The More Things Change: Ushering In a New Error

Most of us are familiar with the phrase, "They don't make 'em like they used to," and while it's generally the sort of thing you'll hear muttered by ornery retrogrouches it happens to be true in many cases. For example, the pyramids they built way back in ancient times are still standing, whereas today's flimsy drywall constructions rarely last for more than a few years. Also, while it was possible "back in the day" to purchase a quality hand-crafted artisanal "dandy horse," nowadays it's all but impossible to find one that isn't far too small for the typical adult. And don't even get me started on how difficult it is to find a well-engineered abacus. Some favor Mac, others prefer PC, but in my opinion neither of them rivals the raw, minimalist computing power of some beads on a stick.

However, quality is not falling off in all areas, and in fact in some it is actually improving. The Gutenberg press used to be a big deal, but it sucks compared to the Internet. The average Dachshund is also over 30% longer than it was only 50 years ago thanks to huge advancements in dog food technology, and canine experts even predict that in order to support this increase the breed will evolve a third pair of legs by the year 2100. And professional cyclists' explanations for positive doping tests also to improve--at least in terms of entertainment value. Back in the Coppi era it used to be, "They spiked my bottle." Then, in the Vandenbroucke era, it was, "The drugs were for my dog." (In retrospect, this was a plausible explanation given what we now know about wiener dogs.) Today, it's "There was something in my meat," and Alberto Contador's cook now insists Astana has the receipt to prove it:

As everybody knows by now, a drug quiz administered during the Tour de France revealed that Contador had like a trillionth of a gram of a fad diet drug in his system, and it has since been revealed that there was also "plasticizer" in his blood, which means one of three things: 1) His blood may have come out of a bag; 2) He may be "running" those new Gore Ride On plastic arteries; or 3) He is in fact the comic book superhero known as "Plastic Man." Of course, the "plasticizer" test has yet to be validated by the World Anti-Doping Agency, so Contador's main concern is explaining the fad diet drug, hence the whole "meat" story--or, as the cook calls it in the above article, "The Notorious Day of the Steak."

But while the cook insists Astana has the meat receipt, they have yet to produce it, which is now prompting everybody in the world who has ever padded an expense report to ask, "How long does it take a bunch of bike racers to whip up a phony receipt, anyway?". Really, all you need to do is pull something like this out from between the seat cushions on the team bus:

(Number of guests changed from "9" to "8" because Vino ate separately.)

Done, and done. Just crinkle it up a bit, maybe add a coffee ring for authenticity, and start training for the 2011 Tour de France.

Another thing that is improving by leaps and bounds (or by bunny hops and elephant trunk skids) is the "epic" fixed-gear bicycle trip video trailer. Of course, by "improving" I don't mean that the artform is somehow becoming more interesting or edifying; rather, I mean that it's becoming exponentially more idiotic with each new release. The latest of these videos making the Internet rounds like an alleycat participant looking for "checkpoints" is "Down to Ride," in which seven ill-prepared people with marginal cycling skills endeavor to ride their crappy bikes from New York to Los Angeles:



"I don't think any of us have any idea what we're in for," says this person, unwittingly summarizing the vacuous mindset of an entire generation of fixed-gear riders:

"Dehydration, passing out, possibly death, but it's a risk I'm willing to take," says another rider as he manages to fall off his bicycle on a completely empty street:

"Just glad to be with my friends and on my bike," says the person who will do anything, no matter how ridiculous, as long as his friends and a bike are involved:


"I hope that everybody is aware of what I'm doing and they get out of my way cause I'm not going to get out of their way," says the guy who has apparently decided to out-dumb the three people who have spoken before him:

And who then raises his bicycle over his head as a "douche-clamation point:"

However, this being "Down to Ride"--almost certainly the goofiest fixed-gear trailer to date--he is immediately out-dumbed by the guy who skids into the frame on a road bike:

"I expect to ride plenty, bomb plenty of hills, maybe get a little scratched up, bruised...still 'DTR' baby, Down To Ride," says the final body in this pile-on of idiocy:

Judging from those glasses, he's also apparently 'DTETLOCNR,' or Down To Emulate The Look Of Charles Nelson Reilly:

But these riders aren't all talk, and they're out to prove they ride just as badly as they say they do. Here's one of them finally discovering that flat-brim caps tend to fly off the head once you exceed 1omph:

This dramatic moment is fraught with cultural significance;

I was particularly surprised to learn that Audrey Hepburn pants are still in vogue long after those Gap ads "dropped:"

In fact, the cast of "Down To Ride" appears to have used her as their wardrobe template:

To wit:

(Tarck Cavendish throws victory salute after winning Audrey Hepburn look-alike contest.)

Excluding, of course, the riders who opted to model themselves after Charles Nelson Reilly instead:

Still, as these riders make their way across the country, you can expect exchanges like these all over America:

Police Officer: "Ma'am, can you describe the bicyclist who hit you?"

Pedestrian: "Yes, he looked exactly like a young Audrey Hepburn--from the bob haircut right down to the slip-ons. Quite remarkable actually."

Meanwhile, this rider continues to sprint away from his purple hat, confident in the knowledge that the SUV driver will see the name tag his mother sewed into it and return it to its rightful owner:

Of course, it wouldn't be a fixed-gear trailer without a gratuitous shot of the riders ignoring a traffic signal, and while most videos go digital by ignoring red lights the "DTR" crew keeps it "old skool" by ignoring a good old-fashioned analog "Stop" sign:

As for the route they're taking from New York to Los Angeles, the video doesn't specify. However, since they don't have fenders or bags or proper clothes, it appears they're avoiding the surface roads in favor of indoor parking garages:

That should keep them safe from the elements.

But "Down To Ride" has more than just unintentional comedy; it also has PAIN:

And GLORY:

And RIDING ON THE SIDEWALK:

It's also ONE EPIC JOURNEY:

During which the participants actually learn important lessons about life, such as "Always hold your flat-brim cap on your head when riding over 10mph:"

And "Always cool your underarms:"


Yes, it's ONE EPIC JOURNEY all right. In fact, it's both metaphorically and literally a long ride off a short pier:

Indeed, to outdo this, the next fixed-gear crew will have to hire Christopher Guest to direct.

In any case, I do hope they at least take some time off from "hill bombing" and falling down in the middle of the street for no reason to stop and appreciate America's heartland, where one reader spotted this impressive "Cockie" submission:

They just don't make tractors like they used to.

The Corrections: I Can See Clearly Now

This past Friday, on October something-or-other in the year 2000-something-or-other, I administered a series of challenging questions, or what people in the education industry refer to as a "quiz." This so-called "quiz" can be viewed by clicking on the following phrase:

NEW ENGLAND CLAM CHOWDER IS DELICIOUS

Or, alternately, by clicking on this photo of a bowl of New England clam chowder:

For those of you who don't know your chowders, New England clam chowder is the white one, Manhattan clam chowder is the red one, and "Cleveland clam chowder" is not actually a chowder but rather a slang term for a particularly filthy sex act, so keep that in mind when ordering to avoid disappointment, embarrassment, or arrest.

At this point, you're probably thinking, "That quiz was like months ago! Why are you bringing it up now?" Well, it has been brought to my attention by a popular cycling-themed bag, clothing and shoe company that the so-called "right" answer to one of the questions on this quiz was actually wrong. Here is the question in question:

As the Chrome representative explains:

...the two people who got the Chrome logo did so at their own will and were unexpectedly gifted bags as flattered thank yous. We definitely didn't expect people to volunteer the logo designs, and felt our die-hard loyalists deserved a special thanks for their continued support.

So what does all of this mean? Well, it means the following:

1) Anybody who answered "False" to question #7 on the quiz dated October something-or-other, 2000-whatever, will receive full credit on the question;

2) Anybody who answered "True" to this same question will also receive full credit, unless your urine or blood samples are found to contain Clenbuterol and/or plastic residue;

3) The members of the "bike culture" who got tattooed are not "bag whores" as I implied, since they did not get Chrome logo tattoos in exchange for money or goods. Instead, they are technically "bag sluts," since they got Chrome logo tattoos without expecting anything in return. This is an important distinction;

4) The sex act known as the "Cleveland clam chowder" is legal in Nevada, but it is illegal if you also order it in a "bread bowl."

My sincere apologies to Chrome Cycling Trends, Inc., all affected quiz-takers, and any unintentionally maligned "bag sluts" for my error. I guess that's what I get for not attending Interbike. (Though I did get to keep my dignity as a consolation prize.)

Speaking of dignity, Nylon--which, according to a popular user-edited online encyclopedia, is "an American magazine that focuses on pop culture and fashion"--recently published the musings of a cyclist who is dismayed by the haughty attitude displayed by the "fixerati:"

Apparently, they did not approve of his bicycle, which he describes thusly:

I have a silver 8-Gear TREK bike. It is not stylish. I bought it off a fidgety thug in the East Village. “Look at this seat! You know how much this seat costs?” He asked.

“No.”

“Two hundred dollars!”

“The seat?”

“Yup.”

“How much do you want for the bike?”

“Fifty.” Money switched hands, and thus my mountain biking life began.

Following this, the Nylon writer says: "If you ride a fixed gear bike, you don’t actually get to scoff at me." Actually, this is wrong, and the truth is everybody gets to scoff at him. Why? Because when you buy a bicycle for $50 from a "fidgety thug in the East Village" it means you're riding around on somebody else's stolen bike, and whether it's "a silver 8-gear TREK bike," or a Chari & Co.-curated freewheel "tarck" masterpiece, or a "Bicycling" magazine-reviewed road-tarded crabon fribé Fredcycle, you automatically forfeit the moral high ground and relegate yourself to the bottom of the cycling hierarchy the moment you hand the salesman his drug money. (Or, I suppose, the moment you decide to keep the bike instead of at least making an attempt to find the rightful owner.) I certainly have little patience for the preening self-importance of the "fixter," but at least most of them buy their bikes legitimately (with their parents' money). In any case, if you've recently found yourself less a silver 8-speed Trek bicycle, you might want to contact the editorial staff of Nylon to get it back.

If nothing else, that fateful encounter in which a pair of "fixter" doofi and a rube from Nylon wearing a wool blazer and riding a stolen Trek stood there glowering at each other must have been nothing short of a "circle jerk" of cluelessness, and this article was the inevitable "issue." Alas, if only some cycling optics company would make a pair of glasses that allowed clueless people to see things as they really are (sort of like those glasses in "They Live"), then the rest of us could be spared this kind of ejaculate in the future. In the meantime, it looks like we have to settle for glasses that show us our heart rate and wattage, like this pair forwarded to me by a reader:

As if roadies and triathletes weren't already "dorking out" hard enough, here comes a pair of sunglasses that means they won't even have to look down at the displays fastened to their crabon handlebars to see how slow they are. I wonder if the glasses also tell you what to say in certain situations, like in the famous "Fuck You, Asshole" scene in "The Terminator:"

They could allow you to choose from any of four Fred-tastic phrases:

It's perfect for that next group ride, Cat 5 road race, or charity event.

I was also intrigued to note that the glasses have an "audio system," which must be like like having your own personal directeur sportif:

Click here to experience what they say when a gap starts to open;

Click here to experience what they say when a gap gets too big;

Click here to experience what they say when you encounter a "fixter" or fashion writer on a stolen bicycle;

Click here to experience what they say when you encounter more than one vagina.

If they come with customizable regional accents and a free cleaning cloth, I don't know how you could say no.

Speaking of exciting new products, I recently received an email from the manufacturers of something called the "Stemie," which evidently protects the "pants yabbies" or vaginae during the sort of groin-to-stem contact you might encounter during elephant trunk skidding or other forms of pointless bicycle dry-humping:

What puzzled me most about this product was the actual name. I assume "Stemie" is supposed to refer to the "stem," and that you would pronounce the name of the product to rhyme with "Lemmy." However, with only one "m" I can't help reading this as "steamy," which--if you're immature like me--evokes a certain "steamy" companion act to the "Cleveland clam chowder." Then again, that could be what they were going for, and it does explain the final question in their "FAQ:"

In any case, if you have an inordinate amount of trouble with your stem jabbing you in the "breadbowl," then perhaps this is the product for you.

Spending Power: Who's #1?

Since the dawn of cycling, humankind has sought to spend as much money on equipment as possible. In the 19th century, hale wheelmen would covet laterally stiff and vertically enormous handcrafted pennyfarthing frames, quasi-legal narcotic-infused brain tonics, and wheels shod in the finest Amazonian rubbers. Decades later, in the era of Fausto Coppi, early proto-Freds would don shorts with mink chamoises and glue tires spun from the silk of debutantes' undergarments to their ultra-low spoke count 36-hole rims using glues made from the hooves of Thoroughbreds. This tradition of gross expenditure continues today, as Category 5 investment bankers quaff quasi-legal energy tonics, straddle $10,000 worth of crabon fribé, and monitor their meager power output with exotic electronic equipment that would shame a Stanford University earthquake researcher.

All of this raises an important question: "What is the most expensive cycling discipline today?" This query is especially crucial if you work for a bicycle company, since it's vital to know which component of the cycling demographic is most desperate to spend too much money on crap that will either break for be "obsolete" by season's end. For many years, the common wisdom was that the biggest spenders were roadies, who would actually pay for snake oil if you told them it was good for lubricating ceramic bearings. Then came mountain bikers and their lust for vulgar Kleins and machined anodized purple boutique componentry. In turn, both of these groups were then eclipsed by the triathletes, who thought nothing of paying thousands of dollars for a slight aerodynamic advantage while at the same time employing a stem riser and riding in sneakers.

However, today a new cycling super-consumer has emerged. He (or she) possess the weight weenie-ism of the roadie, the dirt-oriented geekery of the mountain biker, and the grossly disproportionate dollar-per-mile ratio of the triathlete. This rider, of course, is the so-called "cyclocross" racer, and if someone willing to spend $1,500 on crabon wheels, $150 on a single knobby tire, and 5 hours driving in order to ride a bike for 45 minutes did not actually exist then the bicycle industry would have had to invent him.

At this point you may be saying to yourself: "Wait, I've heard of this 'cyclo-cross.' Isn't that the one where people hang out and drink beer, and where I don't need to buy a new bike because it's OK to race my vulgar Klein as long as I remove the purple bar ends? What's so expensive about that?" Well, there's nothing at all expensive about that--except the "cyclo-cross" of yestermonth bears about as much resemblance to "CX 2.0" as the pennyfarthing does to the latest 11-speed crabon fribé Fred-conveyor. While old-timey cyclocross was about barriers, CX 2.0 is about barriers to entry, as you can see from this list of "What to bring to a cyclocross race" from VeloNews:

As I read this, I had to keep checking the headline to make sure it was actually about cyclocross and that I hadn't been rerouted to some sort of instructional on producing your own music festival. Do you really need to bring a Coleman PerfectFlow to a cyclocross race so you can engage in the time-honored activity of "cooking your own brats?" Is that French press really necessary? Can you get by without the Crazy Legs Leisure Chairs and the Deluxe Bike Cubes and "The Stick" self-massage tool and the stationary trainer and the boutique embrocations with organic ingredients that would probably also taste delicious on your "brats?" Apparently, the answer to all these questions is: "Yes, you do need to bring enough equipment and furniture to reproduce the interior of a San Francisco coffee shop and/or survive 'off the grid' for six months so you can race in the rain for 45 minutes." And don't forget that "Lion of Flanders" flag, since this whole "flambullient" production hinges on maintaining the delusion that you're from another country.

Of course, while following this guide may successfully transform you into the biggest Lion of Flanders-waving, cowbell-ringing, "brat"-grilling cyclocross dork of all time, it says nothing about the actual bicycle you'll need in order to compete in the increasingly competitive arena that is CX 2.0. "Back in the day" (by which in this context I mean last season) pretty much any steel or aluminum bike with cantilever studs was sufficient, but now only the laterally stiff and vertically marketed ride of crabon will do:

By the way, if $2,500 for a cyclocross "module" doesn't sound like a lot of money to you, keep in mind you'll need two of these since it's essential to have an identical bike in the pit. And obviously once you've built up your two "modules" you'll need multiple sets of mud-shedding crabon wheels glued with tires for every conceivable weather condition. As for how to transport two bicycles, multiple pairs of wheels, a Coleman PerfectFlow, a French press, cowbells, nationalist symbols, coffee beans, "brats," chairs, embrocations, a trainer, massage equipment, and presumably your own body, the article doesn't address that either, but something like this is a good choice:

Just be sure to opt for race venues that are conveniently situated near harbors with adequate stevedoring facilities.

Granted, it's also possible that this list is simply a "red herring," and that it's actually intended to frighten away the "hipsters" who have been threatening to infiltrate cyclocross racing for the past couple of years. No "hipster" could ever amass, care for, and transport this amount of equipment. Even the ones who form the mobile "hipster" strike forces known as "bands" can barely manage to keep a couple of guitar amps working or keep a dilapidated van from getting towed, which makes CX 2.0 as portrayed in the VeloNews piece out of the question.

I'd argue that it's unnecessary to try to frighten "hipsters" away from cyclocross, since at this point it's pretty clear to me that they're only interested in the bicycles--which is why they get excited about idiotic bikes like this. However, there are still those who worry that a few of them might actually attempt to ride their cyclocross bikes (or cyclocross-themed track bikes) in a race. This could also be why the VeloNews article contains a sensational warning about caustic mud:

Dried mud from racing is not the same as a spa treatment and can start to burn or sting as it dries.

Yes, who hasn't headed out on a warm-up lap, only to wind up writhing on the ground in pain and screaming, "It burns, it burns!!!"? Indeed, expensive "performance skincare" is your only line of defense--especially if you tend to race near ports with stevedoring facilities, where groundwater toxicity can be unusually high.

Meanwhile, a reader has alerted me to the fact that, in the KLM airlines in-flight magazine, the Dutch are congratulating themselves for taking over the sidewalks of New York City with their giant bicycles:

For those of you unfamiliar with New York City, it should come as no surprise to you to learn that the Dutch bike riders pictured above are "salmoning" wantonly. Note also that the story identifies someone named "Chris Clement" as a typical example of "the new breed of New York commuter." Apparently before buying a Dutch bike, Clement commuted by car from Brooklyn to Manhattan. "There wasn't any alternative," he explains. "The subway was overcrowded and inconvenient, and dangerous roads were choked with trucks and irate motorists."

Actually, there are transportation alternatives for gentrified dandies who find the subway distasteful, and they're called "Vespas." However, increasingly the Vespa customer base appears to be defecting to Dutch bikes:

Clement’s biking epiphany hasn’t stopped at abandoning his luxury German sedan though. In June, he upgraded his ride to a Batavus stadsfiets, a traditional, two-wheel Dutch bicycle, purchased from Rolling Orange, a newly opened Brooklyn bike shop owned by Dutchman Ad Hereijgers.

Hereijgers intends Rolling Orange, with its array of stadsfiets and bakfiets (bikes with cargo crates) to be much more than a simple cycle store. “I want to bring Dutch biking culture to New York,” he says. “I want to encourage New Yorkers to switch gears, slow down and enjoy their travel time. I call it the Slow Revolution.”

Evidently, whether it's cyclocross or Dutch bikes, the average American is only able to partake in cycling if he can spend a lot of money and pretend to be from another country while he does it. However, not all riders are adopting Low Country affectations--some remain proudly American, like the seller of this bicycle, which I learned about on the Tweeter:

2010 Trek 1.5 - $850 (Azusa, CA)

Date: 2010-10-04, 6:08PM PDT

Reply to: [deleted]

This bike has been a great friend to me but I am joining the Marine Corps and need to sell it. I know that it would be a great shame for this bike to sit in storage while I am away.

1.5 Aluminum Frame

56cm

All Bontrager Racing Extras (wheels, tires, handle bar assembly)

18 speed.

Step-up Braking System

Also Including Bontrager Bike Pump, Kryptonite Bike Lock, Giro Helmet and Specialized Gloves.

This bike is more than just a bike, its mechanical poetry.

Riding this bike is like discovering an extinct species still living in some enchanted forest, or making friends with a T-Rex. It is like walking on the moon while eating a funnel cake- like falling asleep on a bed of cotton candy, like slow dancing with Joe DiMaggio.

The frame was forged in the fires of Mt. Doom, and it's handlebars pulled from the horns of a raging bull.

This bike is guaranteed to make you physically capable of doing things that Superman himself dreams of. With its help, you will fly into the night like a white-hot bullet of justice and awesome. This bike will make you three times as likely to win a date with Scarlet Johannson, and twice as likely to make you mayor of your city.

To pass up this work of glory is like not finishing the all-you-can-eat hot wings challenge when you have only one to go.

So please, don't miss this opportunity of a lifetime. It will make you a better person, a better friend, and a better lover.

So help me God.

Best of all, because it's a road bike, you won't need any culinary equipment.

Getting Around: Baby got BRA

This past last weekend, I went to a place called Massachusetts. Massachusetts is a state in the United States of America. The United States of America is sometimes called "Canada's Undercarriage." Massachusetts used to have Ted Kennedy but he died. That was sad. A long time ago Ted Kennedy's car went into the water and he was OK but the lady who was with him died. That was sad. I think the people in Massachusetts must be the nicest people in all of Canada's Undercarriage. Massachusetts has a city called Boston that is the capital of Massachusetts. Here is a park called Fenway Park, where the Boston baseball team plays baseball:

(Fenway Park Stadiumway, home of the Red Colorway Sox)

The reason I went to Boston, of course, was because on Friday evening I partook in a "BRA" (or Book-Related Appearance) at Landry's Bike Shop on Commonwealth Avenue, and the above photo was taken by me on the afternoon ride that preceded this BRA. As you can see, it was precipitating during this ride, which immediately qualified it as an "epic." Alas, the Great Lobster on High had set the nozzle of his celestial spray bottle to "mist," and only a handful of Boston's most epically-inclined riders showed to brave the light drizzle that eventually transitioned to steady rain once the Great Lobster switched to the "spray" setting. However, even in small numbers, this group was intimidating enough to force me to "salmon"--for if you're familiar with the Fenway area you may have noticed that we're going the wrong way.

Here's an over-the-shoulder shot of our hale party fording the mighty Charles River:

And here we are receiving information and historical facts about the area from a gentleman with a beard:

I prefer to receive information from the amply-bearded, for beards are authoritative and lend the wearer's words additional credence and gravitas. In fact, when told something by the smoothly-shaven or naturally hairless, I am usually skeptical and will often seek out a bearded person for corroboration. Anyway, here we are at Boston Common, where apparently you're still technically allowed to bring cattle for grazing. Foolishly, I had just assumed that Boston would not offer much in the way of grazing opportunities, and behind the camera I am kicking myself for leaving my prize Holstein at home.

Also, we saw a giant baby's head:

As you can see, the baby's expression is ambiguous, and we speculated as to whether this baby could accurately be described as "nonplussed." The fact is, without pupils it's difficult to tell. For example, the baby could be nonplussed bordering on aghast:


Or the baby could be feigning innocence:


Or the baby could be contemplating a question before answering it:

Or the baby could just be feeling "kooky:"

I suspect this is precisely the artist's intent, and that he means to evoke the notion that each one of us is a tabula rasa until we are shaped by our experiences--either that, or he just figured it would be pretty sick to make a big baby head, and that it would totally look like an army of giant babies was crawling out of the Earth if you were baked.

Meanwhile, back at Old Man Landry's, the stage was being set for my BRA:

One chair is for me, and the other is for Andrew Steinhouse, who interrogated me in the manner of James Lipton while projecting relevant images behind us. Here is what it looked like from the cockpit:

(The chairs immediately in front of me are vacant due to my spitting problem.)

I greatly enjoyed this BRA, and words are scarcely sufficient to convey my gratitude to Andrew Steinhouse for organizing the ride, MCing the event, and generally "curating" the entire thing with aplomb; Landry's for being gracious hosts; and the people of Boston for enduring both the rain and my tedious ramblings in order to get free pizza and beer. (There was free pizza and beer.) In fact, words are so inadequate that I'm not even going to bother, and instead I'm going to allow Mr. Neil Diamond to express my emotions for me:



The following day, my heart light still glowing with gratitude, I traveled to Gloucester (the Fish Stick Capital of America) in order to enjoy the "cyclo-cross." Here is dramatic video of the race in which I participated (not taken by me), in which you can see another participant invert himself within seconds of the start:

(That's not supposed to happen.)

As for my own performance, I'm not ashamed to say that when it comes to the "cyclo-cross" I put the "can't" in "cantis," and I spent the ensuing 45 minutes on the verge of tears with a giant snot bubble in my nose. Then, I watched the pros. Here's a picture of Ryan Trebon putting his bicycle back between his legs:

Speaking of professional cyclists, this past weekend the World Championship Elite Men's Road Race took place in Australia (New Zealand's Disembodied Goiter), and of course all eyes were on one rider: Dimitry Fofonov, who eventually "foffed" his way into 12th place.


The winner was lactose enthusiast Thor Hushovd, who undoubtedly felt lighter than milk in his post-victory elation. Here, he compares the weight of his World Championship medal to the weight a pint of half-and-half (out of frame) and appears to be quite pleased with the result:

Indeed, unlike that giant baby head, Hushovd's expression is entirely unambiguous. It's also completely free from guilt, unlike many "green" people, as you may have read in that New York Times article to which I linked in Friday's post:

Apparently, like the fondling priest, the "green" often have trouble reconciling their higher ideals with their earthly desires. Consider this person, whose luxurious house in Palm Springs is a source of great consternation:

Does Mr. Freed — who said his wife, Laurie, is not a greenie and did not even recycle when they met — have any green guilt about his own lifestyle, which includes a 350-square-foot apartment in San Francisco and a 2,000-square-foot house in Palm Springs, Calif.?

“Nonstop, every minute, are you kidding?” he said. “Every time I set foot in the car. I drive a hybrid and I bought carbon offsets for it, so technically it’s carbon-neutral, but with carbon offsets you’re trading the carbon reduction of one company for the polluting practices of another. I have a 2-year-old child, a little girl — there’s a lot of guilt around the baby, because its stuff is horribly packaged, designed to be disposable, and there are times we have to do things I wouldn’t do for myself, such as disposable water bottles and these plastic placemats we use when we go to the restaurant. They’re great for germs, but disposable, awful things.”

Perhaps the only thing more irritating than listening to a bunch of minimalists brag about how little they own is listening to a bunch of rich people talk about how they're emotionally tortured by their possessions--and of course "possessions" include babies, which are also a tremendous source of guilt and inconvenience and are even referred to as "it" instead of "he" or "she." I look forward to seeing how this new generation of "its" adjusts to the resentment heaped upon them by their parents, bitter about having been forced to cope with the "awful" world of disposable diapers and distasteful packaging. I imagine they'll wind up looking something like this:

Meet the Bard College Class of 2030.

In any case, perhaps some of these guilty parents should really begin living in harmony with the Earth by living entirely off of it and swaddling their children in animal hides. They can then assuage any remaining guilt by using the rest of the animal to make organic leather saddles and antler cockpits, like this example which was submitted to me for "Cockie" consideration:

Here's another, more sporting example of an antler cockpit:

Though if you do kill an animal, swaddle your child in its hide, use its antlers to "curate" your cockpit, and then eat its meat, just make sure the resulting steaks do not contain any clenbuterol.

Or, if you don't have the stomach for hunting, you can always "curate" a cockpit that burns with the brightness of a thousand suns, like this one that was spotted in Baltimore:

In the event of a blackout, he could easily illuminate a Major League Baseball stadium.