My Evening Ride's Ultimate Destination

Something'sHappeningRoundThere
AshevilleVille


Weirdly, it is not the real musician in the family who keeps me informed about what the kids are up to these days.

Which means that it is littler e. who gets me to go to shows to make sure I occasionally see/hear stuff by musicians that are new to me.

And, so, Friday night we rode the seawall, starting from the big sphere at the east end of False Creek, downtown to take in the group 'Wednesday' at the Vogue on Granville.

To be honest, I couldn't imagine riding downtown on a Friday night without those divided bike lanes.

Which is not to say that being cut-off by a Tesla or seven is any more dangerous than the most energetic and surf-obsessed mosh-pit we witnessed from our perch at the front of the balcony.

The music itself was most interesting, although somewhat screamified  in the live version by both the opener, 'Gouge Away' and Karly Hartzman and compatriots.


And then there was the fact that half-way through the show I was struck dumb by the realization that one of my favourite Wednesday tunes, 'Phish Pepsi', resembles that first hit tune from days of yore by Sheryl Crow - both musically and thematically.

As we exited the theatre, ears ringing, and me with a small dollop of 1992-era young man's blood pumping through my veins, I briefly locked eyes with a fellow departing reveller which left us both thinking that maybe, just maybe, one of us was not the oldest person in the building.

Selah.


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Pedalling Towards Bedlam.

WhatWouldJoanDidion
WriteVille


I don't know about you, but...

I yearn for the brake of natural consequences to slow the spinning of a world that has been pushed to the brink by the reckless (and feckless and deadly) pushing and shoving of a coterie of very bad actors.

And so, as I pedal across Lotusland each morning, I find myself cheering on the ever rising petrol prices that are visible on the big boards at the bright and shiny cluster of gas pumps at Oak and 25th.

Yesterday the big boards blinked out $2.13 a litre.

Which gave me a little thrill of consequence realized.

Until.

I also realized that I, too, was starting to spin.


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Where the heckfire have I been?...Started a new administrative job at the beginning of the year and thought I'd take January off from the bloggodome...That stretched out a little....What changed?...Well, as I pedalled home last night the open skies and a brisk westerly at my back felt like...Springtime.
Butchered header and subheader?...This!


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The Silliest Thing Ever Written?

TheWeeklyStandard?

NeverHeardOfItVille

From America's number one conservative public intellectual...

Or some such NYT/PBS/AtlanticMonthly-type thing:

..(P)erhaps the most important belief that the neoconservatives can impart to us is that the American dream is real. The original neocons, the sons and daughters of immigrants, aspired to make it in America and contribute to their adopted home. If libertarians oriented their politics around freedom, and progressives oriented their politics around equality, the neocons tended to orient theirs around social mobility. They wanted to create a world in which poor boys and girls like themselves could rise and succeed. They understood that this ascent required not just economic opportunity, but also the right values...

David Brooks, December 9, 2025

Now, regardless the veracity of the claim regarding the most important imparted 'belief' of the Neocons, it is not clearly stated anywhere in the fine piece quoted above how, exactly, our Mr. Brooks thinks replacing the concept of making America great again with the concept of an America once again dreaming will be an antidote to Trumpism.

Then again, perhaps we should not expect any kind of real, actual thinking from the very same super-fine public conservative intellectual who once did his best, way back in to 2016, to calm the qualms of Republican and Democratic US'ians alike by telling them that rather than Mr. Trump it was for sure  'gonna be Rubio'.

Sheesh.


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Subheader?...In case you missed it (or, more likely, have forgotten), the always money losing den of neanderconnish intellectualism called the Weekly Standard was once our Mr. Brooks employer.



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