Any 50-something man who is so stupid as to call golf "exercise" ought to look down at his waistline once in a while. Idiots.

It Ain't Easy Being An Oracle!

The "Oracle of Omaha" takes a good whacking for having his head up his ass and his hand in your pockets...and mine.

Are You Kidding Me?

A free copy of ESPN the Magazine landed in my office today. ARE YOU KIDDING ME? There's NO lamer, more boring, utterly wretched example of sports journalism at work anywhere in our post-lockout wasteland. So some dipwad NFL player doesn't like nail clippings on his training table. Some pre-pubescent skier isn't fond of speed-dating. They're KILLING TREES to tell me that crap. Are you kidding me?

Why can't the JOURNALISTS ever go on strike?

Happy (Cough) New Year (Cough, Cough!)

Flying home from Steamboat last week, I had the good fortune to be seated in front of what sounded like refugees from either a phlegm depository or a tuberculosis sanitarium. I cursed the capricious Airline Gods for their seating arrangement, tried to hold my breath for 2 hours, failed, and fell back on the hope that clean living, good food, constant handwashing and hot tea would confer immunity.

Silly me.

Brand me, logo me, pay me.

The NY Times finds that, to communicate status and connoisseurship, the rich rely less on logos and more on design and detailing. In short, that lizard logo on your favorite shirt marks you as definitely declasse.

All these companies saying "We're so cool that you can be cool by association! Just wear our crap and "cool" will take care of itself. That'll be $59.95 please!"

I have a different approach. I don't wear ANYBODY'S logo unless THEY'RE paying ME. Hey, my body's a temple and temple real estate is scarce. Think about it. Who benefits from ME wearing YOUR logo? Here's a hint: not me.

Here's another hint: if your self-esteem is built from wearing the right sunglasses or shirts or shoes or whatever, you need counseling not new attire. Save your money. Stop giving it away to undeserving companies and brands. Make 'em earn the right to plant their flag on your ass.

In Memory Of A Memorial Day Run

Running through the woods along the river is fine. Running in the rain is fine. Running THROUGH the woods ALONG the river IN the rain while a thunderstorm RAGES around you...not so much. The triathlon training gods must be laughing their asses off right now.

Free Speech For Me and Thee and Thee

I'm an absolutist when it comes to free speech. The First Amendment says "Congress shall make NO laws..." It DOESN'T say "Congress shall make no laws...EXCEPT those laws that are anti-corporate, incumbent-protecting and election-controlling."

To me, in the absence of some clear and present danger (shouting 'fire' in a crowded theater, for example) NO law means NO law. Back off my message, bucko.

And so I was greatly cheered yesterday when the Supreme Court blasted a huge hole through the so-called McCain-Feingold campaign law banning corporations and labor unions from paying for “electioneering communications,” such as movies, newspaper ads, and the like, that support or oppose candidates.

I'll never understand McCain's willingness to lend his name to such obviously unconstitutional claptrap. It's bizarre that he ever thought such lunacy was constitutional. It's downright scary that 4 Supreme Court justices agree with him.

The antidote to speech you DISAGREE with is speech you AGREE with, not prohibitive laws stifling opinions. And with the rise of social media and networking, the ability of deep-pocketed organizations to "buy" elections with huge media budgets lessens by the day.

Pornographers enjoy near-total First Amendment protection, yet under McCain-Feingold the Sierra Club couldn't argue against, say, deforestation within 30 days of an election if one side or the other challenged the message as electioneering.

Yes, the marketplace of ideas can be rough-and-tumble. Yes, illogical arguments are raised, disturbed opinions voiced and disagreeable conclusions reached. The antidote to all of that is NOT to close the marketplace, but to admit that we've raised a generation of ninnies and nitwits, where uncomfortable arguments hurt "self-esteem" and challenging words represent grounds for legal action, not rhetorical testing.

Admit it, and do something about it.

I remember some Chicago-area Italian-American parents seeking a court order prohibiting a high school drama club from performing a play portraying SOME Italians as gangsters. What message does that send? Are we really THAT thin-skinned? The parents' time might have been better-spent putting on their own play portraying Italians as artists, inventors, writers and philosophers.

Of course that would have meant actually learning something about Michelangelo, Leonardo da Vinci, Boccaccio and Machiavelli. Why do that, why engage in the marketplace of ideas when all you REALLY need to know is your damn lawyer's phone number?

Walk and Talk. Just Not At The Same Time!

"On the day of the collision last month, visibility was good. The sidewalk was not under repair. As she walked, Tiffany Briggs, 25, was talking to her grandmother on her cellphone, lost in conversation.

"Very lost.

“I ran into a truck,” Ms. Briggs said.

"It was parked in a driveway."

Now I've got something else to worry about when out on my bike: distracted, cell-phone yakking WALKERS. (from the NY Times.)

Systemic Failures and The Spinning Thereof

So da Chicago Bears fired a few coordinators and position coaches. Now I'm watching a White House press conference re: airline security and how completely "on top of it" they are, determined to now "connect the dots."

Umm-hmm. As organizations, da Bears and da Feds have more in common than you might think, proving yet again that press conferences require a minimum of 6 people answering questions to come up with 4 working brain cells between them. Idiots.

Unlike the Feds, at least da Bears fired someone, though in typically Bearsian fashion, those getting axed are the flunkies charged with carrying out orders from dumbasses higher up the food chain. Thus far, said dumbasses have avoided any and all blame, having paid close attention at the Janet Napolitano School of Public Policy and Tactical Blame Avoidance, apparently.

At any moment I expect to hear from the Titanic's captain about that deck chair arrangement.

Limit Wall Street's IQ, Not Its Compensation

And so the financial crisis continues...or not...depending on which side of the political fence you're on and whether you're a tax PAYER or a tax COLLECTOR.

Recently, I ran across an interesting theory for the crisis's origins. Though I can't remember where I encountered it or the theory's originator, it goes like this...

Time was when all the best and brightest college graduates headed for careers in medicine, law, engineering, teaching and the arts. And for generations the dumb guys (and gals) headed to Wall Street, with few aspirations beyond making piles of money, owning a house in Greenwich, another in the Hamptons, and golfing thrice weekly.

Over time though, math jockeys - the so-called 'quants' - discovered the piles of money to be made with esoteric models of risk and reward. And thus began the smart guy migration - away from useful professions where stuff gets made and knowledge created, toward feeding Wall Street's lust for outsize profits with opaque securities and incomprehensible trading strategies.

Securities and trading strategies SO opaque and incomprehensible that when the quants said they understood it all you just knew they were lying through their bleached teeth.

But like scary-smart locusts the quants swarmed Wall Street and found themselves reporting to...yes, you guessed it..the dumb guys!

Remember them?

By now they'd risen to positions of supervisory authority, the financial world's BSDs - "Big Swinging D**ks." To the BSDs, "supervision" meant leaving a bunch of snot-nosed twerps alone to make piles of math-fueled money. "Don't ask, don't tell" took on a whole new meaning. The BSDs didn't want to ask and wouldn't have understood the explanation if they had.

Smart guys reporting to dumb guys. See the problem? We've spent lots of energy debating compensation limits in financial services. Maybe, given that we're stuck with the supervisory status quo for a while longer, what we really need are IQ limits.

And The Daily Dimwit Award Goes To...

...this unidentified guy, who says he was so distracted by a low-flying bird and a dropped cell phone that he drove his million-dollar Bugatti Veyron into a marsh. At least he didn't mow down a cyclist as the weeds beckoned.

So many dimwits, so little time to blog.

Lawyers. Kill. All.

"The first thing we do, let's kill all the lawyers." (William Shakespeare, Henry VI (Part 2))

Seldom have wiser words been spoken, though I might settle for closing 80% of the nation's law schools.

Not so long ago I posted an update on a Florida trial determining whether triathlon organizers were liable for an Ironman swimmer's death (the court said they weren't.)

But now, as I watch my server logs for search phrases directing visitors to Life Is A Tri, I see searches like "how many ironman triathlon deaths." Someone's building a case for something. And as I observe the domains behind the searches, I see a bunch of damn law firms.

True, they could be working for the defense, but I doubt it. More likely they're plaintiff's attorneys preparing additional suits against triathlon organizers and everybody else in sight.

I've met The Nanny State and her initials are J.D. - Juris Doctor.

If you as a triathlete aren't bothered by this trend, you haven't observed first-hand what malpractice suits and trial lawyers are doing to other industries like health care. Let's speculate a moment, shall we?

Expect to see race entrance fees triple.

Expect to sign 10 page-long liability waivers filled with impenetrable legalese. Buried in there will be subtle language adding YOU, dear racer, to the list of possible defendants.

"Let's see Mr. Vertical Man. Can you PROVE that you weren't in close proximity to the struggling swimmer? Can you PROVE you didn't cause his panic attack leading to his stroke? Umm-hmm, I thought not! Pay up, bucko!"

Expect to be required to submit a physician's clearance to race, not to hold harmless the race organizers, but to give the trial lawyers someone else to sue - your physician.

Expect to be required to submit a "bike safety certificate" to race, not to hold harmless the race organizers but, again, to give the trial lawyers someone else to sue - your bike shop.

Expect to be required to submit indemnification documents from ALL your gear manufacturers - bike wheels, wetsuits, running shoes, water bottles, just in case one of them might, seemingly, allegedly, someday play some inconsequential role in an accident...someone else to sue. Get the picture yet?

Expect your favorite race's host community to withdraw the welcome mat as legal burdens skyrocket and the tourism benefits are overwhelmed by insurance and legal costs. Just like many communities have closed playgrounds and pools deemed as too risky.

Ol' Billy Boy Bard had it right.

Ironman Louisville

Tri-Brother is racing IM-Louisville this weekend. Rock on bro!

He's lobbying for me to jump in the IM pool next year. I'm squeamish about an Ohio River swim and DEFINITELY unsure (does that make sense? Can one be "definite" about being unsure? But I digress...) about a 2010 IM. Maybe Steelhead in 2010 and a full IM in 2011. Meanwhile, I'll lobby him to write a race report.

By the way, what happened to summer in these parts anyway? We're supposed to have lows in the 40s this weekend and it ain't even Labor Day yet. I've gotta talk to the Goracle...

(Photo courtesy of louisvillevolunteer.com)

Like 50 Miles Of Gravel Road

Hey, isn't that a country music song?

Apparently I've discovered a trend, says the Chicago Tribune. A trend of financially-stressed counties converting worn asphalt roads back to gravel. Goody.

I live within hailing distance of one of The Great Suburban Outback's best bike routes. In fact, a route used by several century rides and lots of us poor schlubs out for a day's training. Then, a week ago, everything went to hell.

That's when the County Road Commission dipwads showed up, spreading gravel everywhere, covering it in an oily, stinking slurry (probably toxic sludge from the local nuclear power plant) and departing, apparently never to return. But not before plastering signs everywhere announcing that we have the current administration's stimulus package to thank for all the "progress."

Now the road is bumpy and treacherous, strewn with sharp, tire-eating gravel. Unusable. Unrideable. I want my stimulus money back.

(Image courtesy of Gawker.)

I Love The Smell Of Conspiracy In the Morning

Let's see. Coincidentally, insider trading charges are filed against Mark Cuban just days after he expressed his interest in buying the Chicago Cubs. "Whew! THAT was close!" said baseball's owners. "The only felons we let near America's pastime are drug abusers and liars-to-Congress!"

Now, in another remarkable coincidence, a judge tossed out all the SEC's charges against Cuban just days after the Tribune Co. announced an 'alleged' sale to Tom Ricketts. "Whew!" said the owners. "We knew the charges wouldn't stick but we're good...so long as Ricketts' check clears!"

(Why is the sale 'alleged?' Well, it's taken only slightly less time than the interval since the team's last playoff victory, and now appears to involve a trip through the backwaters of bankruptcy court. So there's still ample time to screw up something. Just like 1969.)

Today's TV news is a ratings game - all Jacko, all networks, all the time, a race to the bottom for the world's losers, mourning their king.

Gross.

Step Away From the Doughnuts!

Someone in The Great Suburban Outback who seems to research these things just named my county "second fattest in The Outback." I guess that means we've got work to do (though not as much as some other poor schlubs.)

So I'm stepping away from the Krispy Kremes and going for a run. Hey, you're part of the problem or part of the solution.

RE: Michael Jackson, Stop It Already!

OMG. All the Michael Jackson ass-kissers are out in mega-force. If he's indeed dead as the tabloids seem to think, I'm truly sorry for him and his family. Really. Truly. But spare me the love and adoration. He'd long ago departed from any status deserving either one.

Roll the clock back 30 years and ask who the world will miss more: Farrah or Wacko-Jacko? Farrah, once considered frothy and superficial, went on to live her life with as much courage and grace as Hollywood these days allows.

Wacko-Jacko went...well, off multiple deep ends into the kiddie pools of life. Be sorry he's dead. Grieve what once was and what might have been. Lament a once-great talent sidetracked by weirdness and inexplicable behavior. But don't you DARE make him out to be something in death that he was undeserving of in life.

UPDATE: Jacko's will names entertainer Diana Ross as a successor guardian for the children and their estates if something happens to his mother, Katherine Jackson. I thought he WAS Diana Ross.

You're Old News, Sammy

So the NY Times outed Sammy Sosa as one of the players testing positive for steroids back in 2003. Worst-kept secret in baseball. OF COURSE he was juiced! One look at his pineapple-shaped, acne-scarred face would've told you that.

Worse yet, his new-found power at the plate just masked his increasingly erratic outfield play. Even today, I doubt he knows the meaning of "hit the cut-off man..." Still, Cubs fans adored Sammy and many are still defending him this morning on talk radio. Losers.

Don't you wonder why the story broke in a New York newspaper, not in the Chicago Tribune? Oh wait. The Trib and the Cubs share a dwarfish owner. Silly question.

Tri-Brother wonders how many triathlon age-groupers heading to Kona would pass a drug test. It's a good question, these days.

High-school senior denied his diploma for blowing a kiss to his mother. Geez, I thought the principal in MY school was an a**hole.