Scrumptious Word Morsels

I knew the cost of motorcycling when I got into this whole mess, but I never knew the toll it would take on the innocent ones. On my way home tonight, a rather large and juicy bug had the misfortune of being put down by my enormous noggin. It was the first time I’ve ever killed anything with my head. If it’s any consolation, the little guy’s last efforts were not in vain: he scared the crap out of me when he hit my shield and exploded all over the plastic.

Make note of this for future reference: motorcycles have neither seat belts nor windshield wipers.

Sorry for the camera reflection in the photo. Even without a flash, it’s hard to take pictures of really shiny objects without becoming part of the picture yourself.

Fresh-picked and hand-delivered from the skies to your computer monitor, here’s today’s sunset captured in glorious 1s and 0s for maximum enjoyment. Thanks, God.

I’ve been putting this post off because I don’t even know where to begin, but I think we’ll hit the good first and then come back for the bad and the ugly.

So, I got a bike on Wednesday! And it’s pink, and it has training wheels and streamers and a horn and… not really. But I could get all those things if I wanted them, and this bike would still be badass. (Since badass is in the dictionary, I figured it was probably OK to use it on a PG-rated site.) The motorcycle is a 2005 Suzuki GS500F in black and red, and it’s only got about 1800 miles on it. Practically like new. Let’s see some pictures, shall we?

Unfortunately, the carport where the bike is parked in the pictures is probably where it’s going to stay for a few months. For you see, mine is a tale of gross incompetence and blunder by our prestigious community college, which I’m no longer proud to say I attended for three years. I was signed up to take a basic riding course offered through Pima Community College and sanctioned by the Motorcycle Safety Foundation. For whatever reason, the course is taught on-base at Davis-Monthan AFB—as if PCC were too good to use their own wide-open parking lots. The timing of the class was absolutely perfect: I got my bike Wednesday, the first class was on Thursday, and the last two were Saturday and Sunday. I’d be licensed and riding on the streets by Monday of the following week. Or so I thought.

I showed up at DMAFB at 5:10 Thursday night in preparation for the 5:30 class. I didn’t know where I was supposed to go, and I like being prepared, so it was better to be 20 minutes early than 1 minute late. The rest of the students started trickling in around 5:25, and the instructor finally showed up right at 5:30. Everyone but me has a handful of papers and their passports. “Strange”, I think to myself, “but whatever”. After the instructor signed a few people in, he asked me for my waiver and my passport. “My waiver and my passport?” I ask. “What waiver?” Well, guess who didn’t get the memo! Yep, that would be me. PCC sent out a packet of information to every student in the class—every student except me, of course.

Now it’s 5:35 and I’m panicking. The passport (or birth certificate, which I also did not have on me) serves as proof of citizenship, and it’s required to get on base. I’m pleading with the instructor and the gears are turning as I propose all kinds of solutions. There was even an Army guy taking the class who offered to sign me in as his guest, but no dice. I promised the instructor I would produce a passport on Saturday if he’d let me in, but he wouldn’t go for it. He did, however, tell me that class would actually start at 6:00, and he asked me how far away I live from the base. When I told him it was thirty minutes north of there, he asked me if I could make it back in time (by 6:00). I didn’t stick around long enough to see this guy’s motorcycle skills, but one thing’s for sure: his math skills aren’t too great.

I went home despondent and pissed off, mostly because I knew the next available class wasn’t until October 2. Now it’s time to put Plan B into action, though. I know you’re wondering what Plan B is. You’re thinking to yourself, “He can’t possibly be stupid enough to try and teach himself how to ride.” If you were thinking that, you would, in fact, be wrong. I’m taking the written test at the MVD sometime this week to get my Class M permit, and I’ve already read through the manuals put out by the Arizona MVD and the MSF—twice. In fact, the MSF manual that’s available online is the exact same one they use in the class I’m (re-)scheduled to take. I also ordered Proficient Motorcycling: The Ultimate Guide to Riding Well from Amazon, and that’ll be here Wednesday. Finally, I have several friends who are experienced riders, and I plan to enlist their help as I navigate through the treacherous terrain of local parking lots.

Wish me luck! Oh, and if anyone needs some organs that are in good shape (good genes, no smoking, and minimal drinking), I think my friends have started a pool. Get in touch with them if you want dibs on any of the good stuff: the biceps, the face, the flowing locks, etc.

I’m still getting everything situated in the new apartment, but when that’s done, I’m planning on having everyone over for a rockin’ housewarming party. More on that to come later. For the time being, check out the nighttime view from my balcony:

My camera’s battery was dying as I took the shot, but I decided to post the one picture I was able to get before the battery breathed its last. Time to recharge.

At about this time last year, I had my first taste of Dr. Pepper made with real cane sugar instead of high-fructose corn syrup. I enjoyed it so much that I wrote about it. It’s hard to describe in scientific terms, but cane sugar tastes more like sugar than corn syrup—it’s more sugary, if you will.Well, having been in Mexico for the past week, I knew I couldn’t possibly come home empty-handed. That is, I couldn’t leave unless I was bringing some of the One True Soda back with me. Now, I couldn’t find any Dr. Pepper, but as a general rule, Mexico and Coca-Cola are closely intertwined, and rumor has it that one was founded by the other.

On our last day in Nogales, right before we left, we found a Coke distributor who was willing to sell us cases of the good stuff. And cases are exactly what we bought. I picked up 24 bottles (500-mL each, which is about 17 oz) for roughly $24, which seems like a pretty good deal in retrospect. Vince bought his own assorted case with half Coke and half Fanta, Manzana Lift, Squirt, and Sprite.

At the time, the joy that only cane sugar can provide was clouding our thinking, and we failed to remember that the trunk was already packed with sleeping bags and everyone’s stuff. No worries, though. After 30 minutes of unpacking and shuffling bags around, we finally decided to remove the bottles from their crates and cram them into every spare crevice the trunk had to offer. With all 48 bottles tucked in and nestled snugly, we took off for the border.

Other than a 2-hour wait, we didn’t encounter any problems while crossing back into the States. To my surprise, smuggling a load of Coke into the U.S. from Mexico was much easier than I had previously imagined.

If you’re a vegetarian/vegan, now would be a good time to turn away from your monitor. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.

There’s a fire burning right now in the Catalina Mountains, and it looks like it started pretty low and is making its way up the side. There might be another outbreak burning on the other side of the ridge, but it’s hard to tell from where I live. One thing is for certain, though—fires make for really awesome long exposures at night.

After Coco’s untimely death a few months ago, we were down to just the two boys—Champ and Charlie. But no longer. This little girl has yet to be named, but isn’t she the cutest lhasa apso ever?

Let’s start Tuesday off with a little game, shall we? The first person who can correctly identify the objects in the following picture gets a $5 gift certificate somewhere.