All I want to do is write. Usually I procrastinate, try to get out of my commitments, put off writing even my juiciest projects and assignments. But I really cleared my plate at the end of last year. My head is straight. I want to write. I want to submit the chapters I owe and get paid. I want to keep up with this journal. I want to finish my novel.

But before I could hand the old Toyota down to Briggs for day-to-day driving, I had to get the "shimmy" checked out at Big T. Turns out the alignment is fucked, has been for a while, and has worn down the front two tired unevenly. I had them replaced, had the back ones balanced, and had the whole rigamarole aligned. It took all morning.

Meanwhile, the employees of Big T were carrying on a small soap opera of their own, the mechanic complaining that his shop supervisor is pushing him too much, he's on the phone saying "don't talk about me behind my back," and me, I just want to get into my office and onto my writing assignments. Right now I'm completing my reviews of some Dead shows between 1980 and 1985 for volume two of the tapers' Compendium.