame for who did whatever wrong... We alas combusted in earnest whereupon my Father died nine months later.  With nothing left to bring us back together, and nothing remaining to complain about -- It alas appeared that each sibling now fostered one of two permanent familial failings:
[A.] loathing for those who'd judged them harshly for "NEVER LIFTING A FUCKING FINGER TO HELP THEIR AILING PARENTS..." Or
[B.] A throne from which to sprinkle resentment upon the selfish ones who'd "NEVER LIFTING A FUCKING FINGER TO HELP THEIR AILING PARENTS."

There is a rite of passage in saying goodbye to family, and I've recently consoled neighbors, and friends who are struggling with the same care-giver conundrum. I'm now sure that this is how many families break up, and whether they ever reconcile  remains a mystery. 

"And surely you'll buy your pint cup!, 
and surely I'll buy mine!
And we'll take a cup o' kindness yet, 
for auld lang syne."

My takeaway, grazing leftovers contemplating this short & lazy day where things often go wrong... I lounge in awe of the wishful absurdity that 'a single day', (or a single song) could wipe away past dumb-shit behavior -- If we could simply find the will to drunk-text upon new-years.  Or to pocket dial those who we know we should have kept in touch with, we'd be absolved. Hopefulness builds in the incantation of this poem.  What is most profound, I suppose is remembering, Old acquaintances', and of course reaching out to those, as awkward as that is. One should do that right?  ... yes definitely, if one is able. It is a fascinating time, and if you cannot fix it, then sing about it, and move on.

 With a full heart and speech impaired by Speyside whisky, one can recite the Scotts version, ...Although every year I return to a more melancholic Dan Fogelberg, (alto sax and all).
​

Carter's tenure as competent Nuclear Submarine Captain, and as the first Georgia Governor to not disparage, nor lynch blacks, (perhaps) lead to a cursed presidency. As fate would have it, The Iranian Ayatollah captured a bunch of Americans, on President Carter's watch --  And by refusing to give them back, Iran made his presidency appear ineffective.  Carter Inherited a shit-pot of Republican induced diplomatic, and domestic issues, including massive post-war machine inflation... Sound familiar? He tossed the keys to an actor, and went about improving the world for everyone; But in particular the disadvantaged, and the homeless.
After retiring from a shit job in the White House, Jimmy Carter, became one of America's most effective  and well regarded statesmen. He was a post presidential world leader,  and a revered international negotiator.  J.C. literally used his hands and likeability to build homes for the needy, through Habitat for Humanity.  Always the first one on the jobsite, and the last to sweep-up at the end of the day, Jimmy Carter was a relentless do-gooder. Carter's foundation created opportunities for legions of disadvantaged Americans. No Mystery that he shared Monogramed polo shirts with Jesus Christ.
​Carter stated flatly that "Trump did not win the 2016 election", but that Russia put him in that chair because they needed a patsy.  Carter helped to negotiate peace deals with several enemies of the U.S. and he brokered sustained peace between Israel and Egypt.  Later Clinton and Bush would blow up some of his finer accomplishments, as they towed the plow of Southern Governors come President.  Posthumously, Carter is perhaps most noteworthy as the first President NOT having cheated on his wife.  Carter told Playboy Magazine that he (perhaps with the help of the Miss January centerfold) "...May have cheated in his thoughts several times", "but remained true to his wife in his real life."
Carter made friends easily, even with sworn enemies of the state, like Fidel Castro.  Carter could hang out with celebrities, fascists, and the homeless as though their company, their points of view, and their contributions were equivalences.
Most noteworthy for Carter, is to be regarded as someone who anyone could see themselves having a beer with, even Willie Nelson.
Carter was a stand-up dude. He was the selfless, considerate, genuine, and effective human being we should aspire to be. He will be well regarded for improving our Republic over the last century. Carter left the world a better place than he'd found it, ...but made sure to time his exit, just before the place truly went to shit.       Adieu Jimmy.
Jimmy Carter is the Hero, and the ineffective president that America needs right now...
 -- Sadly, the Russian's and millions of unworthy Americans have again placed their dolt upon it's trashy throne.
Farewell Jimmy Carter.
Happy New Year Stupid America.

Every American boy is sovereign over Pissing freely nearly everywhere. This is the singular most noteworthy super-power which distinguished my youth from that of my sister's, and their friends. It's fair to say that before a child is conscious of their psychological manipulation -- "Going to the bathroom" becomes method to lord power over  parents.  Parenting a puppy or a toddler begins with this initial battle of will; "Just how long will it take for the little one to learn where and when to poop and pee properly?" -- The incantation is steeped in myth, will, psychology, and compromise. Both kids and puppies appear "cute as hell" to human adults as a protection against retaliation, for this challenge alone. All a Parent wants for Xmas, their Birthday, and their Anniversary, is for the 'wee one' to learn this singular procedure. To Comply with social norms over "The Business".... As some never do,  Others will carry trauma over lost battles into their adult politics.

Whilst, it would appear that many babies exercise some unconscious negotiation skills, e.g. dragging the fight out far longer than is reasonable -- Others succumb promptly. Carpets, Beds, Clothes, Hardwood, Sofas, Tile, Car Seats, Trains, Planes, Desk Chairs, Laps, Picnics, Church Pews, even Beach-blankets, all spoiled in a seemingly un-winnable stand-off.  
Men's-room stigmata moves mysteriously from
​"Do Not Doo-Doo EVER!" to "Why not, Sure Set a Spell..."

Until -- Alas something shifts slightly... (An acknowledgement perhaps), over who is actually running shit now. The Parent concedes to several unspoken demands, and the child concedes to "do it" properly.  There will still be the occasional "Mistake", with perhaps a parent holding an empty latte, or fountain drink cup while a kid steers urgent pee-pee on the back seat.  Pulling over on a snowy road,  then pushing a kid out the passenger side to piss upon a gravel shoulder, separates the willing from those who will forever hold it too long. Those precious flowers  become Marjorie's, and Donald's -- Those who hold it, are sad, dark, dour, insufferable Karen's who tell on you for cheating, chewing gum, smoking, and skateboarding in the hallway.  The so called civilized world divides upon the topic of public pooping and peeing, and perhaps politically as well.  My sisters, liberal ladies themselves -- also learned to pee nearly anywhere. Hence, compromise & negotiation,  forearm like flash-cards, using Poop and Pee-Pee as text.  What comes later is something so dark, and unrelentingly dogmatic that no conjurer, no shaman, and no wicken have an incantation to break it's curse. The Boy's Stall is way fucking off limits.  In fact the boy's toilet in any elementary school is literally the cleanest surface of my youth. A Boy will not go in there, and as such these hallowed spaces can be converted into confessionals, urinals, or vending machines. It comes as no surprise that the bathroom stall and the bathroom at large would become a primal adolescent cave, in which angry hunters strategize conquest, through expressive painting, and symbology. But for men, (like so many other developmental dystrophies), the bathroom stall would not become a canvas until post Middle-school.  The ancient art of cave painting began with humankind doing the math on how to prey upon their predators. Without this first step... And to become comfortable with these expressive  confines -- a Human is stunted. The cave-wall calculus to imagine oneself taking charge of one's full faculties, Overcomes their disadvantage of fear. Illustrations in turn hashed out how and when to get the upper hand.  Those without a fundamental construct of expression likely become repressed politicians. These are the ones who break the stall door, trying to cover and bar it against infiltration.  Shy Poopers will become destructive fascists.

I'm always surprised just how difficult it seems for male carnivores in airports to get their business done. At the risk of missing a departure, it is literally impossible to find a men's stall unoccupied in any airport, and when they are "available" they are so untenable as to be the seventh circle of hell.  The evolutionary shift from learning to manipulate one's parents, to learning to poop, and then the wholesale avoidance of the bathroom stall -- Seems to have led to regressive stage-fright for making it happen.  Men's room stigmata moves mysteriously from "Do Not Doo-Doo EVER!" to a creative flourish with a sharpie and a joint... to "Why Sure, Of Course Set a Spell..."

​For a young boy to Poop in school, or even step into that stall is (as every boy comes to learn) completely taboo.  It simply is not done.  No Way, No How, Never! Boys are not allowed to poop in school. This is where the second social order is learned.  A secret society which preaches many alternatives, even perhaps behind a gravestone on the walk home from school, but NEVER in the stall.  Perhaps, stopping in the back of the Piggly Wiggly?, Perhaps dropping trow beside a bank, or beside a bakery, but a boy cannot be caught dead or alive in the bathroom stall.  So it follows... that the "Girls Room" has lurid graffiti on the stall wall, yet the men would not begin to learn cave painting until they'd learned to smoke, drink, or do drugs in the stall.   The singular acceptable activity for the men's bathroom stall in a high-school is illicit activity., ...but never a poop.

Those who distrust in "the process" invent bad policies, and bad politics. In short, they become Republicans...  
I've shared a stall for a smoke, a joint, and to help children and the elderly do the business, I've written poems, and scrawled bad graffiti, I've had the occasional romantic tryst in the undesirable luxury stall of a notorious punk bar, and It is remarkable the shifting respect even ambivalence I've held toward the sanctuary of a bathroom stall.  Whatever business one conducts in the stall, it is fair not to understate it's evolutive conditioning in development of both our culture, and our politics. Those afraid to discuss the sanctity of the stall are forever stunted by  it's taboo, whereas those who were raised with a single bathroom quickly learn to share.
​At a friends home yesterday there was cheering from the powder room, as celebrants praised his 4 year old for proper pooping.  Not because he was not already adept at using the throne, but because he'd not done so for 7 days straight.  I was amazed and astonished, but not embarrassed.  Everyone poops, and for most it should be a minor celebration, but for those who find it tough to talk about, well they become conservatives.  The same ones who fabricated the social stigma preventing kids from using the stall.  Whether religious dogma, social taboo, or simple conservative puritanism, Those who distrust in "the process" invent bad policies, and bad politics. In short, they become Republicans...  And when was the last time anyone paid to watch a conservative republican stand-up comedian, talk about doing his business?

There are no Conservative Republican Comedians except perhaps, Colin Jost.

​

This Watch has, (as the picture states)... "NO JEWELS" whatsoever. It's battery electrifies a quartz rock (a crystal silicon dioxide oscillator) which bends naturally when voltage is applied, creating a very precise resonance which pings at precisely 32 768hz.  As quartz oscillation can be used to sync perfect time, It's amazing natural simplicity enjoys universal renowned in time-keeping. Similarly, quartz as a stylus on your Turntable can generate delicate voltage as the needle bounces through a gravelly groove to produce Music.  The Quartz watch, out-performs a mechanical movement, but it'll never be as cool as an Omega Sea Master, or a Colnago Steelnovo.  If you are a loser like me you own neither.
​Nobody who owns a mechanical chronograph uses it to time an event such as a bike race, or a Nascar lap. Nobody watches their chrono second-hand sweep by at 120 hertz to time anything, except in movies where smart scientists, such as Oppenheimer calculate megatonnage.
Watch owners likely press that chronograph button but a few times when the watch arrives new, and soon jam-up the escapement. After getting it fixed (again), they leave it alone forever.  A 21 jewel mechanical watch is a lovely and revered piece of hand craft, which like a bicycle enjoys veneration as an elegant, if "Way-Cool" analog gizmo. But for most, analog has been eclipsed by more efficient motorized/digital technologies.  I have one. (...A mechanical watch that is) -- But I have many more bicycles, and I love them all more or less equally. Within the gestalt of a beautiful thing, does the aesthetic matter much to it's long term appeal?, or does veneration bond at birth?

Cycling, In spite of Netflix's docuseries-veneration, remains an unpopular sport in the U.S..  Bicycling is perhaps never going to edge out golf nor nascar on your watch-list.  Although in fairness, the famed Madison Square Garden was purpose built as a Bicycle race track, and for The Bicycle Circus -- true story.
Americans are more likely to watch soccer (eew!), than they are to binge-watch the Tour de France.  There are literally tens of thousands of bike races which will never be seen, filmed, nor televised.  The "Grand Tours" get marginalized air play on "The Ocho", Or some other obscure "Outside Channel", if at all. (And in fairness, this is not because they are boring events, nor because they lack the je ne sais quoi of nascar).  Cyclists can turn right and turn left too... in the same race! -- And cyclists..., (they) shift their gears all by themselves, even today. They ride margins of centimeters, not feet or yards.  Their slip-stream is way cool to witness, actually, terrifying!


A J. Laverack's Aston Martin Bike is just as frightening, because it is elitist, gorgeous, and a poser icon, like a functional Guido-chain.. Something to be seen with, and not ridden.
Bicycles are now basically Collector's Items, with insane prices, and complications which defy logic.  The fact that they commemorate anything but a birthday, is every bit as bizarre as what brands align with them for street cred..
​
BUT, as far as momentum in sports-washing goes -- The Arabs are doing a bang-up job of authenticating themselves using cyclists, and cycling brands, in addition to stupid expensive wristwatches.  As disinterested fossil predation desecrates the graves of cycling legend, deep pockets exhume cycling's hard fought and sweaty authenticity to fill garage museums.

Flipping through Esquire's Thirty-some pages of mechanical watch ads this weekend -- A habit best beset upon a toilet -- Many Haut Horologers stroke ancient bejeweled  movements, deployment clasps, and beguiling skeletal case-backs over 18 pages of iconic watch ad's. Today's wealthy near-thirty-somethings try to crack their cliche-waspy exclusivity by dumping 20-30k on a tiny mechanical heartbeat for their wrist.  This bejeweled VIP wrist-band is proudly flaunted during the work week, and happy-hour -- A counterpoint to the rolled up sleeve flashing "full-sleeve" at Sunday Brunch.  Along the work-a-week's velvet ropes, roll a few stainless Submariners, e.g. The preferred wristband for club entry.
In Esquire, and often Vanity Fair,  (If you can still find a human written article wedged in the margins; Beside Tacky Cologne, Sleep Gadgets, Ab-flexors & $1200. Jeans), you may yet find the advice to become a man -- Provided you can follow instructions.  Readers will occasionally discover The tangential applique of iconic objets d' arte, in Horology to ignite nostalgic credibility.
In our fakest of  worlds, notable analog junk shapes our fleeting self-worth. Just as borrowing a brand's cult appeal makes blasé' homogeneity appear interesting, (if authentic) -- Wearing a tacky chronograph has become authenticity de rigeur.  Pretty periodicals promise droves of $Pateks.,  $Brietlings., occasional $Deus'., even a $VintageScout., to qualify in societal-man-scape. It is always lovely to possess a touch of cool-ass shit. Every fare of cool analog'ish stuff, could perhaps help one grope the braille of our fake world.  You can be sure an authentic Rolex will ink the litmus for Wasp-i-ness.  This began eons ago, and will continue ashes to ashes.
As it turns out, authenticity is fewer and farther between, than expected; And many will in fact need to pay for theirs. 
​
So it's no surprise, that You can now acquire an Aston Martin, Ferrari, Lamborghini or Porsche branded Bicycle, far cheaper than the Automobile.  This is nothing new.  [ I'll wait for the estate sale. By that time the value, and the cost will have tumbled.] ...So it is curious though, that within the same quarter, competing periodicals would witness a fervent up-tick in bicycle sports-washing.  Presently the J. Laverack Aston Martin Bicycle, leads the cost race,  followed by the Colnago Anniversary bike... But their new ad copy,  didn't directly try to sell me anything; just a logo, and a man posing with his bike.  This got me thinking about the 42 watch ads in one magazine, and what was wrong with me for not owning any of them. Like Bubble-gum flavored Juul vape pens... any iconic brand needs to work a touch harder, and earlier, tossing candy at "the cool kids". Any trust-funder who didn't dilate an ivy-league cervix, can leverage a bike or a wristwatch to get their name on the board.  The same kids will need to pony big-time dinero to purchase a Colnago Steelnovo Ltd. at roughly $22,000.  Considering the Ninety Year Old Iconoclast (Ernesto) built bikes for 70 plus years, and alas sold his company in 2020, without selling his soul -- Nearly anything he has touched, or bearing his name is now Gold.

As it turns out, authenticity is fewer and farther between, than expected. And many will in fact need to buy theirs.  3D Printed Stainless steel lugs smoothly seamed with custom drawn Columbus Stainless tubes can only come in a limited batch of 70, to celebrate the retirement of the Italian Master's Bicycle Co.  With an Arab's injection of frivolous cash, Colnago can now, (perhaps) outspend capitalist American's, and expand innovative reach.  Reborn, (as it would appear), upon the fossil'd backs of fuel sales -- An Iconic bicycle is born to celebrate the elegant clean burning human endeavor of mastering the Two-Wheeler. ​

Ernesto Colnago, a man so authentic that he opted NOT to follow his family into farming, but to wrench bikes on 15 Paris to Roubaix races. He'd built hundreds of wheels for the pros, and eventually built an empire of beautiful bicycles. To chase a dream well into ones nineties, without a fancy watch, is the stuff of legend. Sweater-clad Ernesto has no jewels per se', no tacky status timepiece, and no gaudy gold chain. Ernesto Colnago made an occasional gem, and even a few bikes of gold, but most importantly, he made whatever he'd dreamt of.

Colnago bikes would effect a revolution in European Bike making, pushing ever deeper into unique methods, wacky paint-jobs, and elaborate pantographs. Ernesto pioneered Carbon frame-building, disc-brakes. And many more examples came to life as exotic chrome lugged elaborations, with silly decals, and hand painted pin-striping. The Italian Masters (largely driven by Colnago) would force American bicycle makers in the 70's to match their innovation, or to push back with affordable, quiet "Ford-Like" ordinariness.

​As such, Trek Bicycle was born in a barn to deliver essentially the new lightweight, yet boring Schwinn. The counterpoint to flamboyant Italians, but a notch above Schwinn's sputtering out, against Murray, AMF, and Huffy (AKA, Cheap-Shit), Trek peddled plain colored, simple, and somewhat lightweight ten-speeds. And forty years hence, perhaps jumped the shark.

More often tacky Italian steel bicycles became synonymous with Colnago.  But  for his entire adult life, Ernesto brought Milan runway models down the paths, and cols of Europe and America.  Interestingly Colnago never stopped making bikes exactly the same way -- With passion.  By adhering tubes into cast lugs, Ernesto, a craftsman, and a huge proponent of cycling equity, won the Tour De France yet again, under the ridership of Tadej Pogacar.  Arguably the finest modern cyclist, Tadej handed Ernesto more than one major race before Ernesto chose to sell his namesake to Chimera Investments, from the UAE.  As the sun sets over the rolling hills of Cambiago, near Milan, Ernesto Colnago becomes a contented 90+ retiree, and also perhaps the most authentic and impassioned practitioner of modern bicycle craft ever.  Within Colnago's original factory beats the heart of perhaps the most renowned and dedicated advocate for Cycling.    So it is not surprising that when an Fossil meets a fossil-fuel Driven Arab firm, they are buying into brilliant moxie. Chimera had to act fast, and raise the ante, to beat out French fashion Agglomerate LVMH [Louis Vuitton Moet Hennessy SA] from pocketing another exceptional brand. What will remain to be discovered is IF the Arab firms choose to keep up the good work, or rather Trek-ify a "Rolex" brand built upon dreams, integrity, and grit -- to spin it off as vanilla Ford-ish quartz-driven throttle-bikes.

Before he sold his company mid-pandemic, Ernesto shared colorful comments about the big three 'Poser' Bicycle brands, noting their lack of substance, and (of course) "earnestness". "That California Brand", he'd accuse of chasing dollars, betraying buyers with misleading marketing, and cheap Asian products which fail.  He'd admired authenticity more than any character trait. Ernesto admired Tough and honest riders like Sagan. Sentimentally, and perhaps because Ernesto Colnago could smell bullshit clear across the ocean, He maintained as much control over his brand until, as patriarch, he alas let his baby go. The same year of the sale, Ernesto  watched Tadej Pogacar win the Tour De France aboard a Colnago. He repeated that this year. Today, (as in right now) a consumer can still buy Colnago's most venerated and perhaps iconic bicycle exactly as it has existed since the early 80's.  It is the Colnago Master, it is authentic, it is brand-spanking-new, It is retro, it is made of Italian steel.
If ridden properly, the Colnago Master says more about a man than any Rolex ever will...
​But then again... a Rolex Submariner is still rather cool,  (except perhaps not at brunch).

'Decivility' is what you get when you remove the curbs which demand so-called normalcy.
In Bowling (when the gutter is sealed off), you can roll the ball down the alley any way you wish, and hit some pins.  On the highway the rumble strip reminds drivers to put the phone down, just before rolling a half ton of sheet-metal into a ditch.  In restaurants and libraries, other citizens used to police civility, tranquility, manners, and decorum.
We No Longer Do That.
In the 1984 film "Ghost Busters", the surface streets move selfish and angry hustle & bustle atop the crust of terrestrial "normalcy" -- Beneath it...,  an underworld of suppressed slimy evil. A subterranean soup of mean, and nasty ghosts. Born from the sewers of this comedy, we'd learn about a 'Gatekeeper' of evil, (Sigourney Weaver) a 'Key-Master' (Rick Moranis) and some sodom-like underworld called Gozer, where a battery of evil seeps into our Laissez-faire life. Sigourney Weaver (sexy and demonic counterpoint to stereotypical red-devil evil), gyrates seductively above feeble humanity, poised to usher through a portal, humanity's ruin. Why?  because of humanity's mismanaged hubris. 
Anyway, Don't bother with the plotless sequels, because they are embarrassing and stupid.  This Original and campy talisman is an accurate prognostication of our modern decay. It is important to credit science-fiction for some, if not all of our most inventive plots, and modern creations, from the flip-phone, (Star Trek) to the personal watercraft & Jetpack, (James Bond) and from the iPad, A.I., & face-time, (2001 a Space Odyssey) -- Alas robots, Laser-beams, and vaccinations.  It is  also possible that quantum leaps in thinking, such as theories on relativity, and black holes, shape the path of many subsequent movements and revelations, and stagnate other processes ...Meaning that once we invent a magnificent thing... [Kurusawa] everyone jumps on that, to knock it off. [Thanks Quentin Tarantino]. Down this path we get newer and better versions, of the same old thing; but also dead-ends, and writers block. In the aura of refining something super cool, we often stop inventing new shit.
In Film, we stop writing new screenplays, preferring to make shitty sequels.  We become complacently, smugly content with our surety that we have done it all, occluded by just how cool that one gadget/film was.   It is likely that people's path (if linear) makes huge strides on the heels of momentous seemingly creative explosions, and then gets stumped a bit by glow of hubris.
If Idle Hands are The Devil's Workshop,        then why not print a ghost gun.

Beware of boredom, because: [boredom + the internet = bad outcomes]  A bad outfit, or wrong size shoe is the least of your concerns, especially when you can order a 3D printed firearm,  a bump-stock, or Bomb kit online.

As a system of thought, laissez-faire rests on the following axioms: "the individual is the basic unit in society, i.e., the standard of measurement in the social calculus; the individual has a natural right to freedom, if constant contentment; and the physical order of nature is a harmonious and self-regulating system, ad infinitum. If this sounds like the southern confederacy, well...White privilege was their thang.   I would argue that our chaotic timeline, which seems to ignore the present (as if the past will never exist) without us special individuals, is similar smugness. Hubris blinds us to consideration of how we may be regarded by the paths we choose, and just how we are steering history off the roadway. 

As all great fictions go, by the time the present catches up with the characters, its too fucking late.

Historians make terrible prophets, while some sporadic inventors may change our evolutionary path. As that goes -- With the exception of dictators, and criminals... People are fondly regarded in death, but barely (often badly) regarded in life. Throughout history, people at large simply didn't regard themselves quite as highly as they do today.  Presently, (certainly Americans) regard themselves as "Trust-Funders" ...sovereign  inheritors of the earth. Laissez-faire: "The standard of measurement in the social calculus; the individual has a natural right to freedom, if constant contentment"
In Ghost Busters, once the evil was un-sealed, it's own rage, and grotesque machinations bred more and more of the same slimy fuckers. That is..., the lesson here shows how leaving something to fester breeds broader infection, even a darker colored ooze.  And of course as all great fictions go, by the time the present catches up with the characters, its too fucking late. Individualism, unchecked by social mores becomes a hot mess rather rapidly.
Nothing occurs for a sleepy century, and then a century devolves in days.  Ghosts and ghouls come out of the wood-work, and they become normalized whilst we descend into darkness.  The Nazi's have their scape-goats, and American's have theirs.  Despicable, Dark, and Orange.

By this measure it would seem that just as sci-fi, invents all sorts of creative gadgets, and tools which become the tapestry of  modern convenience, from the Microwave to Airconditioning to a 3-D Printer... Catalyzing events like the death of an Arch Duke,  a Temple bombing, or the Death of a healthcare Exec., can and do change people, and thereby change our history. A dark-age set-back, in spite of our brilliant inventions often begins with clever boredom, feeling stuck,  and bad news.  Action, good or bad feels progressive. Curiously, during war-time lavish war inventions spike creativity -- Sadly most of these are destructive, with little pause afforded as antidote to our unwinding creative surge. Sounds like chaos? Or, simply because we are so wrapped up in moving our SUV's through time,  we don't consider it all occurring. The train we ride goes unnoticed beneath us as it passes through the smoldering landscape,  churning relative to the self merely as a lesson in quantum mechanics. Historically, a singular event which breaks the seal on congenial human social order such as a knee on a neck,  school shootings, assassinations, plagues, wars, invasions, and mass exile, had been few and far enough between as to be digestible.  Now these rush at us like a fourth season, 3-D,  dumb-shit cop show. Sequel after sequel of numbing horror. And when that's beaten to death, we birth a prequel. Tragedy, and disasters bend space-time of social order, so we get numb and dumb, rather than outraged.  In fact, so fucking many of these shitty events occur nowadays that we always under-react, when the next catastrophe hits.  Meanwhile beneath the surface of America's buildings & roads, a bubbling ooze warms the earth's crust, slime pressing upwards through grates to infect everyone.  This is the tipping point -- Our inflection point; and throughout history, fascinating writers and orators have told the same story while it unfolded.  While religions double down in orthodoxy. Not sage, nor seer, but practical theological observers, and social scientists, flag what is happening today as if skirting the back-side of some sleazy strip club... on the way to temple. Past this slippery slope, bumping down the back steps, sexy awfulness gains allegiants, without a way back. On the backside, taking any action feels good. The ride feels faster, freer, and easier, because we are unbound by anxiety, obligation, and peer pressure to conform. Everything is going to be just fine, right?

It used to be that removing the stones from parks and roads in and around the Gaza border, suppressed the temptation to toss one, escalating putative retaliation. Yet, ever inventive, and unbridled -- (we clever monkeys), can simply order some more rocks online.
Or perhaps 3D print some... Now Gaza is a wasteland.

Today's mail delivered pause to more than one CEO, or power broker for  imminent policy changes, and egregious profit taking. And so it comes to this.
​
There is no fiscal calculus which forgives Trump voters from voting for him. (Although they may claim messianic surety, The Dolt as protector from the "Deep State") The actual singular enrichment one can receive from a vulgar Narcissist nit-wit is to wallow in their shade, like a supplicant dog. Regardless of what has been said of revenge politics, here will come the imminent pile-on of regretful voters. ("Don't blame me I voted for X") They've only picked Mr. Despicable to normalize the privilege of behaving badly.  Soon these clever supplicants will lose their Healthcare, Disability, V.A. hospitals, Mental health care, Medicare, Medicaid, Vitamin Fortified Sugared cereal, Vaccinations, Hot-Pockets, Insulin, Baby Formula, Safe Drugs, Organics, Clean water, Breathable air, and Cheap Gas... All in exchange for being able to treat each-other like shit without civilized people holding them to account.  The ONLY reason anyone really voted for Trump is to grant themselves impunity -- The license to be base without someone 'Woke' calling them out.
What then happens when the wimpy ones seek revenge against their bully? A fundamental part of that script is writ where bad guys look like bad guys, adorned with all sorts of belligerent affect, the smell, the chewed fingernails, and even the hardened gizz of a serial 'criminal'.  ... But what to make of the quiet ones; The clean-cut killers?

At Thanksgiving, my smug-fuck legal clerk nephew murmured under his paralytic bourbon stupor that, "Trump Only won because (stupid) Democrats persecuted him..." "...They should have left him alone; He'd have gone away", he mumbled.  This trope resuscitated since (well) forever about and by every single privileged angry white-man-baby, every school shooter, every Capital Storm-trooper, every Rifle-toting Militia member, every racist temple shooter, every lunatic bomber,  wannabe gubernatorial kidnapper, and every secessionist back & before Harrison left office -- is bogus. Media does this fictive gift wrap to invent understanding of american sociopaths, and lunatics who act very very badly, because we need to fit some Hollywood mold, while some (nay most) secretly envy their freedom.
​America's 'construct' packages 'crazy' as if everything had some educated if reasonable cause. The nature of psychotherapy seeks to "understand" by packaging every behavioral outcome. And... as David Brooks would have you understand Insecure LAME-ASS threatened white privilege has been crowded out by happy free-love confident 'woke' young people, without body shame, or shame whatsoever... who conveniently don't vote en-masse. Most angry white males, and nearly as many bitter females super-duper resent those without an axe to grind.  Today, if you cannot name someone ("fucking Obama") who'd prevented you from stardom, then you are definitely one of "them Liberals".
Two Months ago, at the Denver airport, a clutch of Confederates from Charlotte were awaiting their oversized golf clubs at the Carousel.  One of them in boisterous oratory, blaming Obama for how long they'd have to wait for their bags.  For real..., and two more golfers chimed in with assertions about how he was (still) running the current administration.  Yeesh!
Swimming upstream against inebriated rosy Man-taliation, comes the wimpy kid, in a sea of apathetic blue dots. In a fair-wage liberalism where everyone who wants a job has one, and everyone gets a medal for showing up; Where slackers get a 25% tip whether they perform or not; because their bosses want them off the books. We have squandered social mores (s'mores) and broken our shameless republic by outsourcing it to authoritarians'.  When the expectation to behave is gone -- Beware the silent minority who get fed up. 

"This week, all the innerwebs were ablaze with women celebrating just, "... how handsome that one new shooter guy is."  "I know right?" ...Well, it's not your grandfather's postal shooter -- If the Post office even survives government cuts. The archetype of going postal these days is the same despicable act, but (well) also handsome? (and buff). A cyclist with a strong jawline who'd exacted vengeance upon yet another greedy twat tyrant.
   If "Going Postal" now means handsome young liberal cyclists, exacting revenge against the One percenters... then we have piqued. This too is what they voted for.  The revolution began with the first blundered shot, and Trump won just because someone missed his head, then hold steady liberal america. If today the Kids rollin' around on e-bikes are practiced shots out for blood, Then we are going to truly take the gloves off well through 2030. Whoever the unremarkable suspect to take the rap for this and whatever boring manner they are apprehended -- there will be far stranger (if telling) remarks which frame him as noteworthy; "He ruined his whole life", "He Fulfilled his destiny", "He got his man", "Thank you", "He's Awful", "Despicable", "He is my hero", "This is what he wanted to do." The shooter simply wanted him dead, and likely regrets "having to take care of that", for everyone else, "...Your welcome".
To die for something, or in the least to spend one's natural life in prison, for such a cause is noteworthy in the vacuum of social apathy today. Everyone piles on after the event occurs, but very few work to change it's trajectory.  Anyway, with or without internet fans, the die is now struck for many more so called handsome assassin's to skulk out of the shadows, and settle a grievance with a corrupt collapsing system -- And this one,  is also not Obama's fault.

Of course a few individuals are not the cause of Trumpism, rather the credibility of elite meritocracy has collapsed public confidence in "The System". 
                                 We are the Minority and Not At All Sexy
"Today, 59 percent of Americans believe that our country is in decline, 69 percent believe that the “political and economic elite don’t care about hard-working people,” 63 percent think experts don’t understand their lives, and 66 percent believe that America “needs a strong leader to take the country back from the rich and powerful.” In short, under the leadership of our current meritocratic class, trust in institutions has plummeted to the point where, three times since 2016, a large mass of voters has shoved a big middle finger in the elites’ faces by voting for Donald Trump."   (How the Ivy League Broke America) by David Brooks

         We've  passed an elephant through the eye
​                        of a needle, Now what?

Epictetus was Born into slavery at Hierapolis, present-day Pamukkale, in western Turkey) Epictetus lived in Rome until his banishment. He travelled to Nicopolis in northwestern Greece, where he spent the rest of his life. To Epictetus, all external events are beyond our control; he argued that people should accept whatever happens calmly and dispassionately. But that, all individuals are responsible for their own actions.  I'm ready to  give up and accept what I have neither the power, nor the agency to change, but this Stoic approach does leave the lunatics to run the asylum.  So is stoicism quite irresponsible, Knowing that Trumpists intend to tear down our fragile republic?  What can I do, and who should I blame? Well, I have no axe to grind, and no dog in this fight -- But I'll blame the internet.

We'd have to give a special nod to a very powerful woman who was strained through the elite pachinko machine.  RBG. A Lovely, inspirational intellectual, who broke the glass ceiling out-lived her own usefulness, all but guaranteeing that the Mad Men in charge would remain there.   She could have, afforded democrats the opportunity to appoint her replacement, and we'd have stood a fighting chance to keep things in check. But how long until RBG version 2 will be ready?  How long until Obama v2? The new system gives birth to and it raises celebrity replacements far faster than merit-based matriculants. Losing in the new economy is all but guaranteed when credentials need only be pretty, popular, or outlandish. And Democratic candidates take time, and education to cultivate.
​ The Internet is a factory farm, which makes celebrities far faster than qualified Democrats. Alas Biden also stuck it out far too long, and without a viable "Popular" candidate he all but guaranteed Trump's ascendence.  Merrick Garland should of course have indicted Trump, rather than pushing an 'Adult in the Room' eloquence. But all of the missteps matter nada.  Regardless of how the balls drop, we wont have have the opportunity to pick them back up, as we spiral down, and backwards into darkness. When a neighbor mentions that AI will replace you... as if vacation is imminent -- they've missed the mark.  The internet has already replaced you.  You are irrelevant in the new economy. Your virtual self is winning, sexy, and absurd, but the tangible you is now irrelevant. You are a Minority now, and they are keeping a list. Certainly all of those nameless "undecided's" didn't just decide to make up the electoral difference. And... Certainly it's not RBG, or Garland's fault that Trump is choosing to destroy America with his Boy-Toy Elon.  The Women, and the Minorities decided to bankrupt our country, by sorting for popularity rather than for skill.  But before we pull our rust-bucket motorhome into the out-lot of a Mod Dark Age  --We should think not about how, but why? Why do women not want a women leader? Why do minorities want a self avowed racist? Why Do the majority of the disadvantaged electorate want a criminally insane morally bankrupt monster to raise their children, taxes, and to demolish social welfare programs? Why do Americans want to go backwards to an era with less freedom, less opportunity, and less social security? Because Americans want easy access to the system which has traditionally excluded them. 
​                                             Because the internet said so.

The internet which connects us lightening fast,  just prior to segregating us, and silo'ing us, is to blame.  In fact if you'd lived without it, you wouldn't even know to be sickened with anxiety, and rage.  In this virtual world we can reinvent ourselves on a whim. We can get rich in our pajamas by exploiting obese charm, while wearing face-cream. We can gain status by pretending to matter, rather than  passing any test.  When someone says something hurtful, we merely bump from one pretend social circle to the next, while trolls do them in.  Filtering for and promoting the popular kids by charisma, over the ashes of a destroyed meritocracy.  Incoming freshmen game the old system, reshaping the way meritocracy once operated into 'LIKES'. By paying for and getting paid to be popular, or beautiful we shed the skin of performative advancement.  NOT for substantive intelligence or performance, but promotion by popularity. This is the new way. And thinkers are reportedly the minority. Your degree became far less valuable even a week ago. Your social currency cancels debts toward web ascendency. Distrust in the old system runs parallel to an express lane promise of get rich quick. This scheme seems accessible on the innerwebs. Why struggle to make it into that AP program, when you can bask in the glow of your web-cam, eating cereal for a living. Bloggers replace Pundits. Podcasters replace a Media empire. This kinetic gravity game allows meteoric ascendency, which falls just as quickly like pachinko balls through a series of apparently random filters to settle and rust. The odds are still astronomical to win the lottery, but the investment is appallingly cheap.  The choice is simple... Spend a few bucks on a Ring-light, WiFi, and Makeup... or try to squeeze through a convoluted racist ivy league bendy straw. Those who choose neither, should have voted Democratic, as they will soon discover.  We have successfully passed an elephant through the eye of a needle, Now what?   We have all settled along the bottom, doing nothing to better our chances, not because we are stoics, but because we are beaten.  Trump merely wants to break the same system which long excluded him, and the scorched earth he leaves behind won't require repair, because he will be dead by then.  The government exodus has begun, because qualified people can't swim up this filthy stream. In fairness, even Epictetus moved twice from his home and lived in peace in exile. Stoic Exile, is a sort of a cop-out, or perhaps a natural coping mechanism against defeatism.
                              Or perhaps Stoicism is Defeatism.
Were a tree to fall in the forest and a webcam not witness it's falling, Then it would remain standing. Were the internet not to host offensive idiots, they would cease to exist. Every Bully would be mute without social media, because the balance bends toward awful.
Very smart people are his highness' sworn enemy, and they are leaving in droves.  Trump cannot stand not being the smartest man in the room, or certainly the most annoying -- So his cabinet will be made up of marshmallows, and Wonder-Bread -- Soft & Tasty but devoid of substance.
I wonder what will happen when even Trump loyalists stop showing up for work.  We are all settling to the bottom of a huge pachinko machine built from random chaos and silicon. We are puddling into some absurd fossil record of our disposable, single serving one-nighters. Today 12 hours in the socials feels like a lifetime, the historic record written over by the day.
As Assholes ascend the web, their shit settles in the fish bowl, cementing  sedimentary  histories of our own collapse.
                           Democrats are a Quiet Stoic Minority

 SHHH...! They are listening. They are amongst us. They've Betrayed you.
You'd thought that you were amongst friends, but they (your neighbors) were faking it.  They kept quiet when you'd walked your dog -- and prayed with them for a merciful leader. You'd misjudged your girlfriends, and those from your Book-Club. But everyone loves the elephants, and everyone is heading to the circus. To be clear... what has occurred is NOT about Politics, this is "The Greatest Show On Earth", A Reality-Show way way down below deck of a ship which sank long ago. This is not a nightmare from which you will awaken.  This is a prolonged collapse.  For centuries, we've been scrubbing these decks and wringing a filthy rag, but the water in our bucket is gray.  Relax, because the circus is coming and the elephants will keep busy.  They will raise the tents, while the Asses weed the pasture, Clever Elephants will balance on a barrel, and enjoy the finest delicacies, and the softest beds.  The country-folk will be entertained to death. Everyone (but you) will assemble beneath the BIG-Top. The quiet ones amongst us having rooted for the strong-man, civic leaders have taken their seats. But D.T. Barnum is having his trained monkeys bar the doors, and they will soon be dousing all of the tents with kerosene -- "It will be Brilliant!, beautifully bright,  with big crowds, the biggest crowds ever!, I mean really big." "It will be the greatest Show Ever." We will all have a ring-side seat while it burns to the ground.
                              "...One nation under God, Indivisible..."

Shhh!, Stay home, and let them go. It's all for them. Your neighbors have already left.  America has been radicalized.  They are amongst us, they were the weak ones, but they've bought the farm.  Oh, Come on man, how bad can it be?  You felt assured that your world was full of reasonable adults - But the Age Of Reason was long gone before your ticked the box. That person who you've sene everyday at the doggie park, does not give a fuck. Your neighbor's political calculus tilted as you'd lamented another egregious slur in the media. Slander, and fast talk our ring-leader -- "Step Right Up" "Step Right UP". Apparently, they didn't see it that way, the shift, the slide. -- And you didn't see them change.  But they have. Everything has changed, and it's going to be really bad.
       America has changed fundamentally, and 'they' don't know the damage they've done.
The water in this bucket has always run red. They are of course wrong -- But it's far too late for blame.  Unfortunately, it is simply not mathematically possible that these "reasonable" people among you, didn't have other plans. That those who you'd considered "smart" would check the other box.  The math doesn't lie, and the waves are not blue.
            Relax now, reflect today on all that you have taken for granted.
This is NOT a nightmare which you will awaken from.  America is a faded, and tattered fantasy. A circus is coming to town, as it was foretold. The darkness enters earlier by the day. all the posters were painted and pasted to lure you in.  Mornings will be darker, and the evenings under a cloud veil dampen the leaves, bringing chilly air. Bitter frost bites fingers and toes. It will be cold soon, but Hey!, it's OKAY because your favorite program is on every day, and they've signed for four more full seasons. The Circus has something for everyone. We will have clowns and strong-men, acrobats, and wild animals. They will build a Big-Top with space for every debaucherous layman, priest, craftsman and billionaire in town. Under the Big Top, they will saw the lady in half, and make the dollar disappear, but not bring them back. They will erect new statues of themselves, and remove veneration of a better time. The Ticket price was nothing. Everyone is welcome to the grand reopening of Mount Rushmore. Believe it.

               The people have spoken.

 The numbers prove a strange & poorly guarded secret:
The Rich wanted a handout, Our minorities chose a Racist, Attorneys selected lawlessness, The weak voted for a Dictator, ​Dictators are granted absolution, The poor want to have less, Rural America wants a cage match, The Working class want to be broken,  Conservatives voted to raise taxes, The Elderly relish insecurity, Republicans adore chaos, And the ladies would prefer a rapist.

         In the land of the free, nearly everyone got exactly what they'd asked for.

This is the day, your life will surely change. Relax now, reflect today on all that you have taken for granted.  Enjoy a few short weeks while the train moves steadily toward your quiet comfort. If you survive the next four seasons, You may come to remember this quiet moment as one of your best. Time will slow,  the edges will soften and filth will blur the lines that drew our free republic. How you come to remember today, will show only how ashamed you are of the country you thought you once knew. What seems like today's chaos, will fade focus upon just how long things seemed comfortable, normal, even peaceful, in the "before times". Just as in any dystopian Sci-Fi, the scene will open with laughing and playfulness, as joy and hope are ground slowly into sand. Verdant days amidst the solace of nature,  birds discussing the changing season, while trees sway and shimmer by a warm breeze. Riparian respite along a river where trout shimmer beneath copper gold glittering flow. Dark filth, and pollutants will come for them. "America The Beautiful" will unravel.  Lesson One: Many amongst you, even your friends are NOT on "our side", "our side" of history. They will later lie, because facts no longer matter. They will later change their vote, pretending their hands were clean.  Today however, It is crucial that you keep these accusations to yourself, because these same people you'd trusted will expose you.  Of course, You may not immediately be shipped off to interment camps, but you will be identified. You will see the change. You will be alone for a long while, and then slowly people will come to grips with their mistake.
    You are squarely in the minority, and THAT! my plush friend, is the rub
   

Hush!... Hushhh...  Nothing you say today matters more than the practice of remembering how it once was --How you'd thought it was.  Hold fast to your oral traditions, perhaps you can share them later.  But the books will  change, because history is written by those in power. Surviving record will reflect a gleaming tower of morality, and perfection.  A perfect Historic correction will destroy everyone with a conscience. The times they are a changing, and this river will cut right through your town dislodging good homes, separating families from their possessions, and one-another. "Democracy" is drowning it's citizens beneath collapsing hedonism. What remains will be unrecognizable, because people will forget.
  They have it coming to them,  it's going to be really big.
A Greek Tragedy is in the works, and Caesar, A Boy King, is at last going to watch it all burn. The Flood will tumble survivors like shiny stones into a backwater  -- Grey water, which once ran clear and clean, will breed new pestilence.  And in the chaos will come subversion, unchecked crime, and reprisal.  In the new world the wealth gap will broaden, and we will have to choose who we rescue, who to share meals with.  There will NOT be enough to go around. The so called system will break down. We will again want for things,. essential things, and novelties like honesty, and integrity, fairness, and shame.
  But you will NOT have to ask yourself, "What Have I done" You will have no survivor's guilt.
​

         "Nobody ever lost a dime underestimating the American Public" 
                                                  -H.L. Mencken

Learning how to game the system has always been the real American Grit.  Did you forget that this scrappy nation was built upon resourcefulness, religion, and resentment for power?  We are a diverse collection of DIY moving backwards through time. We will now be tested to provide much of what we once had once taken for granted.  Clean water, air, food, justice... Something Wicked This Way Comes, and only last week they were putting up the posters.  Tomorrow they will begin to set-up the tents, and the ring-side seats will be ablaze with suffering animals, and filth. It will be morality's biggest test to not slip beneath it's torrent. To not peek under the tent.  You are an outlier, you are exposed, and you are losing. "Nobody ever lost a dime underestimating the American Public" -- But wealth is not measured in gold. America is broken. America is bankrupt. This is where being the 'only adult in the room' got you, democracy is dead, but you were lucky enough  to see the train leave the station.
     There is a sucker born every minute, and you just happened to be walking by the tent.
Your friends and relatives have already been radicalized. This is the momentum of a wicked wave which is coming for everyone. Even the idiots who'd asked for this will be ashamed. They too will live long enough to regret lifting the flap, and ticking that red box.  We will all live long enough to regret peeking under the tent.   Everyone, except  america's showman D.T. Barnum.
                 America Is A Sucker.

J: ..."Hey!, You Guys have any interest in doing this Italy group ride near Lake Como this year?, It's linked here." 
M: "Oh, I'm totally down for that ride, Count me in."
P:   "I only have Leadville on my Calendar, so except for that, I'm available."
M: "I'd like to make a stop in Bergamo, for a night or Two, a few Factory tours, also let's hit the Stelvio."
P:  "OK, Cool I'm totally in for that trip."
C:  "Stelvio, For Sure, I have nothing on my calendar. The Stelvio is probably the one climb I most want to ride in the whole world."
M: "I'm absolutely game to do it too, but bear in mind that cyclists have to contend with 911's and GP Bikes. 
P: "OK, for sure, But they have a Stelvio "Bike-Day" , where it's closed except for bikes".
M: "Perfect, Although that ride would be a bit like the first climb on the Triple Bypass., A glut of crowded old cyclists, Peeling the wheat from the chafe."
​
J: "Yep, Maybe we do a sanctioned ride, like the Eroica, or the Santini Stelvio ride."

C: "I might rather take my chances with super cars, and motos, than a ton of cyclists.  I hate cyclists. 
P: "Agreed!, I think that would suck."
​
C: "Cyclists are assholes."

P: "Dickheads for sure"

M: W...Wa, Wait... I'm a cyclist, right?

J: "You are a cyclist?"

​P: "Assholes"

Relax! this is not a quiz where any opinion rendered would shake the tenet that in fact Cyclists fit perfectly into the skin-suit of "Asshole" So, why has that skinny dude jacked on Scratch, Testosterone, and Retro-Grouch kit-opinions become the high-school sporto you'd most feared back when? Mean wheelmen have seemingly joined some Kavanaugh Frat, and now police your bike lane, spouting unyielding "Rules" to the lay public.
     What is it about Lycra, which transforms ordinary humble men into
                          "The Boys"? 
​      (A fictive dark anti-super hero series where bad motive runs deep)

The beauty of a group text among friends which can bring real cyclists together for a vacation trip to Lake Como, is that there are literally NO ASSHOLES on bikes in Italy, (...unless mr. underpants decides to leave his basement hole that week). 
                                            Are cyclists really Assholes?
Are all anti-hero cycling Assholes part of the new normal; shaming the sanctuary of our Beautiful Sport with middle fingers, and expletives?  Why are cyclists so easily type-cast as dickheads?, Jag-offs?, & Assholes? Is "Asshole" the end game of a life-long passion for the bicycle?  We will have a look at all of this.
        This crappy blog holds a shallow dive into the ethos of what you may have inadvertently become, when you get too snug into that padded jumper. 
​      Here is to hoping that you and others can find a way out of  your 'assholedom'.

Velominati Rule Number [42]:, (from "The Rules") A bike race shall never be preceded with a swim and/or followed by a run.
"...If it’s preceded with a swim and/or followed by a run, it is not called a bike race, it is called duathlon or a triathlon. Neither of which is a bike race. Also keep in mind that one should only swim in order to prevent drowning, and should only run if being chased. And even then, one should only run fast enough to prevent capture."

What we all know to be true, is that when most dudes fueled with carbohydrates, caffeine, & testosterone, straddle the wheel... then everyone up ahead or left behind is a "fucking asshole".  That everyone who rides a bike is an asshole is certainly not true.  But, the skeleton of an asshole tends to dress itself in lycra, and then the knit gloves come off. Asshole is to cyclists as grime to a chain. What then happens biologically turning mild-mannered accountants, and real-estate brokers into raging assholes upon bike.  What photosynthesis bewitches  lycra as it is exposed to daylight?  Is it the fate of every cyclist to aspire to rage against the humble commuter, or to berate the fixie gangs? Does society assign special powers to Alpha-Male Cyclists to police their roads, and trails? Is it inevitable that the deeper you go -- the deeper you get? Will they even recognize their transformation from mere mortal to double-douche-bag?
Will they recognize the metabolic changes from Trainer milk-toast to Dark-Prince of Protein Powder?
Once indoctrinated, can anyone even leave the (asshole) cult? What can we learn from their metamorphosis from Nice Guy with a bike, into evil uber-mensch? Is there black magic in the Velominati Rules, which predict a snarky bad outcome... an end-game?
        Are we all doomed?, or just some with a genetic marker for it?

"...And he used to be so sweet and kind", (Great Guy Really), "and then he started scorning everyone for Half-wheeling".  "He just went mad with demands to pull longer", and to "Harden the Fuck Up". The venom is most assuredly born of these modern times.  It is a step-child of our modern condition to blame everyone for dumb-shit beyond our control. It is because we feel out of control.  It is a psychic break-down, to go from gleeful kid coasting down-hill on a glittery banana-seat to dark lord in a banana-hammock donning a lycra onesie.   First, It is fair to mention that even if a cyclist were to hang-up the tire sealant and their Helmet -- And then ride only in one's pain-cave, that they will still be an asshole, and then perhaps even more people will become infected. This is because 'ass-holery' is a projection every bit as portable and hideous Indoors as it is Out in nature.  In fact, it's likely that the word "Asshole-Cyclist" was forged and hardened in the crucible of internet cycling.  ...And Internet cycling is (of course) NOT Cycling, but it still makes otherwise cool people, look rather bad.  Behaving badly is now the job of some wasteful spin-off from the Velominati. 
The hardened Asshole is likely within you, real, and inevitable, IF:
1. Cycling struck you at a later age, (let's say 31) and the Bicycle became your Mid-life convertible sport's car. (Now perhaps you own several).
2. One is an Only-Child who flamed-out at Team-sports like Soccer, and Lacrosse, (in-spite of your parents coaching), you warmed that bench for years.
3. You are the individual who used to swear by 26" Mavic CrossMax, White Industries, & Ringle' on your GT Zaskar.
​4. You paid full price for any Troy-Lee jersey prior to 1998.
5. If Hydration Packs and Fannie Packs were both worn together, ever.
6. If You'd owned Green, Grey, or Orange Tioga Psycho Tires.
7. You wear Oakley's upside-down or backwards on the brim of your ball cap; Or even reversed protecting your Man-Mullet.
8. You have ever owned an Oldsmobile?
9. You get your protein from Durian, and Peas.
10. Your first bike came new with a gel saddle and 30-degree stem.
11. You Wear "100%" brand(ed) anything.

Relax! we can find you help with your affliction.  But re-education will only work when you recognize  that you've gone way too far. You can remain a cyclist, but perhaps you were actually meant to ride stationary and indoors on Zwift or Peloton, and NOT on the real tactile paved road. Afterall Zwift is where trolls go for exercise. You will still be a giant pain in everyone's ass there, but nobody will (literally) get hurt. There is help for you Online, and at your lame-o cafe or club-house.
BUT.., If  your version of a "Gravel Bike is a Down-country Yeti or Stump-jumper -- Then you are hopeless,  (just saying). Give up and go back to frisbee golf, or cut the mullet and wander down to pickleball, you can keep the Oakley's.
Most of the antics which cast the vote toward your being an actual (On-Bike) asshole come from your riding antics.  You are a relentless jag-off on the road spouting expletives, riding like a petulant child. Your man-throttle in one hand, and the other on Jolt-Cola and Twizzlers. You are perpetually angry, and you yell a lot. 
                                                         So, Perhaps try a bell.
Sure we all run the stop-signs and we all dis-obey signals, but at our own peril.  We share the same roads and rules as huge steel coffins, and if you are inconvenienced by a car, or another cyclist, then that is likely on you.  You are a 100% fuck-tard, because you believe that you are performing the lead role in some Mansplain Movie, where you are revealing "the rules" to the un-initiated.  And, of course, you believe that most rules do not apply to you.  The fact is that you will meet your match, and will soon simper like a babe, at the wreckage when it happens.   You may either recover well, or you will damage someone else -- And neither is alright. So slow the fuck down and make good decisions, but above all, live an let live. Ride by yourself and leave other's un-corrupted by your testicular man-rage.  The literal worst thing you can do, besides cause a crash, is to ruin the ride for another super amateur.
                         ... AND OH, STOP INVENTING COOL GUY HAND SIGNALS
The road and the bike lane are not your private driveway, and they need to be respected, and shared for this whole "bike thing" thing to work-out.  We all recall that one self-appointed 'King of Texas Cycling' and he came from that mystical skin-suit colonic-club called the Triathlon.  Running from others, and Swimming in frothy pools of conceded manhood.  He couldn't escape his own gravity, and had to Cheat to keep up his status.  And, even that d-Bag has not been forgiven for his Ass-holiness". When I finish the definitive book on cycling genus, and need an illustration for "Asshole-Cyclist" it's either you or that guy filling that plate. They say that a Fraternity is forever, and anyway, you get to pick only one.  If you are already in the "A-Hole" club, then climb-aboard your basement  VR Rig, and remain there -- Lest you be outed, or worse... Ruin cycling for everyone.
                       Your crash will be your fault exclusively.
​

Is the angst killing you? Is the Thing you are worried about far worse than the actual Thing?  Are you tired of feeling tension throughout your neck, shoulders, back, and even your feet? Are you killing yourself over the inevitable outcome of something you cannot control for? Are you getting physically ill with anxiety?  Are you dying more quickly by the hour, because the news says this or that, and Polls may seem to indicate... Blah blah blah?

       “I don’t believe in apocalypse — until the apocalypse comes."
    "I think nothing is the end of the world until the end of the world.”
                                              -Barack Obama
​
Yep.  Me too.  So is there a coping mechanism which you've found that seems to quash some of the most loathsome symptoms of the ("What in the actual fuck") world you live in? For me, it's often nature. Birds, Trees, Verdant Woodlands, and Rivers, and such. Although lovely sightings of  Wild Turkeys, Red Fox, Hawks, Beaver, and even road-kill can take you briefly away from the abyss (for a moment) -- Alas, then it all comes flooding right back in. They are always in your rearview, or on your back,  in the form of assholes like Musk and Rogan, and abstract Trial Judges.  A good loud scream also helps a bit, or to pound on something.  Smashing stuff is a good solid release, but that too is short-lived, and makes most of us look and feel sort of stupid in hindsight.  So what can one do besides sedatives, and fictions?
                    MUST BE THE SEASON OF THE WITCH

Frankly I don't know, but when people talk about public speaking they relieve their stage-fright stress by imagining everyone naked.  I'd love to say that that would work, but not here, and not today.  This week even imagining your biggest enemies, being eviscerated, by a truck striking them at high-speed and then stretching their parts across a highway  doesn't bring brief relief. But if it did actually happen, That day would become my favorite holiday, after Halloween.
It is at this solid blank wall of your countenance that you've come to face several more demons.  Here we fear not just the thing, but the thing then grows new longer arms, larger claws, and sharper teeth, and it may soon devour you.  The new fear has become larger, more fierce, and far worse than the actual thing ever was. Well, almost, because the Orange Monster is fucking awful, and now so are many of your ex friends. 

As a kid, anyone watching Nightmare on Elm Street, brought home the real possibility that well after the film ended, a viewer would be visited by the (O.G. Scissor-hands), Freddie Kreuger.  The new fear of the original "FEAR"  becoming a portable specter, revisiting you at home.  (in your dreams).  The evil was bound to follow you everywhere, like a shameful guilt for having done a terrible thing.  The tell-tale heart of a fictional portrayal would be bound to revisit your conscience as you slept, if you could actually sleep.  "Don't Go To Sleep", became the tag-line.  I don't know if it was even warranted, but back then, at a younger age I could see some people believing in the "Nightmare". The new nightmare is very real, but it cannot last forever, can it?
In lieu of "Don't fall asleep",  "I think I can..." becomes a mantra for those who may wish to push back against a huge wave of fear, of what's to come.  But can you?

James Madison in “Federalist No. 55” reminds us that the “degree of depravity in mankind … requires a certain degree of … distrust”

Certainly there were people throughout history who'd felt far more real fear, and lived through far more real pain in challenging times -- But as mental anguish is indiscriminate,  what's about to happen next, can haunt a human hardcore. In particular if one doesn't have a "Plan B".  Adjusting on the fly, when your former and fake friends remind you daily of imminent fright, is not a strategy.  Certainly not a strategy which stems the tide of dread you may feel this season. At my polling place, I luckily don't have to see my monster's face, his signs, nor symbols. But this hideous monster does follow everyone, everywhere, via foot soldiers.
​Do you have a solid "Plan B?" 
Well nor do I. 

This NOT having a Plan-B, is exactly why our fears are so tough to cope with, and to squelch out.  It's like having a shit job, and no vacation planned.  In most scenarios we have an exit -- A back door.  We have a way through, which, even if daunting, like emigration, is a viable plan. Any plan, however difficult, brings some hope.  So maybe the THING is that you cannot imagine doing this horror-show political hate-speak  every day for the rest of your life. Perhaps you need a messiah.  Or perhaps you need to just go dancing? Maybe you need to just move away. Maybe you are looking ahead toward some sunny beach, or a verdant pasture to wrap yourself in.  Perhaps you need to have a plan that has nothing to do with news, or even leave the country.  Perhaps you need sanctuary, and something to look forward to. The truth is that you have no control over these outcomes, Except for one...  Death comes for everyone, and we cannot control for that. This notion could also free you. Your Monster may look like mine, All orange and creepy -- But mine is an elderly Man who will be dead soon, and I will live to see that happen. 
                                The only exit is through the gift shop.
​
When the whole world becomes untenable, then we can either sit around fretting, waiting for a messianic sea-change, run away, switch sides, or change perspective. The fact is that death and politics are out of our fucking control, and the control which you exert, is something you simply have no control over anyway.  When you come to accept this perspective, then you will free yourself from giving a fuck about outcomes you cannot control.  Because it's only your own ego which made you believe that you could control for elections, chaos, and death.  You cannot.  Halloween is a grand day to reflect upon mortality -- After all, the monsters may want you dead, but if you are like me, You want only one single Monster to be hit by a truck, and spread across the roadway; Preferably in the middle of Time's Square. In my bad dreams, I can generally kill the monsters. The beauty of this linear life, is that things change rapidly, and even monsters expire.  Like most of your dreadful fears, your worst monster has a finite shelf-life. I plan to live long enough to see my monster die. If you simply do not give a fuck, then the Monsters will disappear, and scary movies are just not that scary anymore.
​
...Don't get me started on "free will".