I've been accumulating a bunch of blog topics over the past several weeks, but haven't found myself in the mood to write about them.
There was the story of Richard Guhn's third annual pilgrimage to The Scooter Lounge, which would have been titled "Richard Guhn: How we got rid of him for good this time-- we hope."
There was the story I was mulling over about how as a kid growing up in Utah, kids from California were automatically admired and accepted into the coolest cliques-- even if they were from a hellhole like Bakersfield, or Barstow.
Then there was the story of how certain individuals at Genuine Scooter Company, (in spite of me having been one of their most vocal supporters and one of their top dealers), began waging a campaign against my mental health, financial security, and general happiness by becoming a major pain in the neck. But although that was a big, big headache, and I'm still mad as hell about it, it's neither funny nor entertaining, and I think it would be ill-advised to publicize it.
In the wee hours of this morning I awoke from a dream about my Brother-In-Law whom I never met on account of his suicide ten years ago. For some reason it cast a pall on my whole morning. I thought about writing about that, but it's pretty depressing.
A few weeks ago my six-year-old son intentionally broke a big plate-glass window and began working at the store for an hour a day to pay for it. Hilarity did not ensue. Nothing to write about.
My wife and I went to Moab for a scooter rally and slept in my van, down by the river. It was fun, my friend Marty nicknamed me "Magic Fingers Dave," and there were plenty of wisecracks about "If this Van's a rockin'. . ." all totally unfounded. And I took my mountain bike on a "tour de humilation" from which parts of my body are still recovering.
Speaking of "still recovering" I crashed a customers scooter in the parking lot of my store. That's a great story too.
So my blogfriends, help me to narrow the field. Tell me what stories you most want to hear.