Saturday, February 27, 2010

History Rewritten

I was wrong about the date in my last post about the Poteen Massacre, it was in fact fall of '04.

Chronoman forwarded a picture of the poison, along with the comment "holy moly, what a night"

You'll see in the last post where he comments that he would still rather drink the whole bottle that go back to Iraq.

Then Solobreak responded with a picture Chronoman sent back from Iraq.

Begging the question - are you referring to the war or the booze?
("Hey, what was I thinking?" is a variation on "Hey, what were you thinking?", a phrase often interjected by Paul Curley in a race when someone tries a tactic that was particularly wise or successful)

Thursday, February 25, 2010

The Poitín Massacre of 2003

Maybe I have the year wrong, it may have been 2004, but that's pretty much irrelevant.

Being immersed in cycling for the past 23 years has built strong friendship bonds for me amoung a select few individuals. One of these is the Local Legend Chronoman. Chrono knows everyone in the local cycling scene, from a significant number of local pros to scores of cat 3/4 pack fodder. He's considered by many to be The Nicest Guy In Cycling (though I have another candidate in mind, I mean, Ed Kross actually uses a handkerchief to blow his nose _while_ racing).

Chrono's sense of duty and honor is so great, that at the age of 41 he transitioned from his army national guard status to active duty in order to participate in Operation Iraqi Freedom. It wasn't because he supported the war, in fact he didn't. He, like most rational americans (proven to be correct in hind sight) knew Saddam was no threat, and the claims of WMDs was specious at best. No, Chronoman went active because he knew the kids that were in his guard unit, and knew they needed the guidance and moral support that a veteran such as himself could offer. He didn't have to go and was old enough to be ineligible. He placed himself at significant risk of life and limb in order to help his fellow soldier.

And so it was that season when, after the howls of protestation from his friends and family (including an offer from solobreak to feign a homosexual affair i.e. "who do I have to tell I'm fucking you in the ass to get you out of this") that the commitment was made, and the party was planned. It started with a rather large gathering at the Indomnitable Schofield Homestead with a group ride and a pot luck feast. Later that week, we had another small gathering at Chrono's little house the night before he was supposed to report, with a few friends, and select libations.

Chronoman is Irish. Wicked Irish. As such, he was given a going away present from a former professional cyclist and Irish immigrant that lives locally. That present was a bottle of Poitín.

Poitín is a white liquor of dubious origin. For centuries it was illegal to produce, and was only legal to import in the late 20th century. Licensed distilleries followed shortly thereafter. The present from the Irish Pro was a white glass bottle with giant letters screened across a banner proclaiming "NOW LEGAL". That should have been our first warning.

Now, we had been drinking that night, but not to excess. Chrono had to report for his fucking physical the next morning,

(Studebacher Hoch: Ya, well listen... listen you communist son-of-a-bitch... you better get your ass down there for your fucking physical or I’ll see to it that you get used for fill dirt in some impending New Jersey marsh reclamation... and your girlfriend there will wind up disguised as series of brooms, primitive ironing boards or a dog house... get the (cough, cough) get the picture?)

and I had a 30 mile drive home and had to work the next day, as did most of the other attendees. I had few beers, not enough to worry about, and when it was decided that it was time to wrap things up, we decided on one last toast, with the Poitín. As the glasses were distributed, I remember an odd smell. I had smelled that smell before, and I knew it had a specific connotation, but I couldn't place it. It wasn't a pleasant smell, distinctly chemical, with petroleum distillate over tones. It tasted bad. Beyond bad.

I'm a fan of tequila shots, and my first exposure to hard liquor was by my grandfather at the age of 7. He and my uncles were were sitting around the kitchen table over the holidays that year, drinking some clear liquid with Cyrillic writing on the bottle. My grandfather was the first member of his family born in the us after they immigrated from a 'disputed' region of eastern europe (somewhere around then-Czechoslovakia/hungary/poland), where Slivovitz is the cultural drink of choice. I was given a teaspoon, and the alcohol aromatics went straight through my hard palate and into my brain (yes, that explains a lot).

Poitín made me think of battery acid, and that's _compared_ to slivovitz or bad tequila. Quite possibly the worst alcoholic drink I have ever had. After downing the shot, comments ran along the lines of "BLECH" "people actually drink this shit?" and "it should _still_ be illegal". Years later, I remembered what the smell reminded me of. I used to work in a box factory after high school, and they ran small propane powered fork-trucks in the warehouse. Poitín smelled like propane fork-truck exhaust.

So, after a long near teary-eyed goodbye and shared bro-hugs for our friend off to war, I left. The drive home went steadily downhill. I remember my vision blurring, and it got to the point where I had to cover one eye to drive. This was after about 3 beers and the shot of death. By comparison, last saturday I had at least a six pack and was out till almost 1 am. I got up sunday and went for a 2 1/2 hour fixed gear ride. It wasn't that I had too much to drink that night, it was that I had been poisoned.

Taking the exit ramp to my house, I misjudged the corner I had been taking every day from work for the past three years and took out one of the small yellow reflector signs, leaving a small dent in my bumper and hood. The next day, I was none the worse for wear. I didn't feel horribly hung over, at least not as bad as I thought I was going to be when I went to bed. Chronoman isn't a hard drinker though, and rumor has it he had to pull over a few times on the way to the induction center to vomit. I don't know what was in that bottle, but it was certainly poisonous. I have never been that 'polluted' from drinking. I wasn't really drunk, I was just completely fucked up, painfully so. I saw the Irish Pro later that season while Chrono was still in Iraq. I asked him if it was his intention to just make chrono fail the physical, or actually euthanize him instead of risking his legs getting blown off. He wasn't amused, but I wasn't exactly trying to be funny.

Chrono made it back in one piece, albeit with an emotional scar that comes with seeing friends die in combat, which he occasionally still speaks of. The 'trauma' of a bottle of bad booze must pale in comparison.

UPDATE: chronoman forwarded a picture of the poison, along with the comment "holy moly, what a night"

Tuesday, February 23, 2010

Monday, February 22, 2010


This post will piss many of you off. It isn't my intention to do so, but I feel the need to vent on a rather contentious subject, and make rhetorical statements regarding which I have no interest in any debate. Here it is:

I have a particular theory about pets. We own them. In exchange for food and a warm place to live, I expect the pet will obey me. I will give love, affection, and playtime to a pet that behaves like a pet, or I will train the pet to behave like a pet, and in return ensure the pets physical and emotional well-being through positive re-enforcement and and affection. I do not tolerate a pet that asserts an alpha role, and I never will. I am not cruel to my pets, but I do impart discipline and sanctions when necessary. I don't care how big/small or smart/stupid your pet is. I don't care if its a horse or a mouse. We, as pet owners, are the alpha characters in the relationship, and our pets must be subordinate to every member of our household. Cats do not respond well to beta-roles. They can be trained, but they are subversively deceptive, allowing you to think they've been trained, just waiting for their opportunity to hit you with a resounding "Fuck You You Fucking Fuck"

Cats suck. I've never been a cat person. I find them at once to be needy and clingy, yet arrogant and aloof. They only seem to show any sort of affection when they need to be fed, and any attempts to elicit any intimacy beyond their hunger-fueled patronization is met with at best an condescending dismissal and at worst clawed retribution. I don't like cats.

I have two cats.

They both suck.

I've never had a cat that I got for me. I've never wanted one. My ex-wife and I got a cat, it was hers. She left it with me when she split. I had it still when I met and moved in with my soon-to-be-current wife. It didn't get along with her two cats, and since it was her house, and I never really liked 'my' cat, to a new home it went.

Her older cat was cool as cats go, he was affectionate, and friendly, never shit/pissed anywhere besides the litter box, and tolerated the dog I had at the time. That cat died about 8 years ago. The cat she still has didn't like my dog, and never really took to me. He has this annoying habit of walking everywhere with his claws extended so he gets stuck on blankets, clothing, and furniture. His excursions onto a lap invariable end up with a claw being dug into clothing, and you need to be careful wearing shorts if you're sitting somewhere he wants to walk. He also has this nasty habit of jumping up onto areas where we have fresh food, especially cooked poultry. We've been pushing him off the counters and dining table, trying every deterent from a squirt bottle to actually smacking him upside the head, for over ten years. Still, he hops right on the table when we're eating and won't leave until forcibly removed. Seriously, yelling or shooing him doesn't work he just looks at you as if to ask, "what's in it for me?". Trust me, that cat is _not_ underfed.

We got another cat (kitten) a few years ago because my daughter wanted one. He doesn't cuddle with anyone in the house, and prefers to hide, not even socializing with the older cat. The only time we see him is when he needs to be fed or is making his way to the litter box.

We have a dog. She's the best. She's happy to see me when I get home, always greeting me with a toy in her mouth and a wagging tail. She comes when I call her, ready to play or cuddle, and is happy with either form of affection. When we're eating dinner, I tell her to go lay in the other room, and she does. I love our dog.

The older cat tolerates our dog, and the younger cat hisses and howls whenever he sees the dog. We've had the dog almost two years, and the cat still acts as if he's never seen the dog before.

One of the things I love about my dog is that she shits in the yard. Outside. She barks to go out, tail wagging, then barks to come in, seemingly happy to not have polluted our home with excrement.

My cats, on the other hand, require a litter box - sometimes. Other times, they use what ever corner of the house strikes their fancy at the time. When they _do_ use the litter box, they track litter in the surrounding area, and in the event that a little piece of kitty poop clings to their ass, it gets dropped somewhere around the house, and in the 'jelly side down' ethos (i.e. Murphy's Law), invariably ends up in a highly trafficked area of the house (where I'm prone to be shoe-less), or on the furniture.

This past weekend, one or both cats decided to relieve themselves in places other than the litter box. Yes, the box was clean. No, I haven't changed the litter, the box, or moved it. No, I haven't placed any new items in its proximity. It's in the same box, in the same corner, using the same brand of litter as it has for the past three years. Yet, one has decided to pee about two feet from the box, on an old wood floor so the urine soaks nicely into it. One decided to shit in the middle of the bath mat in the bathroom. It may be the same cat that did both, it may be one did one and one did the other. I don't know, neither will admit to the offenses. Waterboarding is not an option.

My dogs have always let me know who the offending party is. In the exceptionally rare occurrence where one of them ever did go in the house, and they let me know they did it by the guilty behaviour. Cats respond to such interrogations with an air of privilege.

Now, I can't kill the cats. Well, I could, but I won't. After the 3rd incident in two days of cat piss on the wooden floor I was heard to yell "FUCKING CATS". I was reminded of the title of this post - In the "And the Children Shall Lead" episode of the original Star Trek series. "DEATH TO YOU ALL" was ranted repeatedly by the antagonist Gorgon as he faded from existence (the episode was interesting metaphor for the power of god and religion, and the nature of its most ardent adherents).

No, it's left to me to figure out, through a combination of trial, error, and psychoanalysis, why it is that the new piss spot seems to be two feet from the litter box and what it was that drove one of them to shit in the on my bath mat. Now, I haven't had a repeat of the shit-on-the-bathmat since the one incident friday morning, though I may yet have a surprise awaiting me somewhere else. Yesterday I dug an old piece of rug with a rubber backing from my basement that I cut to fit the area where the cat has desired to pee. It seems to have worked, there hasn't been pee there since. However, I've been monitoring the litter box closely, to make sure it has been used for its intended purpose. It seems to me there should be more pee than there is, which would indicate that the offending feline has decided to pee somewhere else. Most likely it's in the basement, where the clutter makes it difficult to check every hiding space until it's revealed by the overwhelming smell of cat piss.


Thursday, February 18, 2010


Leave it to me to not find out what I really want until I'm almost 50, and then it's a fucking cartoon. "Hoochie-Mama Hoops" and "Iron Grip". Indeed.

Artwork by Mike Giant. Shamelessly lifted from the DoubleOhTwo blog. Check out his other blog, Diary Of A Grey Ghost. It has hot chicks.

Friday, February 12, 2010

A New Social Paradigm

I've always thought that we, as a nation, should take Casual Fridays to the next logical level. (not to worry, safe for work).

UPDATE: It seems the link above doesn't work for alot of people. Try this:

Thursday, February 11, 2010

Twitter Experiment

I went to the dentist this morning and got my teeth cleaned.

nah, doesn't work. Twitter is fucking stupid.

Friday, February 5, 2010

Titties and Beer

Few things could entice the instincts of a bike-racing beer-snob more than a competitive event held in a microbrewery.

The views from my trainer

So, with much fanfare and local media hype (including a reporter for WBUR/NPRs 'Only A Game'), the 2nd annual Harpoon Ale indoor time Trial was held at their Boston brewery this past saturday.

The riders were instructed to set up their trainers for warm up in the warehouse area, which, as the pictures above show, is lined with racks of freshly bottled beer on pallets, 24 feet high, ready to ship.

Now, I'm not a huge fan of Harpoon ales. I think they fell into that American craft brewed trap of trying to out 'hop' the next guy. Sam Adams is guilty of this too. I like the Harpoon UFO (a very good, but not great hefeweisen), but their standard bearer IPA isn't very well balanced IMHO. Many will disagree, and that is your right. It's a subjective critique on my part. However, saturday they were offering a newer (for them) beer on tap. A nicely balanced and full flavored red ale of the Irish variety, called the Celtic (that's Keltic, not Seltic). Also of note is a new beer, the UFO Pale Ale. It was very good as well, though not as good as the Celtic, without the hop heaviness prevalent in most of their other beers. I recommend both of them if you're not into this hop madness.

Still, the allure of beer and bikes was too hard to pass up. The competition area is actually at the end of the final packaging area, where the cases of beer loaded onto the aforementioned pallets.

Since the race was on saturday this year, it promised to be a bit better attended than last year. This year, they had the open class, an elite class that had professional/sponsored riders, a clydesdale class (200+ lbs), and a veterans class (50+). By the time everything was done, they had 270 preregistrants and 268 starters. I'm not an elite, I'm not 50, and I'm way under 200 pounds.

I have details of my race below, but I though I would go into a secondary reason for my participation - the entertainment value.

I like going into Boston. There's a certain eclecticism about a city where half the residents between september an may are college students. That demographic usually promises interesting entertainment, as hanging out any weekend night in Harvard Square will show.

The first notable occurrence was the cold. I'm sure it never got above 20 that day, and I'm sure it had an effect on spectator attendance. The warehouse is only heated to prevent it from freezing the beer, so it can get cold. It was probably in the 50's inside. This pretty much dashed any hopes for hot chick sightings. Granted, there were quite a few attractive women competitors there. I mean, I really didn't expect to see this:

Or anything like this:

but I really thought I would see something like:

(I do luv a tattooed hipster chick)

and I would have paid extra for this:

But, between the cold, and the lack of hot chicks in cycling in general, I was somewhat disappointed.

The Masters men was a gentlemanly affair, with most of them knowing each other and competing in an almost victorian sportsmanship. Very cordial, congratulations all around to each other regardless of their performance.

Contrast that with the next heat - an open event - predominantly a younger crowd from the boston area, with full entourages of young urban hipsters and young professional hipster wannabes. This dude was typical:

Note the boxers in the jeans. I wrote in my last blogpost, that I don't think he brought a change of clothes. This would mean going back out into the cold winter air with soaking wet boxers and damp jeans. mmmmmmmmmmmmm, comfy.

But this heat was rowdy. Most of the spectators had already been there an hour longer than planned because the heats were running so late, and they passed the time at the taps. The room was packed to the point it was tough to maneuver, much like a packed bar. People were yelling, screaming, patting the target of their support on the back during the race, spilling beer. Think of the theater scene in "the triplets of belleville", without the cigarette smoke.

They had a Clydesdale division - all I can say is, those poor bikes. I'm amazed at how thin aluminum tubes can put up with that much stress. Some of these guys were sustaining over 400 watts. Yeah, I know in relative terms it ain't a lot, but in absolute terms, the forces those bikes and trainers were being subjected to....A word on fashion for the less-than-svelte male: Bibshorts, HRM chest strap, and manboobs are _not_ a pleasing aesthetic. It isn't _your_ nipples I'm interested in seeing poking through mesh suspenders, those aren't the titties that made Titties and Beer famous. I was going to get a picture for this post, but I couldn't. I just couldn't.

By the time my teammates arrived for their heat - supposed to start at 8:15 - the bathrooms had been used by literally hundreds of people. They wisely made one of the womens rooms into a mens room, but you now how accurate men with beer are. I'm just hoping they got to clean them before Monday morning, when some hapless woman had to hit the can before having her coffee. I know what it looked like when I used it, and they were open for another 4 hours after that.

They has a Team heat also. They had one team at each of the three 8 person stations, and then turned on the drafting feature. This ostensibly lightens to load when you get within a certain number of feet 'behind' another rider. The problem here is that none of the athletes had ever done it before, and they were all trigeeks. TRi-geeks can't pack race, with a few exceptions. They don't know how to ride a wheel, and don't know how to pace in a group. Now, it took a good 15 minutes to get all the bikes set-up and calibrated, then they had to explain how the drafting worked. well, half of them didn't understand the drafting concept to begin with, and once they explained how it worked, they had to explain how to read the display to note your position, and your distance to the rider in front of you. This took another 15 minutes. I'm thinking they need to scrap that idea for next year.

Local Blogging Legend Thom P also ventured into the cold january evening to race with the elite field. Well, he _is_ sponsored after all. I guess once someone starts giving you bikes and clothes to race, you should damn well be racing with the big guns. Thom got there early enough to prepare for his heat at 9 PM, but they were almost two hours late, so thom proceeded to drink beer for 3 hours. Now, thom brought his new 29r single speed (NOT fixed gear) - 32x17 (I may have that wrong, but not by much). He obvious only intended to work on his aerobic capacity, since there's no way in hell he was going to generate any power even on the hill with a gear that small. But then there was some mechanical issue. I had heard he needed an 8mm hex key for something, but over on his blog he talks about the skewer not fitting in the trainer. I don't know what he was running for a skewer, but it looks like a quick release from the pictures, and they had an extra skewer for each station just in case this problem came up. Instead, he decided to borrow a road bike. Thom hates road bikes. He rode 90% of the course standing up, and taking beer feeds. Even still I only beat him by 30 seconds. You suck.

Last year, I did the TT on a lark. I found out about it and registered last minute, so I hadn't done any focused training. I rode a 52x16 fixed gear (NOT a single speed freewheel), and did ok. This year, I had a target established, worked more focused workouts into my regular training, and planned ahead.

This year I chose a 52x14. The 'course' is to simulate the last 8 miles of the B2B (brewery to brewery) charity ride that harpoon sponsors every year. The actual course is mostly flat with a hill at the end - something like 3/4 mile @ 5%, and a downhill run to the finish.

If you've ever used a computrainer, you know that the hill simulation isn't all that much of a simulation. Essentially, the computer just loads the mag trainer a bit more, based on your body weight and % grade. This still favors the power riders, which I'm not. I was thinking that using the 14t, I could maintain speed through the flats at a lower cadence, lug up the 'hill', and really wrap up the spin on the downhill. That's pretty much what I did last year, and it seemed to work, but I still could have used more gear at the end, which was part of the reason for using the 14t this year.

You're probably asking yourself at this point what sort of malfunction I have that would lead me to choose a fixed gear. Two reasons:

A) I like fixed gears. I think they're cool. I'm comfortable spinning and I think it's good training. Others will disagree with that last participle, and to that I say 'fuck you you fucking fuck'.

2) I know I stand a spanish climbers chance of doing well at paris-roubaix here, but I like having a mid winter competition goal. Besides, it makes me feel good to beat the majority of the riders on a bike they're afraid the ride.

Truth be told, I'm kind of glad I really have no potential to be in a leading position. They had the leaders sit in a platform, with a sign in front that said Harpoon Hot Stool.

Can I just say, I really don't need to be sitting in box labeled 'HOT STOOL'?

This year, the first 6+ 'flat' miles went as well as I had hoped. I kept a good speed and cadence (about 90rpm/25mph) up the the 'hill'. The 14t was just too much, and I ended up working it so hard to maintain any kind of speed that I really couldn't spin it up on the downhill. One of the drawbacks to the computrainer is that once your speed drops, the load becomes unrealistic. I think it becomes more linear with a higher low-limit, rather than exponential. At least that's the way it feels. I've been riding fixed gears for over 20 years, so I think I have a great deal of experience to make a qualified judgment on the subject.

Also, the downhills are _quite_ unrealistic. Once again, I think the calculation is off, and it doesn't
simulate low-loads well at all. The average geared riders should easily be able to maintain 40 mph on the downhill, but I saw very few over 35.

A point on system calibration needs to be made here. Since the computer calculates the load based on your weight, it's pretty crucial that the weights are entered using the same reference i.e. scale. Last year, they had a bathroom scale that weighed about 8 pounds heavy. This year, same scale. This wouldn't be an issue since it affects everyone, except that;

They stopped using it half way through the night.

My weigh in was 156. I've never weighed over 155 in my life, and I know I don't now. There are three scale I use regularly (1 at home, two at work), and they are within 1 pound of each other. This off-season I've tipped at 151 once (after xmas gorgefests, three days in a row), and generally hover in the 147 range. So now, the later riders we being _asked_ what their weigh is. I can imagine the number of people that answered that honestly could number less that the number of beers in a case. So now, not only were us earlier riders being weighed heavier, but later riders were, with few exceptions, entering lighter weights than what they were. Hell, I'd
like to say I weighed 140. So lets say, a guy tells the tech he weighs 140 when he's really much closer to my weight. I get plugged in at 156 - there's a 16 pound differential. Tell me how that affects the loading on the 'hill'.

End rant.

Anyways - results:
* 21:37 - 25 second improvement over last year
* avg speed 22.2
* 270 avg watts, weigh in of 156 lbs - 3.80 W/Kg
* overall place 75/232
* Taking the elite riders out of the results: 53/218
* a 45+ analysis 11/39, better than I usually do in road time trials

I beat all of the women this year too. The results will tell you that Karen Smyers (pro triathlete) did a time of 21:04, but that was actually her team time (from the team heat). Her individual time was actually 21:43. Hey ya gotta have goals, right?

Tuesday, February 2, 2010

On Ass

I did the Harpoon Ale Indoor TT last saturday. I'll write more on that after they publish the results, but this post is more of a flight of fantasy.

At the TT, one of the heats was predominantly attended by a group of local hipsters, replete with male tramp stamps and visible piercings. Since the heats were already well over an hour late by that point, the hipster entourages had been hanging around drinking fresh craft brews for about 90 minutes. Spilled beer, WOOWOOing hop-buzzed girlfriends, and adult professional hipster wannabe friends and families of the hipsters. It resmembled the infield of a munich six-day race circa 1927, minus the cigarette smoke.

Note the urban-fashion requirement of the boxers fully exposed outside of the jeans on this stereotype:

Yes, he's wearing jeans and boxers. No chamois. Now, I'm not enough of a snob to think that everytime a casual cyclist gets on a bike they should be wearing cycling shorts. I don't begrudge the student/hipster/commuter for choosing to eschew practical cycling attire. Hey, it's your balls that are going to chafe, not mine (unless you're into that sort of thing). But this wasn't exactly a casual cruise to the local wifi cafe. This was 20+ minutes riding at maximum effort, sweating bullets within 5 minutes. What I read was that he didn't have a change of clothes. I don't know how he got home, but it was FUCKING cold out, and this douche left with soaking wet boxers inside damp jeans. Yeah. That's comfy.

Anyways, as I was surfing around the web today, I came across some cheezy hipster mentoring website called Hipster Runoff, which in-turn directed me to something I find infintely more interesting, entertaining, and downright American: Womens Asses.

American Apparel
, yet another clothing designer attempting to define Cool to the white suburban middle class adolescent mall shopper based on the premise that their clothes are what the white urban middle class adolescent boutique shoppers find cool, has launched a Best Ass contest.

This is something, above almost all else, that I feel eminently qualified for. Not to participate, mind you (though I've been as recently as a few weeks ago been complimented by a couple of women I don't know), but as a critic. You see, I love womens asses. I'm much more of an Ass Man, than a Breast Man, and since the moment of my first internet connection I've been perusing asses worlwide. Where I used to have be discrete in public, I can now mutter innane adolescent interjections at the computer screen.

Well, as you can imagine, an open internet contest for Best Ass is bound to draw alot of contestants. As of this blog entry, they have over 650 entries. A quick tour:

We have the Bodacious Booty:

The Track Star:

The Debutante:

The Hampster Dance:

and, the Trying Too Hard:

There are a number of male asses posted since this contest is for a best female _and_ male ass, so you ladies can peruse the offerings as well. I'm not going there.

All of these were copied from their website. Mind you, I like everyone of these asses. As a connoisseur, it is incumbent upon me to critic each ass for it's merits, and it's detriments. Objective critique, not subjective projections. Does the sommelier offer his personal preferences? No, he discusses his customers preferences and makes a suggestion based on objective observance of each wines merits. A true connoisseur may have a personal favorite, yet he appreciates a finely crafted wine and is not afraid to venture to taste something new.

Ass should be appreciated for shape, definition, tone, and presentation. The venue for American Apparels contest is woefully inadequate. The resolution is too low, and too much is left up to the submitter in terms of technical and artistic production.

That said, from the persepective of a Red Blooded American Male looking at a female ass model, my vote goes to The Debutante. But, there are cars you keep waxed in the garage, and cars you drive. For a great ride, give me the Bodacious Booty any day.