The Wild One

Oh… there were just so many good post titles to choose from. “The Motorcycle Diaries”—too obvious. “Easy Rider”—not quite accurate. “C-o-o-l R-i-d-e-r”—not everyone loves Grease 2 better than Grease the way I do. And so I settled for the above, semi-obscure (at least to non-film majors or persons under the age of 55) reference to motorcycle culture and L’Brando.

So, for those of you who haven’t been paying attention, I took my motorcycle class this weekend. I’ll cut the suspense and reveal that I passed. But it was the doing more than the passing that was important. Here’s a not-so-brief recap:

On Thursday I had the classroom portion. The instructors were good and all, but it was one of the longest 5-hour periods of my life. There were points at which I seriously longed to be back in BarBri, and I hated BarBri, but BarBri did have more spacious seating (at least at the night session), better A/C, and since the instructors were on videotape, you could blatantly pay little to no attention and nobody’s feelings were hurt. I was expecting the motorcycle class would have lots of gory videos of motorcycle crashes and whatnot to keep me alert, but no. Instead, it was 100 students all reading the same dry material about outside-inside-outside curves, the “friction zone,” and 12-second follow distances in order to answer “group” questions. The purpose of this torture session was to prepare us for a written test at the end of the class. The people in my group were verrrry nervous about passing the test, and it reminded me of the time that I went to the downtown DMV to get my motorcycle permit and was the only person in the very long line to pass any of the DMV’s written tests except for a Jamaican guy behind me who, upon being informed of his passing, dropped to his knees, clasped his hands, and said “Thank you, Jesus!” over and over again. It was touching and I felt guilty for spending a measly five minutes scanning the DMV handbook in preparation for a test worthy of public praying. What can I say—I don’t really stress multiple-choice tests that involve more pictures than words, and Thursday’s class was no exception. Confidence in reading and guessing is one of those socioeconomic/educational blessings I have but forget to count. I got 98% right and was out the door while the rest of my group was still taking it.

Needless to say, I was not as confident going into the ten-hour driving portion over the weekend. I knew there would be that one person in the class who was never getting it and always holding everyone else up, and I was seriously afraid that, with absolutely no motorcycle experience and little confidence in my own physical coordination, that one person would be me.

I was also afraid I would die.

Luckily, neither happened. As it turns out, almost all of the people in the class had never driven a motorcycle before or even a scooter and that one person was kind of a three-way tie that didn’t involve me and didn't hold us up that much anyway. We spent the first hour (from 6:00 a.m. to 7:00 a.m.—brutal) just learning how to turn the darn things on. And yet by the end of the first day, we were driving them all around, swerving between cones, and shifting up to third gear. By the end of the second day, we were driving over wooden boards (simulated road hazards), pulling quick swerves, and almost successfully turning figure eights within a very small box marked on the pavement (everyone improved on this last exercise, but I didn’t see a single person do it without either going a little out of bounds or putting a foot down).

My classmates were awesome and congenial rather than competitive. It seemed that most of them were taking the class because learning to ride a motorcycle was just something on their lifetime to do list—and I would highly recommend it if the motorcycle thing is on your list as well. It was funny that, on breaks, everyone was just so normal—but with our helmets, boots, and bikes, we were a mean riding team. A mean riding team that only ever makes it to third gear and accidentally honks when they intend to signal left, that is.

Lots of people have asked me if I’m planning on trading the Vespa in for a motorcycle now that I’m such an accomplished biker. While the Kawasaki Eliminator (pictured above) that I was assigned to ride is actually smaller, more comfortable, and cheaper than the Vespa, the answer is a definite “No.” As one of my coworkers once commented about the Vespa, “It’s not a gateway bike, people.”

If you want to take the MSF Basic Rider Course in your area, go here. In California, it gets you out of taking the driving test for the M1 license and most insurance providers will give a discount for taking it as well.

These boots were made for stopping the bike when your brakes fail

Are these boots “me”?

Don’t answer that. Especially those of you who have known me for more than three years. Although I was formerly a big fan of the lug sole, I traded my 30 pairs of Doc Martens, Creepers and the like in for kitten heels and stilettos a long time ago. So, in my humble opinion, no, these boots are not “me.” And yet I bought them last Saturday. At FULL price, no less. Full price shoes are also not “me.”

Motorcycle boots are a requirement for my Basic Rider CourseTM, which I will be taking this weekend. Supposedly any leatherish boot that covers the ankle and has a thick and non-high-heeled sole would suffice, but after wasting weeks perusing the Targets and Paylesses of the world for such a “boot” without success, I realized I was going to have to get the real deal. It was with that realization that, between televised sessions of a semi-annual conference my church holds, the following conversation with the Roommate took place last Saturday:

Her: Where are you going?

Me: I have to go to the Harley-Davidson dealership. (Hopeful) Do you want to come?

Her: No.

The conference was very edifying—like having a really great self-help/motivational book read to you over two hours while you lay around in your jammies. The HD dealership was not. Mind you, this was one of those newer HD showrooms that’s half shopping mall, half glitzy night-club. Most of the people there were what I like to call “trailer trash chic”—that is, upper-middle class suburbanites who think it’s fun to grow handlebar mustaches and play red-neck bikers between soccer games on the weekend. I shouldn’t judge, I know—their hogs serve the same purpose for them as the Vespa does for me. It’s just that when I was a little kid living in Phoenix, there was a biker bar next to our local McDonalds called The Squeeze Box. Waiting in line at the drive-thru provided the perfect opportunity to conduct a Jane Goodall-type study of real bikers in their natural habitat. There were no former Squeeze Box patrons at the HD dealership on Saturday is all I’m saying, and it was a little sad.

There were, however, these boots.

Toddlers having toddlers

My precious (and famous) 1.5-year-old niece, Miss Dub, on her way to work the swing shift at the cookie factory to provide for her illegitimate teletubuspawn. (Apologies to Mrs. Dub for stealing the pic, but it's my fave ever.)

Unfortunately, stuffed baby no. 1 is already exhibiting some behavioral problems.

Here she is studying for her GED. With this kind of dedication, we can only hope she will overcome the odds against her and somebody will make an inspiring and profitable movie about her life.

Let's Boogie

Dearest Celebrities and Would-be Celebrities and Celebrity-in-their-own-minds types who have babies or friends who have babies or frenemies who have babies or who will be having babies shortly even though society may frown on their fitness as parents:

With all due respect, I am sick and tired of reading about you and your kind traipsing over to Robertson and Melrose to publicly purchase stacks of organic baby blankets to take to your next baby shower. First, we all get invited to baby showers, even those of us who take out our own trash, and so, regardless of what your assistant may have told you, your being invited to a baby shower is no reason to prance around as if you were invited to dine al fresco on the International Space Station or something. I have a feeling your assistant was just trying to get out of the baby-blanket assignment himself, and reasonably so, because it is common knowledge that there is NO parking within a three-mile radius of Robertson and Melrose. Second, did it ever occur to you that all the other celebrities and would-be celebrities and whatnot would also bring stacks of organic baby blankets to the shower? How many organic baby blankets does one celespawn need? Third, when you combine the outrageous cost of the blankets plus the $60 parking ticket you received while purchasing them plus the opportunity cost of the three hours of your time spent driving around the block looking for a free red zone to park in plus the legal cost of settling with the bike messenger you ran over in the process, you just purchased several $3,000,000 spit-up rags for a person who can’t even sit up. Fourth, after you spilled the beans about the child’s gender by purchasing only blue blankets, you probably irked your “friend” as well. Don’t be expecting an invite to the shower for kid no. 2 is all I’m saying.

I, for one, am about to sue you myself because my eyes burn from rolling them so much at your idiocy. Sheesh. Can’t a girl just read a decent, old-fashioned tabloid article anymore about cheating spouses or “Guess who’s gay?” without having to trudge through the B-list baby blanket morass?

So here’s a suggestion: my art and business-savvy sister, Mrs. Gee, just launched a new website with unique onesies and baby artwork, littleboogies.com. They are very high-quality, yet reasonably-priced. You or your assistant can order them online from your iPhone, Blackberry, or intravenous Bluetooth connection. Many of them are not gender-specific. Be the first celebrity on your block to cash in on this trend. It’s only a matter of weeks before famous babies will shove their organic blankets aside so they can show off the trademark Little Boogies tags on their bums. Plus, my nephew, Lil’ Gee, is prominently featured on the “Clothing” page, and he’s just so fun to look at.

Best regards,
ladolcevespa

This Is Major Tom to Ground Control

Is anybody still reading this blog? I know that I, for one, gave up on it a long time ago. In fact, it’s been SO long since I checked my own blog that the address didn’t even pop up automatically on my Google toolbar. I had to, like, type the whole thing in and I could barely remember it (.net? .org? .gov?). It was akin to getting bumped from one’s own speed dial. Except that there’s really no point to having your own number on speed dial other than trying to look like you have more friends than you do to a crazy person who has asked to borrow your phone only to snoop as to whose numbers you hold most dear, kind of like those people who ask to use the restroom just so they can see what meds you are on. But if you have such a crazy person in your life, you probably have bigger things to worry about than having at least nine contacts in your phone. Also, you should probably delete your own number and use the space for 911. I have a feeling you’ll eventually need it during some altercation with the crazy person. And remember, if the crazy person is reaching for the phone as you’re dialing it, just shout out your location really quick for the 911 operator—don’t feel a need to start in the beginning with how you met this person and they asked to use your restroom and they seemed nice enough but the next thing you knew they were dressing exactly like you and threatening you at scissorspoint to vote for their favorite contestant on American Idol followed by a quick but unconvincing “just kidding!” and now they’re trying to put duct tape on your mouth and wrestle the cell phone out of your hand. Time is of the essence, and cell phone locations are not as easily traced as all the Law & Orders would have us believe.

But I digress…


As I have informed the many kind souls who have inquired about the lack of posting, it’s not that I haven’t blogged because nothing’s been going on, it’s that I haven’t blogged because TOO much has been going on and, as it turns out, although blogging may not require thought, blogging does require time. First off, much craziness has been going on at work but, as you may have noticed, with one sleep-deprived exception, I don’t really blog about work specifics and neither should you for that matter, unless your blog is private and none of your invitees believe a single word you say and you begin every work-related sentence with “In my satirical opinion…” (And kudos to M*** of TPHS for realizing this and privatizing her blog only seconds after her boss asked if she had one.) As for me, that whole attorney-client privilege thing really precludes it. As for you, the lack of millions of extra dollars in your checking account labeled “libel fund” does the same.

Second, much craziness has hit the Ess Fam in the past month or two, most of it health-related, none of it involving me, aside from my slow but steady advance towards morbid obesity, type 2 diabetes, hypertension, and stress-related ulcers, which I have named “One Taco at a Time.” Unfortunately, the undeserving Mrs. Dub and PDaddy have been the victims this go around. As the working girl in the fam (okay, SIL is a very busy full-timer as well), my only contribution to date has been to field tons of phone calls, but I took those phone calls when I would have been blogging and I have no regrets.


Third, I have made some important decisions in my ongoing and much-chronicled “where do I want to live?” and “will I ever buy a house?” personal dilemmas—decisions which will be posted here in a few months once they are fully executed. In the meantime, I don’t want to give anyone at that place that shall never be blogged about the heads-up that I’m not long for their world and so, in the event that there are any crazy people of the type described above at that unnamable place who have figured out I have a blog but have not informed me of the same (a semi-likely situation), I am just going to keep my mouth shut. And have I ever mentioned that my real life name is Erma?

So that’s the sitch, folks: a whole lot of unbloggable sumthin’ going on. Aside from my blog, the biggest victim of my incessant busy-ness has been my dear, sweet Vespa. For the past several months, the poor thing has only been ridden every week or two weeks, and then just to make sure it’s still running. However, I do have my California basic skills motorcycle class and driving test coming up (required to convert my motorcycle learner’s permit into an M1 driver’s license before the permit’s expiration date, also coming up). I have to buy motorcycle boots to wear to class. I also have to ride an actual motorcycle as opposed to my lil’ scooter. The whole affair promises loads of blogworthy potential and possibly a trip or two to the emergency room. I’m sure neither of you can wait.

Sweeping the Clouds Away

Telly and his dolly

So, I’ve been putting off blogging because I promised a big post about my San Francisco trip, and for some reason that seems like a lot of work. As time wore on, I felt it was embarrassingly late to post about month-old adventures, but then Miss Renee did it, and it was just fine. Point is, I will get to the SF post when I feel like it, which is definitely not now.

Right now I feel like blogging about a subject that is, as many of you know, near and dear to my heart: Sesame Street. In my humble opinion, Sesame Street is the best television program ever made. It’s educational, it’s funny, it’s timeless, it’s commercial-free, and it invented PC only to have others blow the concept wholly out of proportion.

I grew up watching Sesame Street—as Mary Ess will tell you, when I was three I simply referred to the show as “The Favorite.” At five, I won a Sesame Street coloring contest sponsored by JC Penney; my prize was a new wardrobe of awesome Sesame Street duds. As a teenager, I preferred to spend any sick days lying on the couch, sipping Sprite and watching Sesame Street rather than Ricki Lake or soaps or other daytime fare. When I was in college and worked at KBYU Master Control, I always volunteered for the early Monday shift (12:00 a.m. to 5:00 a.m.), because that’s when we aired all five of the previous week’s Sesame Street episodes back to back.

I’ve got Sesame Street on the mind because the other day I saw a news blurb on Sesame Street Old School Vol. 2, which is a “best of” from 1974-1979. I’m only slightly embarrassed to say that’s almost the exact timeframe in which I watched it the most. This got me thinking about my own favorite Sesame Street sketches, which are as follows (the ones with the asterisk [*] are not necessarily “old school” but I still love them).

1. Me and My Llama
2. My Name is Fred
3. "A loaf of bread, a container of milk, and a stick of butter"
4. The Triangle Song (by Telly, not the one with James Blunt, though)*
5. “Ten! Root Beer! Floats!”
6. The Ladybugs’ Picnic
7. Lost Dog Flyer
8. Anytime Bert’s opining about his bottle cap collection
9. That one time where Elmo learned to brush his teeth only, having no teeth, he used an ear of corn*
10. Monsterpiece Theater

Sure, Elmo, Ernie and Oscar are great, but a bit overdone don’t you think? Here are my personal favorite Sesame Street characters:

1. Telly (the self-conscious one)
2. Baby Bear* (the worry-wart)
3. Telly & Baby Bear in any scene together (hi-larious)
4. Slimey
5. The Yip Yips
6. Prairie Dawn
7. Those conjoined monsters that sound out words by bringing them together
8. The Count (actual eastern European royalty, or mere Rocky Horror fan roaming the neighborhood—you be the judge)
9. That adorable talking loaf of bread in the fridge full of talking food
10.LeVar Burton (okay, so he wasn’t on Sesame Street–but he should have been!)

Anyhow, feel free to register your own faves in the comments section.

Happy Ahikotauqua!

So I've been a bad, bad blogger lately, but if you thought it was because I was watching Biggest Loser and Project Runway marathons the entire holiday season, you'd only be half right; rather, I had a great Christmas vacation with the fam at the Gee household in Orange County followed by another short trip to San Francisco before returning to Los Angeles to make no less than 1,000 New Year's resolutions and a cool binder to document progress with said 1,000 New Year's resolutions, although I regret to report that resolving to stop penning run-on sentences just didn't make the cut.

However, the following usual suspects did:
1. Eat healthy
2. Exercise more
3. Reduce debt
4. Increase savings
5. Buy a house
6. Travel abroad
7. Keep an immaculate apartment
8. Dress fabulously at least 70% of the time
9. Finish projects
10. Edit nanowrimo novel
11. Write 7-book young adult fiction series with Mrs. Dub
12. Develop alternative fuel composed of sustainable resources and processed with minimal environmental impact that can be used in existing gasoline engines with little to no modification

But this little number made its debut in 2008:

13. Ride Vespa more

In fact, I was working on #13 on New Year's Eve when I accidentally ended up driving the Vespa on PCH. Apparently "Moomat Ahiko Way" is some sort of indigenous translation of "Caution! Not Beach Parking! Major On-Ramp!" I drove it very fast and straight for two miles, where the first turn-off is onto Chautauqua Blvd. (Seriously, who is naming the streets in Santa Monica? And why didn't they make their way over to West LA, where the street-namers gave up and started naming everything Beverly and National?) I took Chautauqua against my better judgment, because every time I've taken it in the Jeep I have ended up on either an extensive tour of Topanga Canyon or the crazy twisty part of Sunset Blvd--both options are arguably more dangerous for the Vespa rider than PCH given the high concentration of blind curves and drunken celebrities in those areas. Thankfully, the Vespa magically led me on a previously unknown shortcut back to the safe streets of Santa Monica.

So, hello milestone! I have officially ridden the Vespa on a highway without even setting out to do so. Although it sort of sucks to keep all the crazy resolutions I didn't make.

San Francisco recap and pics to follow sometime this week.