I'm in California with friends, vacationing for a week. Here's what I've been up to:

It had to happen eventually, but it took a bottle of mead and a late night and finally signing off of work to realize it.  I am going. I am really going. I have this sleep, the one that's coming for me fast even as I type this entry, and one abbreviated one more, and that is it. A little over twenty-four hours and I am gone.

I am lying on the guest bed next to a surprisingly small pile of items that must go with me. Is this all I need of life for two weeks?  Really?

Tickets are booked to Paris; tickets are booked to San Francisco.

We will be six in San Francisco, with tagalong extras depending on the day and the inclination of our local friends.  We have nebulous plans:  look for us in the cheap seats at the Giants-Astros game on July 4.  I'll be the one in the bleachers with the beer; that's all you need to find me in the crowd, right?  We'll do a night tour of Alcatraz and I'll relearn the San Francisco bus system and pictures, pictures, pictures!

I made my final decision regarding drupalcon Paris this morning. In the time since I've known about the location of the event I've gone back and forth on the question until it felt like madness and whiplash. Do I spend the money? Is it worth it? How will I explain to my friends? Am I right to burn vacation days on this madness?

Until this morning, I had plausible deniability and weasel words.  "I think I'm going," I would say. "Not sure, though."

The 'neon' series chronicles furlough #1 not as it was, but how it felt. Start with 'neon : peachtree street' and read forward. Those of you with a literal bent might want to couple those entries with the twitterlog for the trip, which starts with this entry from Friday.

Your last night away from home puts you in an unfamiliar place, across the table from a face you haven't seen in six years and forty pounds. He is older and bearded, and the baskets of wings vary from sweet to hot, and the pomegranate margarita is exactly the kind of sweet, fluffy drink you want at the end of the trip when beer tastes too much like effort.