That is to say that today’s post is full of crap nobody wants, but none of you are good children anyway;
At the head of today’s post (no pun intended. That will make sense in a second), I have this clip that I found over on Newt’s Great Humongous;
I have an especially great appreciation for this process (called ‘stipple’. There is $48,000 worth of art school education well spent) due to the fact that as a much younger fellow, I spent hundreds of hours with my eyes crossed and my hand cramped working on similarly executed imagery.
After seeing this, I made me inspired to re-hunch my back and get to dotting.
Speaking of absolutely batshit crazy, I’m sure many of you have seen the following Rick Perry campaign video;
I found that the disproportionate dislikes to actual views made my mouth curl upward in a smile-like expression;
As a matter of fact, in the five minutes or so between getting this screen grab and posting it, the number had increased by a few;
Buncha damned godless heathens in this country, I’ll tell you what.
I am of the opinion that Perry has lost all hope for his presidential bid so now he’s just flouncing around showing off just how certifiably insane he can be.
Like usual, this next bit doesn’t relate to that at all, but Gypsy the Punk got in touch with some of his standard worldly observations. The kind that I can relate to. Also, since there were no visuals attached, I decided to come up with my own;
“I’m more than a little drunk… and I’ve been listening to the Drive By Truckers all day… so forgive the rambling… and that ellipses…
Wife and kid are out of town visiting the world’s best mother-in-law, so I spent the day in the corner booth of my favorite bar with a legal pad, two Micro Uniball pens (one black and one blue) and a significant amount of whiskey;
Two 20ish something guys with pretty decent punk rock hair came in and ordered beers. I eavesdropped… ’cause that’s what I do… and I gathered that they were in a band, and that they needed a new drummer. It seems that their current drummer “couldn’t handle his shit” and had sold his drums to pay for smack.
Well, an hour later, they somehow ended up in my booth. We talked. Well, mostly they talked, and I listened. They were bad asses. The real deal. Punks transplanted to the Valley of the Sun from up in Oakland;
I couldn’t think of a good photo in which to put here, but then I remembered the episode of CHIPs when Ponch and John encountered the punk rockers, which I was reminded of again after reading this awesomeness, which of course can’t be appreciated without finally watching this.
Converstion wandered… turned… twisted… They asked me who my favorite drummer was. I thought about it. I think they liked that… That I didn’t answer right away… I told them that my head said, “Neil Peart,” but that my heart said, “Nicky Headon.”
The one with the blue hair said, “Who’s Nicky Headon?” The one with the shockingly large nose ring said, “Isn’t he that guy that sometimes bounces down at the Clubhouse?”
I got four things from this…
1- My bill. It was obviously time for me to go.
2- These two guys were the natural product of their world. They are hyper aware of the NOW and nothing else.
3- I’m a god damn cave man.
4- The desire to tell you about it. Don’t ask me. I blame the Drive By Truckers.
Punk rock is as punk rock does,
Gypsy the Punk(?)”
This story started out and I felt at ease, like I knew and was comfortable with where we were headed, but then it took an agonizing turn-
“They are hyper aware of the NOW and nothing else.”
This succinctly describes my qualms with any number of morphing youngster in this day and age, piecing together their identities from spits and spurts off the internet while blogging about how ‘back in the day’ they kept things ‘real’, or whatever.
This is a dark road for me to go down, as when I was say, ten years younger, I was rallying for what I felt was a cultural purity, however now, I’m just my parent’s weird friend ranting about all music’s sucked since Hendrix died.
I would also like to note that since Jimi Hendrix died exactly the day before I was born, I could be considered the new renaissance’s Phoenix, or a person who’s spent my entirely life wandering blindly in a vanilla milk toast fog.
But wait a minute… This is a bicycle blog. It’s dialog like that presented above which kept me solidly behind the Rapha blog and ‘Bangable Dudes in Pro Cycling’ (in my mind, the two are tantalizingly parallel) in Outside Magazine’s top ten bike blogs list.
Let’s stop jerking around and get onto important matters.
These’s a brand new bicycle store in San Francisco (shocking, I know) called Market Street Cycles that is operated by a fellow named John McDonell;
John is an extraordinarily kind person and I wish him nothing but the best in his new venture. Stop by or drop him a line and tell him he should get a new website because his current one sucks and that the web is like, totally the future.
A person whose first name is Bill and whose last name is Strickland and who I understand is something of a mover and shaker in the bicycle world sent an email regarding a video that includes so many special effects, you’ll think you’re watcing Star Wars;
“We have to get you out here for this one of these years:
The PBR title was decided 51 to 49, in the final hour.”
As I replied, as long as I’m not going to Baja, I don’t care where I go. I’ve been known to ride a bicycle and imbibe from time to time, so I think I could tow the line at such an event.
Just as long as I didn’t have to interact with any children.
I don’t much care for their types.
But then again;
Maybe there are some children somewhere who deserve prizes after all.