Daring to Dream

You might have gathered from a few of my posts that I am sick of Arizona. To be more accurate, I'm sick of Phoenix and have no real desire to live anywhere else in Arizona.

Instead, Lady Luck and I have been dreaming of living in Oregon for, oh, three years now. Last year we made it up there and realized the state was even better than we'd hoped. Right now we're in the countdown to no contractual obligation to stay in Arizona. And we're getting a little twitchy, if you know what I mean.

So, to elevate my mood, I decided to check and see what there was in the way of pizza in Yachats. I mean, why move somewhere if I don't know all the amenities, right? The last time I did that, I wound up in the stinking desert surrounded by people who don't know enough to ride all year long. [I know there are a few like-minded souls around here. This does not apply to them.]

Where was I? Oh, right, pizza near my current fantasy home.

There is no pizza parlor in Yachats.

The closest pizza joint, according to google maps, is in Waldport, OR. That's like ten minutes away. TEN MINUTES. I don't know about you, but ten minutes to pizza is ten minutes too long.

Now, a lesser man might run screaming from such a town, but I've realized it is my calling to bring pizza to Yachats. Yachats, prepare for ultimate pizza flavor.

In my imaginary pizza parlor, we will cater to the locals as well as the lucky tourists smart enough to call for motorcycle-delivered pizza. The walls of my pizza parlor will be covered with the darkest of wood panelling, and the booths will be the finest tufted red vinyl. We'll have a selection of Oregon's finest bottled beers, and pitchers of PBR will be a quarter with the order of a large pizza. The jukebox will be crammed with Dio, Elvis, George Thorogood, and other fine pizza music.

My God, it'll be beautiful.

So that's what I'm going to be dreaming about this weekend if I get distracted from motorcycles.