the mock-up.

About six months ago, my father floated the idea of going "out west." Not permanently, mind you, but just for a lengthy road trip to see friends, go to ballgames, take photos of kitchy road signs, and so forth. His friend Sully retires this month and the two of them thought it'd be a good way to occupy all their newfound time.

As someone who loves nearly every square inch of the country that lies west of the Mississippi (despite profound ambivalence towards the Eastern states), I adore this idea. Mom and Tina (Sully's wife) are more skeptical. Sure, it's an exciting prospect, but the guys have been talking about it for so long that it seemed likely that they'd get tired of the notion by the fall. Dad and Sully aren't much for planning, either, and until recently they were only loosely discussing modes of transport.

That discussion ended a couple of weeks ago when my mother called me up:

Me: "Hi Mom."
Mom: "Your father bought a fucking RV."

Note: Barbara does not usually swear.

It's a 1985 Chevy Sunland with 58,000 miles and a bunch of sweet NASCAR-themed bumper stickers on the back. Dad and Sully are debating names. I vote for something traditional ("Bertha"? "Sally"?) but Dad is leaning towards the more abstract ("The Chelsea Express"). They hit the road in early September, so send your suggestions for destinations and particularly good roadside diners.

As are all things Western, Arizona was great -- photos on the Flickr page and no real stories to tell. We hiked, we swam, we napped, we ate pancakes. The blissed-out outdoorsy feeling lasted a whole 24 hours and promptly faded when I got on the Red Line.