I live in a neighborhood where you can say to your charming guest, “Would you like to go see some foxes?” and you walk two blocks and there they sit, foxes. The kits didn’t come out to watch us, but they parents were right out in the street keeping an eye on us. The young ones are adolescents now so they were most likely somewhere brooding and updating their foxbook pages.
I rode Munson yesterday with S’quatch and he crashed violently on the new surface, shredding his knee like grated cheese and contusing his hand badly.
Matters to S’quatch, and maybe to Mingo.
After millions of dollars and euros, and the suicide of his father-in-law and friend, Floyd Landis admits he was a doping fiend after all when he won the tour de france. He did it all-dope dope dope. He lied like Marion Jones. He lied like Colin Powell. He said they all did it. Lance, George, Dave Z, everybody. I believe his lying ass too.
Pro cycling doesn’t matter. At least no more than professional wrestling.
Every time I see or hear that Laura Ling person, who was captured wandering around in North Korea, I feel the overwhelming urge to wash my hands. I can’t put my finger on it, but I am reasonably certain I would not like her very much.
She probably doesn’t matter.
Tommy had a birthday and we are going to watch the Wrecking Ball shred the skins tomorrow in celebration.
Hello! Matters big time!
The oil finally coalesced in the Louisiana marshes.
Almost the only thing that matters right now. Makes me want to cry, throw up, and reach for my shotgun. Saddle up the posse. Time to ride for justice.
I slept the contented sleep of the humble and grateful last night and that certainly matters to me.
What matters to you?