I'm writing this in the garage, sitting in a green plastic Adirondack chair.  The oscillating fan is on and the AM radio is tuned to some old guy spinning music meant to be heard inside Cadillacs driven by men in fedoras that smell of cigars.  Viv, mah woman, has just finished re-tarring our driveway.  She's a keeper, that Viv.  

The Harley is off at the dealership till Tuesday getting shiny new rotors put on (they finally came in, and I'm combining their installation with its 1000 mile service).  So it's me and the Vespa and the woman, just chillin'.  Every once in a while, one of us will look up at a wall and toss out an idea for the new Throbbing Nerve Center of Manliness, which is what I'm turning this garage into.

It's gonna have maps for wallpaper.  Maps with big colored pins and string showing routes where adventures are born.  And rags.  There'll be lot's of 'em, handy and clean.  Over by the chairs here I've got a small table strewn with parts catalogs and magazines.  Over there in the corner by the dryer is where I keep the motorclothes: the jackets, the chaps, the helmets, the do-rags, the gloves, the boots.  All I need is cable and a phone line.  Every once in a while I go over and linger by where I keep the motorcycle cleaning products.  Line up the bottles, make sure all the labels show in front.  Some of those concoctions smell pretty damn good.  The Harley Gloss especially -- it's just this perfect blend, sort of a cross between orange blossoms and a urinal cake.  It's totally guy.

Note to self: girlie calendars.

At the moment, all this seems to have risen organically as a distraction from the mess that is my parents' life.  Things have gotten worse down there as they apparently are going for the full fare ride in the Handbasket to Hell.  The entire situation has reached my threshold of undiscussability: legal stuff, privacy issues, that sort of thing.  Some subjects are best left deliberately dark and murky.  Perfect fodder for, say, a JournalCon panel.

So yeah, Chuck and Beth and I are plotting our October attack on San Francisco.  Should be fun.  We've got a ride planned for next weekend and I'm sure we'll come up with masterful thoughts on the subject of journaling as we trim our jibs for the cruise, hoist our yardarms, and all that other motorcycle stuff.  We're sifting through and nurturing a few "team" ideas, keeping the peachy keen ones, and tossing around ideas on swag.  With luck it'll be something intrinsically valuable, rich in tactile goodness, and, if we're lucky, a je ne sais quoi that faintly suggests orange blossoms and urinal cake.

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