guggenheim las vegas, baby
God, I'm hoping I get here before the exhibit closes. Maybe this would be a good birthday present to myself. :) Hrm...

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• PacBell, in their infinite wisdom, has not seen fit to set up my DSL account for my new apartment. "We'll process that order tomorrow", they have been promising, for almost a week now. *sigh*
• It rained all weekend. No sun means no riding means nothing interesting to blather about.
• I'm recovering from The Plague. As with every spring here, the plague is going around the workplace. Co-worker Kieca and I spent most of the day coughing to each other back and forth across the hallway between our offices. We're working out an elaborate cough-code.

There, that's enough excuses. Really, I just wanted to complain about being sick again. This better not be a repeat of last year's "sick straight through until May" plague.

the new apartment, bike-wise.
I must wax poetic about my new apartment for a moment. I know I mentioned last time that it has an individual, enclosed, garage -- but did I mention that it has an individual, enclosed, garage? Well, I should say that it will, as soon as the Gods of My Apartment Building's Contractors smile benevolently upon me and actually install the garage doors ("that'll get done next week"....you know the drill). So, actually, right now, I have an individual, enclosed-on-three-sides, more-or-less carport. But, y'know, gift horse, mouth, all of that. First I work on getting the mailbox key (those little details), then I'll complain about the garage doors.

I'm very unnaturally excited about this garage. I'm sure it's the same feeling that most young women get about their first gas stove or crock pot or something. It's like my very own full set of Tupperware, that garage is (come to think of it, I'd take the Tupperware, too). Now if only they'd put the damned doors up so that I can move all my tools into it without fear of thievery (all of my garage stuff that isn't still at Peter's is currently sitting on my kitchen floor. In hindsight, I probably shouldn't have left the WD-40 where the cats could snort it while I'm at work. I don't trust them for an instant). It makes me happy, though, to look at my little pile of screwdrivers and torque wrench and voltmeter.

Peter, because he rocks, got me a very nice housewarming present: The Art of the Motorcycle. This book is, simply put, gorgeous. It's abso-frigging-lutely huge, at over 400 pages (and oversized, hardbound, pages at that), and contains essays, poems, biographies, and above all, pictures and descriptions of the bikes that were on display at the Guggenheim Museum during the summer of 1998. The very first sentence of the very first essay is:

The motorcycle, at its core, is both an object of commerce and a fetish.

And, isn't that true? :)