A Way With Words: The Art of Nonsense

Do you live in or near Hamilton, Ontario, Canada, North America, Earth, the Universe?  Do you like cheese for breakfast?  Do you cry uncontrollably on escalators?  Well, if you answered either "yes," "no," or "maybe" to any of those questions, then come on down to the following places at the following times, because things will happen:

By the way, you may have noticed in the fine print that my visit is apparently sponsored by Petro-Canada, purveyors of fine fossil fuels to the fine living fossils who inhabit America's coonskin cap.  I'd attempt to make an excuse and blame McMaster University for this, and say that it's their event, and blahblahblah, but the fact is I don't feel the need to bother.  This is because I have no integrity and am therefore more than happy to accept sponsorship from any person, company, or entity in a position to offer it.  That's what happens when you have seventeen children and a $2.5 million Brooklyn brownstone to support.  (I live on Spondee Court in the fashionable neighborhood of Clitoral Hill, around the corner from Martin Amis.)  And if it makes you feel better, you can rest assured I'll be wearing this t-shirt as I stuff my face with Tim Hortons donuts on the Petro-Canada private jet that will be flying me up to Hamilton:

So can anyone tell me what the deal is with the tar sands?  Are they cool?  Is there any good riding there?  Which tire tread hooks up best with bitumen?

Moving on, last week there was this thing called "The Interbike" in the Las Vegas section of Nevadee, and the only interesting bit of news to come out of it is that, as I learned from a reader, mountain biking guy Brian Lopes picked a Twitter feud with Mario Cipollini:

To which Cipollini replied with his characteristic aplomb:

I'd say Cipollini won that one hands (and, presumably, face) down.

Speaking of Mario Cipollini, his film career is flourishing, for not only has he taken over as the star of the lucrative James Bond franchise, but he's also the star of this incredible promotional video for the 2013 UCI Road World Championships, which will be held in Tuscany:



A reader alerted me to this bravura performance, which opens with Cipo smelling the heady aroma of the Tuscan countryside, or himself--or, most likely, a mélange of the two:

But while Cipollini's acting alone makes this well worth watching, it's the narration that makes it a truly sublime cinematic experience, and if you're a lover of language as I am you'll savor the douche-chills as words words like this wash over you:

Life, which in Tuscany, is the art of feeling.  An eternal and inexhaustible vision of one's being, causing a confusion of time and identity.

And here's Cipo experiencing that confusion of time and identity:

Either that or he's urinating in his chamois, it's tough to be certain.

And while you may think that last line made sense, there's not a person alive who could milk a drop of sense out of this one:

Gymnastics of perception, to be shared through touch.  Physicality, with respect for memories crossed on the road of knowledge.

Apart from Cipo, of course, who rides the road of knowledge with a goofy grin on his face:

And who somehow manages to make even the mundane act of braking seem obscene:

(Cipollini feathers the controls lightly with two fingers.)

Throughout the film, Cipollini is in perfect synch with the narration.  For example, when the narrator says:

Knowing and hearing.

Cipo makes it clear that he both knows, and hears:

Actually, I thought he was having a "Zip-A-Dee-Doo-Dah" moment and imagining a bluebird on his shoulder as well:

Though any bird foolish enough to get close enough to that hair would end up looking like this:

(Brought to you by Petro-Canada)

Oh, here's something you might not have known about Tuscany:

Tuscan nature is a generous gift of words.  Rewarding the need, rebellious and inborn, to know.  A medal for the desire to share and multiply scenarios.

What does that even mean?  Perhaps this will clarify:

Talking horizons.  Whispering hills.  Inspiring and irresistible urge to pedal on and move the word.

Or perhaps not.  Really, it sounds like something Petrarch might have written after accidentally ingesting some hallucinogenic funghi.  By the way, I didn't know Petrarch had climbed Mont Ventoux until I looked him up on the Wicking Pedia:

Fucking doper.

Anyway, the only part of the video that made even the slightest bit of sense was this:

Though the moral of the story is apparently this:

I guess this video is supposed to get you excited about who will be riding, feeling, and smelling their way into a rainbow jersey in 2013, but it mostly just made me want to take a scalding hot shower.

You know who else is a doper?  Mitt Romney's campaign strategist, Stuart Stevens:

(Via the reader who submitted the Sicilian Cockpit.)

Who some years back took a bunch of drugs to ride in Paris-Brest-Paris, and who would still be on HGH today if it "weren't so expensive:"

For me, it would be a quality-of-life question, not a performance issue. If the HGH weren't so expensive, I'd probably continue with it, at least until I had a good reason not to, like some new evidence that it makes you grow extra ears. (The side effects of HGH are reportedly mild—one is fluid retention.) If nothing else, it helped my eyesight, and I had more energy. Lately, I've been reading studies about how endurance athletes suffer from low testosterone, which leads to early signs of osteoporosis, so I'm going to continue to monitor my levels and, if they drop too far, consider boosting them with the cream.

From this I guess we can infer that he's back on the HGH, since presumably he can afford it now, and large quantities of drugs would go a long way towards explaining Clint Eastwood talking to that empty chair.

Of course, all the HGH in the world isn't going to do you any good if you don't also have a set of hormonal dropouts (via yet another reader):

1960's shogun special
It's a thread less 1". It has a modified steere tube and has been shimmed 1 1/8 cannondale stem. The frame is clear coated (raw metal, rust)/ brown with select tubes in a seafoam. Campy headset. Fits 700c. Hormonal dropouts. Aluminum seat post. And downtube cable stop. Bike does not include bb cups!

And if you're wondering what "hormonal dropouts" look like, here's your answer:

I was excited to learn that apparently one of my own bikes has hormonal dropouts, which would explain why the adjustment screw is in a permanent state of arousal:

That explosion of light on the quick release lever qualifies this photograph as ART, and to order a print of this image for only $74.99 just click here.

And lastly, on the subject of art, here is yet another inspiring submission to the Second Biennial Cock-Off, sponsored by Knog:

Says the contestant:

Taken from this angle because he is naked (WNBR, 2012, Portland, hello), and blue, but the key elements of this impressive array are visible.  The item on top stage right of the cockpit may be a deer whistle.  

He was handing out the shell necklaces from around his neck to all the ladies, telling them they had, via his bestowing, "been lei'ed."  He was my very special friend for about 10 minutes, until he got distracted.  I believe he goes by "Ragnar."

Now I need another shower.