Stolen bicycle

I was going to use this evening to catch up on music recommendations, but I'm not really in the mood now. In fact, I'm positively livid.

It turns out that my roommate has known since Saturday that my bicycle was stolen out of the backyard but neglected to mention it to me until just a few minutes ago. Apparently, he came home Saturday afternoon to find the door to the from the garage into the backyard open (we have an open garage facing the street which leads right into the backyard). He found that my bicycle and his tile saw had been stolen.

He says he didn't say anything to me because he assumed I already knew. It's just common sense that if I knew, I would have said something. He also assumed that the police couldn't or wouldn't do anything about it. I guess it didn't occur to him that bicycles and power tools have serial numbers that are traceable. Had he called the police on Saturday, we might have been able to recover the stolen items. Now, who knows? I'm keeping my fingers crossed that I can get the serial number for my bike from the shop that sold it to me and it's not too late to file a police report.

Maybe I will get one or two recommendations done tonight, but I wouldn't count on it.

Misanthropy day

Whenever I think I couldn't be any more appalled by human behavior, I read the news and get slightly more appalled.

Today I read that Mike Tyson is making a career change. He will be a prostitute at Heidi Fleiss' new Nevada brothel for female clients. I have to question Heidi's judgment here. First, Tyson has shown he can't be trusted around women. Second, any woman who would pay to have sex with Mike Tyson should be admitted to a mental facility for observation, because she is clearly a threat to herself.

I imagine something like a three-tier pricing scale for the modern woman with discerning sexual tastes. First, the Desiree Washington experience, which involves a tiara and forced intercourse. Slightly more pricy, but worth every penny, is the Robin Givens experience, in which masochistically inclined ladies get pummelled about the face while having sex with Tyson. Finally, the Evander Holyfield experience allows the wealthest matrons to enjoy the very finest Tyson has to offer. It's basically a Robin Givens with a special bonus: Tyson gnaws off all the cartilage on the client's face and head. Now, that's luxury!

I have to wonder whether Heidi really considered all her options. If she wants a washed-up celebrity, why not one who is somewhat less, er, felonious? How about Wilford Brimley? He hasn't been working lately. How about the men that have nothing better to do than SciFi Channel original movies, like Lance Henriksen or Judd Nelson? Sure, they aren't much to look at, but there are women with very particular tastes who might go for them. In any case, they are all superior to Tyson in almost every way.

Maybe Heidi wants to exploit the untapped market of women who write love letters to serial killers. If 90s daytime talk shows are any indication, they are more common than one might think. Perhaps the "have sex with a famous misogynist and rapist" angle is a sure money-maker and Heidi is just the first innovative entrepreneuse to exploit this overlooked market and Nevada's premissive penal code to build what will become America's first chain of franchised brothels. Ten years from now, there will be a Heidi's Felon Fuck location on every city block in the country - and three on ASU's Tempe campus.

One good thing will come out of this: Mike Tyson will move out of Arizona. I'm sure his neighbors in Paradise Valley are already lining up to help him pack.