I went out for a morning walk in the Hollywood Hills today, and saw three guys polishing up their status cars, 4 garage sales, loads of moms with strollers, loads of dogs, and I took these here photos:
I like the palm trees, for the record; and the truck.
Well, dear friends, I have a new article up on the Daily Peloton, in which I survey the field for this week's Tour de Georgia, and I felt pretty entertained by myself when I was writing it. You can read it here, if you want to.
Plus, I know none of you want to miss a beat in the monkey George story, and the latest is, he may have suffered the agony of defeat in Roubaix, but that dear creature sounds happier than ever to be getting married and becoming a father. That is so sweet!
Can you believe that our president can't think of a single mistake he's made in the past four years? Here's a reader's digest version of his April 14th press conference from The Gadflyer. Tipping my hat to blab-o-rama for that one.
Earl Grey Tea actually sprayed out my nose when I read this, which includes the sentence "At the crucial moment, his eyes were blazing and he threw his head back in ecstasy" apropos of David Beckham's alleged clandestine love life. I had to share it with you all.
It was primarily about how much there isn't a goddamned thing happening in the remote villages of the West Fjords of Iceland. Apparently, though, there are big ominous snow-packed mountains rising straight out of the churning, gray ocean, weatherbeaten houses clad in corrugated metal siding, aimless youths, drunk, taxi driving deadbeat dads, meticulous old ladies, disgusting cuisine, fortune-telling firemen, and priests on snowmobiles. It had a wry humor and a very nice soundtrack. It was slow (which is a quality I actually really love in a movie), and had a simultaneously awful and hopeful finale. I liked it. I would watch it again.
I could see how growing up in a frigid, remote location like that might make one wish, as Noi does, for Hawaii, but I've never been one to dream of white, sandy beaches. I must say that it really appealed to me - all that cold and desolation. I could stand it for awhile. I vant to be alone!
Either remotest Iceland, or a shoebox in New York City. All angst, all the time, baby.
The Crew went to super cool downtown LA to bear witness to the genius of Jake Holland at an Easter themed art show. His piece was called The Return of Christ. Rian thinks maybe Jake was a little too generous where John is concerned, but Jake claims he had a photo to draw from, and that's what it looked like. Fair enough.
Hopefully these will load up faster than the last ones...
rcjohnso with Bunnies, and with a glass of headache wine in front of his face; Steve handsomer than ever.
Not a good day for Big Hink. After Postmen Max Van Heeswijk and Stijn Devolder went down in the Foret d'Arenberg, George found himself without teammates and about 100 kms to go. AGAIN.
Out of a big group containing all the favorites, he made a very confident move with Belgian wunderkind Tom Boonen and a rare Spring Classics loving Spaniard, Juan Antonio Flecha, but it was too early, and they were caught by the big dogs behind. Most likely, Boonen was doing the work of a domestique for Johann Museeuw, and made it look for all the world like a move George had to mark and drive, though it would prove to be his undoing.
After they were caught, it seems as if Big G never quite recovered from his earlier efforts, and he "just rode in" for 8th. To repeat that: he "just rode in" for 8th frickin' place in the hardest single day race of the year. Unfortunately, that seemed to be no consolation to George, because he was all tortured sighs and resignation in his post race interview - looking tired, and like he was just getting through it.
DAMN. I hate it when that happens. That's bike racing; but I have to confess, I have no idea how he does it again and again with the same conviction. It only makes it more crushing that he has a legitimate chance, and that it keeps eluding him. Regardless, he keeps coming with 100% committed action, and that just really gets me. I know it's just a bike race, but it's an incredible human quality.
I thought Wired's handy guide to trendy postmodern French intellectuals - Pomo to Go - was hilarious when I was drowning in theory as an English major in College (though in my experience, quoting Lacan won't really get you laid); but don't you think elementary school might be a bit early to get all pomo on these poor kids' asses?