Landis on Larry King

Medical expert says Landis's sample results are a wee bit off adding up

Landis on NPR

Amatuer cyclist educated in how performance-enhancing drugs work starts blog - lots of technical commentary on the process

if this post looks familiar, that's because it is. translation courtesy of gizoogle.
boilerplate disclaimer: i don't actually talk like this, i don't condone the use of some of the terms used, and no one calls me the black folks' president.

Wizzle out Tuesday night ta celebrate mah friend's last week in Dallas. He's going ta gangsta law fizzy fo` tha riznest of tha summa back in his home ghetto of Baird, Texas (izzy Bizzy n' shit). His olda pusha came along n she basically knows everyone. Snoop heffner mixed with a little bit of doggy flint. We started out at a sushi restaurant n she knew tha bartenda. I had three (or four?) long island ice teas. I was feel'n quite happy. The sushi was bootylicious as was tha people-watch'n cuz I'm fresh out the pen. Playa tizzy we wizzy ta anotha chi-chi bar that specialized in tequila. Before I can say "in over mah heezee" mah friend's killa sista is rapping ta a homey in a blaza who turns out ta be one of tha owna. They call me tha black folks president. They're friends n' shit. So I git anotha long island, this one on tha house. I'm crazy, you can't phase me. Tizzle we see Don Nelson, forma Mavericks coach. Tru niggaz do niggaz. He's totally sloshed. Wussup to all my niggaz in the house. The next hit is some bar I ciznan't rememba by now. I tried ta drizzink a 7 n 7 but it wasn't happen'n, so killa became tha beverage of choice ta help you tap dat ass. Then we run into Tim Cowlishaw, who mah nigga claims is a brotha fo` tha Dallas Steppin' News n sometimizzles on ESPN mah nizzle. My nigga ogles Tim. I ogle tha flashy-look'n bitchez walk'n around thats off tha hook yo.

Wizzle out again last night but kizzle mackin' in check spittin' that real shit. Two baller no celebrizzle jiznust a safe Jewish stoked hizzle ridin' in mah double R. I was home by 11.

The firm is throw'n a stoked hour tonight n ANOTHER tomorrow night. So thizzat will makes it four nights in a row of going out. Motherfucka this run I may have ta go on a dry spizzell ta makes sure mah killa n I is S-T-to-tha-izzill on good terms.

And now it's 8:00 am n I gots`ta run ta wizzy.

American With Degenerative Hip Condition Kicks Everyone Else’s Ass And Wins Tour de France

God bless Floyd Landis.

the rest of the pics are here.

ps: comments are working again. notice though that you can't preview your comments before you post them. working the bug out took me a while and fixing the preview feature will have to come later. i'm adding comments back to all the posts without them.

Mightygirl, one of my favorite bloggers, just published a book called No One Cares What You Had For Lunch: 100 Ideas for Your Blog. Funnily enough, please see my last post. Fate, or coincidence? Consequently, thousands of bloggers worldwide are saying to themselves, “This woman just negated my entire blog.”

In other news, crotch-grabbing computer-programmer badass and blogger sings karaoke in patented and one-of-a-kind Particleman shirt, Girlfriend totally smitten. I’ve never been more proud.

driving to weatherford, tx to ride in the peach pedal bike ride. it's about an hour and a half away - thus the extra-early departure time of 5:30 am. i'm going with five friends and wouldn't you know it, we made team shirts with iron-on letters. pictures to come...

No, she's not the future Mrs. Particleman. She made my lunch today. Or rather, I went to her restaurant in south Dallas with work people and ate more than I thought I could fit in my stomach. You should have seen this lunch. It could have fed a family. I had a quarter of a baked chicken, about a pound of sweet potatoes, about a pound of broccoli and rice casserole, and corn. Sweet Jesus. I couldn’t even come close to finishing my plate. Within thirty seconds of walking outside into the heat I started sweating broccoli casserole. And our waitress was so nice. She called me, “baby.” Well, she called everyone baby.

One of my coworkers grew up in the part of town where the restaurant was and I’m all for trying new restaurants that aren’t part of a chain. I’m definitely taking everyone I know to this restaurant.

Back at the office, I was so full I couldn’t see. The hours of 2 pm to 4 pm are a blur. The best part of the experience was the television show they had the TVs tuned to – church gospel performances. I’m ready to convert.

Went to Six Flags with the firm last night after work. We only had a couple of hours to run around and be crazy but it was still fun. One ride called the Titan has a sick drop at the beginning that was absolutely thrilling. The not-so-cool part was the corkscrew. I’m not talking about a corkscrew that propels you parallel to the ground like the old Ultra Twister at Astroworld; this one went down perpendicularly towards the ground, and was the followed by another corkscrew that took you up. The Gs force you down into your seat and your arms, formerly up, are pushed down into your lap. This is not a good feeling.

The one ride I refused to do had a similar effect. The Superman Tower of Power is essentially a vertical drop ride that fires you up on a huge tower and plunges you straight back down, and then back up, and then back down, and then back up, and then back down. Your feet hang as you’re propelled up an down along a tower. Ain’t no way I was riding that thing. My stomach would have kept moving while the rest of me went the other way. I don’t mind heights. The way I see it, if I’m going to risk my life by falling to the ground, I’d rather it be a uni-directional thing. Just down. You’re not getting me to go back up again. Case in point: throw me out of a plane and I’m ok. But try to yank me back up and I’m not so happy.

I played my first game of chess recently. We’re having a chess tournament at work and, as luck would have it, I happened to get paired up with the other intern. She plays chess. She’s good at chess. I’m doomed. How is it that by drawing numbers I end up playing the other intern? I demand a recount.

The first thing I did was research basic strategy. Take control of the middle of the board early on. Protect the king. Don’t be afraid to use the Queen. I held my own for a couple of hours and even took more of her pieces than she got from me. But in the end, I made a huge blunder and left my King wide open. Stuck in a corner behind a couple pawns, a rook swooped in and locked me down. Bye bye particleking. My dreams of being a world-class mainframe-computer-beating chess champion are dashed. Bollocks.

In other news, I’m learning more about software licensing than you could possibly imagine. In fact, you probably don’t want to imagine it. Just be sure that whatever company or business you work for has legit copies of software installed on its computers. Or else… the boogey man will come running after your CEO.

Are you watching the tour? Can you believe this shit? It’s insane. Every stage is a battle to the finish. Now that Lance retired it’s open season. Guys like Floyd Landis are racing with a crumbling hip and the few racers with any link to drug use were booted, so that makes things all the more interesting. The wrecks have been gnarly too – broken collar bones abound.

During the stages, packs of guys break away and get reeled in, and some brave soul will strike out again. That kind of behavior didn’t happen as often when Lance was around. I totally geek out every morning on letour.com and tab over to the status updates to see who’s doing what in the peleton and which new guy thinks he has the cajones to win a sprint to the line.

Coincidentally, I’ve been riding the road bike a lot more lately. Of course I don’t average 35 miles per hour over three hours and I don’t climb hills in the hardest gear, but I’m really enjoying White Rock Lake. I’ve been riding with a Sunday morning group every week and it’s been great. My tan lines are ridiculous. I bet you’d love to see them. This 184-degree heat business is no good though. I rode a few miles at 12:30 on Sunday and almost passed out.

No matter how much I ride, though, I refuse to shave these legs. Hell no. Not gonna happen.

I went to a house-warming party/BBQ yesterday from 3 pm till 11 pm. Which means I drank for eight hours with plans to wake up early and ride my bike at 8 am the next day. I was responsible and made sure to be in bed by 11:30. I woke up at 7:30, made it to the lake at 7:45, stretched, and set out to ride a 10-mile lap in 30 minutes.

For the first fifteen minutes I was on a pace to finish the lap in less than my projected 30-minute estimation. My average was just above 20 miles per hour.

And then… and then. I hit the wall. Call it a bonk. Call it dehydration. Call it freaking stupid. I came up on a very gradual incline and my heart felt like it was about to bust out of my chest, and I started getting the dreaded cramp in my side. Instead of trying to be the badass and ride through the pain, I pulled over and stopped to catch my breath.

I felt like I might throw up. Woozy, light-headed, generally not good. The high-point of this experience was when an older woman on a cruiser rolled by and said “Hey, you ok?” Um, yeah, thanks. Just trying to sweat out the beer over here. I nodded yes and smiled a painful smile.

But it gets better. A cop pulled up, rolled down his window, and, head tilted, said “You ok son?” This time I managed to verbalize a response: “Yeah, thanks, just a little winded.” He smiled and drove off. Seems the punk on the second-hand $4000 bike isn’t quite up to his bike’s potential.

Moral? You can’t act like your 19 when you’re 26. Your body will make sure you suffer.

We had an end-of-quarter party at work last Friday and I have to tell you about this drink one of the attorneys concocted. Since part of what this law firm does is software piracy defense, we had to make Pirate’s Punch (it’s funny, you know it). It was green. It was good. And it was spiked with a BOTTLE of Captain Morgan’s Parrot Bay Rum. Hoo boy.

One of the girls at work is dating a guy who plays bass in a few bands, two of which played in a Battle of the Bands last night. I went along for the fun of it, and to feel old, and boring. Everyone at the venue had an “X” on their hand. I was also still in work clothes, which, on that day, meant dark slacks, a blue button-down, and black shoes. ‘No, I promise I’m not an accountant, though I might as well be one.’ She was also in her work clothes so I didn’t feel that bad. There we were – two shiny and clean-cut law clerks - surrounded by high-schoolers in hip-huggers and too-tight shirts and hairstyles blocking most of their vision. The best part? The guy from the record label was wearing khaki shorts, white socks, and Birks. Socks and sandals!! But he was also dancing with three girls so mad props. But dude, enough of the dancing. It’s scary.

One of the few remaining historic commercial areas in Houston is on the verge of being razed and replaced by a Barnes and Noble. This is morally unacceptable. And probably just as fiscally risky as leaving the older shopping strip as-is considering the glut of similarly obnoxious bookstores in the area.

So do us all a favor – Houston is already tough enough to live in. The heat. The humidity. The traffic. The no hills. Help us hold on to a few shreds of history and eclecticness (word?). Please go here and sign a petition asking the people holding the keys to the bulldozer to change their minds.

News broke today that Floyd Landis, the comeback king in the 2006 Tour de France, tested positive for levels of testosterone above the officially acceptable limit. I personally just think it means he has bigger balls than the average Tour de France rider, but the people in charge think otherwise. It’s important not to jump to conclusions here. He failed one test. There is a second test, called the B-sample, that can either prove that the first test was false or that the higher levels of testosterone occurred naturally. This can come about because, as reported, Landis takes cortisone shots for his hip injury and he drank a beer before the day he was tested. Both the cortisone and the beer can raise testosterone, as can just being an athlete performing at the limits of his or her endurance.

Before we throw our hands up and declare the sport of cycling totally corrupt and strip Landis of his yellow jersey, let’s wait for the B-sample results to come back. Think of it this way: after every stage, two riders automatically are tested for drugs – the stage winner and the overall Tour leader. Why would Landis, planning a comeback in stage 17, take drugs to help him win only to face a drug test after winning and risk throwing away his career? It doesn’t add up.

I’d also like to call attention to a total faithless whiner who happens to be the first great American cyclist. Of all people, Greg Lemond, two-time Tour winner and comeback kid himself, should give Landis his say and wait for the B-sample to come back. Instead, Lemond denounces Landis and laments the state of cycling. It’s also worth noting that Lemond recently slammed Lance Armstrong and is known for not being much of an Armstrong fan. I just think Lemond wishes he could have won six Tours. I have much respect for the guy that opened the doors of professional road racing to the US and who came back to win the Tour after a freak hunting accident, but seriously, that’s some lame shit.

and i quote:

"There's carnage everywhere. Some riders are sitting in the melted snow runoff that comes cascading down the mountain. Others have their heads between their legs. One is puking."

There’s a small town north of Dallas called Addison that had fireworks last night. Well, they had a limited version of their usual fireworks show because of a sudden rain that, strangely, pretty much everyone figured would hit. And just our luck, the rain directly coincided with the fireworks. After the fireworks, the rain stopped. Perfect. Since I had come straight from work and was still wearing my dress shirt (with undershirt) I took off the dress shirt to try to shield the rain for a couple friends and myself. It worked well enough but also meant I was left wearing slacks and a v-neck undershirt. For any of you that know me well enough, or those of you who have for some reason had the misfortune of seeing me without a shirt on, me in a v-neck is not a pretty sight. Chest hair abounds. I might as well have hung a bling Star of David around my neck and started swaggering around to the ladies saying, “Hey baby, you lookin’ sexy tonight, what you say we go hit club down street, eh?” This is what we call an “arse” in Israel.

After the rain we ended up in a crowded bar. I didn’t do much dancing because I wasn’t digging the music and most people were just hanging out. But when a couple good songs came on I had to break it down on the dance floor. Watch out people – wet, almost shirtless Jew gyrating to the beats.

Then, in total high school fashion, we went to IHOP at 1:30 am. I was in bed at 3. So have a happy fourth, be safe, and keep a spare shirt in the car.