When the Devil Came..., He was not Chrome, He was not Red, and he said...
Come with me.            -Wilco "Hell Is Chrome*"

What I'd wanted to say was, "...That the greatest music came from the 80's by the grace of god, and that the finest Bicycles were born in the late 90's when God was resting post Cold War Reconciliation. ...That all the colors of our dismantled Military Industrial Complex would soon be poured into a puddle of insouciant engineering who's brilliance gave birth to the millennial "Bicycle-Industrial-Complex". Consolidation moved swiftly to crush cottage bicycle brands. A few Titans, from humble beginnings themselves, began extracting ideas, by torture, and decimating cycling's soul. mixed metals, M2 and Crazy-glue yielded the first "Flat-Bar Gravel-Bike" craze. An Eighties kaleidoscope of primary reds & blues, became Neon-Nineties Mountain Bike fades.  Hideous Lycra was stretched over everything quite inappropriately. By 2000 all of cycling's colors would be melted down, mixed with glue, and fade to matte black."  Anyway, that's right about what I'd wanted to say, but because I'd been drinking Bordeaux with an old friend  ...all that I could manage to reminisce was, "Man, that was some magical shit Gary Klein made back then", "...And fuck I was such a fool to have ever lent Neil Kowalski my custom Black Klein." 
"Fuck Neil Kowalksi !"  "Fuck Man!, ... Just Fuck that dude".

In the mid to late 90's you could not sell a road bike. The Mountain bike was as hot as Hansel, and it became a king, a god, and currency. By 1996 (eons before the bromance with day-trading, pod-casting, and door-dash) Everyone was riding a mountain bike on pavement outdoors. As they phased VHS out, everyone was taping shit with Tivo, to watch AFTER they strutted about on their MOUNTAIN Bike. There were myriad options, but the smart money was on Klein. Klein was King.  
Everybody has regrets about dumb shit they'd done throughout their past, (perhaps in particular the 90's), but my second biggest adult-life regret may have been to ever have trusted that fucking snake Neil with any bicycle. 
In late 1996 Gary Klein built me a special one-off gloss black bike with a custom black strata fork, using a corrected MC2 stem angle, and a full Black-Forest "Tune" Kit -- Then... I blew it.  Boy did I ever blow it. We had just scored the last batch of Anniversary bikes, and another friend got one of those, So Black became our destiny, well before everything headed there. I lent my Klein to Neil and he skipped the country.
For decades I'd contemplated my revenge, when I'd eventually see Neil the back stabber, and get even. But before you think I'm an irrational hater, it merits mention that Neil didn't borrow a bike or two... His calculus was to borrow things like Quimby and promise to pay later.  That wasn't the main issue.  At the core was that Neil was buying and selling other peoples bikes, CD's, Jackets, Concert T's etc. on credit.  He didn't even like bikes. He was a snake who'd have predicted a scheme, even line up a buyer, well before "Borrowing" someone's shit, and selling it.  He would have something sold before he had it to sell. What is a bike if not to ride?  COME WITH ME...

Revenge was warranted.

But vengeance is a jacket who's sleeves tie neatly behind the back. And my commitment to revenge soon faded. I'd never see Neil again, along with several of my CD's. So while I'd also blamed myself, I knew killing Neil Kowalski would not bring my bike back.  I recall the sheepish tone of him on the phone, and knew That junkie fuckwit, had tougher times ahead of him.  Besides that,  his dad was a judge -- So alas I scrapped any plans for revenge. I also abandoned all hope to recover my lost bike, which was now somewhere in Chelsea -- 6365 kilometers from Chicago. I got my friend at Evil Trek to make me a new One-Off bike from honeycomb OCLV which I'd later have stolen mid-winter from my house.

Ex's and itches are far more difficult than one may think to be rid of, even if one could rub  them out proper -- And the thing of it is, that I'd wanted to make something good from my bitterness. So, soon I quit the bike biz, and started freshly forgetting "my precious".

I could (perhaps) ameliorate my psychic itch by keeping a tidy laminated wallet-size pin-up to stroke like a Gen-Z fondles a Frapuccino...
I'm not saying much about my maturity when I long for an ancient (if wholly obsolete) bicycle which many have so prosaically disparaged. [Thank you Pink Bike!]  I don't even own a photo of myself with this beauty, so the entire fuzzy picture framed in my infantile mind is make-believe at best. While I think of it often, the fiction in my head was likely an embellished version, A fictive beauty, which in retrospect would seem tacky, even useless by today's Bike Craft. But that bike was the bees knees, buttered toast, and Miss June all rolled together.  
I was never good at anything, but I'd loved bikes, and loved to ride them uphill and down. I cherished all of them, even the shitty lock-up bikes, and many never get over when they lose a loved one.
I think if I did have a photo with my precious Klein, I could ameliorate my psychic itch by keeping a tidy laminated wallet-size pin-up to grope like a Gen-Z fondles a Frapuccino, or a fidget-spinner, And I would do this whenever life brought me down.
I suppose I want people to understand only this... That when I was eight years old I threw a snowball really hard at a passing Red Cutlass, and the driver chased us down with such rage, and vengeance, leaving his car running, sprinting through slush -- Driver's door wide open, ...that I'd have thought he had actually split in two beings, releasing the devil himself to hunt us down. Later that night, I'd lay in bed actually shaking from his visceral rage, wondering why/how anyone could give a shit about a fucking car that much  -- that they'd be willing to kill a child to protect it.  I'd lost sleep for about a week, waiting for him to wake me. Later, (perhaps to justify the moment) I came to identify his rage as the product of a legitimate obsession.  A fondness which I would not personally know until the 90's.  Two years later at Ten years old, I would watch my first real tangible possession, unironically a yellow Schwinn Stingray, being stolen from the doorway of the Piggly Wiggly, by an older kid on my paper route named Ruben Padilla.  His nonchalance walking slowly up to my Schwinn, making eye contact with me still in the check-out lane, smiling, and then slowly riding off with a bunch of other kids, and my bike.  This was the moment when I'd understood the Cutlass owner's rage.  The Police did not give a shit, and for months I would occasionally spot my rattle-can  re-painted blackish Schwinn Stingray lurking about the neighborhood.  I would generate a dark amalgam of scar tissue from each and every bike I'd lost without a proper farewell.  Nostalgic bike lust pasting fuzzy images in the psychic scrapbook of my primitive brain where "lost bike" wanted poster pin-ups occasionally haunt me.  Like all the useless clutter in my top dresser drawer -- passe' bikes are somehow simultaneously sacred and  stupid.

My friends have warned me of this (my) dark psychosis. That, "Bikes, are like old skis or even older boots... That the old ones just basically suck". My Friend Pete says that the Mantra is a death-trap, actively working to kill it's rider, like a bull-ride, or a bucking-bronco. "Death or Collar-Bone is the only currency exchanged on a Mantra". I know all of this of course, (perhaps), but I need to reenter the cave to see if what was written on it's walls, could inspire me to alas forget about my loss. 

I'm knee deep in the process now, of remaking the ideal Klein Mantra, Restorative Justice you could say... and so far it cost me about half of what a new one did at retail in 1996.  I'm going to ride it of course -- And I'm going to see if it kills or cleanses me of the occasional surfacing  detest for how it all went down, thirty years back.  When the snow melts, I'll check back in, with you, and IF I have a sling supporting a busted collar bone, I'll likely blame Neil Kowalski.
COME WITH ME.
​
END OF CHAPTER ONE.
​​

"We have [also] come to this hallowed spot to remind America of the fierce urgency of now. This is no time to engage in the luxury of cooling off or to take the tranquilizing drug of gradualism."
"Now is the time to make real the promises of democracy. Now is the time to rise from the dark and desolate valley of segregation to the sunlit path of racial justice. Now is the time to lift our nation from the quick sands of racial injustice to the solid rock of brotherhood. Now is the time to make justice a reality for all of God's children."
-MLK

Hit the lights if you are the last one to leave this shithole, No need to lock it, we know it'll be ransacked. Only Seussian plumbing stretches up from the rubble, bent and absurd. Ancient pipes which once carried effluent of far better men. All of it sold for scrap.  They've alas unbolted his gold toilet and moved it to F.L.A. Wet banker's boxes packed with abandon secrets  mildewed by hydrants. Pages peel and flutter in a light breeze. Ideas, and legacies blow about the rotunda floor.  Upholstery and charred sofas shelter the rodents who'll make better use of rotting rugs, Tiffany, Chippendale, and Louis XIV. 
In a sense we've come to our nation's capital to bounce a check. Only sparse Trees watch the barbarians move backwards through time, a retrograde recap of our best mistakes. Dred Scott dead of tuberculosis., and Missouri cheers. All of these reconstructed histories we'd outgrown lifetimes ago, reinstituted. Time scores our modern brilliance against a dark age when all men were actually created equal. A squalid symphony, of scrap trucks, as howling vigilantes keep time to our newly minted poverty. We are all suffering from curable illness, starving, hysterical... D.C. once the dream, drown by ignorance. We were once free, inspired. So long to good people. Some drove this far to save it, some to see it burn. Goodbye to safe harbors, bonsoir big shoulders, au revoir manumission, trees and parks, clean water. Adios to the birthrights beyond the ivy league window.

We are just beginning to trample the landscape, packing snow, soil, and crushed red solo cups into the filthy archaeology of our fallen empire. 

The currency of leadership which had framed our scrappy republic, is now worthless. Emoluments have moved our capital alas to a proper party venue, with eighteen holes straight out back, and TV's on every cart. Welcome hangers-on and drunk drivers to a delirious never ending frat party.  Grab a mojito on the lanai, watch us on our news networks.  Grab a snack, and take a roadie for your drive, Hold the wheel tightly as we roll out the gate, and over the cliff.
Boil the oceans, and level the mountains.  Gift shop is closed, but you can carve your initials on a doorway, spray your tag on fallen columns and ink a phrase on Lincoln's backside. Don't get clever, that's all over. We've nothing left to write of progress for many years to come. We are far too busy bottoming out, and building high walls. It was far cheaper to keep them out, then to contain them, so we have walled-in the country clubs. Partitioned our parks. Tolled our byways, and privatized the beaches. We have only this new dark age of infantile carnivals, a caravan of looting nomads, and bullet-proof charlatan carpools. Its too soon to speak fondly of an inevitable rebellion, of mavericks, and of survivors. We are just beginning to trample the landscape, packing snow, soil, and crushed red solo cups into the filthy archaeology of our fallen empire. 
Welcome has-beens, vagrants & campers to these splendid tent cities. Please enjoy our stunning new detention pens. 
Will everyone please welcome the infant tyrant clown, and his Afrikaans puppeteer? 

 
The Dark Web is just behind that door, over in the corner. The backside of a filthy curtain, where levers, gears and pulleys lift and load uncivilized packages beneath a cold red neon buzz.  A conspicuous color red; At a strange time when Americans lose access to their CCP  pacifier, and unpack a fascist. Fucking imbalanced universe! -- C'est la vie, and so long.
​
My fridge also houses the dark web, with three distinct leftovers, but nothing you’d have a taste for.

Past its threshold, sin and promiscuity ravage sidelined humanity.  The dark web is the whole of the web, a polymer ecosystem of intertwined soul crushing empty spaces, filled with vitriol, takeout containers, amazon boxes, and self-help advice. It is where we pretend things are perfect, because the GIF looks nice. The same dark web lingers in the gasket of my high efficiency washing machine, and in my shower grout. By the middle of January mid-winter hum-drum, fuels the same darkness, while the web sprouts a new hybrid strain.
My fridge also houses the dark web with three distinct leftovers, but nothing you’d have a taste for. Suffering the indignity of too many food options, is a killing joke.  By mid-January, the darkness covering our hemisphere begins to relent long enough to balance hope with our despair, keeping us in the game a bit longer, perhaps. Hope becomes a quiet blanket of sugary white crystals lit by the long shadows of a golden sun; While Evil remains a bleak smothering damp grey, dripping wet chill into otherwise dry socks.  
Everyone needs a break from winter, and from devices, from ourselves, boring blogs, and shitty pod-casts. But mid-winter reminds me of how far gone we are into the land of make-believe.
Well before the weather broke us, we’d already spent far too much money and time alone, opening strange canned goods, stacking dishes in a full sink, sniffing containers of whatever lines the fridge. Running out of tissues, and lotion, winter’s survival seems to hinge upon the arithmetic ten-to-one imbalance of condiment, to food. None of these seem to have expiration dates.

In 2023, 74 percent of U.S. "restaurant traffic came from take-out. Today it's even higher, but those who dine-in, bring both their phones, and friends with phones. Sadly, nobody can order without a phone and nearly as many only accept payment by app. All of us are pretending to dine out, while swiping saucy fingers. Everyone is clicking QR's, re-sorting preferences like recyclables, as cookies probe deeper into the nation’s psyche. Nobody is enjoying their time out, Everyone is posting, nobody is present. Everyone is faking it.

Apparently, all of the trained servers who weren’t killed by Covid, now work from home on the software backend. 

If there were ever an argument that we are living in a simulation, this January moment should prove it. To dine out today requires a phone, but nobody uses their phone to call anyone.

"I've been aware of the Time going by
They say in the end, it's the wink of an eye."

Go ahead and fake it!, because pretense is the mod con. Pretending to enjoy the sanctuary of dining out, in that booth by the window, where delivery drones constantly open doors pouring cold chill over a messy dining room. Here the bar is closed, and stacked with containers, and pre-packed take-out, rolled napkins swaddle bendy plastic ware. Your table runner aimlessly shuffles plates, reluctantly returning a plastic container with your check. Apparently, all of the trained servers who weren’t killed by Covid, now work from home on the software backend. Tonight, nobody will ask what you’d enjoyed, because nobody cares. Desserts and Paper Menus have been replaced with a QR sticker and a breath mint.   Since 2023 online reservations for tables of one has increased by 30 percent.  We are pretending to participate in an online class as the only student. Going out to dinner has become a correspondence course in dating, rather than a date.

​It’s deep damp January, and we are on the brink of a vengeful takeover. We are pretending to care about fascism, and we are pretending that Europe is not already at war on a larger scale, while local infrastructure is sabotaged regularly, and planes accidentally fall from the sky.  We are pretending we get good service, at places which suck. We are pretending that our food is organic, healthy, while your hands swell, and tummies cramp. January 6th reminds us that America is still pretending not to be embroiled in a nativist crusade for white Christian supremacy. We are all Pretending to take ourselves seriously, take ourselves someplace, while not leaving our desktop, our doorstep. We are adapting, inventing systems, to cope through loneliness, while posting youthful selfies, instead of the stunning old fucks we've become. We are emulating favorable aspects, which we observe of others, hoping something sticks.  We imitate our costumes, speech, affect, gait, dress, dance-moves, our hairstyles, our religion, past-times, bad habits, and customs. And we do all of that to belong to a larger organism, which is in decline. I am a pretender, and I am the sum total of the junk I once held sacred, crap that I've eaten, collected, wasted, vomited, tossed out, and waded through for decades. Sometimes I’ll scrap everything, perhaps plagiarizing the better aspects of what I've seen -- What I have become.
Imitation is a religion, The hard-disc a temple. Opinions always align with the reviews we’ve read. We simulate a walk, a run, a ride, a row. even golfing can be done from home.  We are pretending to laugh, pretending to fit in, pretending to matter, I pretend to care, and frequently I pretend to work.
I wonder what my life would be like if I were more genuine. If I were, instead of the tapestry of germs and junk I drag around -- Valued for some intrinsic quality unique to me alone. Perhaps, I’d have been a contender.  Nothing borrowed, nothing stolen, nothing soft peddled, nothing synthetic to myself.  Native and raw, I'd still likely suck.
Truth and pretense don’t cancel each other out, they only postpone a reconciliation of the self to a larger organism, which we are actively dismantling now. No rush, they are already breaking down the show by the time you begin your search for tickets. Secular America is reconstituting itself at the mega-church.
​Tonight, the makeover of American religious freedoms applies its orange toner in the mirror of a wrathful god, and I'm pretending he's not real.
We are about to be appalled every waking moment for the next 1460 days by the most fake human ever., and I am pretending not to care about evangelical marauders as I write this. 
I am pretending to enjoy one-in-four meals with close friends while I keep my ideas to myself.  I pretend to give a shit about obscure, even remote events, where empathy is warranted. I'm pretending that two of the five books I'm reading concurrently are decent. I've pretended to belong to book-clubs, groups, gyms, teams, and I fake-it rather well in crowds.  I'm holding a plastic cup right now waiting for someone on-stage to awaken me. I join the audience, anxious, hopeful, mouth parted, awaiting my queue to clap.

If you've not yet taken a meaningful moment for yourself or for someone else today, or perhaps yet this year -- Amidst the kinetic swirl of Santa-Ana Winds, Wild-Fires, Volcanos, School Drop-offs, Funerals, Dog-Grooming, Final Exams, Yoga Injuries, Hangovers, Missed Deadlines, Tax Bills, Snow-Storms, Power-Outages, Confessions, Car-Wrecks, Snow-Shoveling and Migraines, and a high of twelve degrees...  And if your holiday vacation wasn't exactly what you'd saved up for. You can always fake it.  And... You'd be in good company. 
If you didn't unwrap the thing you'd prayed to Santa-Jesus for, you'll likely order it anyway, and a dynamic web-page will have decided which brand you buy. What may be missing this second week post-apocalypse, is to contemplate what you still have to be grateful for, just before our country goes to shit (again). You may think you need some alone time, or a new pair of shoes.  You may believe that your best remedy involves a good book, some solitude, a walk in the park, a punk show..., a vinyl record. Perhaps it is silence.  But, most likely it's some human contact.

"Where the Ad's take aim, and lay their claim
To the heart and the soul of the spender."

Because we all fuck up our best holiday plans, to some extent and we still get up and do it again. January 15th is the International Day of "The Pretender".  Where we listen more than we talk, and read more than we flick, Give more than we take... And 'Giving a shit' this early in the year, I suppose, may qualify us to be human again. To claw back from a filthy sub-stack of winter’s dark web.
 
Today is the day that we'll let go of having to suck it in, while we suck it up. Perhaps we are pretending to be nice for everyone else's sake. Today we'll trash malingering leftovers. Perhaps we'll leave the TV off, 'til we toss-out those take-out containers. Today, I told the kid at the coffee shop that, "We'd only just met", [and that] "I gave your tip to my Garbage man, my Mail Man, and my Dog Groomer, who always come through for me". Today, I brought dinner to my neighbor’s house, and drove 250 miles to visit elderly friends just to check in on them.  I wrote a few letters to newly minted strangers and spun my chair around to jet them off to the letter box.  I remember this estranged feeling of being human, and being part of a larger organism, well before I'd taken the shape of some bleak winter island. In seclusion, I'd forgotten about so many things, & the fragile lattice of people who'd shaped me, whom I've (perhaps) taken for granted. 
​Fair weather friends, never call mid-January, unless their TV breaks, their internet goes down, or someone dies.  There was a spike in deaths when they certified the certifiable. Good people left the game simply to quash its unrelenting background noise. Far less people sing in their cars... Nearly nobody owns a legitimate home stereo.  A portable web speaker sits on the counter, like the speaker phone from Charlie's Angels, lonely uninspired, we await musical instruction from a non-randomized algorithmic playlist. Then more thumbing through phones for the song’s meaning. I try to contextualize how any person from outside our culture, perhaps aliens, would observe billions of people at dinner, driving, jogging, cycling, and sunning themselves on a beach-holiday staring deeply into tiny screens for wisdom, for company. How we must appear from outside the bubble. Swiping for food -- Posture stooped and slouchy.  A four-top with three lost to a 3" screen. 

I'm pretending it wont be quite so bad.
​
Make-believe sketches in the season’s margins, establishing the time scale for Winter's cruel work. To get clean of the blahs, I’ll begin by tossing those tiny hot sauce containers I’ve been keeping for some reason, and throw away a dozen flimsy plastic sporks, cheap chopsticks, soy packets, tiny tubs of parmesan, single serving chili-flakes, and 6 condiments of unknown origin.   Perhaps I’ll bake something, embarrass myself at Karaoke, and then hit that 4 AM Punk Bar.
​If I make it ‘til spring, I'll need to pretend to really enjoy winter.

Man! this Jackson Brown Track is Magic.

What if we could simply go back?

Perhaps not strangely, the realization of time travel largely depends upon a shit-ton of capital investment, a bit more 'time' (ironically) to get things right, and a ton of negative energy, (even more ironic) which we already have in spades here in the U.S.A.  As Nasa states in their conclusion from initial feasibility studies with JPL on Time travel, They acknowledge it's "more than theoretical possibility",  "...The concept (of Alcubierreian Time-Travel) is still a mathematical toy until the need for negative energy can be adequately addressed". Should we perhaps ask the White House for some of that magical fuel?

With arbitrary parameters R > 0 and σ > 0., Alcubierre's specific form of the metric for viable Time Travel can thus be written as the following handy equation:
𝑑𝑠2 = −𝑐2𝑑𝑡2 + [𝑑𝑥 − 𝑣𝑠(𝑡)𝑓(𝑟𝑠)𝑑𝑡]2 + 𝑑𝑦2 + 𝑑𝑧2
ds2=(vs(t)2f(rs(t))2−1)dt2−2vs(t)f(rs(t))dxdt+dx2+dy2+dz2.
I'm unsure (of course) as to whether you may believe we can move through time more quickly or more slowly, than our droll slog through a midwestern winter -- Or even if you'd care to go back in time to fix some shit right now... But when you look at the math, it sure looks possible. Especially when, and if technology catches up with theory.  Before then -- Like most inventions, Time-Travel remains science fiction.  Nobody gives a fuck what I think. Really. 
What is important, is that tech billionaires are competing for insane tax-subsidized NASA contracts, including 'lunatic' plans to colonize Mars. Which is way fucking stupid. Elon thinks this is his ULTIMATE, Bug-Out Shelter, so fuck New Zealand, right? Mars,  Instead of Time-Travel?, seems to me a stupid fucking investment.

But "Space travel", is NOT "time-travel", and the rest of this trip is going to fucking blow when you see your Hotel.

Mars: that totally hostile wasteland (way more desolate than Vegas with or without burning Cyber trucks). A red planet which is completely inhospitable to humans. Seated in coach, This trip will be the literal worst fucking idea anyone ever had. Like being air-dropped along a trump-era Mexicali border-path just to get a mean summer tan.  THIS, excursion without water, I.D., a visa, or any hope for survival whatsoever is way fucking lame. Like Mars.

Space is loosely defined as: "EMPTY, if a bit more boring than Mars". So perhaps Mars is even a bit less fun than being rounded-up and later caged by white-nationalist border patrols in a wicked hot desert.  You feel Desolate, desperate... You may initially be grateful to see someone, anyone else alas, for a moment.  But "Space travel", is NOT "time-travel", and the rest of the trip is going to fucking blow. Until someone can use Alcubierre's time travel plan, driven by copious amounts of Earth's abundant "negative energy".  We are not going anywhere fast. Spinning our magical wheels.

Meanwhile somewhere near Davenport Iowa, an only-child falls dead asleep, exhausted after playing with cousins at aunt and uncle's lovely home on Christmas eve. They are carefully, quietly carried out to the car, sleeping soundly as they are driven home two towns away. They drive for hours, and are later being tucked into a happy blue bed, lined with H.A. Rey books, and stuffed animals -- They awaken way too fucking early on Christmas morning to a shit-ton of presents.  Is this NOT Time-Travel?

For my money, I'd prefer to see investment in a mode of transportation where I simply awaken comfortably at any given destination.  No hassle, No TSA, No road rage, No cramped coach-class single-serving cutlery.

Has anyone ever wondered what the fuck people are actually doing up there in "Empty Space", On a space station? In fact when you think of it as "Empty" and even call it "EMPTY", instead of "Space" -- It seems rather self-evidently "UN-FUCKING-FUN".  Research....  Is it really "research"?

Building a way cool new rocket-ship, (which is basically a red-hot jet-fueled man-member), is a bit like getting excited about a brand-new electric sports-car which you still have to drive manually, cautiously, and slowly through heavy rush-hour traffic every damn day, just to pay for the fucking note & insurance on the thing in the first place.  So why is it that humans equate time travel with 'Space", and why is Space travel (mediocre rocketry) still so highly venerated that we aspire to make new larger ones every day? IF The Moon landing were done and dusted... then what is the rat-race to Mars really about, besides braggadocio B.S.?  Where are the Jet-Packs we were promised as children, and if we had them, could we not travel someplace interesting?, Like Michigan?

Fuck Elon!, and Fuck all of that reckless burning of "the people's" tax-subsidized cash to light the weekend wick of billionaire-boys-club benders.  Back-yard BBQ bull-shit boy-games  involving 400 tons of lighter-fluid, while really kind humans suffer, starve, helpless, and homeless... Seem strange to anyone else?  Here is a brilliant first step for the "DOGE-DOLTS"... sit for a dozen grueling congressional hearings on how this "research" is beneficial to it's constituents.

It's like space-era crusades, where (wait for it), Men (again) decide not to conquer any more (new) land but instead go about slaughtering each-other for not digging their version of the facts and some wacky religion.  Conquest of Mars, or "Empty-Space" for that matter is another stupid lark. Like paying for a shitty album, with one OK track, just for the right to say you'd heard of them first. What really happens when living out there all alone with your Tesla Mars-buggy?  Boredom. Blissful Beautiful Boredom.  Mars Colonies are as fictive as Fox News, but you can't use a sharp axe to escape Mars. This is not to diminish many way cool new space telescopes, which have little to do with fictional Martian Colonies, and Space-Based warfare. Space telescopes launched a decade ago give real insight into our human origin story, well before we flushed it down the toilet. Time seems to slow during some significant incidents, such as a car wreck, or a bike accident, but also in an injury, a high-dive, or a gymnastics routine. This is called a Time Expansion Experience. Moving objects of larger mass appear to have a distinct time-scale as compared to smaller objects throughout "space".   Between the two reside the possibility of controlling our own time travel.

Empty space without time-travel portends a Sisyphean Odyssey, without end,  or justifiable reward for humankind.  NASA says that until we can make a machine arrive someplace meaningful in a far more efficient time-scale, we are spinning our wheels. So Cool Your Jets, because anyway Mars will be rather like Nogales, or Santa Fe... for a Canadian -- a strangely beautiful foreign landscape --  Peaceful if you can pack enough good shit to eat, drink, and play with, to fend off boredom in your desert time-share, because it's too fucking hot outside. With  nothing much else to do, but meth, and whisky, we succumb to writing bad blogs, and the socials.

Look, I'll be the first person in the mosh-pit to welcome Space-travelers. In particularly if they look like Bowie in the "Man Who Fell to Earth" or the copycat "Terminator"... But let's begin with welcoming  all of the lovely "Aliens" living right here on Planet Earth.
Mars is rather crappy, and time travel is how you use yours.

We all have limited time, and most of us have broken time-machines -- What matters is what one does with it.

Try this Book out: "Time Expansion Experiences" by Steven M Taylor


Last Night At The Bar

"My flying saucer is Ziggy Stardust My time machine is a bicycle", He Said
"I'm stuck", She said
"So you don't have a car then?"
She looks at her phone.
"Nothing but Negative Energy"
"Our timeline is non-linear."
"Pardon Me?"
"I Left my charger at home"
Two percent remaining,  panic
"Faith is a passable forgery"
But Western Union has one of those pens.
It's Mid-January
And everyone's desperate for a party.
So it's loud as fuck.
Shoulders knotted into my neck
"It's loud here", "really fucking loud!"
"Right?"
Teeth stained with wine
Dehydrated, My heart pounds ...I ask her if she could "stop talking about work"
For just a minute?
"Any Books you love?"   Changing the topic? 
Then, a loud car-wreck outside the front window
Who's just now staggering in.
"Where you from?" Beautiful ring", she questions.
"...I'm an artist, painter really."
"Lovely", "showing anything"?
"But I've only finished one so far."
"One what?, Painting?"
"Long Story."
"I've got about 12 minutes until my Lyft arrives..."
"Okay... Let's do this."
Back to, "Where you from?"
"I've painted a portrait of God."
​"Yeah?"
"Wisconsin."
"God from Wisconsin too?" She asked.
"Nope, nowhere near there."
"How was it?"
"What?, he said" 
"When she sat for you, 
"She Nice?"
"God's NOT a she"
"How do you know?"
"God is something else, Way cooler"
"I have to ask..., is it a nude?, the picture?"
"Clever!"
"Nah, No nudity, just a painting really"
"Where is home?"
"What?"
"The ride is taking you home?"
"No... elsewhere."
...
"Okay cool, ...So anyway, I have to be someplace"
"Sorry."
"Sorry?"
"Do you have a picture of your portrait?"
"What portrait?"
"'God' "I mean, On your phone?"
"Oh, yep."
"May I?"
"Sure"
[She moves in closer]
"Ready?" [He swipes a few times.]
​[The room mutes]
There is no sound, None
No movement
He hums something from "Black-Star".
She looks beautiful and Lost
​He sets his phone in her palm.
Her eyes dilate,
As she falls from her stool
Her bag spills under the  crowd,
...and the music returns, loudly
He lunges for his phone, and lifts her up
"I'm a black star... I'm a black star"
Plays
"It's fucking Bowie", She says.
"Yes, I think".
The music changes
To Theologians, and her phone pings
"What's happening?"
"To Me?"
"You saw him? That's the Picture."
"Holy Fuck!"
"Holy Fuck, yep!"
"Let's Go!"
​
We get into her car, as snow falls.

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.
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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.