Have you missed me? I've missed you..
I kinda locked myself out of the house with a pan of beans on the stove and no one to help me but a wide eyed cat with no opposable digits.

This was by no means an easy decision, as I have been hand in hand with Swobo since very nearly the beginning, back in our lord's decade of the 90s. (Insert fuzzy day dream sequence here, with a sound track by Miles Davis, if you please,) but moreover I hold very closely to my heart the constant communication with people, and the actual real, live connection that I've developed with so many of you during my time here.

Rest assured however, with a mouth this big I have no plans to stay quiet for long, and have a few newly purchased irons in the fire, so keep your ear to the ground, or to the train rail, or to Twitter, or Facebook, or however it is you kids exchange information, and know that this is by no means a goodbye forever, but rather a goodbye for a few weeks, or until I need to borrow some money... Whichever comes first.

I love you guys. I really do.

Stevil M. Kinevil

The reason I bring him up is because he has recently sullied my domain with his presence, and allowed me the honor of snapping a couple of less-than-world class photos of him in the process;

He will rest easy tonight, safe with the thought that I in no way pose a threat to his position as one of the most talented photographers in the biz.

Anyway, aside from the standard array of two wheeled nonsense, we've done our best to put the fear of god into the hearts of many cans of beer, and at least one bottle of tequila.
I know it's the work week, but we're professionals.. I wouldn't necessarily recommend this lifestyle to the common man.

If you look towards our burgh these days, you might very well see the shine off of Mr. Blacksocks new bike wood;

Hey, you probably haven’t seen my new whip…Ahhh, who needs a 5th road bike anyway? Apparently, I did…."

I was recently having an email conversation with an old friend of mine in which I relayed the notion of anytime a fella shows up with a pink bike that it becomes common knowledge that they are a force to be reckoned with.

Of course while we're on the topic of forces to be reckoned with I can't neglect to include a link that was left in the comments on Monday's post from one who goes as 'Back in The Day'.

Rob Warner and The (Stink) Palm go toe to toe in this no holds barred interview.
Reader be warned however.. Things get a little racy.

Oohhh, and speaking of racy, let's talk about racing..
You know I've got a knack for the words..

Many times I've mentioned a fellow by the name of GeneO here before. Well M.B.S. just sent in this piece that's pretty interesting, but obviously the following quote from the comments is what stuck in my place where things get stuck;

“I can top that with an eye-witness account of Gene’s style. Picture the start to a typical mountain bike race in the early 90s. Lots of lycra. A few rock-shox (maybe), and a couple of guys locked-in to their Look road pedals (I was one of them), teetering at the start and waiting for the gun to go off. A cloud of dust in the distance is followed by a car that pulls up to the start line. Out comes some dude in a white t-shirt and jeans, appearing to be in no hurry. He opens the trunk, pulls out his MBzip, and slowly puts on his jersey and those sweet original Oakleys. Rides up right to the very front of the start line just as the gun goes off and proceeds to win the race easily.”

It's true. It's all true..

What was neglected to be mentioned however is that Gene is a leap year baby, and as such, this coming February will be turning 13 years old.

That explains alot.

Now, this has nothing to do with GeneO, but here is one is for the ladies... The dreamboat hath arrived.

I hear the panties dropping the world over.

If anybody knows Dimitri, would you have him give me a call, cause I wanna know if the guy is for real.

In closing, here is a submission from Jason;

"Gotta love the John Travolta picture postcard book and an issue of CRACKED wrapped in protective plastic. "

Ordinarily I would respond with "sir, I don't 'gotta' do anything."
However in this case he is absolutely correct.

Happy whatever day it is.

We tentatively agreed that perhaps at a point we might should think about a possible collaboration of some sort, which then transpired into talk of a reality show, the only stipulation for which we both agreed needed to include a hot tub. From there the banter eventually devolved into a discussion of a road trip pod cast. It was then that I found the destination that would ultimately be responsible for making everyone's dreams come true.

What might initially appear to be a gigantic boil on the landscape on Mother Nature's posterior, as it turns out is not only that, but so much more. Open up your fantasy vault, and prepare to take on all of the riches that is Tropical Islands.

Copulation in an indoor jungle? Defecation in the pool? Fights? Water slides? Fake sunsets? Limitless alcohol? Y-fronts?

If you don't think between the two of us, a couple thousand Euros, and this utopia on earth, that it would be absolutely possible to make God shudder with envy, then you my friend are sorely mistaken.

At post time, the concept has as of yet to be agreed upon, but I suspect it is only because The Snob has fallen back in his chair and is paralyzed in pleasure at the thought of such an endeavor. As always, I will keep you all posted on the developments.

So, like.. What did you all get into this weekend? Did you listen to a bunch of Girls Against Boys?

(Who it should be noted, according to their website have emerged "out of the ashes of dc punk rock dischord band soulside, moved up to new york, put out a ton of records since 1990, have 2 bass players, did a bunch of stuff with a bunch of people and we eat, drink, sleep and walk around." If that isn't enough to make you rush to your local record store and buy everything they've ever done, then I don't know what is.)

Well I did, but besides that, I spent a portion of time with F.P and Joe, who from this point forward will be referred to 'Doom Joe', or perhaps 'The Artist Formerly Known As Doom Joe' within the confines of the great outdoors while atop bicycles.
A portion of the portion of time we spent outdoors was not just spent on bicycles however, but instead propped up behind open cans of beer, with drive sides down and a general gaze of goof-offedness spread across our faces;

It is after all, what we're best at, and with a strangle hold, grab every opportunity to show it off to whomever we can.

To prove that other metals (mettles) aside from aluminum were involved in our adventure, I was able to snap a shot from whatever bush I happened to be laying behind;

An interesting side note to our ride was that Joe is relatively new to the world of skinny tires in the dirt, and is still wet behind the ears in terms of hours spent wrestling a bike of this sort over roots, log piles, and bermed embankments, but regardless of this fact he kept his head down and his thoughts pure and held his own with the best of them, with the exception of an OTB/dirt nap, but who among us hasn't gotten sleepy while riding bikes once in a while?

You you say you haven't, then I say, you're a damn liar.

In somewhat random other information-stimulation, Robert sent me an email, the subject line for which was simply filled with 'Steve'. The email only said 'Need some?'

And he continued- 'The kid on the right is named Steve too..'

Ordinarily I would hope that I was all the Steve you needed, but upon receiving Robert's email I realized that this is a foolish and egotistical thought to maintain. Especially with a couple of picture perfect examples of humanity like this who have at one time or another graced our presence.

I am but a small fish in a bad ass pond.

Loudass is working over time on the Swobo T-shirt idea vault, and has got his stethoscope pressed firmly against the combination lock's dial, as has been proven with his second submission from the file;

As I was relating to FP and Doom Joe this weekend, the reverse of a hog attack is what I once witnessed with Loudass and Sasha the giant drunk Russian at the Circus Circus breakfast buffet when they engaged in a pork eating competition of such grandeur that it would have made Caligula blush with embarrassment.

I mean to say that they both had plates piled high with such an astonishing array of pink that the rest of us nearly laid down from cardiac arrest right there on the spot, and if the carpet beneath the table was more comfortable we just may have.

I can't remember who won, but I can say with certainty that those of us who bore witness to the feat most definitely did not.

Are you guys in to a trial run of a 'blog of the day' feature? You may be, or perhaps you don't care.
Either way, it doesn't really matter to me cause I'm driving this big broken boat and you have to go where I say.

She's sassy, she dresses sharp, she likes bikes, isn't afraid of mainlining coffee, and as near as I can surmise, doesn't give a fig about what you think of her.

She's Meligrosa;

Photo lifted from Busbozo.

Another dame in our midst who you could try and match in class and wit is a gal named Kim Dow. Now if you've been racing mountain bikes for any length of time this name would mean something to you as she was one of the original superstars from the Retrotec team of old. Well she sent me an email that was probably far more cryptic than it should have been;

"Did you just see a huge traffic spike from levi's tweet of your most recent HTATBL post?"

To her I responded with "what the hell does that mean?"

Truth be told, I have a love/hate relationship with Twitter, but I'd be lying if I said it was anything other than hate.
I am of the committed opinion that human being's ability to communicate is at an all time low, and to shave away all but 140 characters is truly an affront to the art of language, but with that being said, our dear friend Zoltron, who I'd like to add is increasingly becoming one of my favorite people, wrapped my arm behind my back some time ago and convinced me that I too needed to sign up for the blasted thing, if only to secure my name so that if at some point I have some idea to convey, I could do so.

But my caving aside, I would like to offer my humble thanks to Levi for the recognition and to also say he needs to spend his time healing his wing doing other things more productive than reading The Bummer Life.

I mean there is so much porn on the internet. Why on earth would he be down here with us?

Regardless, I am honored and if anyone would like to get aboard my Twitter train, you can find it here.

I also feel the need to mention that I have refused to follow anyone on Twitter, except for Danzig.

We're tight like that.

In closing, and as usual, with nothing that has to do with anything, Danny B recently turned me on to the following site that although may be considered by some to be far dumber than Twitter, still has filled me with hope and humor, and some days that is all you can ask for.

Don't Even Reply(dot)com.

Nowhere to go from here but away, so that is what I'm gonna do.

For those of you smooshing your eyeballs out of your head while rubbing them in disbelief, here is a detail of the ad;

I'm curious where the photo editor for that particular advertising firm is working today.

As has been commented many times in the past, HTATBL tends to be a rapid fire bombardment of random links, thoughts and photos, but I usually am able to tie them all together with some amount of cohesiveness (cohesivtivity to those of you in Santa Cruz, cause supposebly if your not dumb, that is a word). Now, I don't quite know if it's because my ADD has gotten worse, or I've just ended up with considerably more fodder and no concise way to connect it, but much like watching a gorilla flinging his poo, you might want to duck and take cover cause stuff is gonna be going everywhere.

You all may have seen this around before, but if not, all I have to say is that some guys have all the luck.

From Ghostship Matt I got this clip;

I find myself particularly drawn to the video's commenter called Admiral Pooarms who simply stated "I saw Slayer the other night, and I yelled Slayer a looot."

I would consider myself a typical Slayer fan, and I can say with the utmost certainty that I've never "literally just out of nowhere" said that.

I'm not entirely sure how he did it, but Loudass has somehow cracked the super secret future Swobo t-shirt idea vault and forwarded on to me one of my favorite picks;

I would suspect that the following individual might be first in line when the production run becomes available;

That man is riding one of those new fangled fixed wheel bicycles, and while we're on the subject of such things, I came across this bit on the Mobius Cycles blog concerning The Urban Outfitters Fixie Death Machine, or from what this day forward will be known as T.U.O.F.D.M., which under normal circumstances I would buy in a heartbeat just based on the name alone, but considering exactly what it is they're referring to, I will have to rely on my Stevil Kinevil brand 10 Foot Pole® with which not to touch it.

As fate would have it, the very day I got my Stevil Kinevil brand 10 Foot Pole's® patent finalized, DPow! sent me this link for Men With Sticks.

Obviously those guys know how to have a good time.

Not alot unlike this shot that was sent to me from Joe"you-can-have-my-blow-
dryer-when-you-pry-it-from-my-cold-dead-fingers"Parkin of Fumy Beppu in the shadow of the Arc de Triomphe proving once and for all why he was signed to the Skil team, and that maybe they should eventually change their name to Skillz;

Now, of course it probably says more about the general level of class, or perhaps the lack there of that exists among this community that we have here, that this link, as well as this link were both sent to me a slew of times in the last 72 hours.

I'm at such a loss, I can't even come up with something snarky to write in response.

That is right up there with getting your dog a set of prosthetic post-neutering nuts.

My god, human beings are a freakish sort...

Strangely, it only stands to reason that I should follow that up with this flyer sent to me from Robert;

When is a lion not a lion?

Of course when it's a dog;

And now we've come full circle.

There I was foolishly thinking I wasn't going to be able to tie all of this together.

On that note I offer you both a firm handshake AND a rigorous bout of intercourse as well as a hearty wish for a fantastic week's end.

Poaching this last clip from our friends at Urban Velo, I've found a brilliant candidate for today's Friday (on Thursday) Hero.

Matt Gilman is a badass.

In closing, like Jim "I've-got-hair-like-Joe-Parkin" Morrison once said- 'break on through to the other side', which in this instance I suppose might mean to keep your wits about you until the real honest to goodness weekend rolls around and it is then that you are free to go completely bananas..

Congratulations, folks. You've earned it.

In light of what an intellectual stronghold the town in which I currently reside turns out to be, I'm going to take the easy route and flood today's post with assorted bits and pieces from the mail bag.

Thank God for the mail bag, cause I'm like, really tired and stuff, you know?

From Mike we got some samples of his newest body of work, showing for a limited time only;

"My solo show opened last night on Vail Pass. I am showing 2 pieces: This Shit is Genius (Einstein on a Bike) and the Apocalypse Peloton. The show will be running indefinitely, stop by when you get a chance."

You know, and why the hell not? I've spoken with artists in Japan who have put up installations of work in stock rooms at convenience stores, and as a matter of fact, back when I was in school I had my senior show in a restroom. I even went so far as to clean the urinals and keep 40s on ice in them.

Necessity is the mother of invention, don't you know?

Would you like to see a shot of Joe 'I-have-the-hair-of-a-1970s-professional-skier' Parkin riding the infamous 'sh*t bike' at this year's Downieville Classic?

Of course you do.

The awesome thing is, he didn't even get last.

Then, from a different Michael, we get evidence that the bummer life doesn't have anything on the neighborhood high school dropouts;

"Nice tag on the asphalt at the end of my driveway on Shotwell st."

In other news, by now you all must be aware of how seriously they take cyclocross in Boulder.

If you don't, then by all mean I must re-redirect you here.

Then if you do, then I'll remind you that you have no idea, as proven by this link forwarded on to me from Ghostship Matt.

Obviously the first thing I did was to send this on to a few of the usual suspects, and what follows is what immediately found its way into my inbox from one who will remain unnamed;

“It’s the best bargain in Vegas,” explains Watts, “what else can you do in Las Vegas for eight bucks?”

Um, I'll bet I could scare up a BJ behind the Imperial palace for $8. Might not be from a woman, or even a human for that matter, but better than that bike race will be. Or I can sit on the curb with friends and drink beer from a can. That's what I can do for $8. Maybe we should (The Royale "we") start something in protest. How about we show up dressed like Jesus and his disciples carrying a giant cross. Then we all hop the fence at the same time as Cycling News and Velo News take photos. Then, when confronted, "Are you really going to throw out a bunch of Christians?" Or "Across Vegas" as in, "we'll be across town having fun some where's else while all you gut up close to 'the Desert Breeze Soccer Complex’s famed thick magic carpet' ".

I took it upon myself to include this in the comments section over at Cyclocross Magazine, but apparently the moderator didn't feel as though my contributed musings were worthy of the spotlight.

Truthfully though, eight bucks will most likely stem the tide of ner-do-wells. It certainly worked at the old UCI mountain bike events, but then again, it's alot harder to fence off and then patrol an entire mountain bike course.

If anything it only made us more determined, so maybe it actually didn't work at all..

But in all seriousness, I hope that the promoters of the Cross Vegas event get their every wish granted and it's a perfectly tame event without a bunched panty in sight.

That my friends, sounds like a true utopia.

And speaking of a world where everything goes right, CFO just came home from his trip back East and was thoughtful enough to include a condensed blow by blow for our edification;

"72 hour bender.

I won the wedding.

There are pics....I didn't bring a camera, but I'll have some coming."

When you're CFO there isn't a damn thing wrong with your life.

Except everything.

I'm going to step away and leave you all with the following thought- I just got home from watching 'The Hangover' and aside from the individual I was on a date with, I was the only one in the theater laughing.

What the hell is wrong with those people? I'll bet they like "Everybody Loves Raymond".

It's Wednesday. Time to have a pizza party.

Now with all of this being said, I happen to also be an individual who finds myself wracked with guilt when I throw anything away, as I'm haunted with the vision of it rotting away in a landfill somewhere, thereby dooming the happy future of the children I hope to never have.

I understand that this neurosis is a cross that I alone have to bear, so it is what it is, but sometimes I have an object which otherwise should be considered junk, that I just cant let go of, in case I can eventually fix it, and grant it a whole new life.

Like Walt Disney's corpse, for example.

Or, if you will, my very favorite backpacks, which I've highlighted here before, but because I can't remember where, I'll give you a brief breakdown of it's history.

Many years ago I was a huge fan of the Mountainsmith World Cup backpack, which was a cycling specific bag with shoe holders, a helmet strap, and internal bladder sleeve. My only gripe was that it was too small. Eventually Pearl Izumi began making a similar style that was much larger, but for my lowly bicycle mechanic's wage, prohibitively expensive, so I continued to make do with my Mountainsmith bag until one day in the infancy of our relationship Monika, also known as Demonika, but who now sometimes goes by Veronika came home with the first version of Trek bag on her back, which gave me instant bag-wood. It was perfect in every way and I absoluetly had to have one. After years of carrying it the straps began to become frayed at their insertion point (due to what Bobo the clown stated was the 18 pack weight limit being broken too many times). I couldn't throw it away in the event that at some point I might be able to fix it, and in the meantime Trek had revamped the design, so I bought a new one. Eventually this second bag became victim to the same fate. Again I ordered a new one, but to my dismay I found that this jewel had been discontinued so I did what any irrational bag whore would do, and purchased five.

Still, damaged bag number two got thrown on the pile of 'maybe some day I can fix it' and I went on about my day to day. Then Patrick came into my life. He works for a local sail maker, and is a wiz with an industrial sewing machine.

For the price of about 45 pounds of Mexican beer, he not only salvaged these bags that otherwise would have been thrown to the tire fire by a rational individual, but he even went so far as to retrofit my beloved beernet helmet so that the coozies can be detached in case I find myself in the throws of a competition in which beer cans strapped on the side of my head could be a disqualifiable offense.

Though you and I both know any competition that would do such a thing is not a competition either of us would ordinarily want anything to do with.

Anyway, I suppose the moral of all of this is that sometimes it's a good thing to keep ahold of all your crap, cause you never know when you might come across your own Patrick who can turn it back into gold.

So let's continue talking about one man's trash being another man's treasure with an excellent case in point that was sent to me from Mr. Blacksocks. On the chance that the link won't eventually be working any longer, I have taken the opportunity to snap a screen shot of it as well;

Attached with the link was this simple and obvious observation;

"That would be the way to roll into a cross race…"

Like any good bummer life avoider, Blacksocks is always using his noodle.

I spent a fair share of time on my speed cycle, whist wearing my stretchy pants and tap shoes this weekend, as I embarked on an adventure to go meet my better half on the far other side of the hill. The thing was, I didn't really know my new route all that well, and because of this, as it turns, out I granted myself about 12 miles extra climbing. At one point I was going uphill and backwards at such speed, I caught this little guy;

And yes, I realize my bike is a dirty, and shameful mess, but after 100 miles, how clean is your bike?
Anyhow- I wash it twice a year, whether it needs it or not..

But back to the journey- Had I looked around at my surroundings, I would have seen some of this;

However, mostly I just saw alot of this;

Though I was able to stop to take a photo which appropriately poses a bit of a philosophical query. When is a name also a funny sound?

Perhaps that is the sound of one hand clapping..

It is with that, that I will leave you with three things. One being the following from Russell;

"there is totally no sign saying which way to cross these damn things. Be careful out there... or don't.

Ride fastly-
Russell"

That's good advise.

Two, fellow dirtbag, and regular on The Bummer Life, Miss Complayna just celebrated the 20th anniversary of her 20th birthday, so I can't pull the plug on today's installment without wishing her a very happy one, and offer thanks to her for being such a good friend for all of these many years.

Seriously, she doesn't look a day over like, 38 at least.

And thought number three actually comes in the form of a pretty bitchen photo bomb from S.K.B.

That's a good way to start the week.

Happy Monday, and all of that rot.

The one known as Sucka Pants gave us a low down on whats been transpiring while he's been gone. If you've been following along on his blog, then skip to the next part, if not, then here you go...

-Sucka"

Hell, I just may let go of the reins on this blog and let The Sucka do his thing.
Aside from all of the copying and pasting of the HTML code, throwing up emails like those makes my job alot easier.

Now on to another email of equal importance, just far fewer words, ironically from Loudass;

As I replied to him, I can only hope that the perpetrator of this chalk piece was referring to the Paul Di'Anno era of Iron Maiden, and not that of Bruce Dickinson.
It's always been dumbfounding to me that the simple exchange of a single individual in a band's line up can take them from complete awesomnimity to total douchebaggery in one fell swoop.

Even the most armchair of Iron Maiden fans know what I'm talking about.

Anyway, the loud one (who also goes by the moniker Fat Tony) also recently sent on an image of the aftermath of what was his arm after he possibly mistook it for a sandwich;

However for my own personal enjoyment, as well as an attempt to capture what was actually transpiring, I made a slight adjustment;

In closing, it recently has come to my attention that at this most recent Downieville Classic event, Swobo had the good fortune to set up our tent and wares at the the town's hallowed site of Clamper commemoration. Now in the days of old Swobo, this most certainly would have been a conscious decision, but according to reports, El Corpo was unaware of what the Clamper organization was, and proceeded to hang a Swobo banner over the plaque.

For those of you outside of Northern California, the grossness of this affront might be insignificant, and would even get a pass, but for those of us in the region, or for even that matter who actually are Clampers (I know of at least five regular Bummer Life audience members who are in the ranks), a most definite and swift hand slap is in order.

If this was in fact the case, then on behalf of our organization, I would like to extend an apology, and to let you all know that the unsnuffable fires of the ECV will forever burn in my heart.

Until the end of days, Credo Quia Absurdum.

One last bit here, from commercial photographer supreme Bob Croslin, I was fortunate enough to get drunk people yoga positions.

Namaste, people. Namaste.

Here is to you all having good weekends no matter if you happen to be chained to the ball that is the J.O.B or not.. For my part, I'll try to make up for those who are.

And always remember that when the going gets tough, the tough simply walk on sunshine.

Ahhhh, schadenfreude.

Anyway, aside from that, what makes the greatest impression on my sorely addled mind is the antics of the one who will only be known as Josh looking fetching in his homage to Joe Dirt at last weekend's Watsonville crit.

See, it's real easy to show up to the party with your stretchy pants and tap shoes, aiming to battle with some of the region's finest cyclists, but it takes real bawlz (not balls, mind you, as everyone knows bawlz are much larger) to show up ready to rumble in your Sunday-on-the-broken-front-porch's finest.

Sadly I wasn't present to see this first hand, as if I had been, I would still be dancing around in circles giggling like a little girl, which during the work week is actually illegal within city limits.

As I've expressed before, I tend not to be the armchair quarterback type. Instead of watching people on television do the things I like to do, I instead would prefer to actually do them.
Perhaps much like Josh, in doing so, could get the chance to take a pot-shot at those around me by dressing to the nines in some cutoffs, that if not measured carefully might accidentally display the aforementioned bawlz.

I've never been afraid to show the people what I'm working with.

But I digress. Some cyclists have the freak flag waving for all to see, while others have the subtle accoutrements that are only picked up by the trained eye. Case in point, this image and accompanying email from none other than Mr. Blacksocks himself;

"Why I like Dave Zabriskie..

Tall, black wool socks in July…"

This type of display tells nearly as much about the man as Josh's, in that we all know Dave to be a company man, and as such has to wear the suit of his sponsor. Tall, black (or rather dark grey, but who's counting?) and woolen socks in the summer time on a professional cyclist is something akin to the business man you see walking down the street with an Angelic Upstarts pin stuck neatly through his lapel. It's a subtle middle finger pointed towards convention, and honestly, who doesn't need a little bit of that in their lives?

I for one do, and dip my toes into it as much as possible, (though my subtle middle finger is sometimes not so subtle) and if I'm not personally engaging in some light hearted rabble rousing (Golf Clap- I'm looking at you), my heart swells to see other people doing it whenever and however they can.

It is at this juncture in today's post that I would like to point out the fact that I have stayed on a single topic almost all the way through, and it is very nearly killing me. I suppose some folks might prefer the singular topic format, while others might prefer it when I jump around all over the place.
I feel like jumping around all over the place, so it's time to break free.

With that being said, let's get into an email from CFO that naturally has nothing to do with anything;

"Well I am off to the East Coast (where I don't have a huge following) for my buddy's "Old Fashioned New England Wedding." I am not entirely sure why he asked me to be in it, but I assure you he will be very sorry that he did......As we all know I have nothing to offer.

I have a t-shirt, a hoody, my Swobo Pony Shorts and a hat....I wanted to take one of those hobo stick/handkerchief deals as my "luggage", but apparently Homeland Security don't dig on that shit....I look and smell enough like a bum as it is.

Here Come the Dry Humps,

CFO"

Once a long time ago when CFO and I first began writing to one another, he said he was off to attend a different wedding and was curious if two twelvers could be counted as his carry on luggage.

I assured him that it would be.

It might be no small coincidence that CFO's cosmic doppleganger George would write in at the same time;

"dude,

until me meet again,
george"

And finally, an email from who some say is a snobbish bicycle rider from New York City;

"No mention of the eponymous steamer, though."

So there you have it. A nearly consistent post, some rainbows, some man ass, and a general sense of light hearted glee. We did it again, you and I have.

What I'd like for you to do now is to promise that you'll give yourself a little high five at some point during the day.

And of course by ''high five' I mean wear your favorite tiny shorts, and book a flight to Cleveland.

Those around you will most assuredly appreciate it if you did.

Actually, quite alot.

That just seems to be good business.
Images taken from here.

I won't rest until my collection is complete.
Image taken from here.

I was surprised to find out that midgets (or for the PC among us, 'little people') in fact, do not have night vision.

Which actually brings me to a HTATBL challenge. On Friday afternoon 6'7" asked me why there were no midget mountain bikers, or midget cyclists in general. I related to him that during my first gig as a bike messenger for Studebaker's Smog Free Delivery, I used to see an Ethiopian L.P. zipping around downtown Oakland on his tiny bike on the regular, always intent on his journey, but never so focused that he couldn't take the time to offer up a friendly wave in passing. Anyhow, aside from this observation being ironic coming from one of the tallest people I know, I was taken to find that there was seemingly no footage, or for that matter, any information at all that we could find of a little person riding bikes. If you, dear reader can offer up some sort of insight as to why this might be the case, or better yet, documentation, there will be a snappy set of Swobo socks in it for you.

So there is your challenge. Get cracking.

Here is a sweet shot that I've seen bouncing around for years of a certain Latoya Zampa following another certain Ben Jacques-Maynes around 1995, back before Ben was a full time glitzy-glammy stretchy pants and tap shoe wearing über pro;

Underneath that polished exterior will always beat the black heart of a single speeder.

Latoya on the other hand was born with a black heart, so he's no good example.

Generous people that they are, the Hunters had Demonika and me over for dinner on Friday, which was precluded with a lovely road/off road ride with M.A. and a short stop over at the Hunter bicycle fabrication world headquarters to behold Rick's size 14 shoes;

After dinner I promptly fell asleep on their sofa with an open can of PBR in my hand.

That's why folks call me 'the dream guest'.

Now an email from Gary;

"Stevil,
Although I have not met you in person I do follow your musings and feel a certain kinship with your innane ramblings.
I may be presumptuous here but I get the impression that you are of the baggy short variety. This may change your mind.
Who wouldn't want a rainbow barfing unicorn in conjunction with nut huggers that sport a purple starry pattern?

-G"

While I hold no false notions about how ridiculous traditional bicycle clothing looks, and have long gotten grief from my non-bicycling friends about this fact, I am one who regularly holds true to the old adage 'function before fashion' and because of this fact will generally willingly don a pair of stretchy pants at the drop of a hat not because I think they look good, but rather because they feel good.

And if the absurdity of the look were to equal that of the comfort, then about right now Gary is gently floating on a cloud of golden dipped baby hands.

Well played brave soldier. Well played.

If any of you all reading this here whatnot find yourselves in or around the Outdoor Retailer show this week in the city by the salt lake, you should go by to give El Corpo what for and take a ride on one of the fleet of tricked out Novaks we've got on hand as well;

Though we don't have any sizes for little people, we have one of each size outfitted with racks and baskets, so depending on actually how little the little person in question is, maybe you could give them a lift.

And it's with that, that I am out of here..

Anima D'Acciaio Trailer Ver5.1 from Cinecycle on Vimeo.

Well this week I've been pretty slammed at work which means I've had not much time to do anything except eat dinner, watch cartoons for 30 minutes and go to bed.
This might also explain why these two last two posts possibly seemed a little half-baked, and maybe why the following quote feels particularly appropriate to me right now;

"There comes a time when every man feels the urge to spit on his hands, hoist the black flag, and start slitting throats."
-H. L. Mencken

Anyway, with that being said, how about a bright spot amongst the doldrums?

Over the course of my existence I've known some folks who I'd like to take delivery of that particular gift.

As a matter of fact, before this next week is out, some of them just might.

TinaB sent me a bit of bummer news-
Damn. Now I gotta get my tattoo fixed.

Hey, here is a thing about some stuff you might be interested in getting in on;

To continue throwing a bone towards our friends in the state's south, I got an email from Brett in which he too professed his love for the swim-hole. Something else he has a soft spot for is speed metal, and other various incarnations of the ilk, so why not combine the two in a blog?

No reason I can think of.

Los Angeles Swimmin(dot)com.

I don't care to get too Californiacentric here, but I have another email from the West Coaster who does not care to coast, James Newman;

"Hey Stevil, was wondering if you could post up a blurb about the BFF OAKLAND on yer blog, it's gonna be sick. we showing Vernor's film at 5, best of shorts at 7, and RAD at 9pm. RAD. believe it.

Thanks man!
James"

At first glance I was all, "James is inviting me to the best friends forever party in Oakland?!" and then I realized what he was talking about.
Though it won't be as sweet as a best friends forever party, it's still gonna be pretty cool, and for the RAD screening, you maybe will want to swing by and pick up something from here.

So I've got two from the Southland and to make it even I'll add one more from the Northland as Loudass just moments ago sent this jewell on to me;

""Travel video to Oakland for SF Hipsters, fairly entertaining. Especially for those who have dared to go to the 510."

Man, I lived in Oakland for nearly 20 years. I had a centrally located store front that I'd gutted and turned into a studio, tons of bikes, probably at least one pair of skinny jeans, a degree from art school and the place was a ghost town. Literally the day I moved away, bikes shops, art galleries, cafes and record stores sprung up in my wake.

There is no justice.

At this point in today's post, I'll present you with a bit of goodness straight from the desktop of Tim the Masi Guy.

I always had my suspicions about that Archie.

Here is a clip that was sent in from Noah, that is truly the epitome of product placement;