Merry Minimalistmas: You'll Get Nothing and Like It

(Via a reader, be sure to affix this to all your gifts this holiday season.)

While the Hanukkahpus with its eight tentacles of terror has finally been slain, Christmas looms like an amorous eggnog-soused mall Santa waiting to dry-hump us into oblivion. All over America (Canada's ruffled tuxedo shirt), the smell of mistletoe is in the air, people are slaughtering any turkeys still left alive after Thanksgiving, and lovers everywhere kiss beneath the cameltoe. (Or maybe they kiss each other on the cameltoe beneath the mistletoe, I was never quite sure how that tradition worked.) Also, the less avaricious among us perform acts of charity and goodwill, and both Fat Cyclist and Andy Hampsten would like you to know you can help someone in his fight against cancer by entering the latest Fat Cyclist contest:

By the way, if for some reason you don't know who Andy Hampsten is, he is a legend because back in 1988 he "portaged" himself and a very large pair of glasses over the Gavia pass during the Giro d'Italia:

(Cycling Fun Fact #36: Separated from his team car, Andy Hampsten was forced to kill and eat teammate Bob Roll during his brutal ascent.)

This was so epic they didn't even have to put sarcastic quotation marks around the word "epic" (though I just did, but only because I was referencing the word "epic," not because I was being sarcastic). This also ultimately netted him the overall victory, making him the first and still only American ever to win the Giro, as well as making every "traditional Fred" who puts on insulated bib tights as soon as the temperature dips below 60 degrees look like a total "woosie."

In any case, if you win the contest you get to tour either Italy or France with Andy Hampsten himself. My understanding is that you get to choose the country, and if you're unsure and/or confused because you're American and know little of the world beyond your front yard, just remember that Italy is the one with the lechers and the pasta, whereas France is the one with the race riots and the snails. (Rest assured, however that both are equally likely to be crippled by strikes during your visit.) So visit Fatty's site in order to enter, or just click this sophisticated embeddable virtual button:

Do not, however, under any circumstances, click on this:

(This.)

Don't say I didn't warn you.

Speaking of holiday shopping, yesterday you may have seen the following potential Christmas gift on the Twitter feed I lazily "curate:"



This video was forwarded to me by a reader, and it is highly amusing for a number of reasons, among them:

1) The narrator has an amusingly thick Scottish accent (I had no idea the Highlands were so arid);

2) The product itself is a retractable dog leash with a handle of crabon fribé that retails for multiple hundreds of Scottish dollars;

3) The male cyclist is a complete dork whose annoyed "Oh ceen't buh-leeeve oh have to woyt for moh geeerlfreeend" face:

(Implussed and nonpatient.)

Is almost as humorous as his giddy "Oh've heeetched moh geeerlfreeend to moh saddlepost and am speeening wohldly in moh granny geeeh!" face:

(Almost as happy as his jersey is oversized.)

4) Anyone who actually tries to use the Bicyclebungee repurposed retractable dog leash on a cliffside mountain bike trail is almost certainly going to slingshot his or her riding partner to his or her death.

Ah, yes, what better way to say to your loved one, "You're baggage," than with the gift of a Bicyclebungee? I'm pretty sure any relationship that involves one partner jiggling a leash in front of the other and saying, "Wanna go for a ride?" is going to be short-lived, unless that partner is actually a dog.

Meanwhile, in Canada, at the Urbane Cyclist bike shop in Toronto (a city now governed by lunatics that's either in Canada or Scotland, my geography is hazy since I'm American), one mechanic informs me he has fashioned a truly inspiring Festivus Pole, topped by what he calls a "Nativity Crank:"

However the "Nativity Crank" does appear to be an Octalink, and those eight splines would technically make it a Menorah.

In addition to the holidays, we're also getting dangerously close to that time of year when we look back and reflect, and I'm reasonably certain that, at least as far as pro cycling goes, 2010 will live forever in history as "The Year of Tainted Meat." Obviously Alberto Contador was the most famous rider to taste of the forbidden Clenbuterol steak, but Cyclingnews now reports that yet another rider has fallen victim to the meat that dare not speak its name:


Apparently, the positive test came after a wild Mexican meat binge:

“In Mexico we ate a lot of meat..."

Sounds like the opening line from something written by William S. Burroughs.

But while dog leashes and tainted meat may make disappointing Christmas gifts, perhaps no gift is more of a let-down than what you'll get from a minimalist, which is nothing at all. (Minimalists don't believe in giving, and instead prefer to borrow your gifts for Christmas.) As it happens, I recently checked in with my favorite minimalist, the "57 things" guy, to see what he was up to this holiday season, and it turns out he's honing his worldview into something that's starting to resemble Naziism:

First, though, he'd like you to know he does what is technically referred to as "fuck-all" all day. He likes to refer to this as complete autonomy, though I like to refer to this as being single and unemployed.

However, you shouldn't take him for a "trust fund baby:"

Some people look at me and assume that someone else must be paying my bills for me. I used to look at people who live this way and assume the same thing: “He must be a trust fund baby.” I assure you, this is not the case.

My parents both work very hard for their money, and while they’ve given me more than they ever needed to, they certainly didn’t give me a trust fund that pays out every month.

In other words, he opted for semi-annual Parental Support Plan instead of the monthly one.

Soon, though, he moves onto his twisted view of humanity. Friedrich Neitzsche (who I believe was a Classics specialist in the early days of professional cycling) wrote about the "Übermensch," (or "Super Fred") which was later co-opted by the Nazis for their whole "Master Race" concept. Similarly, "57 things" guy thinks the world consists of "Drones" and "Superhumans." Here's what "Drones" are:

Drones. Have you ever walked down the street in the financial district of any major city and look around you? Hordes of people that we call worker drones for a reason. Running back and forth from their desks to get a sandwich. I know about the drone hive cluster, because for a moment I bought into that illusion and I was one of them. Once you’re in, it’s difficult and/or impossible to un-assimilate yourself.

And here's what "Superhumans" are:

Superhumans. This metaphor that I’m going to start using for people who’ve escaped the system, who live on their own terms. There are many paths to becoming a superhuman, minimalism is one of the easiest ones. Yoga is another shortcut to becoming a superhuman.

Guess which one he is?

Only the most profoundly spoiled and self-absorbed person could possibly order people along these lines. Reducing a person to a "drone" because he or she goes to work at the same time as a lot of other people is like calling someone a failure because they don't drive a nice-enough car. You'd think someone who claims to make a living off the Internet would understand that, even in 2010, a bunch of people showing up at an agreed-upon place at an agreed-upon time is what actually keeps the Internet working, and is also what creates all the Apple products he buys. Does he think that WiFi signals just emanate from your head as you do yoga, and that if you do the right pose a brand-new MacBook Pro will fall out of your ass? Apparently he does. The way you know that he is in fact a "trust fund baby" is that "trust fund babies" resent people who go to work every day, whereas real self-employed people respect them.

And what the hell does this guy have against sandwiches? It's an entirely self-contained meal that doesn't even require utensils. What's more minimalist than that?

Of course, this isn't to say that the so-called "rat race" isn't without its tribulations, which is why we all long to drop out of it at some point or another, and which is the impulse to which the "57 things" guy is pandering. But the key isn't "dropping out;" rather, it's taking pleasure in the everyday. This is why a lot of people ride their bikes to work--it can turn drudgery into fun. Sure, even that has its problems, and you might get cut off by a cab, but sometimes understanding that cabbies have their own problems can help temper your anger. In fact, so draconian has New York become for them that they can't even work in their underwear anymore:

Granted, I don't take cabs very often, but I had no idea that this was even a problem. In fact, I'm pretty sure it's the opposite, since a fair number of cab drivers get their dress code from something called "The Koran," which is probably way more strict than anything the Taxi and Limousine Commission ever laid down. Then again, I suppose if I get in a cab and the driver's wearing nothing but a thong I'll be forced to eat my words--though I may throw up my sandwich.