You Can't Get There From Here
Comes now the Trailer Park Cyclist to once again spread good cheer and hopeful hopings unto his scarce, if not altogether gone readers. But be that as it may, I will spread it anyway. Lo and unto the many there is at these gloomy times a clear call for hope, and good cheer. We outvoted The Orange Rascal, but now, a year later, he's still there!
Like the monsters under the bed, he just won't go away.
So, while I promise to get bicycles in here somewhere, it might be a bit sticky. Why, you ask? Well, for one thing my ever-increasing girth might require two bicycles to haul my fat ass around. And I haven't been astride a bike since that incident last July when I found myself stopped on the little bridge, gasping for breath and wondering simultaneously if the bridge tender knew CPR and if it was wise, after all, to choose to take my single speed out today. Man, I can joke around, but I couldn't catch my breath.
But what of that?
Meanwhile...
We have been worried about the covid. I have, at least. Two weeks after getting my second Moderna shot, I came down with a serious case of the puking my guts out. Luckily, my old friend Coyote was in town and he was able to hose me off. Come to think of it, I might have caught that odd bug by the serious drinking that accompanied Coyotes' visit. He lives in a little town on the Mexican border. He makes his way here about once a year and I fear he won't be back, anymore. Just a hunch I have. So that's another drinking buddy I have alienated and really, there aren't any left. Uncle Bill just deserted me and Dirty Phil the biker (Outlaws) ain't coming round here no more. What the hell?
It's Age, Of Course
It's age, of course, that does us all in, ultimately. Just plain old age. That and this damnable plague that won't end, much like the Ex-Presidency of Donald Trump. Jesus Christ! Here in Florida we are again breaking records in the Emergency Rooms and where it all ends, I don't know. But I promised to bring glad tidings, and so I will. By asking...Where were the guns?
Where Were The Guns?
I just recently was able to watch the tapes of the Capitol attack, the ones they didn't show us at first. You remember the first photos we saw...the QAnon dude with a spear and a cool costume like he might have been Davy Crockett's sidekick. Or the shots of peaceful guys wandering around the Halls of Congress, with the Speaker's stand or even a few files from an office they didn't even know the name of...they were like fuzzy little harmless Wookies out for an adventure.
Not so the attackers from the videotapes I saw courtesy of CNN just the other day. Claiming they had to sue somebody to get these films, this three-hour piece of evidence reveals the absolute madness of that day.
These were Berserkers. Madmen determined to gain access to the inner sanctum at all cost. Out for blood.
But where were the guns? Not one of three thousand or so attackers pulled as much as a slingshot out. And trust me, this is the most concealed-weapons-carrying-permit-gang alive. Where were the guns? Even Ashlee Babbit was unarmed. What the hell? The Capitol Police were, apparently, ordered not to use deadly force. Why? If I was stuck in that tunnel for three hours, forced to fight for my life, I don't think I would have given a good goddamn for orders. But not one of those crazy assholes pulled a gun out and started spraying lead around. This is disturbing, to say the least.
Anyway
Miss Daisy the Yellow Dog has left the stage, so to speak. My almost constant companion for thirteen years, she was deaf for the last two, suffering some kind of crippling malady in her hind legs, and just, she just...we made the decision after about a month of debate and decided to let her go. She didn't complain. We took her up to the vets one last time. She died in my arms.
Hang In There
Look, I know I ain't doing so hot in the Glad Tidings department, but bear with me. Don't I always manage to slip the noose at the last minute? At least I think I did...nothing is certain except death and taxes and let me tell ya, I've pulled a fast one on both in the past, and I don't see any reason to think things have changed. But I understand your concern, whoever you are.
Back To The Bicycles
I am old now. I know it. I am reminded of that every time I glance over in the corner at Little Miss Dangerous, my 1981 Schwinn Super LeTour. She speaks to me, somehow; I know that any ride I take might be the last. But Goddamn! What a blast these past ten years have been, what a thrill to have been the Trailer Park Cyclist, King of Beers, Friend of Man (and Women), Rex Fatali, et al.
And Finally
There aren't any monsters under the bed, kids. That's just an old myth. Old Presidents are just a lot of noise. He won't be back. The next threat will be Florida Man. Not as scary as the Big Cheeto, in fact he can at least speak in comprehensible sentences. Business as usual.
I will catch my breath sooner or later. My Doc keeps warning me if I don't quit drinking I will die. Well of course I will! But I'm going to die anyway, so why not know what caused it?
But where were the guns?
Trailer Park Cyclist
New Years Day, 2022
