“The past is the present, it’s the future too.” -Eugene O’Neill.

Winter is as winter does.

Maintaining a bicycle related weblog while physically unable to actually ride a bike is one thing, but being able to do it while buried under the cover of winter is something else entirely.


He had a dream.

It’s not often that I acknowledge mainstream holidays, as I prefer to celebrate more eclectic occasions such as the day D.B. Cooper highjacked an airplane, and with a suitcase full of money, jumped out into Oregon’s night sky never to be seen again (Nov. 24th, 1971). Or the date that ‘Smokey and The Bandit’ hit the theaters (May 27th, 1977). However I feel the need to tip a hat to Dr. Martin Luther King on his day and say “I think we could have totally partied together.”


One for Sunday, because it’s Sunday.

Due to allegations made by Pat Robertson that the earthquake in Haiti was due to a deal they made with the devil, the devil himself contacted Pat Robertson in a transmission that was recently published in the MPLS Star Tribune.
“Dear Pat Robertson,
I know that you know that all press is good press, so I appreciate the shout-out. And you make God look like a big mean bully who kicks people when they are down, so I’m all over that action.
But when you say that Haiti has made a pact with me, it is totally humiliating. I may be evil incarnate, but I’m no welcher. The way you put it, making a deal with me leaves folks desperate and impoverished.
Sure, in the afterlife, but when I strike bargains with people, they first get something here on earth — glamour, beauty, talent, wealth, fame, glory, a golden fiddle. Those Haitians have nothing, and I mean nothing. And that was before the earthquake. Haven’t you seen “Crossroads”? Or “Damn Yankees”?
If I had a thing going with Haiti, there’d be lots of banks, skyscrapers, SUVs, exclusive night clubs, Botox — that kind of thing. An 80 percent poverty rate is so not my style. Nothing against it — I’m just saying: Not how I roll.
You’re doing great work, Pat, and I don’t want to clip your wings — just, come on, you’re making me look bad. And not the good kind of bad. Keep blaming God. That’s working. But leave me out of it, please. Or we may need to renegotiate your own contract.