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You know the terrorists have won when…? When an airport patron is not permitted to have silverware provided with his ($14.99) Cobb salad. New security rules, I was told. Have you ever tried to slice and eat a Cobb salad piled 5″ high on a plate — a paper plate no less — with plastic fork and knife? Never mind that my Stella Artois was served in a glass glass that quite easily could have been struck against the granite bar and rendered a deadly weapon. Seriously, who are the knot heads responsible for making these inane security rules to keep us safe?

Made it into the high country Tuesday beyond the verdant perimeter of the city into the parched hills above. Expected a ~35 mile loop and ended up being a mile shy of 50. Estimating distances on Google maps running on a phone is challenging when the scale doesn’t remain displayed, the sun is shining brighter than a supernova and one’s reading glasses and phone screen are smeared beyond hope by sweat and dirt.

Suddenly, an oasis. Took a picture to make sure it was real as senses have been known to deceive. The Coachella Preserve, I think. Somewhere on the Thousand Palms Canyon Road climb. Didn’t stop to look around but it was tempting.

BIGGER.

In the staging area at SeaTac presently waiting to board the silver tube home. an old man seated next to me on the prior flight said he was sorry for not talking to me. It’s just I really miss my wife, he said. Oh, I said, you’ve been apart a while and you’re anxious to see her, I guessed. No she died three years ago and I haven’t been able to get over it. We were together 65 years.

That stopped me right there.

Once recovered I said, I can’t imagine life without my wife. It sounded cliche. He turned to me and said, Hold her tight when you get home. Don’t let her go. Frank and I talked some more, I helped him off the plane into the waiting wheelchair and wished him a Merry Christmas. Good man.

Found myself at the intersection of Dinah Shore and Bob Hope and saw my tires were low on air. Who knows what might’ve happened had Dinah and Bob intersected in real life. Kind of surprising they didn’t given she had romances with everyone from Tarzan to Gene Krupa. She never got my motor revved as a young lad; I was enthralled with Sophia Loren, who was like 40 when I was 14.

I paused at the intersection to check my phone, Google maps –> search “bicycle store.” So informed I clicked back into my pedals to continue east on Dinah Shore and started into the intersection once the light turned green. Sure enough, behind me a blue hair driving a large truck accelerates to turn right, sees me and the look on her face is like, This is my world, my road, what on earth on you doing here. In perhaps the fastest move she’s made in years her foot finds the brake pedal and she literally screeches to a stop. The taxi driver was right, they’re out there. I stopped again about a half mile ahead to double check with a man holding a sandwich board if I was going the right way to the bike shop. Yes yes, over the freeway there, left on Varner, continue up that road past the In ‘n Out burger, you’ll see it on your right. Gracias, I said.

Little shout out to Joel’s Bicycle Shop, an oasis of sorts in this part of town. Nice bunch of guys, and free air! It was late afternoon yesterday by the time I got there, having gotten a later start than expected, so I passed on the climb into the mountains and returned home, home away from home. Maybe today I’ll make it into the high country.

BIGGER.

BIGGER. (If you can imagine!).

I don’t know if I would’ve paired those sandals with that dress. But then again I wasn’t a candle in the wind, bigger than life, literally, which I suppose was the artist’s point, right? Plus, you’re not going to find those slingbacks at Zappos, not in that size anyway… what, a fifty seven and a half? Stand here a while and you’ll see people line up to have their picture taken, until eventually some dude comes along insisting to his girlfriend (a man/woman pair here is rarer than you might expect) that she photograph him looking up that dress. Haha. Dude that was soo out-of-the-box clever of you, nobody has ever thought of that, you’re the first one! He rushes to grab the phone from his girlfriend, anxious to review the picture, can’t wait to Facebook it, leaving his girlfriend to suffer the ignominy of onlookers. Right behind them in line imagine if you will a couple, two dudes this time, with a precious little Skye Terrier that suddenly slips its rhinestone collar and is headed for Marilyn’s leg as one of them scurries — yes, men wearing skinny jeans scurry — after it shouting in a thin, wispy voice, “Oh dear, Princess, no! Princess come!”

What a place. People queue up on the sidewalk waiting to get into the Tutti Frutti. You can not make this stuff up. Date Palms line roads unimaginatively named Date Palm Road. You expect more from people whose sole job it is to name streets in a place that I swear to God feels like the set on the Truman Show. Sans the coastal aspect. Drier than a penny stuck in a blow dryer here.

It reminds me a bit of Santa Fe but less interesting on its face. Less expensive, too, so far as I can tell; a 2-bdrm condo on a golf course inside a walled-in community with a view of the mountains, ~$160K. I’ve no idea what the HOA dues are but they can’t be negligible given the army of Mexican groundskeepers. Hey, just reporting what I see.

Tomorrow, after work, Otis and I will venture into the lower reaches of the surrounding mountains. Be especially careful of the blue hairs, my taxi driver said, they’re out there.

Especially for those of you who think my quizzes are far too easy…

For each of the following, does it refer to a fishing fly or a (Cosmo-approved) sex position [1]?

No googling!

1. Bonefish Gotcha
2. Sea Horse
3. Go-to-Joe
4. Kinky Muddler
5. Saucy Spoons
6. Humpy Dry
7. Slippery When Wet
8. Royal Coachman
9. Dirty Dangle
10. Lusty Lean
11. Extreme Emerger
12. Niagara Falls

Happy Wife went 9 of 12. And I’m like, “How on earth does she know these things?”

Answer Key.

[1] Hat tip Gene, via e-mail

Stuck here at 53. Too early for a bucket list, too late for (another) professional renaissance. No, ’tis a time to pause and look back, to be grateful you weren’t stricken with an incurable childhood disease; didn’t become irreparably disfigured due to foolish and reckless teenage behaviors (many); managed to get into and out of college slightly above the bottom of class and find work doing something useful in order to pay back the loan you took out to train to do something useful (circular, I confess); did not descend into a well of permanent despair when wedded bliss soon turned blissless but instead sought counsel in the wisdom: “That which doesn’t kill us…”; did not allow oneself to become mentally idle or repeat mistakes (at least no unrecoverable ones); neither succumbed to profligacy nor was depleted by largesse but managed to save a few bucks; dismissed voices of incredulity (“Srsly, back to school at 42?”) and dared oneself; and most importantly did not turn away but lit up like fire on that fateful day when, by happenstance, a co-worker stepped into my office to ask me two life-changing questions: “Nibbe, are you dating anybody? Do you know a woman named Nancy?”

Happy Wife. Wrapped in the arm of another man. Not just any other man. Recognize him? No, it’s not Sam Elliot. A fair guess though, we noted the resemblance too. This man, he told us some things, while he tipped back a few fingers of bourbon at the bar where we met him last night. Once he got going there was no stopping him, one of those times when you just sit back and listen because there isn’t anything that’s happened to you lately ever that can trump this. And so we did, just sit back and listen. Fascinating. He believes something about his son — and by believe I mean you can cut my right hand off if you can prove otherwise believe. I think he actually said that. His son, he said, is thee most traveled person in the world. At least on a bike. A few years ago his son left Alaska for Portugal. There he started off on his bike, solo, unsupported by any adventure outfit, and pedaled east, through Spain and France, through Italy, Croatia, Serbia and eventually into Turkey. He continued east pedaling through all the -stan countries — his father rattled them off in order, counting them on his fingers as he went — eventually turning south and pedaling over the Himalayan highlands where his father said he suffered some punishing bouts of frostbite. Alas, since he’d summited Denali (aka McKinley) three times before his twentieth birthday (and his father 17 times — so far) he was no stranger to severe cold. He passed into Tibet illegally, was eventually arrested, but let go when the authorities asked him, “Where did you come from.” His son calmly said, “Portugal,” and pointed to the bike. Evidently amazed by a short synopsis of his journey they fed him and let him go. He continued pedaling, into China, south into Laos, Cambodia, Viet Nam, then back up through those same countries eventually turning west. In Africa somewhere he was pulled off his bike and thrown into the back seat of a car between two enormous black guys — here his father paused briefly, grabbed my arm and said, “I assure you I’m no racist” — where he was robbed at gunpoint. By then his father was tearing up and I lost track of the story. Evidently his son is now in Tanzania trying to get back home. He has Malaria and likely two other serious viral infections. He is sick, needs medical attention, and may die if he doesn’t get it soon.

Oh, the man, the father? That’s Marty Raney. One of three members of the all-Alaskan Mountaineers team who competed in seasons 1 and 2 of Ultimate Survival Alaska, a reality TV show put on by National Geographic. Season two, which finished in August, is scheduled to air on NatGeo beginning December 15th. Marty was in Anchorage giving a talk about his experience. The only thing Marty said which I found untrue was that his son was so low key about his adventure he didn’t have a blog or nothing, only late in his adventure had he turned to posting on Facebook. But I found a blog, and a good reading one too, I thought so anyway. It appears his last entry in the blog was August 2011. Fantastic photos.

After about forty-five uninterrupted mesmerizing minutes Marty tipped back the last of his second bourbon, set the glass down and asked us, “So what do you do?” Made me feel like thee most insignificant speck in the entire friggin’ universe.

I passed. Score: 39. Would have achieved distinction had I voted more often in the past 10 years.

Swapped Breyer and Kennedy and did not know “Our lives, our fortunes, and our sacred honor” is part of the Declaration of Independence.

Bad hair day here:

Phonecast this morning: -0.7^o. You could really feel the point seven part. Shortly after, I checked my phone again and we’d warmed to +0.7^o. A great day was in store after all!

Dark outside, too. And quiet. Hoar frost on the trees, everything brittle from the cold.

Lit a fire to improve the ambient look ‘n feel of my space. This involved flicking a wall switch. Sometimes we have to flick two or three times to start — Oh gawd. The world it turns out is awash in natural gas reserves so I don’t feel the least bit wasteful burning some to suit our purpose. Besides, I’m told natural gas (methane, CH₄) is the worst of all the greenhouse gases. If somebody doesn’t burn it, producing impotent less harmful combustion products, why there’s a chance that by accident (e.g., mishandling in storage, transportation, etc.) it might escape into the atmosphere and wreck havoc. Sure, the gas could be forced back deep into the ground, but with certain exceptions re-injection is a dumb idea given all the time and effort (and money) that went into getting it out of the deep ground in the first place. Plus, if you cared to click the link you’d see that re-injection is typically done to increase production of crude oil. How does the saying go: Chasing Bad energy with Good. That must really drive global warming alarmists crazy.

Not too much concern about warming here today. The dogs haven’t moved since Harry ventured outside early to take a pee. Little smears of yellow dotting the snow. They will still want demand their walk later today and as usual I will oblige, even though it’s only… let me check… +1.4^o! You can really feel the point four part.

Gooey schmooey pumpkin cheesecake. Prior to rendition.

Oh, you see the snow do you? And beyond it the baleful black spruce. Hardy Alaska trees those, but you wouldn’t know it to look at them, uneven and unkempt. One might think mongrels of the tree world yet black spruce — Picea mariana — is a successful species all its own, if its wide geographic range is any indication.

Above, a brooding sky. Not to worry, though. Once the light comes up, feeble though it is this time of year, and the sky clears, as it’s forecast to do, we will share the day with friends and family and express gratitude for our good fortune.

As always thanks for stopping by. I appreciate your inexplicable interest in the unraveling tale of our lives. Gobble gobble.