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Overheard in a bar in Moose Pass, AK.

Somebody might benefit from cultural sensitivity training?

Fun thing to do: Count the number of times she says “like!”

We saw him perform live once in Cleveland, Happy Wife and I. My gut hurt so hard from laughing you’d have thought I just did a hundred situps. I don’t disagree one bit with the consensus review: Robin Williams was a lightening storm of comedic talent. Sui generis. Without equal. Nonpareil. Ne plus ultra. All that.

Thing is, I’ve no idea what goes awry in a man’s wetware to cause him to descend into an inescapable well of darkness like that. If there’s one thing I think we can say for sure, the brain’s Prime Directive is the survival of its host, at all costs, no matter what, come what may, living is always better than the alternative. If anything is “hard wired” it’s the Prime Directive. The kind of dysfunction that can override that has to be some seriously scary sh*t.

So let me add my voice to the throng: Thank you for the laughter, Robin. A WHOLE LOT OF LAUGHTER. So far as I know we’re the only creatures capable of it. Life is incomplete without it. And in that way, you helped us all be human.

Godspeed, man. Godspeed.

First, a little shout out to our friends’ son, Brian Benson, on the publication of his (first) book. Got it queued up on the Kindle. Read the first few pages and thought, I’d no idea when I cycled with this boy (now a man) — what, twelve years ago now? — that he’d become a writer of literary prose. Back then his father had arranged this bike tour of northern Wisconsin and Michigan’s upper peninsula, in early September if I recall, entreating all of us to come to the northern latitudes for a ride, to get out of the oppressive heat of summer that had been afflicting the rest of the country that year. We all agreed, great idea, let’s do it!

I recall finishing a 100+ mile day, I think it was in Houghton, MI, in 102 degree heat. Highest temperature ever recorded that day in Houghton, according to the locals (aka “Yoopers”). Oh boy! It was the day Brian had chosen to ride with the group on what I thought was an impossibly old and clunky bike to be attempting such a feat, his first if I recall right. Damned if he didn’t do it though. All 100+ miles. So I wasn’t the least bit surprised to hear he cycled across the country to Portland. I just hope it wasn’t on that same bike!

This pic isn’t bad:

Happy Wife prefers the way she looks this one:

I don’t care for my appearance in either one. This is partly explained by exaggerated modesty, expected when one is asked to appraise his own visage (save Narcissus), and partly as a concession to the glacially slow disappearance of what we once were. The passage of time is inexorable. We know this, but we fight its erasures nevertheless. Fill the pocks, color the shadows, cream the creases, tighten the sags, whatever we need do to defend the fading facade of youth.

Some may say drinking Margaritas only aids the enemy, hastens the day. But tequila can feel like an ally, too, an inhibitor of concern, an agonist of blissful unawareness that the drawbridge is down, the mote has been bridged, the walls breached. If nothing else it makes acquiescence seem less like surrender.

Which is to say we are all doing the best we can.

Had steaks for dinner last night. Juicily rendered on The Grill. A new Weber!

Now wait a second there, before you start shouting, Hypocrite! and, You Owe Erika an apology!, let me say that you would be right, it was a mouthful of humble pie for me to swallow when I finally said to the man at Lowes — who convinced me that of all the grills Lowes sold, Weber was in his opinion was the best made — “I’ll take it.”

I now think the cause of the fire may have been due to the buildup of drippings and crud in the base of the cook box, a blackened mat of greasy crud that eventually got so thick it started to burn, and burn HOT. In other words: Customer reports becoming lax regarding routine grill maintenance.

EVEN SO, if you ask this customer, poor maintenance should be expected by the manufacturer, no? And certain fail safes designed accordingly. I mean, if I never replace the oil in my car it won’t suddenly burst into flames or explode.

And so yesterday, as I “burned in” the grates to season them before I grilled our first protein (Nature Made Grass Fed Boneless Top Sirloin), I read studied thoroughly the section on “Routine Grill Maintenance.” I have not yet registered the product at Weber. With my luck Erika would see it and begin smugly parading around the Weber office where she works in Schaumburg, Ill, shouting, “Look everyone, that schmuck in Alaska bought another Weber grill! Same model even!!”

I take back everything I said. Truly, today, I am a man humbled. Tonight, moose burgers on the new Barbie!

Ah hah!

I’ve owned this Weber Spirit Grill for about 5 years. Always kept it out of the weather and in good condition. A couple days ago we had just started grilling and got the grill up to temp and had just but burgers on it. We went to turn the burgers down and notice the gas flow control knobs were melted flat to the control panel. We took a look underneath and the valves under the knobs just above the propane tank were spewing in flames!

Did you read that, Erika — Spewing flames!

Same grill. Same problem. If you care to scroll around a bit you’ll see other reports of Weber grills on fire.

Erika called me back this morning after I sent    One.   Final.   Email.

Told me I could take the replacement parts or nothing.

I went with nothing.

…

Went to our Nest this past weekend. We got as far as Summit Lake where suddenly Happy Wife pulled over, pushed open the car door and said, “Get out. Your bike’s on the roof. You’re riding the rest of the way.”

“But deary-do,” I implored her, “it must be 50 miles to the Nest.”

“Out!”

I’m kidding! It was my idea to cycle from there.

And mostly downhill (except the uphill parts). I wasn’t more than a mile or two into my ride, nary a cloud in the sky, when an R/V rumbles past me with a not tightly-fitted stopper on its holding tank, flapping at its closure and emitting a spritzing volume of stinky gray water which got caught up in the wind whorl of passing cars only to finally settle on yours truly who was just pedaling along on the road shoulder thoroughly enjoying an otherwise glorious summer day.

Isn’t that special.

Had to stop twice to adjust my saddle height. How a clamp “spontaneously” loosens all by itself to permit the seat post to descend into the seat tube is a mystery to me. Maybe it was manufactured by Weber!

Then ten miles from Seward I flatted. No worries. Still sunny and 70. I alerted Happy Wife by phone that I’d be late, and to standby in the event my repair failed. Removed the wheel (front), fully deflated the tube, ripped it out, put in a new one, reseated the tire bead, then re-inflated the tube with a CO₂ cartridge. Or I intended to anyway. But I’d forgot to unscrew the valve on the tube (Presta valve don’t you know) to permit the flow of air into the tube, and consequently the air pressure in the cartridge adapter got very high very quickly and blew off the rubber gasket, releasing all that precious carbon dioxide, incrementally worsening global warming and leaving my tube still flaccid as a homo in a titty bar. But wait — I’d wisely packed two cartridges foreseeing this very problem! Unscrewed the Presta valve properly this time, screwed the spare cartridge in the adapter and pressed my fingers hard as I could around the gap where the gasket had been to seal it. Managed to deliver most of the gas inside the tube this time. Voila!

Except… as I continued rolling down the highway toward Seward I noticed the tire was not perfectly in round, there was a metronomic bump bump bump bump. Crap. Evidently I’d not seated the tire bead securely and so the tube was probably bulging. Will it hold for ten miles?

Yes — it did! I arrived at the Nest, fell into the loving arms of HW, and blamed the entire mishap on Weber!

Weber’s policy, I was told, is to replace only the parts of the grill that were damaged. Which was pretty much everything except the cook box itself, the lid, the metal frame and four legs. The whole control apparatus — switches, control knobs, feeder tubes, wires — and the supporting side tray would need to be replaced.

“Erika,” I implored, “the entire grill is an FRU at this point.”

“Sorry, Mr. Nibbe, that is our policy.”

This makes no sense to me. One, because nobody seems to know what caused this accident to occur in the first place, I can’t be sure it wasn’t related to some design flaw in the grill itself, so why would I risk continuing to use a rebuilt version, and two, the cost to Weber of replacing the damaged parts (plus handling and shipping), in addition to my time and effort to install and troubleshoot has to be equal to, or more likely greater than, the cost of a new grill.

No, I think the offer was intended to be absurd, so I’ll go away. Which at this point I will probably do, but not to buy another Weber grill that’s for sure.

Update: Erika left me v-mail to call her. Perhaps they’ve reconsidered? In the meantime, we have to broil the salmon fillets for dinner.

 

I’m telling you, some comments leave you reaching for the Kleenex box.

Love you man!

I know, I know — Shhh!

In other news…

On the advice of my father (hi Dad!) I called Weber customer support to report the near death experience I had with one of their grills. Must’ve spent the better part of an hour on the phone with a perky and thorough lady named Erika, who took down all the details of the incident. Eventually she asked, “Now, Mr. Nibbe, was there any property damage or personal injury involved in this incident?“

Both, I replied.

Long pause…. “Oh, my. What happened?“

Up to this point I figured nothing in terms of compensation would be forthcoming, seeing as I hadn’t mailed in the warranty card that came with the grill when it was purchased years ago (who does that?). Erika had made a rather officious point of this early on in the call. But now, prompted for the details of the insult to person and property, I told her, in the most grave tone I could manage, of the board on my Trex deck that had been irreparably misshapen after fusing with drops of molten plastic, and that my right hand had been a victim of the same when I reached to shut off the gas valve. Now I thought for sure the offer of a free replacement grill, or the promise of a check of equivalent value, would arrive at my ear at the speed of light through the phone line from Illinois where Erika had told me she was located. I’d asked her that early on in the call, not because I really cared, but just to set a cheery tone.

Instead, “I’m sorry to hear this Mr. Nibbe. To complete my report I’ll need to see photo documentation. Can you provide this?“

There was no fooling Erika — she was on to my insincerity!

And so I emailed her all the photos she asked for, including one proving the injuring to my hand. That was ten days ago. Waited a few business days then emailed her a followup three days ago to ask if a decision had been reached. Radio silent.

Suck it up and buy a new grill, or continue to wait? Hmm.

A boy’s first Alaskan salmon is a coming of age milestone, like his first date, only less pretty, usually anyway.

A proud mother looks on.

She, Caleb (pictured), Andy, and myself joined an all day salmon fishing charter aboard the M/V Aurora that took us to the far end of Resurrection Bay, and beyond. Fishing was slow, slow for up here anyway, but by no means dismal. In addition to the haul the other fisher-people on the boat took in, our group of four managed to land ten silver salmon and many rockfish.

The murderous proof:

We fished among whales, one of which surfaced very close to the scrum of charter boats constantly maneuvering around each other to get over the “hole” where the fish finders indicated the salmon were. It’s an unsettling experience to be aboard a forty foot vessel bobbing up and down atop Pacific swells, and then suddenly see an oily-black behemoth longer than the boat itself surface not fifty feet away. It causes you to re-estimate quickly your position in the food chain. Not that Humpbacks are carnivorous, but one errant move by one of those beasts and you can imagine a boatload of people being tossed into the frigid water where hypothermia would finish them in fifteen minutes or less. Yet somehow the whales know precisely where the boats are and are not inclined to malicious behavior.

Captain Chris strictly forbade bananas on our boat. I had to jettison the three I’d brought in our lunch cooler before we departed from the dock. Neither he nor his deckhand, Shelby, would touch them. Superstitious? Possibly. But Capt’n Chris had anecdotal evidence associating bananas with bad outcomes on the boat, and sometimes associations are all you got.

The clouds parted briefly here and there to reveal some bluesky but closed up just as fast and the day overall was overcast. Still, it doesn’t get any better than this, zooming over Resurrection Bay powered by twin turbocharged diesels en-route to the silver salmon killing fields.

We fished til 4 pm then called it quits. All the way back to the port of Seward Shelby cleaned everyone’s fish. The endless draft of seagulls ensures that nothing goes to waste:

For this and his overall attentiveness to his customer’s wants/needs — bating hooks, netting fish, untangling lines, witty remarks — we all tipped him generously. Capt’n Chris, too, who contributed just as mightily to a very satisfying day on the water.

Our gas grill burned down. I’d fired it up for the tenderloins I intended to grill, then walked back in the house to wait for it to warm up. About five minutes later I look outside and the plastic starter switch is gone and there’s fire leaping out of the hole where it used to be! The two plastic burner controls were also burning and dripping molten plastic on top of the propane tank which hangs on a bracket on the side of the grill. I bend down and see flames lapping all along the underside of the grill.

I think, “Isn’t the fire supposed to be inside the grill?” By the time I rush out the door the entire grill, more or less, is on fire. DRIPPING MOLTEN FIERY PLASTIC ONTO THE PROPANE TANK BELOW WHOSE VALVE IS WIDE OPEN.

I briefly consider the wisdom of this. I think, get away now, explosion imminent. But then, “I can’t just let the damn thing burn.”

I alert Happy Wife, who, under the circumstances, has remained remarkably cool.

“Get me flour!” (Thinking, you don’t use water on an electrical fire, even though of course this wasn’t really an electrical fire).

As she ran to get the flour I reached underneath the grill to turn the valve on the propane tank to stop the flow of gas. I first thought to stop the flow by turning the burner controls to “Off”, what was left of them anyway, but by then they’d both melted to mush. As I reached underneath the grill molten plastic dripped on my hand, and I discovered the metal knob on the propane tank was too stinkin’ hot to touch.

I doused the external flames with flour, which did help to extinguish them, but the burners inside the grill were still burning hot, and somehow gas was escaping and trying to reignite areas outside the grill. I pulled my sleeve over my hand for protection and finally managed to turn the gas valve on the tank to Off. There was still fire burning something inside and outside the grill, which I finally put out after repeated dousing with water.

Finally, we lifted the entire charred mess off the deck and dumped it in the high grass on the side of the house.

Afterward, Happy Wife pan fried the tenderloins and showered me with praise for saving our family from harm.

Ah shucks.

Not your average bag lady. For one, she’s not homeless, and two, she has places to put her belongings other than grocery bags. That, and your average bag lady is rarely if ever seen carrying a love-infused latte in a go-cup.

With the bike tour over we’re back to our day to day lives, until — UNTIL! — more house guests arrive. Family this time: my sister, niece, her son and boyfriend. Any time you mention to a long time Alaskan (aka sourdough) you have summer house guests from the lower 48 coming up, she will often shoot you a look of concern and say, “Uh oh. How long this time?”

No no, don’t take that the wrong way. You see, most of us Alaskans understand we live in a beautiful place (nevermind it’s 55 and raining today), a place where countless people from all over the country, even the world, spend thousands of dollars to come and visit each summer. The truly intrepid even come in winter. We understand that, we’re flattered by the fact that our home is a tourist magnet. And speaking personally, we’re glad our family still wants to come and spend time with us, apparently willingly. We’re even happy to take a few days of vacation ourselves to spend time with them, and make plans ahead of time to make sure they all have a good time while they’re here. (Note to self: don’t forget to make plans). It’s just that, well, sometimes, house guests have been known to morph into The House Guests From Hell. The worse ones ask if they can extend their stay!

Not that we’re really concerned about this. After all, this is family coming, what could possibly go wrong!

Muahahahahahhahahahha…