My roommate messaged me from Croatia last night at 1am to see if I was okay. Apparently he got an alarm in the garage which caused him to check one of those paranoia apps which told him that a bicyclist had been shot down the street and that apparently there was random shooting. So yeah. That's my neighborhood. He wasn't really asking "are you okay" he was asking "are you dead."

I'm still fucked up over Frank Meza.

Yesterday's ride was 16 miles in a 12mph headwind at 103 degrees.

I have a Shimano 105 Groupset to put on the bike on Thursday; unfortunately bike parts are poorly documented and it looks like the brakes will never fit. The front fork will take calipers, but only really long ones, and the back one won't, but apparently V-brakes are better anyway, so why the fuck can I buy a dura-ace caliper for a gajillion dollars? Fuckin' bike people piss me off.

The TSA stole my stapler. Why? "Yeah we know that our own website says that all staplers are A-OK but it also says it's up to our ultimate discretion and this isn't a stapler, it's a staple GUN. Staple GUN. And we confiscate guns. Wanna fight?" When I complained, TSA Los Angeles sent me a response in teal comic sans.

I finished William Gibson's The Peripheral recently. It takes place in the near future and the not-so-near future. Between the two, climate change and pandemics have wiped out 80% of the human race.

Los Angeles makes me think that 80% figure is perfectly satisfactory.