R.I.P., Ray Manzarek

A bit of Doors trivia for you: The band did not include a bass player — onstage, Ray Manzarek provided bass lines via his left hand, using a Fender Rhodes piano bass. Bon voyage, Ray.

Her Majesty’s a pretty nice girl

What with helping Consigliere Pelkey live-blog the Giro, cranking out the comedy for Bicycle Retailer, logging saddle time on the Jones Steel Diamond and the Co-Motion Divide Rohloff in preparation for reviews thereof, and assisting Herself with a new project — turning our House Back East™ into a vacation rental via airbnb.com — I haven’t had much time to follow the doings in DeeCee.

But now that I’ve had a minute to cast an inquisitive eye about the Innertubes, I have a question for those of you who have been paying closer attention.

Is it time we abandoned our flirtation with representative democracy and begged the Queen to take us back? God save the Queen!

Speaking of limeys, back at the bike racing, Brave, Brave Sir Wiggo’ went from descending like a girl to descending the Giro’s overall standings like a sick girl in a Radio Flyer full of anvils on Mount Doom. Defending champion Ryder Hesjedal has had even worse luck; they’re timing that poor sod with a calendar. I have no idea who’s gonna win the goddamn thing, but it sure is fun to watch. Join Mr. P and me at Live Update Guy for tomorrow’s stage, the Giro’s longest.

In California, meanwhile, it’s Jens Voigt making everyone look sick. The 110-year-old father of 16 crushed Tyler Farrar and Thor Hushovd under his chariot wheels en route to victory in stage 5 of the Amgen Tour. He told VeloNews reporter Matthew Beaudin that when he finally retires, if ever, it will take two people to replace him — “one to do the funny part, and one to be the bike rider.”

And me? I didn’t ride a meter today, in victory or defeat. Work, work, work, that’s all we have around these parts. That, and dinner with friends at Springs Orleans. Somebody had managed to FUBAR the house lights but we couldn’t have cared less, because the food was top notch. We just let our forks follow our noses.

Tick, tock

The Giro d’Italia served up a real quad-snapper of an individual time trial today. Alas, the Black Knight failed to achieve his primary goal (“None shall pass!”), which in this case meant putting everyone to the sword and skipping gaily to the final maglia rosa.

Consigliere Pelkey and I were calling the action at Live Update Guy, and it was rarely dull — for a time trial, anyway. ‘Is Lordship flatted and still managed to finish second, so fair play to him. But I still hope someone else is wearing the pink shirt when it’s all over.

For some reason I just can’t warm up to Wiggo’. Racial memory, no doubt. One of his ancestors probably had one of mine drawn and quartered for pig theft, public drunkenness or some other shameless act of knavery.

I bet the folks at Pinarello are getting a tad weary of watching the Black Knight chucking their nifty bikes about like empty packets of crisps, too. If he keeps it up he’s liable to have both the IRA and the Mafia after his narrow ass.

Strange bedfellows

The Turk’ and Mia cuddle up on a damp, chilly May day.

You know it’s a damp, chilly day when Field Marshal Turkish von Turkenstein (commander, 1st Feline Home Defense Regiment) and Miss Mia Sopaipilla decide to share the same bed, which just happens to sit on a shelf in Herself’s bathroom, directly under a heater vent.

The Turk can be a troublesome bedmate. Being groomed by the big galoot is like being run over again and again by a Velcro steamroller, and his long, furry carcass generates enough heat to hard-boil an egg.

Mia finally decided she had had enough and shifted quarters to the blanket on top of the bedroom bureau. Turk, meanwhile, relocated to my lap, which goes a long way toward explaining my appalling lack of productivity today.

Hell, you try getting anything done with a 16-pound cat sprawled across your lap. Anything besides paying attention to the cat, that is.

• Addendum: Consigliere Pelkey and I are live-updating the Giro d’Italia again this year. You can catch the act at Live Update Guy or Red Kite Prayer, whichever best floats your gondola.

R.I.P., Ken Stauffer

Ken Stauffer

Mostly when the phone rings, I let it go to voicemail. There’s usually a robot on the other end, selling something, and reading it the riot act — to wit, Isaac Asimov’s Second Law of Robotics — is every bit as effective as shouting at the television.

But on Monday, I picked up, having recognized the name on the Caller ID. And that’s how I learned that our friend Ken Stauffer had died.

Ken and his family settled in the neighborhood before we got here, just across the street from the house we eventually bought. We shouldn’t have gotten along, I suppose. Left and right rarely do these days, and the Stauffers and O’Gradys would never have the same political signs decorating their respective yards come election season.

So what? The Stauffers were the sort of conservatives who put many a so-called progressive to shame. James 2:17 types who rarely talked the talk but walked the walk, Ken and his wife, Ellen, worked hard, lent a hand to those less fortunate than themselves, and raised three of the most interesting children I’ve ever met. Scott, Will and Margaret were neither intimidated by nor contemptuous of their elders, and in our years across the street we watched them blossom into fine adults.

We’d shoot the breeze and share a laugh in the street, break bread and tip a glass from time to time, enjoy all those little interactions that make a neighborhood more than a collection of boxes with roofs on them.

When the kids grew up and began scattering — Scott to the Army, Will and Margaret to college — Ken found a new job in Atlanta, and he and Ellen moved away.

The four of us went to dinner before they left for Georgia. It was the last time we would see Ken. His death at age 50 stunned his old neighborhood, where he is remembered as a dedicated runner and occasional bicycle commuter; a husky guy with a hearty laugh, who enjoyed jumping out of perfectly serviceable airplanes while attending the U.S. Air Force Academy; a “boyfriend” who perked up the little old ladies with his visits to the gym; and a devoted father who hoped his children would find lives they loved, as he loved his.

I spoke with Scott on Monday, and he was bearing the weight as best he could. He said the family had gathered around Ellen in Atlanta, and that he planned to write his father’s obituary, as I did for mine. Shortly afterward, on his Facebook page, he posted a photo of Ken helping Will get all dolled up for his wedding earlier this year.

“This is how I want to remember my father,” wrote Scott. “At his best, taking care of the people he loved. Thank you for all you did for us, Dad.”

Brightening up your mornings

Apricot frosting: Snow drapes the apricot tree at the House Back East™.

This is what things looked like around here this morning. By afternoon, the sun was out, the snow was gone and the temps were back up in the 40s.

Tomorrow, we’re looking at 55 and mostly sunny. That’s just how we roll here in Colorado.

And while we’re speaking of rolling, it seems that my old comrade Charles Pelkey is off the disabled list, which means — yes, yes, yes — Live Update Guy will suit up for the Giro d’Italia, which commences Saturday in Napoli.

Consiglieri Pelkey is a fan of the wee small hours of the morning, so look for him to be shoveling the wisdom at dark-thirty while I enjoy the indie movie playing on the inside of my eyelids until 7 a.m. or so.

Hey, God doesn’t get up until 6 — I can tell, because that’s when the light comes on.

Arise, ye workers from your slumber

It’s International Workers Day, comrades! If you can’t make your local Smash the State rally (there doesn’t appear to be one in Bibleburg, surprise, surprise), then sing along with Alistair Hulett and Jimmy Gregory. And a-one, and a-two, aaaaaand. …

While we’re awaiting the inevitable proletarian triumph over the slavemasters of Wall Street, let’s have a list of your favorite working-class anthems in comments. Here are a few of mine:

• ”Joe Hill,” by Paul Robeson.

• ”Which Side Are You On?,” by Billy Bragg.

• ”All You Fascists Are Bound To Lose,” by Woody Guthie.

• ”Brother, Can You Spare a Dime?,” by Tom Waits.

• ”The Red Flag,” by Jim Connell.

• ”The Sergeant and Arthur McBride,” by Paul Brady.

• ”Hallelujah, I’m a Bum,” by Utah Phillips.

• ”Christmas In Washington,” by Steve Earle.

• ”I’m Changing My Name To Fannie Mae,” by Arlo Guthrie.

A tale of two cities

First, there’s Amsterdam, “a faraway place where the bike reigns supreme.”

Then there’s New York, where “virtually everything about the city’s growing bike culture has prompted vigorous argument and even fury.”

Discuss.

We’ll be right back after this word from. …

A couple of you were wondering whether I had recently added advertising to the old blog. Nope. It’s still purely a labor of love on this end.

But it appears WordPress does, and I finally saw one of them myself last night when I checked the blog via iPad.

I had forgotten that WordPress reserves the right to ad-slap us now and then. The service is free, after all, so I’m not inclined to complain — and happily, there is an easy workaround. All I need to do is send the wizards a few drachmas and they’ll leave us be.

Meanwhile, it was 70-something here today and I sallied forth on the Jones for another get-acquainted session, this time taking in a few smallish hills. You’ll be pleased to learn that gravity is still in session, along with its opposite, comedy.

And boy, do those big wheels like to roll downhill. I could have parked my dogs on the bars, laced my hands behind my head, leaned back and enjoyed a bit of shuteye.

The sky is crying

Huh. All those hours wasted marching in the streets, trying to end war, poverty and injustice. Turns out all we had to do to get the government’s attention was stand in line at the airport for a bit. Who knew?

• Editor’s note: In all fairness, it could simply be that their babies wrote them a letter.