tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-48691452454420529922024-03-12T21:10:54.639-07:00SciocchezzaioPaolohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15948075178283913588noreply@blogger.comBlogger266125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4869145245442052992.post-26210567723127969702013-10-19T14:23:00.000-07:002013-10-19T14:23:28.334-07:00A point of fulcrum<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 13px;">"There comes a time in each life like a point of fulcrum. At that time you must accept yourself. It is not any more what you will become. It is what you are and always will be."</span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 13px;">-- John Fowles, The Magus</span></blockquote>
Paolohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15948075178283913588noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4869145245442052992.post-42413522141122778292013-10-19T14:21:00.000-07:002013-10-19T14:21:55.000-07:00Steep Hill<iframe allowtransparency="true" frameborder="0" height="710" scrolling="no" src="//instagram.com/p/fbCGSLoXvJ/embed/" width="612"></iframe>Paolohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15948075178283913588noreply@blogger.com0Skofield Park, Santa Barbara, CA 93105, USA34.4553472 -119.6955436000000134.4488007 -119.70562860000001 34.4618937 -119.6854586tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4869145245442052992.post-25438835653120011822013-03-09T15:41:00.001-08:002013-03-09T15:44:48.902-08:00California Poppies<div style="float: right; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: 10px;">
<a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/paolo66/8542477799/" title="photo sharing"><img alt="" src="https://farm9.staticflickr.com/8104/8542477799_c8bb7b0c25_m.jpg" style="border: solid 2px #000000;" /></a><br />
<span style="font-size: 0.9em; margin-top: 0px;"><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/paolo66/8542477799/">Early California Poppies at the 2013 Solvang Century</a></span></div>
Il vento è gelato, uno schiaffo che mi congela metà del corpo, mentre arranco per tenere una velocità decente in linea retta. Già non sento più niente dall’orecchio destro, il naso cola disperato, i quadricipiti sono un groppo di nodi doloranti. Guardo il GPS: due chilometri percorsi, novantotto ancora davanti. <i>Sarà una giornata magnifica</i>, penso.<br />
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E non mi sbaglio, il sole riuscirà alla fine a riscaldarmi la pelle, e le strade che si snodano tra pascoli e vigneti, salendo repentine affiancate da canyon profondi faranno il resto. E il vento che mi sferza il volto per la prima metà del percorso ha un vantaggio: al ritorno è in poppa, e ne approfitto per tenere medie che per i miei standard sono fantastiche. </div>
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C’è anche disappunto. Un signore sulla sessantina cade appena avanti a me. Si contorce al suolo, il volto massacrato e sanguinante. Una provvidenziale infermiera ciclista lo prende in carica, <i>come vorrei avere la calma e la competenza necessaria per prestare soccorso a qualcuno</i>, penso, <i>ma sarebbe già bello non svenire alla vista del sangue</i>. E dopo nemmeno dieci minuti sentiamo le sirene di ambulanza e pompieri (immancabili in occasione di ogni incidente) e ripartiamo. </div>
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Poi Drum Canyon, una salita tanto faticosa quanto la stretta valle attorno alla quale la strada dissestata sale a spirale era idillica. Era, perché ora pompe e trivelle iniettano nel sottosuolo i veleni usati per <i>fracking. </i>Non sembra possibile. Poi lo sguardo cade sulla scoscesa riva che porta a un torrente stagionale, dove i <i>redneck</i> locali gettano frigoriferi, poltrone e cucine a gas, e quintali di vecchie gomme. Scuoto la testa, <i>non c’è niente da fare, we are doomed by stupidity</i>, mi alzo sui pedali e in un attimo sono in cima, pronto alla lunghissima discesa finale, con il vento ora amico che mi spinge fino all’arrivo.</div>
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<iframe frameborder="0" height="548" src="http://connect.garmin.com:80/activity/embed/282354365" width="465"></iframe>Paolohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15948075178283913588noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4869145245442052992.post-22892656329005914682013-02-03T14:51:00.000-08:002013-02-03T14:51:16.667-08:002012: The year in readingThis is what I read in 2012. Lots of manga, some excellent time waster, quite a few gems. Among my favorite novels last year, <a href="http://www.amazon.fr/La-Position-du-tireur-couch%C3%A9/dp/2070406407" target="_blank">Jean-Patrick Manchette's La position du tireur couché</a>, <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Bitter-Seeds-Ian-Tregillis/dp/0356501698/ref=tmm_pap_title_0" target="_blank">Ian Tregillis' Bitter Seeds</a>, <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Freedom-Novel-Oprahs-Book-Club/dp/0312576463" target="_blank">Jonathan Franzen's Freedom</a>, and <a href="http://www.ibs.it/code/9788866321354/simi-giampaolo/notte-alle-mie.html" target="_blank">Giampaolo Simi's La Notte alle mie spalle</a>. Among the graphic novels, <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Habibi-Craig-Thompson/dp/0375424148" target="_blank">Craig Thompson's Habibi</a>, and the <a href="http://www9.nhk.or.jp/anime/bakuman/" target="_blank">Bakuman</a> series. <br />
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The full list: <br />
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<tbody>
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<td>A Wrinkle in Time</td><td>Madeleine L'engle</td></tr>
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<td>Le Roi de Fer</td><td>Maurice Druon</td></tr>
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<td>Cat's Eye</td><td>Margaret Atwood</td></tr>
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<td>L'Ami De'Enfance De Maigret</td><td>Georges Simenon</td></tr>
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<td>La Position du tireur couché</td><td>Jean-Patrick Manchette</td></tr>
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<td>The Secret Garden</td><td>Frances Hodgson Burnett</td></tr>
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<td>N Is for Noose</td><td>Sue Grafton</td></tr>
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<td>O is for Outlaw</td><td>Sue Grafton</td></tr>
<tr>
<td>Bienvenue parmi nous</td><td>Eric Holder</td></tr>
<tr>
<td>Un Leonberger di nome Bruno ovvero cosa non si fa per un biscotto</td><td>Arianna Falconer</td></tr>
<tr>
<td>P is for Peril</td><td>Sue Grafton</td></tr>
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<td>Q is for Quarry</td><td>Sue Grafton</td></tr>
<tr>
<td>His Majesty's Dragon</td><td>Naomi Novik</td></tr>
<tr>
<td>DMZ Vol. 1</td><td>Brian Wood</td></tr>
<tr>
<td>Black Powder War</td><td>Naomi Novik</td></tr>
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<td>Welcome to the NHK Volume 1</td><td>Tatsuhiko Takimoto, Kendi Oiwa</td></tr>
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<td>Emma</td><td>Kaoru Mori</td></tr>
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<td>The Invention of Hugo Cabret</td><td>Brian Selznick</td></tr>
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<td>Emma</td><td>Kaoru Mori</td></tr>
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<td>Wasteland Book 1</td><td>Christopher J. Mitten, Antony Johnston</td></tr>
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<td>Emma</td><td>Kaoru Mori</td></tr>
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<td>I Am the Cheese</td><td>Robert Cormier</td></tr>
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<td>Empire of Ivory: Temeraire Bk. 4</td><td>Naomi Novik</td></tr>
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<td>Throne of Jade</td><td>Naomi, Novik</td></tr>
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<td>Victory of Eagles</td><td>Naomi Novik</td></tr>
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<td>Blue Heaven</td><td>C.J. Box</td></tr>
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<td>Town of Evening Calm, Country of Cherry Blossoms</td><td>Fumiyo Kouno</td></tr>
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<td>Diary of a Wimpy Kid - Dog Days: Book 4</td><td>Jeff Kinney</td></tr>
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<td>Blood Rites</td><td>Jim Butcher</td></tr>
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<td>Freedom</td><td>Jonathan Franzen</td></tr>
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<td>Prima di sparire</td><td>Mauro Covacich</td></tr>
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<td>Un giorno verrò a lanciare sassi alla tua finestra</td><td>Claudia Durastanti</td></tr>
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<td>Les enfants du néant</td><td>Olivier Descosse</td></tr>
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<td>Bitter Seeds</td><td>Ian Tregillis</td></tr>
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<td>Wuthering Heights (Collins Classics)</td><td>Emily Brontë</td></tr>
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<td>Sandman Slim</td><td>Richard Kadrey</td></tr>
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<td>La ronde des innocents</td><td>Valentin Musso</td></tr>
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<td>Tongues of Serpents</td><td>Naomi Novik</td></tr>
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<td>The Dervish House</td><td>Ian Mcdonald</td></tr>
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<td>Punish the Sinners</td><td>John Saul</td></tr>
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<td>Diary of a Wimpy Kid: The Ugly Truth</td><td>Jeff Kinney</td></tr>
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<td>Okay for Now</td><td>Gary D. Schmidt</td></tr>
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<td>Il gioco degli specchi</td><td>Andrea Camilleri</td></tr>
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<td>Before I Go to Sleep</td><td>S J Watson</td></tr>
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<td>Blankets</td><td>Craig Thompson</td></tr>
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<td>Le passager</td><td>Jean-Christophe Grangé</td></tr>
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<td>Il mercante di libri maledetti</td><td>Marcello Simoni</td></tr>
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<td>All the Earth, Thrown to the Sky</td><td>Joe R. Lansdale</td></tr>
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<td>Reamde</td><td>Neal Stephenson</td></tr>
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<td>Habibi</td><td>Craig Thompson</td></tr>
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<td>Incidences</td><td>Philippe Djian</td></tr>
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<td>La valle delle donne lupo</td><td>Laura Pariani</td></tr>
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<td>La Forza del destino</td><td>Marco Vichi</td></tr>
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<td>Bakuman vol. 11</td><td>Takeshi Obata, Tsugumi Ohba</td></tr>
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<td>La carta più alta</td><td>Marco Malvaldi</td></tr>
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<td>Bakuman vol. 12</td><td>Takeshi Obata, Tsugumi Ohba</td></tr>
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<td>Bakuman</td><td>Tsugumi Ohba</td></tr>
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<td>Wild Thing</td><td>Josh Bazell</td></tr>
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<td>I'm Starved for You</td><td>Margaret Atwood</td></tr>
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<td>Crucible of Gold</td><td>Naomi Novik</td></tr>
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<td>L'appel de l'ange</td><td>Guillaume Musso</td></tr>
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<td>Bakuman, Vol. 10</td><td>Tsugumi Ohba</td></tr>
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<td>Respiro corto</td><td>Massimo Carlotto</td></tr>
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<td>La legge della giungla</td><td>Enrico Brizzi</td></tr>
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<td>Invictus</td><td>Simone Sarasso</td></tr>
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<td>Tu sei il male</td><td>Roberto Costantini</td></tr>
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<td>The Drowned Cities</td><td>Paolo Bacigalupi</td></tr>
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<td>Ufficio di scollocamento</td><td>Simone Perotti, Paolo Ermani</td></tr>
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<td>L'été tous les chats s'ennuient</td><td>Philippe Georget</td></tr>
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<td>The Janus Affair</td><td>Pip Ballantine</td></tr>
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<td>Una lama di luce</td><td>Andrea Camilleri</td></tr>
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<td>Bakuman vol. 15</td><td>Takeshi Obata, Tsugumi Ohba</td></tr>
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<td>The Perks of Being a Wallflower</td><td>Stephen Chbosky</td></tr>
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<td>San Miguel</td><td>T.C. Boyle</td></tr>
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<td>The Casual Vacancy</td><td>J.K. Rowling</td></tr>
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<td>The Coldest War</td><td>Ian Tregillis</td></tr>
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<td>La notte alle mie spalle</td><td>Giampaolo Simi</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<span id="goog_321934313"></span><span id="goog_321934314"></span><br />Paolohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15948075178283913588noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4869145245442052992.post-18772075022959424892012-12-31T14:42:00.000-08:002012-12-31T14:42:57.116-08:00The year in riding2012 was good to to me. Nothing too remarkable happened: no long century rides, no overnight touring, although I did spend a beautiful Saturday in the Santa Ynez Valley at the Solvang Prelude.<a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/paolo66/8151701363/" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;" title="Solvang Prelude by Paolo666, on Flickr"><img alt="Solvang Prelude" height="240" src="https://farm8.staticflickr.com/7131/8151701363_74f5c3867b_m.jpg" width="240" /></a>
But what I’m quite happy about was to be able to recover from my 2011 knee surgery, riding a little better every weekend. Sure life is different now than when I was <a href="http://sciocchezzaio.blogspot.com/2008/07/lanterne-rouge.html" target="_blank">training to ride a state of the Tour de France</a>, but I was able to improve a little on my 2011 mileage, almost on par with 2010. In 2012 I learned to appreciate the little things: living in a place where I can ride 297 days a year, keeping my rides well maintained.<br />
<a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/paolo66/7989601093/" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;" title="Building myself a wheel by Paolo666, on Flickr"><img alt="Building myself a wheel" height="180" src="https://farm9.staticflickr.com/8459/7989601093_13b232c1b7_m.jpg" width="240" /></a>
In 2012 I built my first wheel, and now my commuter has a dynamo hub front and back battery-free lights, and more gadgets that I'm willing to admit. I was lucky enough to get one of the first <a href="http://sciocchezzaio.blogspot.com/2012/12/volagi-viaje-daydreamers-bike.html" target="_blank">Volagi Viaje</a> in production. Above all, I was able to still have fun on my bicycles, day after day.<br />
I couldn’t ask for anything better!<br />
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<a href="https://docs.google.com/spreadsheet/oimg?key=0AmVp-AhuFVV9dFlsTjVoQWZocGE3cnZraF9KOWdvY0E&oid=4&zx=g95k4bqsopxu" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="382" src="https://docs.google.com/spreadsheet/oimg?key=0AmVp-AhuFVV9dFlsTjVoQWZocGE3cnZraF9KOWdvY0E&oid=4&zx=g95k4bqsopxu" width="400" /></a></div>
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Paolohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15948075178283913588noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4869145245442052992.post-90420216902786104052012-12-23T15:15:00.000-08:002012-12-23T15:15:20.396-08:00Volagi Viaje, a daydreamer's bike<br />
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A guy rolls down his truck’s window. “Cool Bike,” he says, “love those curvy lines.” I thank him, the lights turns green, and we go. No one had complimented my ride since the times I was on a flame red Ducati 900. Instead I’m pedaling my blue <a href="http://volagi.com/bikes/viaje-xl" target="_blank">Volagi Viaje XL</a>.</div>
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So know first that wherever you’re going to ride, the flashy Viaje will attract attention. And why shouldn’t it? It’s a gorgeous bicycle! For me it was love at first sight: this is the bike I had been looking for. Drop bars and road attitude on a comfortable steel frame with cross attitude. I also loved the very idea of the <a href="http://www.kickstarter.com/projects/874048428/the-viaje-bicycle-engineered-for-adventure" target="_blank">Kickstarter initiative</a>, that allowed me to put my eager hands on this bike early, while providing Volagi with the necessary cash to start production. Crowd-funded, innovative projects are the way of the future. </div>
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The final product exceeds my expectations. Components are top-notch. I love the compact FSA Wing handlebars, easy to dive into on quick downhills, safely mastered by the Avid disk brakes. I was new to non-regular brakes, and I had to learn a thing of two about them: first, don’g grab a handful, the rear wheel is easily blocked by the extra braking power, sending the newbie rider in a spectacular but unwanted derapage. Fine tuning of one’s grip might be necessary. The SRAM system was surprisingly quick to master, and so far it looks speedy and reliable. The Victoria Randonneur the bike ships with are my favorite all-around tire, but you’ll need knobbier rubber for anything muddy or wet, although they made it quite fun to spin the wheels on the sandy terrain over the bluffs along the Santa Barbara coast. They will handle well any dry irregular surface, including gravel, and best most road tires on the paved roads. </div>
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How does it ride? “Nimble,” “maneuverable,” and “quick” are the first words that come to mind. The bike feels lighter than any steel framed ride should be. Even the Fedex delivery man couldn’t believe a whole bike was inside the big box. And this is the lesser, XL model, the SL is probably quite close to my carbon racer. </div>
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The bike was well put together, with one minor glitch, a brake cable routed on the wrong side of the fork was rubbing against the front wheel. That was easy to fix and probably due to the rush to get these babies out for Christmas. It’s difficult to find any issues with the bike. Sure, the seat had to go after the inaugural ride. I might be picky “down there,” my point of contact needs to be from Selle Italia, or I’ll deeply regret it halfway into the ride. If you are like me, you probably go for a saddle transplant on any new bike.<br />
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Do you remember how fun it was to ride your bike as a kid? Forget for an instant about commuting, or heartbeat-monitoring, calorie-burning road racing. Think back about the days where you just went where your fancy took you, day dreaming all the way, lost in imaginary adventures. Do you remember all that? Well, I sure do. And guess what, now I’ll be able to keep doing it.</div>
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Paolohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15948075178283913588noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4869145245442052992.post-59250227551567466272012-12-16T09:14:00.001-08:002012-12-16T09:14:59.933-08:00Gerard Depardieu surrenders French Passport<a href="http://www.huffingtonpost.com/2012/12/16/gerard-depardieu-passport_n_2311561.html?utm_hp_ref=world">Gerard Depardieu To Reportedly Surrender French Passport</a><br />
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<br />Paolohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15948075178283913588noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4869145245442052992.post-60207162957519572592012-12-08T09:59:00.000-08:002012-12-08T09:59:36.468-08:00You know you are in California when...<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br />Paolohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15948075178283913588noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4869145245442052992.post-85768464283061726522012-12-05T22:07:00.000-08:002012-12-07T18:45:00.201-08:00It's Christmas Time AgainThe house was quiet, but outside the Christmas lights still shone bright, burning like a halo of happiness around the day just gone by. Jeff admired his display with some satisfaction. It had taken him the better part of a Sunday to hang them up in all the right places, with Jimmy insisting on helping by handing him his tools, all the while chirping with excited anticipation for the holiday to come.
And what a great day this had been! It had started snowing right on Christmas Eve, like clockwork. Jimmy had drawn circles on the fogged up window of his bedroom to get a glimpse of the white cloak enveloping the world outside. Jane had gently wrapped a blanket around his shoulders, handing him a glass of warm milk with the recommendation to hurry to bed, so Santa could come to visit their house as well, burying their tree in shiny presents. His wife and son had worked together on the decorations, hanging candy canes and sparkling angel-shaped decorations ‘til the seven-foot fir could barely stand. They even left a glass of milk and cookies for Santa. Jeff still smiled about that. But it had worked out well, after all, the old guy had totally delivered. His son got a big, die-cast red metal fire truck. Jeff would always remember Jimmy’s palpable excitement, his bright white smile amid the storm of freckles, his tiny voice repeating “Gee, Daddy, this is so swell!” while unpacking one present after another. Jimmy was the spitting image of himself at his age. Or so he liked to think, because for some reason he retained very few memories of Christmas Days past. All he remembered was a peculiar feeling of warmth, a fleeting sense of bliss he longed to preserve forever and ever.<br />
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And later Jane had discovered the pendant they had spotted together at Wannamaker’s. The way she kissed him afterwards had all the promise of warming up those long winter nights to come. </div>
<div class="p1">
Jeff finished his drink, looked once more at the colored lights reflecting on the snow outside to take it all in, to fix the image in his memory for the years to come. He left the glass in the kitchen sink, and headed to bed, catching himself still mumbling the words from the musical revue they had watched on the television set that night.</div>
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<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<i>It's Christmas in Heaven</i><br />
<i>Hip hip hip hip hooray</i><br />
<i>Every single day is Christmas day</i></blockquote>
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<div class="p1">
He had pondered for a while about buying one of those new color TVs, something to bring the family together even more. But he thought better of it. It was just a fad and by next year no one would even be talking about them anymore. </div>
<div class="p1">
Sleep came all too easily, but was populated by the familiar, surreal nightmares. Drowned cities, poisonous tentacles of giant medusas exploding from the murky depths to prey on forlorn boat people whose sunburned skin stuck to their ribs, their overgrown brains swimming in amniotic fluid in cylindrical glass cranium implants above their heads. </div>
<div class="p1">
It came as no surprise that he woke up with a horrible migraine. Something obviously hadn’t gone down very well on Christmas night, maybe it had been the big turkey dinner, but more likely he had just had one drink too many. He got up gently, making reassuring noises for Jane, who turned the other way and continued her slumber. He needed a glass of water, maybe some Alka Seltzer. He descended the stairs carefully, keeping the lights off so as not to disturb the sacred quietness of his home, turned towards the kitchen, almost missing the shining spectacle in the living room.</div>
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<i>No it can’t be</i>, he thought with a light sense of vertigo. <i>It’s all in my head, </i>He leaned against the fridge, his head throbbing, the palms of his hands sweaty. <i>I ate too much, guzzled one martini too many. It’s just the wrappings, that’s what I saw, just the wrappings.</i> Yet he distinctly remembered that Jane had patiently cleaned up after Jimmy’s present unwrapping frenzy. He stepped back carefully, massaging his temples. No, there was no mistake. All the presents were there, untouched under the decorated tree, shining in the reflection of the moonlight from the window right behind. He could clearly see the oblong form of the red truck he had watched being packaged in golden paper at JC Penney’s by a slight brunette dressed like Santa’s elf. Even the little silver box with his wife’s pendant sat on the top of the pyramid of increasingly smaller packages he had set up himself two nights earlier. This was wrong, all wrong. He ran back to the kitchen. <i>Water, I need some icy water. Drink it all, breathe deeply, wake up for good and go back to see that everything is just the way it should be. Christmas day was yesterday, it was great, but it is past and gone now. </i></div>
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But in the kitchen he found something else. Just on the right side of the fridge, Jeff spotted a door. It was just a small door. He would have had to bend over to actually get through it. <i>Maybe a broom closet?</i> But the problem was, that door had not been there yesterday. It had never been there, as far as he could remember. Without too much thought, he gave it a gentle knock to check if anyone was inside. He proceeded to silently scoff at his own foolishness, then pulled the handle, opening the door to a shallow cavity that contained some sort of metallic apparatus, at the center of which sat a small TV screen with rounded corners, flanked by an assortment chrome dials and levers. For a moment Jeff got a glimpse of his own reflection, distorted on the surface of the grey cathode ray tube. <i>This feels strangely familiar</i>, he thought as a memory flashed of being somewhere white and aseptic, some narrowly confined space that he could not wait to escape. In the memory, he was looking at himself in a mirror, but his reflected image had his eyes closed, as if asleep. <i>Another bad dream?</i></div>
<div class="p1">
The croaking sound startled him out of his reverie. Another man was now staring back from the screen, frames scrolling up broken by black horizontal bands. The man’s distorted, unintelligible words sounded like he was repeatedly clearing his throat. Jeff instinctively tapped on the side screen, and the image came into focus, the gurgling sounds coalescing into words. The man looked quite familiar, yet exotic. Some Indian guy he knew<i>. I must have met him, but where? Grand Central Station perhaps?</i> He was speaking angrily. <i>Speaking to me?</i></div>
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“I know what you did, Jeff. I cannot believe that you gave to me an extra shift. Now I have to work two days in a row. It is not fair, it is a very bad thing you are doing to me, Jeff, a very very bad thing,” he repeated over and over, wiggling his right index finger like it was some unhinged prop. “You will not be getting away with this. No sir, no!”</div>
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<i>I know this man,</i> he suddenly realized. <i>His name is Jeff,</i> he thought. <i>Wait, no, why would I think that? I am Jeff.</i></div>
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“Are you already up dear?” It was Jane, he could sense her, smell her Chanel no. 5 fragrance before seeing her curly hair and her taffeta nightgown. “Why don’t you come back to bed,” she whispered, “you sure don’t want to wake up Jimmy ahead of time. What are you doing out here, anyway?” She moved towards him, reaching to touch his tense shoulders.</div>
<div class="p1">
“Nothing!” Jeff had already slammed the small door shut, and was leaning with his back against it.</div>
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“Oh, you don’t say!”</div>
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“What?” <i>What has she seen,</i> he wondered.</div>
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“You didn’t, did you?”</div>
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“I didn’t if that’s not what you want.”</div>
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“Oh, don’t be silly. That sure is what I want. You got me that new washing machine didn’t you?”</div>
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“I did?”</div>
<div class="p1">
“Why else would you be leaning against the laundry door? Relax, Jeffrey, it’s Christmas day, well, it almost is.”</div>
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“It is?”</div>
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“Ok, big guy, I see you want to play all mysterious, so why don’t you come back to bed with me? I might surprise you, and then I’ll let you surprise me again in a couple of hours.” He could almost see the smile in her words, and watched her with longing as she faded into the darkness of the hallway.</div>
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“It won’t be a minute, honey,” he called after her.</div>
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“Don’t be late. I might just fall asleep again.”</div>
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“Don’t you worry,” Jeff whispered back, hearing her climb the stairs to their bedroom. </div>
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When he was sure she was gone, he took a deep breath and opened the door again. Inside the small laundry closet, a stacked washer and dryer set was shining, brand new, still sporting their red Sears Roebuck & Co. tags. </div>
<div class="p1">
Jeff chuckled, shook his head. <i>What the heck has got into me?</i> <i>It’s obvious that I just had another dream. I made up that strange Indian guy, and the fact that Christmas was gone, while it still has to come. And it will be every bit as beautiful as the one I dreamt of.</i> Exhaling a sigh of relief, he walked back to take another look at their Christmas tree before retiring upstairs to follow his wife’s invitation. </div>
<div class="p1">
But, in the center of the living room, with his feet seemingly suspended in mid air, stood the man he had seen on the small television screen. He was dressed all in white, with dark, inset black eyes, and wearing a deep frown of displeasure. But what now surrounded him was even more astonishing: the ceiling of the room was gone, and so was the roof, which now seemed to open on a starry sky, too perfectly geometric to seem real.</div>
<div class="p1">
“What... What are you doing here?”</div>
<div class="p1">
“I told you that you would not be getting away with it, Jeff. And I cannot believe you are here, of all places.”</div>
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“Look, I don’t even know who you are, what are you doing at my house in the middle of the night?”</div>
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“Your house? You are truly believing this to be your house?”</div>
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“Of course it is.”</div>
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“Yes? Is that what you are thinking Jeff? I regret having to inform you of this, my friend, but you really sound like a selfish, self-obsessed maniac.”</div>
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“Who, me? If there’s a maniac here, it’s you, mister,” answered Jeff, pumping his index finger in the direction of the unreachable chest of the intruder, “and get down from there right now, before my kid wakes up, and I call the police!” <i>What the heck is this? An elaborate parlor trick of some sort?</i> Jeff jumped to reach to grab the man’s legs, to pull him down from his absurd levitating stance, but his hands went straight through the intruder’s body, like he was some kind of ghost. “Who… What are you?”</div>
<div class="p1">
“I am Jeff, your roommate, of course, and your colleague. Or, I might say, <i>former</i> colleague, after we are done here. And you are the one who wrote this module, who hacked into my deep sleep clock giving to me one extra workday, so you could burrow here in your world of make believe. You are a sick, sick man. You must also have sabotaged your avatar’s memory. Isn’t that what you did, Jeff?”</div>
<div class="p1">
“No, I did not, I don’t even know what you are talking about!”</div>
<div class="p1">
“Daddy! Daddy, who are you shouting at?” Quick, light feet, running down the stairs. </div>
<div class="p1">
“Jimmy, stay away from here!”</div>
<div class="p1">
“Let us see if this is bringing back any memories,” said Indian Jeff, and his son, bounding around the corner in his lucky Christmas night PJs, disintegrated into a rain of sparkles.</div>
<div class="p1">
“NO!”</div>
<div class="p1">
Indian Jeff did something else and entire segments of the walls and floor around him started to dissolve into pixelated non-entities.</div>
<div class="p1">
“What are you doing, you monster?”</div>
<div class="p1">
“Actually, I have not a clue of what I am doing, I am just messing with your dashboard, turning off everything I can put my fingers onto.”</div>
<div class="p1">
“Dashboard, what dashboard?” But he could see something in Indian Jeff’s hands, it was a big, clumsy wooden box, with dangling wires and sparkling valves, and at random intervals it looked like rows of glassy rectangles that appeared and disappeared in front of his hands. </div>
<div class="p1">
“What’s all the commotion, darling?” It was Jane’s sweet voice from their bedroom upstairs.</div>
<div class="p1">
But her voice vanished as the bedroom, like the rest of the house, was no more. </div>
<div class="p1">
Only the laundry closet door remained, suspended in the grey nothingness of space. Jeff felt a deep pang at the pit of his stomach, fell to his knees, tears welling in his eyes. “What did you do to me, what did you do?”</div>
<div class="p1">
“I am taking it all apart, Jeff, one piece at a time. Rather, I’d like to ask why did <i>you</i> do it, what could you have been thinking when you hacked into my deep sleep system for... for <i>all that</i>?”</div>
<div class="p1">
“I told you, I don’t know what you are talking about!” But he knew it, now. It was all coming back, a rush of information so sudden that it made him wince in pain. Seven guys, all named Jeff, and he was just one of them. There was Sloppy Jeff and Chubby Jeff, Nerdy Jeff, Deadly Breath Jeff. Then there was Indian Jeff and the Jeffster, who was an extropian and wore his brain in a glass bowl that extended his cranial space. And then there was him, the leading programmer for his AlterNet section. They were all sharing their Corporate Apartment at the top of a sixties building in Manhattan, the whole space smaller than an average cubicle, taking turns: each one of them would be pumping on the generator pedals for an entire day a week, while the other six were kept in deep sleep in the closet, their avatars working all the while from the AlterNet without wasting superfluous calories. </div>
<div class="p1">
Indian Jeff hit another switch, wiping out the preposterous starry sky, and now they were both suspended, seventy or eighty floors up, in mid air, as if in a glass cage. On his hands and knees, Jeff tried to control a violent bout of nausea. <i>This is not real</i>, he kept telling himself. But he knew very well that it was. Down in the deep canyons below he could spot the third avenue canal, boats floating in the dark muddy waters. Electrical wires were running below them from building to building, clothes were hung to dry on the thousand of windows, like many colored flags ready for the Macy’s Day parade. </div>
<div class="p1">
So he was the lucky one, after all. Just below them, people without Corporate Affiliation were dying of pestilence and starvation in their junk boats navigating the canals that were drowning the skyscrapers of New York City. And here he was, eating every day. Well, perhaps <i>eating</i> was not technically correct, nutrients being delivered intravenously at least for six days a week. But that was good for you, wasn’t it? He was forty-six and he hardly looked a day older. And now he was about to lose all that. </div>
<div class="p1">
“It is all over,” said Indian Jeff. “Do whatever you need to do to initiate waking procedures, while I report you to the Corporate Police.”</div>
<div class="p1">
“No, wait!”</div>
<div class="p1">
“I waited long enough pumping those pedals day after day. We are finished here.”</div>
<div class="p1">
“No, we are not. Listen... I’ll cut you a deal. A great deal, so great you won’t believe it. Really, dude!”</div>
<div class="p1">
Indian Jeff was wearing his customary frown again, his finger hovering over the virtual dashboard in front of him.</div>
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<div style="text-align: center;">
❦</div>
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<div class="p1">
The house was quiet, but outside the Christmas lights still shone bright, burning like a halo of happiness around the day about to start. What a great Christmas this was going to be! Jane and Jimmy were still asleep upstairs, and Santa had totally delivered, he thought, looking at the piles of shiny packages under the tree. As a matter fact, it looked like he had just left. He pulled a curtain, and there he was. </div>
<div class="p1">
“Ho ho ho!” said Indian Jeff, waving happily from his reindeer-drawn sleigh.</div>
<div class="p1">
His beard looked more like a yogi’s woolen appendage than the rich cotton candy it was meant to be. He would render him a better one later, but for this time around it would do. Who knew if this would even last, how long would it be before one of the other five Jeffs figured out something had gone wrong, and that they were randomly stuck out there for double shifts. He had also heard that keeping one’s body in permanent deep sleep was not the healthiest of choices. But until then, they had all this. And it was perfect.</div>
<div class="p1">
“See you tomorrow, dude,” he waved back, “and Merry Christmas!”</div>
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❦❦❦<br />
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<i><span style="color: #990000;">This story is part of <a href="http://specthehalls.com/" rel="nofollow" target="_blank">Spec the Halls</a>, a Winter Celebration of the Weird and Fantastic, hosted by <a href="http://alliterationink.com/">alliterationink.com</a></span></i>
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Paolohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15948075178283913588noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4869145245442052992.post-18992195666412302752012-12-05T18:16:00.000-08:002012-12-08T10:00:37.792-08:00Ho abbracciato James Ellroy 2: The Black DahliaHo abbracciato James Ellroy un’altra volta (e ha pure abbracciato mia moglie, non senza qualche mia preoccupazione). Così si sono svolti i fatti: <a href="http://theblogaroundthecorner.it/2012/12/james-ellroy-the-black-dahlia/">James Ellroy: The Black Dahlia | The Blog Around the Corner</a>:<br />
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<br />Paolohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15948075178283913588noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4869145245442052992.post-27366401402579195662012-11-29T13:54:00.002-08:002012-12-03T18:49:29.081-08:00Radio TicinoPer una notte, su Radio Capital, torna il sound di Radio Ticino, la stazione pavese dove ho militato alla fine degli anni ottanta, una delle esperienze più belle e memorabili della mia vita, anche se magari non per le ragioni giuste. Al microfono, accanto al conduttore, Claudio Dell'Acqua, noto all'epoca (e per tutto il resto della mia vita), come il Capo, che mi cita addirittura al minuto 13. Per ascoltare: <a href="http://www.capital.it/capital/radio/programmi/Sentieri-Notturni/3727371/3734600" target="_blank">Radio Capital e Capital TiVù - Programmi- Sentieri Notturni</a><br />
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<br />Paolohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15948075178283913588noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4869145245442052992.post-80403866216682724242012-09-29T12:46:00.002-07:002012-09-29T12:46:49.279-07:00Quote of the day<i><br /></i>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<i>"<b>[H]e was a man who for ten years had kept his mind filled with dark and heart-broken thinking. </b>He had not been courageous; he had never tried to put any other thoughts in the place of the dark ones. He had wandered by blue lakes and thought them; he had lain on mountain-sides with sheets of deep blue gentians blooming all about him and flower breaths filling all the air and he had thought them."<br />--Frances Hodgson Burnett, The Secret Garden</i></blockquote>
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Paolohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15948075178283913588noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4869145245442052992.post-66643809939637025372012-09-20T22:47:00.001-07:002012-09-20T22:47:43.233-07:00A matter of perspective<div style="float: right; margin-left: 10px; margin-bottom: 10px;"><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/paolo66/8008298942/" title="photo sharing"><img src="http://farm9.staticflickr.com/8454/8008298942_591dd51494_m.jpg" alt="" style="border: solid 2px #000000;" /></a><br /><span style="font-size: 0.9em; margin-top: 0px;"><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/paolo66/8008298942/">A matter of perspective</a><br />Originally uploaded by <a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/paolo66/">Paolo666</a></span></div><br clear="all" />Paolohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15948075178283913588noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4869145245442052992.post-53331491695727346972012-09-06T19:17:00.000-07:002012-12-03T18:35:14.158-08:00The way we read<div style="padding: 15px;">
<iframe align="right" frameborder="0" marginheight="0" marginwidth="0" scrolling="no" src="http://rcm.amazon.com/e/cm?lt1=_blank&bc1=000000&IS2=1&npa=1&bg1=FFFFFF&fc1=000000&lc1=0000FF&t=theinvisibartofc&o=1&p=8&l=as1&m=amazon&f=ifr&ref=qf_sp_asin_til&asins=B007OZNUCE" style="height: 240px; width: 120px;" vspace="10"></iframe>Amazon is still looking forward -- and backwards, in the age of digital reading. Two man themes from today’s press conference. First, it focuses on service, not gadgets. While most of the commentators in the past year have been focused on the bogus paper-vs. digital debate, lamenting the restrictions of DRM, or complaining about the looks of the rectangular square plastic tablets, a lot was happening in the <i>Kindleverse</i>. Whispernet allowed us to download and read books almost everywhere on the planet, and to keep them in sync among our many devices. Library borrowing followed, bringing back the sharing dimension of traditional books while protecting copyright holders. The Amazon Digital Publishing platform allowed authors immediate access to the market, with royalties unheard of in book publishing history. </div>
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Today they added a new dimension, with serialization. Not only authors will be able to sell one chapter at a time, but Kindle will automatically aggregate them into the larger opus. Not by chance Amazon is experimenting with the<a href="http://www.amazon.com/Pickwick-Papers-Kindle-Serial-ebook/dp/B0091652CK/ref=sr_1_1?s=digital-text&ie=UTF8&qid=1346966722&sr=1-1&keywords=pickwick+papers" target="_blank"> free distribution of some Dickens classics</a>, the golden era of serialization. But what they promise is more, and along the line of what Neal Stephenson, Greg Bear et al. have tried (<a href="http://mongoliad.com/" target="_blank">http://mongoliad.com/</a>): not only serialization, but active discussion, opening up the avenue for author-reader interaction and participative reading. The possibilities are endless (and perhaps scary too, if one takes Stephen King’s “Misery” a little too seriously). So while others might be focusing on the bells and whistles, device resolutions and gaming possibilities, as a reader I salute this new effort to bring reading out of the static, publishing-industry-controlled twentieth century model… and getting back some of the more intriguing literary possibilities from centuries past.<br />
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And speaking of serialization: </div>
<iframe frameborder="0" height="360" src="http://www.kickstarter.com/projects/plympton/plympton-serialized-fiction-for-digital-readers/widget/video.html" width="480"> </iframe>Paolohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15948075178283913588noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4869145245442052992.post-12331146197259094352012-08-25T22:05:00.000-07:002012-08-25T22:05:02.965-07:00It was not about the bicycle<br />
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<i>[Review written on 07/30/2004 at 12:10:39 PM] </i></div>
<br /><img align="left" alt="laconfidentiel.jpg" border="0" src="http://ecx.images-amazon.com/images/I/41VXRDBQ90L._SL500_AA300_.jpg" /><br />
<a href="http://www.amazon.fr/L-A-Confidentiel-secrets-Lance-Amstrong/dp/2846751307/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1345956944&sr=8-1" target="_blank">L.A. Confidentiel, les secrets de Lance Armstrong</a>, is a thick trade paperback with a yellow cover, a a timely color given the coincidence with the Tour de France, which crowds the many Parisian bookstores. In the tome, Pierre Ballestrer and David Walsh build a well documented suggestive scenario. And quite surprisingly the scandalistic tones one would expect in this kind of work are all but absent.
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Similar suggestions have been present in the French press throughout the Tour: Lance is the ultimate American cyborg, the result of advanced medicine and clever media manipulation. He is the perfect product of the New American Century, as false as Bush's military records and the perfect face for the US world supremacy: as the good Texan president triumphs on evil in the war on terror, the Texan cyclist triumphs on cancer, and espouses Bush's cause of offering a role model for the new generation, a drug-free victory of willpower over adversity. And it might be just a coincidence in this era of disinformation and other patriot acts that the Armstrong lawyer team has chosen to prevent its US publication.
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On the last points, the authors beg to differ. They deconstruct Armstrong's own books, painting an image of a good if not great athlete with immense ambition and a ruthless agent who knows the media and has assured the services of an effective team of lawyers, as the negotiation and divorce with Cofidis in 1997 seem to indicate. But the intent is not mudslinging, but rather to build what they think is a more plausible rationale for Lance ascent in the Champs Elysées of cycling.
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The argument of the book can be simply articulated in a few points:<br />
<ol><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/paolo66/3299239288/" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;" title="Lance is back by Paolo666, on Flickr"><img alt="Lance is back" src="http://farm4.staticflickr.com/3577/3299239288_14e3f5f753_m.jpg" /></a>
<li>Lance's cancer has probably been caused by his previous substance abuse, possibly corticosteroids
</li>
<li>It is highly unlikely that his real exams were checked in the weeks preceding the discovery of his testicle cancer, as he would have resulted positive simply due too his illness. Suspicions about the US Postal routine exams being altered if not completely fake are raised later about the French anti doping checks after the 2000 Tour.
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<li>After his comeback to competition for US Postal, Lance starts working with doctors known for their involvement with other teams which made strong use of hematocrit-enhancing drugs (Ferrari and Aramendi) as it emerged from several sources and trials. The use of controlled substances is also suggested by his former masseuse, Emma O'Reilly
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<li>As a likely result of these practices, the US Postal goes from noncompetitive to dominant in just one season, and Lance wins (so far) 6 Tours in a row.
</li>
</ol>
As mentioned, lots of the book is devoted to deconstructing the figure of "Captain America" Armstrong build by his own books and the US Media. Through witnesses and an alternative look at the facts Lance comes across as driven to the point of being egotistical, arrogant, merciless... a real asshole. Of course these would hardly be image-tarnishing accusations among his countrymen, who think that "You are fired!" is actually a funny line.
Does the book deliver the "extraordinary proof" Armstrong asks for its "extraordinary accusations" Does it present an airtight case? Probably not. Quite on the contrary Ballester and Walsh present their witnesses in pure and clean investigative journalism style, cite their sources, and leave to the reader the task of drawing conclusions. Many will undoubtedly choose to see "not much": and will be continuing to watch the sport, possibly with about the same suspension of disbelief required to read the classic American superhero comics. Others might leave disgusted.<br />
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Paolohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15948075178283913588noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4869145245442052992.post-79534164347998971522012-04-11T14:10:00.002-07:002012-04-11T14:10:54.184-07:00My new maxim<br />
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<i>Forever part with disappointment: embrace pessimism! As a pessimist, when things do not turn out well I have the satisfaction of having correctly predicted the outcome. The few times when they actually do, I am happy because my low expectations have been exceeded by the course of events. In other words, as a pessimist you can never lose, at most it’s a draw. </i>-- P.A. Gardinali </blockquote>
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</blockquote>Paolohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15948075178283913588noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4869145245442052992.post-27990735301688064482012-03-31T10:32:00.000-07:002012-03-31T10:34:39.077-07:00Margaret Atwood on adulthood<a href="http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/0385491026/ref=as_li_qf_sp_asin_il?ie=UTF8&tag=theinvisibartofc&linkCode=as2&camp=1789&creative=9325&creativeASIN=0385491026" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://ws.assoc-amazon.com/widgets/q?_encoding=UTF8&Format=_SL110_&ASIN=0385491026&MarketPlace=US&ID=AsinImage&WS=1&tag=theinvisibartofc&ServiceVersion=20070822" /></a><img alt="" border="0" height="1" src="http://www.assoc-amazon.com/e/ir?t=theinvisibartofc&l=as2&o=1&a=0385491026" style="border: none !important; margin: 0px !important;" width="1" />
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"<i>I do of course have a real life. I sometimes have trouble believing in it, because it doesn't seem like the kind of life I could ever get away with, or derserve. This goes along with another belief of mine: that everyone else my age is an adult, whereas I am merely in disguise.</i>"<br />
--Margaret Atwood, <a href="http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/0385491026/ref=as_li_qf_sp_asin_tl?ie=UTF8&tag=theinvisibartofc&linkCode=as2&camp=1789&creative=9325&creativeASIN=0385491026">Cat's Eye</a><img alt="" border="0" height="1" src="http://www.assoc-amazon.com/e/ir?t=theinvisibartofc&l=as2&o=1&a=0385491026" style="border: none !important; margin: 0px !important;" width="1" />
</blockquote>Paolohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15948075178283913588noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4869145245442052992.post-66366655394767860572012-03-14T12:14:00.000-07:002012-03-14T12:15:54.917-07:00CJ Box: Blue Heaven Italian Release Interview<br />
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<a href="http://www.amazon.it/gp/product/B007IZ4YP2/ref=as_li_qf_sp_asin_tl?ie=UTF8&tag=paologardinal-21&linkCode=as2&camp=3370&creative=23322&creativeASIN=B007IZ4YP2" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;" target="_blank"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSKZHsA0Svp8QDpAtMu0mUEgfUsSUdqzYc_N_tJ5mE6pyzF09obGXb9QkS0c29znHLeAdD4EwhI70gylgQ8IX-4DNx0HaBjABwSxh3ok7t0jreyoU-T9HViCs_nffXnO5v4W6GQ1Hb410/s200/Screen+Shot+2012-03-14+at+12.09.42+PM.png" width="125" /></a><i>CJ Box "Blue Heaven" has just been released in the Italian edition as <a href="http://www.amazon.it/gp/product/B007IZ4YP2/ref=as_li_qf_sp_asin_tl?ie=UTF8&tag=paologardinal-21&linkCode=as2&camp=3370&creative=23322&creativeASIN=B007IZ4YP2">Un angolo di paradiso (Piemme linea rossa)</a><img alt="" border="0" height="1" src="http://www.assoc-amazon.it/e/ir?t=paologardinal-21&l=as2&o=29&a=B007IZ4YP2" style="border: none !important; margin: 0px !important;" width="1" />. This is the first of his work to appear on the Italian market. A big Thank You to CJ for having the patience to respond to our questions, and best of luck on the Italian market!. The Italian version of this interview is <a href="http://theblogaroundthecorner.it/2012/03/cj-box-arriva-in-italia-con-un-angolo-di-paradiso/" target="_blank">here</a>.</i></div>
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<span style="color: #222222;"></span><br />
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<span style="color: #222222;"><b>Q.: Please introduce yourself for your new Italian readers</b></span></blockquote>
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<span style="color: #222222;"><b>CJ: </b>(From my bio):</span></div>
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<span style="color: #222222;">I'm a New York Times bestselling author of thirteen novels including the Joe Pickett series. I won the Edgar Alan Poe Award for Best Novel (BLUE HEAVEN, 2009) as well as the Anthony Award, Prix Calibre 38 (France), the Macavity Award, the Gumshoe Award, the Barry Award, and the 2010 Mountains & Plains Independent Booksellers Association Award for fiction. My short stories have been featured in America’s Best Mystery Stories of 2006 and limited-edition printings. 2008 novel BLOOD TRAIL was nominated for the International IMPAC Dublin (Ireland) Literary Award. The novels have been translated into 25 languages. BLUE HEAVEN and NOWHERE TO RUN have been optioned for film.</span></div>
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<span style="color: #222222;">I'm a Wyoming native and have worked as a ranch hand, surveyor, fishing guide, a small town newspaper reporter and editor. I've hunted, fished, hiked, ridden, and skied throughout Wyoming and the Mountain West. I live in Wyoming. I'm very excited the novels will FINALLY be published in Italy. I've been to the country several times and love it.</span></div>
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<b>Q.: Blue Heaven has some Really Bad cops, not just the corrupt kind, but the dark, violent, power drunk kind, with loud echoes of James Ellroy. Like many, I suspect, I first heard about cop retirement communities at the time of the OJ Simpson trial. How long has this novel been in gestation? How much is it inspired by real facts?</b></blockquote>
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<b>CJ: </b>I was at a book signing in Los Angeles four years before I wrote BLUE HEAVEN when a member of the LAPD came to the signing. He mentioned that many of his fellow cops had retired and had moved to "Blue Heaven." I hadn't heard the term before so I followed up with him. I was fascinated by the concept of a thousand big-city cops moving to a very rural section of Idaho. I figured if there were a thousand ex-cops, a few of them were probably bad people. I flew to North Idaho and interviewed locals and a few of the ex-cops, and the story developed from there.</div>
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<b>Q.: This is true of all your work, I think, but Blue Heaven in particular reads sometimes like a modern western. How important is the myth of the west for you?</b></blockquote>
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<b>CJ: </b>I was born in the west and live there, and the myth of the west is all around. I don't really think about writing modern westerns, but I know that's how they seem to come out. In the U.S., the western is our history and culture and it defined our sense of self. A lone good man trying to do the right thing against power and corruption is a story worth retelling time and time again.</div>
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<b>Q.: In particular, reading Blue Heaven Jess Rawlings reminded me of the “Brave Cowboy” Jack Buns. What do you think of Ed Abbey?</b></blockquote>
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I'm a fan of Edward Abbey and I read the novel in college. It probably got into my blood.</div>
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<b>Q.: Self reliance, solidarity in small community, distrust of government intrusion and bureaucracy are common themes in your books, yet your heroes (from Joe Pickett to Villatoro in Blue Heaven) are still devoted public servants. Does this represent for you the cultural dilemma of the West?</b></blockquote>
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<b>CJ: </b>Yes, one of them. And like you asked earlier, it goes back to the western themes of a sheriff or lawman up against powerful forces outside the law. Sometimes, though, it's hard to justify who is good and who is bad, and I try not to make the answer too simplistic.</div>
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<b>Q.: Much in the same way, your heroes often struggle to find a compromise between the ways of the past and the inevitable change in Blue Heaven brought in by resettling and development, or state politics like in Cold Wind. Joe Pickett struggles to reconcile nature preservation, hunting and recreation in nature. Do you think this compromise is possible? </b></blockquote>
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<b>CJ: </b>Yes I do, although the struggle to get there isn't easy. In my books I try to present a balanced portrayal of many controversial issues. My hope is readers on both sides of the issue may see that there is another side and perhaps the other side isn't completely unreasonable or evil. I've had readers tell me their opinion of some controversies changed -- or was softened -- by being exposed to the other side. It's rewarding when that happens.</div>
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<b>Q.: How much of Joe Pickett is there in you? </b></blockquote>
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A little, certainly. I have daughters and a wife and I'm very devoted to them. But Joe Pickett is a fictional character and I'm not. </div>
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<b>Q.: Big oil (Big gas? Fracking?) might change the face of your home state. Will Joe Pickett take them on?</b></blockquote>
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<b>CJ: </b>I explored aspects of this issue in TROPHY HUNT and BELOW ZERO, but I'm sure it will be explored more in future novels. It's the classic dilemma: jobs and development set against shrinking communities and an older economy of agriculture and tradition. There are benefits and threats depending on which way it goes. There is a reasonable middle ground, I hope.</div>
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<b>Q.: How do you divide your time? Do you intentionally take a break between episodes of the Joe Pickett series or do you just do that to follow up on ideas that do not fit in the saga?</b></blockquote>
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<b>CJ: </b>Some stories and themes simply can't be Joe Pickett books, so that's why I write stand-alones as well. Plus, I know a series of twelve books can be daunting to a first-time reader and they may want to see what kind of novels I write by trying a stand-alone first. I love to do both, and I plan to continue to write both the series and stand-alone books.</div>
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<b>Q.: Can you tell us something about your evolution as a writer?</b></blockquote>
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It took twenty years to get a book published, and when it finally happened I felt unleashed. I still feel that way. I love to explore the themes and issues I write about, and I'm very grateful the books have been embraced all over the world.</div>
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<b>Q.: Your 3 favorite books in the thriller/mystery/noir genre?</b></blockquote>
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<b>CJ: </b>This is an impossible question to answer and sure to get me into trouble. How about three favorite authors instead?</div>
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1.<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Michael Connelly</div>
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2.<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Denise Mina</div>
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3.<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>John Sandford</div>
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<b>Q.: Your 3 favorite books in any genre?</b></blockquote>
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<b>CJ: </b></div>
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1. <span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Catch-22, by Joseph Heller</div>
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2.<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>The Rise of Theodore Roosevelt, by Edmund Morris</div>
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3.<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>The novels of Thomas McGuane </div>
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<b>Q.: What’s next for CJ Box?</b></blockquote>
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I just finished the first draft for a new stand-alone novel called THE HIGHWAY. It's about a long-haul truck driver who is a serial killer. It scares me to death. Next month, my twelfth Joe Pickett novel will be out. It's called FORCE OF NATURE, and it's about Joe Pickett's outlaw friend Nate Romanowski. I think it's a very good one.</div>
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<br />Paolohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15948075178283913588noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4869145245442052992.post-25560631037211926542012-03-12T20:07:00.001-07:002012-03-12T20:09:26.177-07:00One bad apple<a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/paolo66/6978108363/" title="One bad apple by Paolo666, on Flickr"><img src="http://farm8.staticflickr.com/7195/6978108363_e3dbd6b3af_o.jpg" width="521" height="313" alt="One bad apple"></a>Paolohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15948075178283913588noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4869145245442052992.post-561317117430988242012-03-11T16:03:00.002-07:002012-03-11T16:09:08.584-07:00Wild Thing<a href="http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B004QZ9PNI/ref=as_li_qf_sp_asin_il?ie=UTF8&tag=theinvisibartofc&linkCode=as2&camp=1789&creative=9325&creativeASIN=B004QZ9PNI" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;" target="_blank"><img border="0" src="http://ws.assoc-amazon.com/widgets/q?_encoding=UTF8&Format=_SL110_&ASIN=B004QZ9PNI&MarketPlace=US&ID=AsinImage&WS=1&tag=theinvisibartofc&ServiceVersion=20070822" /></a><img alt="" border="0" height="1" src="http://www.assoc-amazon.com/e/ir?t=theinvisibartofc&l=as2&o=1&a=B004QZ9PNI" style="border: none !important; margin: 0px !important;" width="1" />
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<i><b>"When you can dump a hundred and seventy million barrels of crude into the Gulf of Mexico and take a write-off on the cleanup, cost-efficiency doesn’t really enter into it.”</b></i></blockquote>
--John Bazell, <a href="http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B004QZ9PNI/ref=as_li_qf_sp_asin_tl?ie=UTF8&tag=theinvisibartofc&linkCode=as2&camp=1789&creative=9325&creativeASIN=B004QZ9PNI" target="_blank">Wild Thing</a><img alt="" border="0" height="1" src="http://www.assoc-amazon.com/e/ir?t=theinvisibartofc&l=as2&o=1&a=B004QZ9PNI" style="border: none !important; margin: 0px !important;" width="1" />Paolohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15948075178283913588noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4869145245442052992.post-25205497543505648972012-03-10T19:51:00.000-08:002012-03-10T19:54:29.066-08:00Some days I feel like this...<div style="text-align: center;">
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I felt like that today at the <a href="http://www.bikescor.com/solvang/welcome.htm" target="_blank">30th Solvang Century</a>. Some things however were more difficult to swallow than my sweaty socks. And it wasn't about the slow(er) riders wandering all over the lane, or even the people with the funny hats: one gets used to them after a few years. It was more of the feeling that the organizers of this classic and successful event have got perhaps a little complacent.<br />
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First, the ladies at the registration insisted that I needed not to pick up both the 50 miler and the metric century (actually 70 miles) route sheets, because the only the last part was different and they were <i>the same thing. </i>Guess what: <b>they weren't</b>. I wanted to ride conservatively after <a href="http://draft.blogger.com/blogger.g?blogID=4869145245442052992#editor/target=post;postID=547276471962838828" target="_blank">last weekend's crash</a>, and I should have known better. I just wanted to leave the registration area quickly to get back to my bike before someone else decided to take off with it.<br />
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Then there was the plague of the private SAG vehicles. As pathetic as it might sound, wives, fathers, perhaps grandfathers too judging from the age of the drivers felt compelled to follow their relatives in a car. This is, of course, explicitly discourage or forbidden by all events of this kind, including the Solvang (see the <a href="http://www.bikescor.com/solvang/rideinfo.htm" target="_blank">SAFETY chapter</a>). The result was a traffic jam on Santa Rosa Road, that exasperated local drivers and endangered riders lives. The worst offender (and the first car in line) was a lady advertising her pistachio product, and riding ahead to strategic point to peddle her roasted nuts to famished cyclists.<br />
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On highway 1, a pothole that looked a foot deep in the middle of the emergency/bike lane was left unmarked. A cyclist was laying on the ground in evidente pain, surrounded by others, who thankfully pointed out the hazard to me. It makes me think that the organizers drove, rather than riding the course. Missing something like that out might have deadly consequences. I wonder if the course could be redesigned leaving highway 1 out. Across Lompoc I saw a near miss (or perhaps I should say a near kill) when a cyclist was forced in the traffic by the truck left parked on the bike lane by some bozo, and a black Tahoe barely missed him. More ahead, after it becomes a divided road, some parts are now almost unridable: the rumble strip is smack in the middle of the emergency lane, making passing slower riders difficult and downhill speeds hazardous, to say the least.<br />
<br />
Make no mistake: I had fun, and I will likely be back again next year. Traffic control was impeccable. The ride however is not getting any cheaper. Maybe we could ask for something more than bananas and port-a-potties.<br />
<br />Paolohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15948075178283913588noreply@blogger.com0Solvang, CA, USA34.5958201 -120.137648134.5696781 -120.17713010000001 34.6219621 -120.0981661tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4869145245442052992.post-42327606380236113052012-03-07T15:54:00.000-08:002012-03-07T15:54:12.459-08:00California Drivers 1<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFrGhZP2U4DaMeQayHtKrz6oysgAWxCbqYZWSC8gtbfd8wKQorn1G-mrZglWfijR_Z5Yu8CeEwqg8N5jwDc-aLUiOAGujrzwZNwUFkToo7LpADgmCixsDpPgtn1jd5kaufJLgB1tTrB_s/s1600/CaliforniaDrivers1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFrGhZP2U4DaMeQayHtKrz6oysgAWxCbqYZWSC8gtbfd8wKQorn1G-mrZglWfijR_Z5Yu8CeEwqg8N5jwDc-aLUiOAGujrzwZNwUFkToo7LpADgmCixsDpPgtn1jd5kaufJLgB1tTrB_s/s1600/CaliforniaDrivers1.jpg" /></a></div>
<br />Paolohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15948075178283913588noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4869145245442052992.post-5472764719628388282012-03-04T15:57:00.000-08:002012-03-04T19:19:09.619-08:00Road Rash<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUexvHQA5trFI-Vl-6xg_0HnXtkJFqHRHFRDGIOFBtfddSCJ_rfUYBipfihItiASRNUyAGA79zOj4KTIl06SnRCa01dlQ1e6y6uKJa_8kbuLL7a29PhJtpr-7Q0xa22MUuqTy6nnqf8DQ/s1600/RoadRash.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUexvHQA5trFI-Vl-6xg_0HnXtkJFqHRHFRDGIOFBtfddSCJ_rfUYBipfihItiASRNUyAGA79zOj4KTIl06SnRCa01dlQ1e6y6uKJa_8kbuLL7a29PhJtpr-7Q0xa22MUuqTy6nnqf8DQ/s400/RoadRash.jpg" width="210" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUexvHQA5trFI-Vl-6xg_0HnXtkJFqHRHFRDGIOFBtfddSCJ_rfUYBipfihItiASRNUyAGA79zOj4KTIl06SnRCa01dlQ1e6y6uKJa_8kbuLL7a29PhJtpr-7Q0xa22MUuqTy6nnqf8DQ/s1600/RoadRash.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><br /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
What's worse? Skidding on the asphalt, feeling your skin burn, and who knows what's happening to the expensive carbon machine that you were sitting on until a few fractions of a second ago? Or is it feeling like an idiot, for having screwed up so blatantly? I can now tell you: neither. It's ten times worse of both having to shower that newly acquired road rash once you limp home.<br />
Let's not mince words: I am a total wimp.<br />
<br />
With that out of the way, I can't count how many times I have seen a pro rider on TV, top of his game, descending towards victory, hugging turns like a demon one second, and the next sliding down, shining sparks from the pedal scarring the pavement? Maybe he took a gamble on an unknown descent, or made a simple mistake, like crossing the treacherous center line, and there he goes using the softest parts of his body as a brake. And every time I thought, <i>what a dolt, shouldn't he know better than that</i>? Well, today I know, because I made exactly the same mistake.<br />
<br />
But fear not: amazingly, my <a href="http://sciocchezzaio.blogspot.com/2008/03/carbon-dreams-3-gory-details.html" target="_blank">Colnago "Aida"</a> was just fine. And the skin, they tell me, might eventually grow back. Never before I appreciated carrying a first aid kit in my jersey pocket. I put it together long ago, and seldom updated it. I would recommend this to any cyclist: get one together, carry it with you, forget about it until the day you will need it (which we all hope will never come).<br />
<br />
Here's my kit<br />
<a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/paolo66/6807856708/" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;" title="First Aid Kit by Paolo666, on Flickr"><img alt="First Aid Kit" height="500" src="http://farm8.staticflickr.com/7184/6807856708_6b186254d4.jpg" width="476" /></a>Aside from the obvious (car or house keys) I include some cash (just in case you need a cab ride home) antiseptic and cleaning towelettes, soluble mineral salts and salt pills for cramps, recovery, antibiotic cream, assorted bandaids in various sizes, the bigger the better in this kind of accident. You might also want to stock up on pills, for allergies, pain killers and the like. Oh, and some Imodium might help too, it might make the difference between a good day and an interminable sequence of painful rest stops.<br />
<br />
I pack it all in a sandwich bag, then into a zippered cordura one, which fits most jerseys just fine.<br />
<br />
Listen to the Road Rash man: don't leave home without it!</div>Paolohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15948075178283913588noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4869145245442052992.post-87654146796734460102012-03-04T14:58:00.000-08:002012-03-04T14:58:02.504-08:00The Great Bailey SleepoverWe played overnight dogsitters. Nuvola played with her friend Bailey 5PM to 11PM, then again 7AM to 1PM. Apparently it takes 6 full-on hours to moderately discharge their batteries!<br />
<object width="400" height="300"> <param name="flashvars" value="offsite=true&lang=en-us&page_show_url=%2Fphotos%2Fpaolo66%2Ftags%2Fbailey%2Fshow%2F&page_show_back_url=%2Fphotos%2Fpaolo66%2Ftags%2Fbailey%2F&user_id=93532579@N00&tags=bailey&jump_to=&start_index="></param> <param name="movie" value="http://www.flickr.com/apps/slideshow/show.swf?v=109615"></param> <param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><embed type="application/x-shockwave-flash" src="http://www.flickr.com/apps/slideshow/show.swf?v=109615" allowFullScreen="true" flashvars="offsite=true&lang=en-us&page_show_url=%2Fphotos%2Fpaolo66%2Ftags%2Fbailey%2Fshow%2F&page_show_back_url=%2Fphotos%2Fpaolo66%2Ftags%2Fbailey%2F&user_id=93532579@N00&tags=bailey&jump_to=&start_index=" width="400" height="300"></embed></object>Paolohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15948075178283913588noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4869145245442052992.post-43307191893216870172012-01-05T14:58:00.000-08:002012-01-05T14:58:50.790-08:00What I read in 2011<table cellpadding="10" cellspacing="10" class="t1">
<tbody>
<tr>
<td class="td1" valign="middle"><div class="p1">
Le voyage d'hiver</div>
</td>
<td class="td1" valign="middle"><div class="p1">
Amélie Nothomb</div>
</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="td1" valign="middle"><div class="p1">
Il sorriso di Angelica</div>
</td>
<td class="td1" valign="middle"><div class="p1">
Andrea Camilleri</div>
</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="td1" valign="middle"><div class="p1">
Dictator</div>
</td>
<td class="td1" valign="middle"><div class="p1">
Andrea Frediani</div>
</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="td1" valign="middle"><div class="p1">
L'arabe</div>
</td>
<td class="td1" valign="middle"><div class="p1">
Antoine Audouard</div>
</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="td1" valign="middle"><div class="p1">
Votez pour la démondialisation !</div>
</td>
<td class="td1" valign="middle"><div class="p1">
Arnaud Montebourg</div>
</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="td1" valign="middle"><div class="p1">
Vacanze all'isola dei gabbiani</div>
</td>
<td class="td1" valign="middle"><div class="p1">
Astrid Lindgren</div>
</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="td1" valign="middle"><div class="p1">
La Nuit des enfants rois</div>
</td>
<td class="td1" valign="middle"><div class="p1">
Bernard Lentéric</div>
</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="td1" valign="middle"><div class="p1">
Revolting Youth</div>
</td>
<td class="td1" valign="middle"><div class="p1">
C. D. Payne</div>
</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="td1" valign="middle"><div class="p1">
Falange Armata</div>
</td>
<td class="td1" valign="middle"><div class="p1">
Carlo Lucarelli</div>
</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="td1" valign="middle"><div class="p1">
Il giorno del lupo</div>
</td>
<td class="td1" valign="middle"><div class="p1">
Carlo Lucarelli</div>
</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="td1" valign="middle"><div class="p1">
L'ombra del vento</div>
</td>
<td class="td1" valign="middle"><div class="p1">
Carlos Ruiz Zafon</div>
</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="td1" valign="middle"><div class="p1">
Black Hole</div>
</td>
<td class="td1" valign="middle"><div class="p1">
Charles Burns</div>
</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="td1" valign="middle"><div class="p1">
Jane Eyre</div>
</td>
<td class="td1" valign="middle"><div class="p1">
Charlotte Bronte</div>
</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="td1" valign="middle"><div class="p1">
Guerre sale</div>
</td>
<td class="td1" valign="middle"><div class="p1">
Dominique Sylvain</div>
</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="td1" valign="middle"><div class="p1">
Corpi di scarto</div>
</td>
<td class="td1" valign="middle"><div class="p1">
Elisabetta Bucciarelli</div>
</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="td1" valign="middle"><div class="p1">
L'uomo nero e la bicicletta blu</div>
</td>
<td class="td1" valign="middle"><div class="p1">
Eraldo Baldini</div>
</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="td1" valign="middle"><div class="p1">
Disegnare il vento</div>
</td>
<td class="td1" valign="middle"><div class="p1">
Ernesto Ferrero</div>
</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="td1" valign="middle"><div class="p1">
Il peso della farfalla</div>
</td>
<td class="td1" valign="middle"><div class="p1">
Erri De Luca</div>
</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="td1" valign="middle"><div class="p1">
L'armée furieuse</div>
</td>
<td class="td1" valign="middle"><div class="p1">
Fred Vargas</div>
</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="td1" valign="middle"><div class="p1">
La Vérité sur Cesare Battisti</div>
</td>
<td class="td1" valign="middle"><div class="p1">
Fred Vargas</div>
</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="td1" valign="middle"><div class="p1">
1Q84</div>
</td>
<td class="td1" valign="middle"><div class="p1">
Haruki Murakami</div>
</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="td1" valign="middle"><div class="p1">
Blind Willow, Sleeping Woman</div>
</td>
<td class="td1" valign="middle"><div class="p1">
Haruki Murakami</div>
</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="td1" valign="middle"><div class="p1">
Kafka on the Shore</div>
</td>
<td class="td1" valign="middle"><div class="p1">
Haruki Murakami</div>
</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="td1" valign="middle"><div class="p1">
Fullmetal Alchemist, Vol. 1</div>
</td>
<td class="td1" valign="middle"><div class="p1">
Hiromu Arakawa</div>
</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="td1" valign="middle"><div class="p1">
Gantz 14</div>
</td>
<td class="td1" valign="middle"><div class="p1">
Hiroya Oku</div>
</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="td1" valign="middle"><div class="p1">
Planesrunner</div>
</td>
<td class="td1" valign="middle"><div class="p1">
Ian McDonald</div>
</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="td1" valign="middle"><div class="p1">
La figlia della fortuna</div>
</td>
<td class="td1" valign="middle"><div class="p1">
Isabel Allende</div>
</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="td1" valign="middle"><div class="p1">
Diary of a Wimpy Kid</div>
</td>
<td class="td1" valign="middle"><div class="p1">
Jeff Kinney</div>
</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="td1" valign="middle"><div class="p1">
Diary of a Wimpy Kid. Roderick Rules</div>
</td>
<td class="td1" valign="middle"><div class="p1">
Jeff Kinney</div>
</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="td1" valign="middle"><div class="p1">
Diary of a Wimpy Kid. The Last Straw</div>
</td>
<td class="td1" valign="middle"><div class="p1">
Jeff Kinney</div>
</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="td1" valign="middle"><div class="p1">
The Sleeping Doll</div>
</td>
<td class="td1" valign="middle"><div class="p1">
Jeffery Deaver</div>
</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="td1" valign="middle"><div class="p1">
Death Masks</div>
</td>
<td class="td1" valign="middle"><div class="p1">
Jim Butcher</div>
</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="td1" valign="middle"><div class="p1">
The Killer Inside Me</div>
</td>
<td class="td1" valign="middle"><div class="p1">
Jim Thompson</div>
</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="td1" valign="middle"><div class="p1">
Among Others</div>
</td>
<td class="td1" valign="middle"><div class="p1">
Jo Walton</div>
</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="td1" valign="middle"><div class="p1">
Bad Chili</div>
</td>
<td class="td1" valign="middle"><div class="p1">
Joe R. Lansdale</div>
</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="td1" valign="middle"><div class="p1">
Freezer Burn</div>
</td>
<td class="td1" valign="middle"><div class="p1">
Joe R. Lansdale</div>
</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="td1" valign="middle"><div class="p1">
Shadowmagic</div>
</td>
<td class="td1" valign="middle"><div class="p1">
John Lenahan</div>
</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="td1" valign="middle"><div class="p1">
Cannery Row</div>
</td>
<td class="td1" valign="middle"><div class="p1">
John Steinbeck</div>
</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="td1" valign="middle"><div class="p1">
Sweet Thursday</div>
</td>
<td class="td1" valign="middle"><div class="p1">
John Steinbeck</div>
</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="td1" valign="middle"><div class="p1">
Tortilla Flat</div>
</td>
<td class="td1" valign="middle"><div class="p1">
John Steinbeck</div>
</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="td1" valign="middle"><div class="p1">
Sayonara, Zetsubou-Sensei, Volume 1</div>
</td>
<td class="td1" valign="middle"><div class="p1">
Koji Kumeta</div>
</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="td1" valign="middle"><div class="p1">
Zoo City</div>
</td>
<td class="td1" valign="middle"><div class="p1">
Lauren Beukes</div>
</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="td1" valign="middle"><div class="p1">
Il gioco delle tre carte</div>
</td>
<td class="td1" valign="middle"><div class="p1">
Marco Malvaldi</div>
</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="td1" valign="middle"><div class="p1">
Il re dei giochi</div>
</td>
<td class="td1" valign="middle"><div class="p1">
Marco Malvaldi</div>
</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="td1" valign="middle"><div class="p1">
Odore di chiuso</div>
</td>
<td class="td1" valign="middle"><div class="p1">
Marco Malvaldi</div>
</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="td1" valign="middle"><div class="p1">
Saturno il nero</div>
</td>
<td class="td1" valign="middle"><div class="p1">
Massimo Pietroselli</div>
</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="td1" valign="middle"><div class="p1">
How to Be Your Dog's Best Friend</div>
</td>
<td class="td1" valign="middle"><div class="p1">
New Skete Monks</div>
</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="td1" valign="middle"><div class="p1">
Io e te</div>
</td>
<td class="td1" valign="middle"><div class="p1">
Niccolò Ammaniti</div>
</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="td1" valign="middle"><div class="p1">
Ender's Game</div>
</td>
<td class="td1" valign="middle"><div class="p1">
Orson Scott Card</div>
</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="td1" valign="middle"><div class="p1">
Shadowland</div>
</td>
<td class="td1" valign="middle"><div class="p1">
Peter Straub</div>
</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="td1" valign="middle"><div class="p1">
Echine</div>
</td>
<td class="td1" valign="middle"><div class="p1">
Philippe Djian</div>
</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="td1" valign="middle"><div class="p1">
Phoenix Rising</div>
</td>
<td class="td1" valign="middle"><div class="p1">
Pip Ballantine</div>
</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="td1" valign="middle"><div class="p1">
The Essential Touring Cyclist</div>
</td>
<td class="td1" valign="middle"><div class="p1">
Richard A. Lovett</div>
</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="td1" valign="middle"><div class="p1">
The Last Olympian</div>
</td>
<td class="td1" valign="middle"><div class="p1">
Rick Riordan</div>
</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="td1" valign="middle"><div class="p1">
Shadowed Summer</div>
</td>
<td class="td1" valign="middle"><div class="p1">
Saundra Mitchell</div>
</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="td1" valign="middle"><div class="p1">
Acciaio</div>
</td>
<td class="td1" valign="middle"><div class="p1">
Silvia Avallone</div>
</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="td1" valign="middle"><div class="p1">
On writing</div>
</td>
<td class="td1" valign="middle"><div class="p1">
Stephen King</div>
</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="td1" valign="middle"><div class="p1">
Cross-Country Skiing</div>
</td>
<td class="td1" valign="middle"><div class="p1">
Steve Hindman</div>
</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="td1" valign="middle"><div class="p1">
When the Killing's Done</div>
</td>
<td class="td1" valign="middle"><div class="p1">
T. Coraghessan Boyle</div>
</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="td1" valign="middle"><div class="p1">
Forbidden</div>
</td>
<td class="td1" valign="middle"><div class="p1">
Tabitha Suzuma</div>
</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="td1" valign="middle"><div class="p1">
Bleach</div>
</td>
<td class="td1" valign="middle"><div class="p1">
Tite Kubo</div>
</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="td1" valign="middle"><div class="p1">
Bakuman</div>
</td>
<td class="td1" valign="middle"><div class="p1">
Tsugumi Ohba</div>
</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="td1" valign="middle"><div class="p1">
Il cimitero di Praga</div>
</td>
<td class="td1" valign="middle"><div class="p1">
Umberto Eco</div>
</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="td1" valign="middle"><div class="p1">
The Mermaids Singing</div>
</td>
<td class="td1" valign="middle"><div class="p1">
Val McDermid</div>
</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="td1" valign="middle"><div class="p1">
Machine of Death</div>
</td>
<td class="td1" valign="middle"><div class="p1">
Various Authors</div>
</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="td1" valign="middle"><div class="p1">
Natale in Noir</div>
</td>
<td class="td1" valign="middle"><div class="p1">
Various Authors</div>
</td>
</tr>
</tbody>
</table>
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