Anyway, we had a perfectly nice evening. Jake came over and had dinner with us (and snagged a major kiss from Deb in the back of the house while Mom and I were in the living room�ah, sweet taboo).

I've managed to score three cigarettes this morning, so I'm sane. I don't know when my next one will come, though. We'll have breakfast and then go visit my office so Mom can see my view, and then off to the museum to see the Elton John photography collection. I'm looking forward to that. Then we're planning to go out for sushi for dinner. Mom's never had it.

Did I mention that my mother is a world traveller of sorts? She's been kind of grounded by having to take care of my senile grandmother, but she's finding more ways to get away from home and travel, which is what she has always wanted to do since she was a little girl. Osa Johnson was one of her childhood idols.

So in February, Mom is taking a trip for three weeks in South America. Starting in Lima, then a trip down the Amazon, then a trek up Machupicu (somebody tell me how to spell this and I'll correct it) that will reach such altitudes she has to take altitude sickness pills along with her, and finally she'll get to achieve one of her lifelong goals and see the Galapagos Islands.

Pretty damn cool, eh? I hope she has a wonderful adventure and doesn't get sick in any way. She's go medications for malaria that she starts taking two weeks before the trip, she's had all her other crazy disease shots, and she's in really good physical shape. Probably better than me as far as being able to walk forever. My mom is 66, by the way. And she's beautiful.

She's still heartbroken over the death of my father three years ago, though. He sure was the love of her life. They were great together. Last night she told a story about him and didn't start to cry. That's probably the first time I've seen her do that since he died.

We were talking about the motorcycle. Jake has been riding it more than me, since I've just got a puny one-mile commute now, and hers is about 25 miles. She was cranking up the bike to make sure the battery stays alive for the next time the weather is good enough.

Mom told the story of how when Dad and his older brother were teenagers, they each rode Harleys, and they each had accidents at the same time, but in different locations. They were in separate hospitals. Dad didn't wake up for three days, and his brother actually died on the table for a short while and had an out-of-body, white light experience. The brother didn't tell anyone about that until long after it happened because he thought everyone would think he was crazy. Later he wrote a paper about it for school. This was probably in the mid-40s.

So when two of his boys were in the hospital, someone told my grandfater that he didn't deserve to be a father for letting his sons ride motorcycles.

My grandfather had always ridden Harley's. He'd commuted back and forth between Texas and New York on his bike. And after those accidents and that comment, which Mom says really hurt him, he decided not to let his third son ride one. The third brother, when he turned 40, bought his own motorcycle and rode it all over the country, sleeping under park benches and eating "surprise" dinners from unlabled dented cans bought at huge discount from the grocery story.

Mom says Dad was still shopping at Harley dealerships whenever he could up until the last. She told him to buy one; his friends told him to buy one; but I think he was still making up his mind.

Moving on - 12:11 p.m. , 2007-08-14

Where the hell have I been? - 12:10 p.m. , 2007-02-19

Holy shit! - 2:24 p.m. , 2006-01-11

Stuffing recipe - 6:17 p.m. , 2005-12-13

Good Life Update - 10:22 a.m. , 2005-11-11