Last week was one better off forgotten. Thursday in particular was one for the record books of crap.
In a matter of less then an hour I was notified that some ner-do-well had defrauded one of my credit cards, and in a single gesture of incredible stupidity actually had the merchandise theyd purchased sent to me.
Then came the phone call from Dr. Heavy Hands notifying me that Im to be scheduled for a colonoscopy. Now Im not entirely sure what that is but Im fairly certain it involves a look being taken of parts of my body that no one should ever see, and was most likely inspired by acts of the Spanish Inquisition.

I figured what the hell- why not schedule a tax audit and a trip to the DMV on the same day and really knock one out of the park?

Then Friday found The Skipper down for the count with some kind of hangover-esque/food poisoning/wishing-for-death type of bug and me solo at the helm, filling orders, answering phones, building bikes, and returning emails.
When it rains it really does seem to pour, you know?
Oh yeah, and it actually was raining on top of it all.
In buckets.

It reminded me of a time in college when I had experienced the single most emotionally and physically grueling days of my young life. I returned to the domicile I shared with five women, where I was living in a tiny crawl space beneath the stairs after returning from a trip to Europe. I just wanted to take a bath then fold myself into my sleeping quarters and make it all go away.
Standing in the bathtub, I flicked the light off, and received a bone shattering electrical shock which brought me to my knees, and then moments later, to uncontrollable laughter.
'That would just be the icing on the cake' I thought. Surviving the worst day of my life and I get to finish it off by being found dead, and naked by my team of female housemates.

It made me realize that no matter how bad it gets, it can always get worse, which really, for all intent and purposes can sometimes make for a fairly succinct mantra.

In as far as maintaining your own good days however, for the next month or so it might not be a bad idea to wear a helmet when youre out and about.

You know, the damnedest thing is that 24 hours before I read this article, I had a dream about a satellite falling to Earth and landing in Los Angeles ether at a museum, or at the airport.
There- remember my soothsaying should this come to fruition.

Were now gonna reel back and pop you in the mouth with a PSA, Swobo style.

I cant seem to make their website work for me, but maybe you can by going here.

While were on the topic of public service announcements, we got an email from a bloke attempting to get a steed back home to its owners loving embrace;

"I bought a what must be stolen Scott CR1 road bike
off of a homeless guy yesterday for $40 near 16th
and Valencia. Can you pass the message around in
the Aids/Life Cycle/bike nerd circle and see if it belongs to
anyone?

I'd like to get it back to the rightful owner.

Thanks,
Matt Leonard
415-310-4388"

Thanks Matt. Thats mighty neighborly of you.

This weekend brought the meeting of the minds together and the JMac knickers namesake modeled for us the 2009 edition Swobo JMac knicker. We now present to you the first spy photos available anywhere.

Hows about a Monday fashion dont?

A long sleeved t-shirt tucked into his pants, two wiener dogs and yes, that sure is a fanny pack.
The line between fashion donts and fashion dos is a fine one.

Im like the David Hockney of rainy day commutes.

So this weekend brought inspiration of epic proportions when TB, JMac and myself decided it would be a good idea to spike some unknowing strangers shopping cart with our own grocery list, ala Found Magazine. No telling if its still going to be as funny when the effects of the weekends bender wears off.

I subtly stashed the list in a cart, and just as I documented it, I noticed a young couple noticing me noticing them noticing me. As we were departing the scene, I saw that they had in fact picked the cart wed stashed the list in so we sent TB in snap a shot of them, as my cover had already been blown.

She said they kept giving her the stink eye, so it was the best she could do to take a picture from behind the apple pile.

At some point over the course of the weekend, the previously mentioned TB took delivery of a fully trimmed ladies Otis, which shes planning on riding the hell out of some city streets on.

Shes a happy girl, that one.

Speaking of city streets, it just occurred to me that theres a pretty interesting clip thats just been put up over on Commute By Bike (dot)com where Tim Grahl interviews El Corpo, Brad Quartuccio, and Tim “Masi Guy” Jackson about various points concerning, for lack of a better term, the urban cycling revolution thats beginning to take place, and how we might get even more folks to look at the bicycle in a way that (however 'new' it might seem to the staus quo) weve known all along.

Weve been away from the WTF Awards for a while, due to the fact that I just havent found anything worthy, but then it turns out it was the lull before the storm, as this article came along and won one of the all time grandest WTF Awards in history.
The prize Tomas Delgado will receive is a party.
You know- a blanket party.

TB told me about the freaks at God Hates Fags plan to protest Heath Ledgers funeral because of his portrayal of a gay cowboy in Brokeback Mountain. We decided that it might be a good spot to enact our plan to join said protest with my previously mentioned scheme.
I decided to scrap the idea for a picket sign declaring that God hates anything specific, but to just cover all bases with a sign that simply declares;

'GOD HATES HELLA STUFF'.

Their whole schtick boggles the mind, but what is also really amazing to me is just how much money they must spend on airfare to spread 'Gods word'.
I suspect for making fun of them, I too have bought a one way ticket to eternal damnation, though for that matter if nutjobs like them are going to Heaven, I want absolutely nothing to do with the place.

Its safe to assume that if I actually am going to end up in Hell, Ill be in good company as Captain Dave sent this bit of good news our way;

"Where I grew up, you got a new number for each race. Pin, suffer, un-pin, drink. It was simple. When I moved to Oregon, I noticed it was different, here, the governing bodies issue each racer one cloth number, and each racer uses that number for the duration of the season. When renewal time comes around, you have dibs on your last year's number if you renew by a certain time.

I chose my last year's number.

I was denied.

The governing bodies within OBRA (and a well placed envelope-stuffing teammate/volunteer) saw fit to change my number, without notifying me, but I am not upset. Nor mad. Nor sullen. I am ecstatic and giddy. Why, you ask? Why is a curmudgeonly mid 30's Cat 4 packfodder idiot happy? Because the racing association assigned me number 666. Mine, forever.

I called Satan and told him the news, and he said he'd send me a vintage Eddy Merckx frame, painted in rouge flames, in honor of this moment.

No Dr. Evil jokes, please."

See? good things really do happen to bad people...and speaking of racing bikes- some people raced their bikes this weekend, but we sure the hell didnt, and thats alright with us.

Thats about all from this end-
Have a good Monday everybody.
We know for certain That Dave will.