Saturday, June 14, 2025

Biased Blow-By-Blow - 2025 Critérium du Dauphiné Stage 7

Introduction

Bicycle road racing has gotten harder to watch. Part of this is due to the poor TV (or shall I say Internet) coverage in the U.S., with various pay-for-me networks, each carrying only a few races. But the bigger problem is boredom: a few riders are so dominant, the victories tend to be blowouts. Particularly troublesome is Tadej Pogacar (UAE Team Emirates XRG), who seems to win everything in sight: stage races, classics, the World Championships … he wins all season long and he makes it look easy. Thus it is with great trepidation that I cover today’s queen stage of the Critérium du Dauphiné. I promise I will do my best to make this entertaining, even if that means bagging on riders I don’t like, and on their equipment, and even on myself if necessary. Hence the “biased” blow-by-blow.

(If you haven’t been following this Dauphiné thus far, fear not: I will recap the first six stages as well.)


Critérium du Dauphiné Stage 7 - Grand-Aigueblanche - Valmeinier 1800

As I join the action, it’s 5:40 a.m. Pacific time and my kettle hasn’t even boiled yet. The riders are cresting the Hors Categorie Col de la Croix de Fer. There’s a breakaway with only about 20 seconds over a depleted peloton. I’m not going to bother with the riders’ names other than a couple standouts: Sepp Kuss (Team Visma - Lease A Bike) and the French favorite Romain Bardet (Team Picnic PostNL). Kuss is American, so I naturally favor him, plus today is Flag Day in this country (so I hope you hoisted Old Glory!). Bardet, meanwhile, is in the last bike race of his career, obviously looking for a stage win to go out on a high note. For more on Bardet, including his saliva, click here. What, what? Saliva? Yes! As Google’s AI Overview helpfully explains, albertnet “includes observations on other aspects of races, such as rider’s saliva issues and podium presentations.”


Speaking of AI, here’s a fascinating hallucination. While watching the time trial a couple days ago I thought I saw last year’s Dauphiné winner Primoz Roglic (Red Bull - Bora - Hansgrohe), but only fleetingly. I checked the results later and didn’t see him listed. So I asked Google if he dropped out. Here’s what the AI Overview had to say:


What’s remarkable is that Roglic didn’t even start the race, as he’s still recovering from injuries he sustained in the Giro d’Italia. It’s also worth pointing out that nobody has won the overall 2025 Dauphiné classification because the race doesn’t end until tomorrow. Granted, it would be permissible for AI to declare that Pogacar has already won, since nobody can stop him, but Roglic? No. He has about as much chance of winning this race as I do.

The Peacock coverage today started too late for me to see these guys go over the first two climbs, starting with the Hors Categorie Col de la Madeleine. “Hors Categorie” is French for “Whore’s Category,” which means the climb is a total bitch. Naw, just messin’ with ya. It’s “beyond category” meaning, “This climb is so hard, there is no way to categorize it. The human mind cannot conceive of a category like ‘hardest’ or ‘even harder than what we’d normally call hardest.’ Words fail us.”

The great thing about the Col de la Madeleine is that, in accordance with the strong tradition and culture of the sport, the riders ride up it in two straight lines. Hmmm. I think it’s too early in the morning and I’m confusing this race with the children’s book about the little French girl who gets her appendix out. I apologize.

But seriously, these climbs are horrific. I’m not just relating what the commentators are saying (because after all, they could totally exaggerate). I am speaking from experience, having ridden both of these climbs myself, also back-to-back, the year before last. You can read about that here. Suffice to say the Madeleine kicked my ass. And, in a crazy coincidence, so did the Croix de Fer. They’re just brutal. In fact I think I still haven’t recovered. You should probably click that link and read that instead because today’s race will probably be boring.

Can you tell there’s nothing to report right now? It’s just a long-ass descent (with a couple short climbs) before the Whore’s Category Valmeinier 1800, a climb about which I know basically nothing except that it’s 16.5 kilometers (10.25 miles) long at an average grade of 6.7%. So it’s gonna be a smackdown.

The breakaway is stretching out its lead a bit on the fairly straightforward descent toward Saint Jean de Maurienne, a town notable mainly for its excellent pizza. At least, that’s what I remember it for.

Now Bardet has dropped the rest of the breakaway. The peloton will hang him out to dry for a good while before wadding him up in a ball and tossing him halfheartedly toward the wastebasket.

Here’s what’s been going on so far in this Dauphiné. The first stage, designed for the sprinters, was actually kind of exciting because Pogacar and the other GC favorite, Jonas Vingegaard (Team Visma - Lease A Bike) were in a small breakaway with a very narrow lead heading into the final kilometer. It looked like the break would ultimately get caught but it just barely held on, to where its slower finishers were actually passed by the fastest sprinters of the peloton. One rider burst out of the mêlée, and at first I couldn’t tell who it was, but it ended up being—Pogacar. Huh? A stage racer launching a hellacious sprint and beating out big strong rolleurs like Mathieu Van Der Poel (Alpecin-Deceuninck) and Remco Evenepoel (Soudal Quick-Step)? Yep. To put this in perspective (if you’re not a diehard cycling fan), this would be like if for some reason a football team sent its quarterback out to kick a 65-yard field goal and he nailed it.

Anyhow, some bike racer won Stage 2, who cares who won Stage 3, and then in the time trial Evenepoel, the Olympic time trial and road race gold medalist, stunned everybody with a big win. His helmet had this really goofy visor that covered everything except what was right in front of him, where there was this big gap, so it was like an anti-visor. So many of the time trial helmets were so ugly, it just overshadowed everything else and made me want to curl up in a corner and try to sleep it off. But the good news was, Vingegaard took 28 seconds out of Pogacar in the TT, giving us viewers hope that maybe he’d have a chance in the GC.

Stage 5 was another for the sprinters and a sprinter won, some guy named Stewart. It was only in Stage 6 that things got insanely boring, with Pogacar absolutely destroying everybody. He dropped Vingegaard (and everyone else) without even getting out of the saddle. It was demoralizing to watch: you’ve got Vingegaard, a two-time Tour de France winner, out of the saddle thrashing like he’s in a final sprint, and Pogacar looks like some bored commuter on an e-bike pulling away from him. Pogi took just over a minute out of his so-called rival on a mere Category 2 climb that wasn’t even two miles long. So today is really unnecessary, like that soft-serve cone you unwisely decided to eat, for reasons you cannot yourself understand, at the end of your thorough drubbing at the hands of the Sizzler buffet court.

They’re interviewing Evenepoel, who got shelled yesterday and lost his yellow jersey.

INTERVIEWER: You got shelled yesterday and lost the yellow jersey. How does that feel?

EVENEPOEL: Well, I wasn’t going as hard on that climb as I had in the time trial, so that was a mistake.

INTERVIEWER: Are you actually telling me you forgot to hammer?

EVENEPOEL: I am using this race to learn and to study the values and the team is [undecipherable].

INTERVIEWER: Well that’s just bullshit. But before we discuss how badly you blew it yesterday, I want to back up a bit and talk about your Olympic road race victory where you crossed the finish line, stopped, climbed off your bike, and stood there at line, flexing because you were far enough ahead to do this, except what if you weren’t and caused a massive crash among those sprinting in for second as they tried to steer around you?


INTERVIEWER: And then, still standing on the finish line like an idiot, you pantomimed hanging up a phone, almost like slamming it down. Totally over the top and it doesn’t even really make sense. Who were you angrily hanging up on? And do you expect young fans, who’ve never even seen a landline phone, to understand what you were miming?

EVENEPOEL: You’re kind of hurting my feelings.

INTERVIEWER: Oh, I’m just getting started! I haven’t even asked about those giant goofy sunglasses you’re wearing! What the hell are those about?

EVENEPOEL: I have to go.


I have to confess, Evenepoel’s interview was so boring, I had to freestyle a bit there. Most of what you just read is pure fabrication. Evenepoel really did say, though, that he “wasn’t going as hard on that climb as [he] had in the time trial, so that was a mistake.” He makes it sound like a tactical decision, but I saw what really happened … dude got shellacked.

Bardet is still solo but his lead is coming down. There’s really no way he can stay off. The descent is simply too long. Now he’s starting the final climb but has only 40 seconds or so on the GC group.

I left for a while and now I’m back. With 12 kilometers to go, the GC group is on the final climb and Pavel Sivakov (UAE Team Emirates XRG) is drilling it on the front, setting up his leader, Pogacar.


As they overhaul Kuss, who I guess must have attacked at some point when I wasn’t looking, Sivakov pulls off, clearly blown.


And now, of course, Pogacar attacks. Oh my. This is blistering. But Vingegaard was ready for this and is right on the wheel!


It’s a crazy attack! Florian Lipowitz (Red Bull - Bora - Hansgrohe), the German rider in the white jersey of Best Young Rider, who was third yesterday, is immediately gapped!


Can Vingegaard respond? No. Of course not. Nobody could. Look at this gap open up. It’s like an adult beating up a little kid. The peloton, of course, is shattered.

Evenepoel is off the back. I guess he’s “not going as hard as in the time trial” again. That is, he’s just not trying. And I can’t blame him. I mean, why try when Pogacar is taking all his marbles and going home, again?


Pogacar fiddles with his bike computer. Maybe he’s bored, or has realized he might set some sort of PR today for power output or something. Behind, Lipowitz has clawed his way back to Vingegaard. He’s having an amazing Dauphiné, sitting in third on GC after yesterday’s awesome ride.


Vingegaard flicks his elbow for Lipowitz to take a pull. Lipowitz doesn’t come forward. He probably can’t due to being on the rivet already.

I will say that Vingegaard is holding the gap down fairly well. He’s a fighter, for sure. But of course he needed to attack Pogacar today, not the other way around.

As Vingegaard buries himself, Lipowitz gradually comes unglued from his wheel.


With just over 9 kilometers to go, Pogacar is only 14 seconds behind Bardet, whose ride will be a footnote at best to this stage.

Oh, wait, my bad. While I wasn’t looking, Bardet was already overhauled. The 14 seconds is over Vingegaard, and I don’t think it’s accurate. He seems a lot farther back than that.

My online correspondent says, “😴😴😴.” I see his point.

I feel really bad for these professional commentators. I mean, I share their struggle to describe this race in an interesting way, but I’m just a rank amateur—my livelihood isn’t at stake. And at least I get to make shit up if I want.

And now Pogacar falters! He slumps over the handlebars, his bike careening this way and that! I don’t understand what I’m seeing! Oh, wow, you’re not gonna believe this, but Pogacar has actually fallen asleep while riding because this is even more boring for him than for us! Yeah, okay, I confess, I’m lying right now. Disregard this entire paragraph.

Pogacar does look bored, though. His official gap is now 20 seconds, though the essential gap—that being between a cyborg and a human—is insurmountable. He looks over his shoulder. Note his expression. He’s not worried in the slightest that Vingegaard is making any ground. He’s just curious. “I wonder what’s going on back there in that different galaxy. Maybe Jonas is actually bearing down on me and I get to attack again. That would be fun. Nope … can’t even see him.”


Bob Roll, one of the Peacock commentators, is talking about the beautiful little village at the top of this climb. That’s probably where he should focus his commentary. Let’s go inside one of those cute little cafés! Let’s interview the proprietor!

Lipowitz has lost 25 seconds to Vingegaard so far. Like you care. Like Vingegaard cares. Like Lipowitz cares.

Vingegaard gives another flick of the elbow. Is he hallucinating that somebody is still with him? No, probably just a tic, or a minor muscle spasm. It’s what passes for news on a day like this.

Do you think Team Visma - Lease A Bike has a big enough budget to hire some thugs to kidnap Pogacar before the Tour? Maybe they could hire some real dumbasses on the cheap, who screw it up in various ways, such that high jinks ensue. Or maybe Visma could hire a sexy actress to come on to Pogacar, a femme fatale, like Nancy was to Sid Vicious, who could derail Pogacar’s training? This is what has become of our sport ... leading me to fantasize. I can’t believe I paid for Peacock Plus in advance so I could watch the Tour next month. Maybe I’ll see what other programs Peacock Plus might have that would be more interesting, like NASCAR maybe, or old episodes of “The Office.”

Vingegaard, despite being off the back, is big-ringing it up this 7% grade. In any other era he would still be a champion. And actually he’s doing really well at keeping this gap down, which would be more useful if he didn’t start the day 43 seconds behind already.

The commentator Christian Vande Velde speculates that Pogacar isn’t even going all-out. It sure doesn’t look like it; his expression is the same as mine when I’m reading the paper or doing the Wordle. I’ll bet I could beat Pogacar at Wordle. Maybe Vingegaard could as well. They should just cancel the Tour and set up three weeks of puzzles.

What was Pogacar looking back at earlier? He had to know his lead was almost half a minute. Did he see some kind of interesting animal? A pika, maybe? Pogacar is an animal himself of course, but not an interesting one. Actually, I just did some light research (with nothing better to do this close to the end of the Dauphiné’s queen stage) and it turns out there are no pikas in the French Alps. The animal that Pogacar may be looking at (but let’s be honest, probably isn’t) is (or would be) a marmot.

Blah blah blah Pogacar has only one kilometer to go, who cares, la la la. He looks even more bored than I feel.

Pogacar wins again, and he’s pioneering a new victory salute, looks like. Is he miming something? Playing a banjo? Shooting a rifle? Or scratching his armpit like chimps are purported to do?


Vingegaard heads for the line. He looks really bad.


As he crosses the line he looks like he may actually collapse.


The phone rings. My mother-in-law is calling. Normally, when I’m watching a live sporting event, I would let the call go to voicemail, but whatever she has to say will be more scintillating than this. I won’t share any of her tidings here ... why steal my own thunder?

Lipowitz comes across 1:21 behind Pogacar. He looks absolutely miserable. He’s questioning his life choices, surely. But he’ll be happy later, I think ... with this ride he has solidified his podium position on GC, and he’s only 25 and it’s his first Dauphiné. He has a bright future ahead (if he can be content with second place at best).


Evenepoel lost another 2:39 to Pogacar today, 2:25 to Vingegaard, and 1:28 to Lipowitz. Hang up on that fool, he’s done.

What expression is Vingegaard wearing here? It looks kind of obscene, actually. But I like his sunglasses. They don’t cover up half his face like so many modern styles do.


Pogacar is being interviewed.

INTERVIEWER: You must be unhappy because you didn’t get to the finish in time to see [unintelligible].

POGACAR: Yeah, that sucks.

INTERVIEWER: Do you like my shirt? I got it at a thrift store.

POGACAR: Today we wanted to take control. Visma tried with all their tricks. I am happy with how I rode. Sort of defense today. I launched it and maintained a good pace.

INTERVIEWER: You never worried even though you were outnumbered?

POGACAR: Toward the top of Croix de Fer I think they wanted to drop me on the downhill. I did not like that but it’s modern cycling. And then we were in control again.

INTERVIEWER: I though “modern cycling” consisted of a rider being so totally superior to the others, he just makes a mockery of the race, and the sport.

POGACAR: Jonas was pretty strong but I also didn’t want to go too deep  myself. I was lucky I had enough time to ease up in the last few meters.

INTERVIEWER: Your eyelid keeps twitching. I think that means you’re lying. Do you want to come clean?

POGACAR: Fine. I admit it. I stole the bus money.


Let’s play a game. You try to guess which part of that interview was legit, and I’ll tell you if you’re right. Ready? Go. Okay, the answer is, Pogacar really did say, “Yeah, that sucks,” “I was lucky I had enough time to ease up in the last few meters,” “it’s modern cycling,” and “Visma tried with all their tricks.” That last bit sounds like something out of a Dr. Seuss book.

Bardet is nearing the line, over 12 minutes down. The cameraman pans over to Bardet’s father watching from the sidelines and looking pretty pissed off, honestly.


Bardet’s dad will have strong words for his son, I’m sure. “It’s Father’s Day tomorrow ... is this what you call a gift? I bought you your first bicycle! I drove you to all those races! I came all the way out here to watch you today ... and this is the best you can do? Your mother and I are very disappointed.” Bardet will retort, “At least I don’t wear cycling sunglasses when I’m not cycling. You dork.”

The commentators keep talking about how Pogacar was loafing in the last kilometer or two. How boring is this sport when the guy who solos to victory doesn’t even have to ride hard? This is like Mike Tyson pummeling a smurf. Which I’d actually really prefer to watch, to be honest. I would buy Peacock Plus for that. I wonder if I can get a refund?

My online correspondent declares, “The scenery is always good but super boring racing ... it’s like watching some Cat 3 race.” Hear, hear.

Pogacar mounts the podium to celebrate his stage win. The sport, which had eschewed podium girls entirely, is gradually bringing them back. Today we get only one, offset by an old white guy just to make sure the ceremony isn’t too pleasant.


Pogacar looks pretty baked, actually.


Whereas top professional cyclists used to have to specialize, Pogacar actually leads almost all the competitions: maillot jaune (GC), maillot pois (mountains), and maillot vert (sprints). The only one he couldn’t nab is the maillot blanc (young rider). So really, the only thing I have in common with Pogacar is that neither of us can deny the march of time … we both age. But he’s a mere 26 years old and (weirdly enough) went through puberty just a couple years ago, so he’ll have many years ahead to rack up the most distinguished palmarès in the history of cycling.

Here is Pogacar getting his green jersey. Look at his eyes. He really does seem stoned. Perhaps after the race he took some hits off a big ol’ stinky bong. Maybe that’s his secret?


Now he gets the polka-dot jersey. Climbing the steps to the podium is probably more work for him than dominating the stage today. Look at him. He’s struggling to keep his eyes open.


Lipowitz gets his white jersey. Man, he looks wasted, too! Was he pulling tubes with Pogacar right after the stage ended?


One more rider gets to mount the podium: Bardet, for the the Combative award. Some little kid is there and hands Bardet ... what? It looks like a toy skunk. Let’s assume it’s that. “Here is a skunk because you stink,” the kid may be saying.


And now Bardet’s dad has joined him on the podium. It looks like he’s about to whisper something in his son’s ear. “You suck,” perhaps.


Tomorrow has six categorized climbs, but it’s clear that Pogacar has the GC in the bag. That goes for the Tour, too. Even so, you should check back in July for my Tour de France coverage … because you never know, something interesting might happen with a rider’s saliva.

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Email me here. For a complete index of albertnet posts, click here.

Saturday, June 7, 2025

From the Archives - Bits & Bobs Volume XXI

Introduction

This is the twenty-first installment in the “From the Archives – Bits & Bobs” series. Volume I of the series is here, Volume II is here, Volume III is here, Volume IV is here, Volume V is here, Volume VI is here, Volume VII is here, Volume XIII is here, Volume IX is here, Volume X is here, Volume XI is here, Volume XII is here, Volume XIII is here, Volume XIV is here, Volume XV is here, Volume XVI is here, Volume XVII is here, Volume XVIII is here, Volume XIX is here, and Volume XX is here. The different volumes are unrelated, though the real tales related are all real late and do all relate to me. You can read them in alphabetical order, numerical order, chronological order (note that these are all the same thing), check or money order, in some semblance of order, and/or because you’re “just following orders.”

What are albertnet Bits & Bobs? Well, imagine you’re making homemade pasta. When you cut the noodles, you get these stray shorter bits from the ragged edges of the dough sheets that fall on the floor or—if you’re smart—into a large bowl placed to catch them. You can totally use those fallen bits by gathering them up, pressing them together in a ball, rerolling them, and re-cutting them. That’s kind of what I do when I’m writing letters to friends and some extra words fall out of my word processor. The only difference is, I don’t reroll them, so what you are about to read is a big ball of scraps. Serve them with a nice Bolognese Ragu or Alfredo, or your favorite literary equivalent. (And if a presenting a big wad of literary scraps sounds half-assed to you, consider all the effort I put into that extended metaphor you’ve just enjoyed.) This week’s selections of Bits & Bobs are from letters I wrote during college.


[If you’re wondering whose portrait that is in the background, it’s the playwright Antonin Artaud, best known for his “theatre of cruelty.” I happen to remember this from 1990. Neither ChatGPT nor Copilot was able to identify him from the photo, by the way, thought Google nailed it instantly. To its credit, ChatGPT had a pithy comment: “Honestly, it might be the most fitting photo of someone who’s read Artaud and survived.”]

October 30, 1989

I had the weirdest dream last night. I’m at this party and dancing with this totally fly girl. I’ve never danced so well (and as you know full well, in real life I cannot dance at all) and we’re really hitting it off, and then the song ends and the girl collapses into my arms. First I think she’s trying to be funny but then I realize she can’t even stand up. Her legs drop out from under her, so I have to pick her up into my arms as though I’m going to carry her off. Then she whispers, “I have to tell you: I’m going to die. I’ve been poisoned.” I’m totally freaked out, looking at this girl’s face, and then she dies right then and there. I start to wonder if I’ve been poisoned too. I guess the Freudian analysis kind of conducts itself here…

March 1, 1990

I hope March goes better than February; that was out of hand. First off, I was sick all month. Then last weekend I finally started [collegiate bicycle road] racing [for the season]. The time trial sucked because I’m not fit and still not totally healthy after that virus. The criterium was one of these bullshit parking lot jobs that’s roped and coned off so they could make it twist around as much as they wanted. Half mile laps. Oil everywhere—in addition to all these big puddles of oil, the whole surface of the road had this kind of film on it. It was in Irvine, pollution capital of the universe, which gave me a gnarly sore throat. I figured on riding the crit mellow, for fitness etc. Well, the only guy on our team who was riding well was the new tri-guy, Eric, who hasn’t really perfected his sprint, so I went for the primes myself. I won one, and took third in another, and was actually kind of digging the technical course. I got in this breakaway of five halfway through, and T— and Eric were surely blocking for me, so I pretty much had to stick with it, but I almost didn’t want to because I felt like shit. On the other hand, Tony Palmer [a notoriously fast Colorado racer I’d admired as a junior, who raced in the Olympics in 1988], was in the break with me so I was excited about that.

Well, T— was sick and dropped out, and a then few riders bridged up including Eric, who of course would give the break a giant boost, almost guaranteeing our chances of staying off. So things were looking really good when suddenly I stacked in the hairpin for no apparent reason. I think I slipped on some oil. Ripped a big hole in my new Aussie bib shorts, and got this oily asphalt smear on my helmet—really sucked. Road rash on the hip, both arms, and the left leg, but not too bad. I ran over to the pit, and the asshole race officials wouldn’t give me a free lap because I didn’t go all the way around the course. So the Mavic neutral support guy just straightened my bars and sent me off. It took me like five laps to regain my composure, and I was dry-heaving and really wanted to drop out, but I was still in eighth or ninth or so, on my own between the peloton and the breakaway, so I chased hard and eventually got within about fifty feet of the break.


[Zoom in on that photo and you can see the oil smear on my helmet. Note also my teammate, T—, watching from the sidelines.]

I thought I was about to latch on when Eric attacked and blew the break apart (temporarily, anyway). So much for closing that gap. I thought maybe I could solo in ahead of the main pack but about ten laps later I got swallowed up. Towards the end of the race the break lapped the field and I was trying to get Eric off the front, since I knew that was his best chance at winning. Well, Tony Palmer was having none of that, and started cussing at me and yelling, “Don’t even try it!” Somehow, in the moment, feeling as crappy as I did, I accepted his authority, sat up, and just waited for the sprint. Damn, the tricks your mind plays on you when you’re miserable…

March 16, 1990

I was going to hit the sack but I forgot I did my laundry this afternoon and left everything festering in the washer so I just went and put it in the dryer and now I have to kill some time while it dries and I don’t really feel like studying even though I really should because finals start next Monday and I hardly even have a clue what’s going on in any of my classes, especially this boring as hell history class which is so lame that the best I could do for notes are statements like “1629: some emperor on verge of something with his edict of restitution which means something is restored to church; things after this began to go downhill for the Hapsbergs while Wollenstein is an example of why whatever war this was was the way it was, however that was” (that’s an actual quote from my notebook) which doesn’t really put me in a very good way as far as the final exam goes.

May 28, 1991

My dickhead roommate—the one with the Rolex and the $15,000 stereo—had a birthday recently. His mom called and asked for him, and when I said he wasn’t home, she said, “Just tell him happy birthday, and that his present is in the bank.” Nice. Meanwhile his girlfriend got him a Nintendo and he plays it 24x7. At first I couldn’t figure out why she bought him this thing, and then I realized, duh, she’s sick of him, and this will get him out of her hair. Easy enough for her … she doesn’t have to live with the guy. First thing in the morning, he’s playing “Contra,” and actually, he never stops, except to go to the bathroom or grab a snack. Same game, day in and day out. My other two roommates and I keep telling him to get a life and his answer is the same as when we tell him to do his dishes: “I’ll do it later.” What really sucks is that every time his guy is killed, he cusses like a sailor. Like it really matters. What’s he supposed to say if, one day, the television—my giant 26” Sony Trinitron Color Console in the giant cabinet—falls on him and pins him to the floor? Nobody will answer his call for help because we’ll assume his little Nintendo guy just got shot again. I keep hoping he’ll finally lose his temper and smash my TV so I can make him buy me a new one that isn’t all blurry.


November 25, 1991

So I’m in the school library restroom and this guy comes in, heads to the next urinal over, and before even doing his business flushes it. I wouldn’t have noticed except he used his foot, so for a second it looked like he was trying to kick me in the head. I have no problem with him flushing with his foot since the handle is presumably gross, but why the pre-flush? I guess he doesn’t want his good, clean urine mixing with the bad, dirty urine in the bowl. That would be terrible, even if he’s not planning to use that urine again. Just the very sight of his elite urine mixing with the vulgar, common urine is too harrowing for him to witness. What a knob.

April 20, 1992

My mom and [her husband] the Landlo’ left their car here while vacationing in Morocco and I’m using it as much as possible to date this girl. So far that’s only been twice, so I better hurry things up while I still have the car. I don’t expect you’ll chastise me for refusing to have a really deep introspective contemplative period following the death of my last romance; as you well know, I am not some sort of Love Guru. But I can hold my own with the women: which is good, because that’s what they usually want me to do.

July 29, 1992

[To Giro Sport Design, Inc. who had given me a free helmet about six weeks before.] Dear Giro people: A month ago, my Giro Air Attack acted as liaison between my head and the ground. I was mountain biking in nearby Tilden Park, and that’s about all I remember because for several hours after my accident I alternated between being unconscious and incoherent. I was flown by helicopter to the nearest trauma center, where I underwent a CAT scan and was stitched up. Twenty or so sutures were put in my forehead beginning, notably, just below where the helmet left off covering my forehead. I have suffered no permanent damage to my head and for this I thank you.

October 8, 1992

I called my dad the other day and said, “Dad, I need twenty dollars.” He said, “Fifteen dollars?! What do you need ten dollars for?! Okay, I’ll mail you the damn five dollars.” But he didn’t.

But seriously, my medical bills are starting to catch up with me after that mountain bike crash. I wrote letters to the ambulance and helicopter companies, saying basically, “I have no money. Please dismiss my account. Thank you.” The helicopter company was cool about it, but the ambulance company ($550 to drive me one block, to where the helicopter had landed) wrote back threatening to slash my credit rating if I didn’t pay up the balance. (My crappy school insurance had only paid $100.) So now I’m on the installment plan, sending $50 a month through next June for a five minute trip I don’t remember going on. I plan to write in the “memo” section of each check, “You thieving bastards!” or at least “You teething hamsters!”

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