Horchata. No.
Yes, my friends: horchata, the Mexican rice and milk drink of alleged fame, is in fact not that great. A trip to Chano’s last night led me towards Orange Bang once again (a sweet frothy citrus concoction - and I emphasize frothy), but I was drawn to the sign advertising horchata - Horchata Ole!, I’ve been instructed. It was a bit sweet for my tastes, at least compared to The Bang?. Max observed that any sip larger than an ounce or two was pure bad news; heck, make that pure evil. I ordered a large. He was right.
Isn’t it strange that an entire world - one that is important to me - can be represented by a long list answers? You’d think it was Jeopardy. Everything in computer-land resolves to a statement of yes or no. Even digitally recorded questions end up as answers.
I’d retell (for the eleventy-billionth time) my story of bicycle pain, but I think it’s time to sleep. Let’s just suffice it to say that my face hit the fence first, somewhere in the range of a titanium screw (and I’m not talking about the fence, for the surgery-impaired in the audience). Then gravity took its toll. ‘Nuff said. #