Some Facts.

Fact 1: I will not vote for Donald Trump for POTUS.

This bears repeating: I will not vote for Donald Trump for POTUS.

Fact 2: The statement, “X is usually wrong,” DOES NOT mean, “X is always wrong.”

Example: I do not generally approve the policies of Obama. However, I do specifically approve his  foreign policy decisions over the last (roughly) 8 years. This, I hope you understand, is an expression of  intellectual honesty; I believe it is right to give credit where credit is due.

Similarly with Trump (please review Fact 1). Consider a paragraph from a recent report that appeared in the New Yorker, regarding a supposed “agreement” between Cruz and Kasich to prevent Trump from winning the nomination

Collusion is an ugly word. In his statement, Trump said that “collusion is often illegal in many other industries,” which is true, in terms of price-fixing and other antitrust violations, but politics is not one of those industries. As many observers have pointed out, political parties get to set their own rules. But that does not mean that voters like those rules. The problem for the public is that these days there is generally no effective way into the political process except through one of the two major parties. The Democrats and Republicans have become duopolists—too big for anyone else to succeed. That reality creates an expectation that the parties themselves will be reasonably democratic. Collusion is the new “rigged,” the word that Trump uses to argue that there is not a free market in elections, that he is not getting the delegates he deserves, that Party insiders want to steal what’s his. He is trying to make Cruz and Kasich sound like a couple of cartel-backed price-fixers.

Trump is right, the reporter wrong, if she really believes this isn’t an example of collusion. It is an example of collusion, that is, if the definition of words really matters (emphasis mine)

noun: collusion:

secret or illegal cooperation or conspiracy, especially in order to cheat or deceive others.

Here, “others” refers to all the primary voters who voted for Trump (and  thus secured his delegates) .

“Secret” refers to the nature of the deals agreed to by Cruz & Kasich, and the machinations many fear will be carried out by Republican party operatives at the convention, to deny the putative Will of the People.

Where, Will of the People = We vote Trump to be the Republican nominee.

You may not like the People’s Will, Kasich and Cruz may not like the People’s Will, party operatives may not like the People’s Will — I may not like the People’s Will! But an effort to subvert the People’s Will (“others”) via mysterious (“secret”) rules/agreements – sorry folks, that’s Collusion. And so far as I recall from High School civics (very little to be honest), it’s exceedingly un-Democratic. Trump is right about that much.

To summarize:

Fact 1: I will not vote for Donald Trump for POTUS.

Fact 2: The statement, “X is usually wrong,” DOES NOT mean, “X is always wrong.”

HW in her sh*t kickers. Our last day in Texas I think. You do not want to end up on the wrong side of a kick from one of those bad boys.

We had a good time in the Texas Hill Country. Though it’s always a little sad at the end of a tour. I’ve been on many over the years.  At the start you’re pressed together with people most of whom you’ve never met before, and for a week or more you do everything together – cycle, eat breakfast, meet each night (to discuss the next day), sleep in the same hotel, etc.. Then before you know it – Poof! – the tour’s over. There’s the hugs, the goodbyes, the great-to meetchayas, and the everyone goes their own way. It feels a bit like drive-by friendship. Although, like the others I suppose, it does feel good to be back home.

Never before had a dog with a built-in carry handle

He likes to run the tide line trying to catch himself a gull. Just once I wish he’d get one. He’s a young dog so who knows, maybe one day one of them birds gets a little complacent, misjudges the dog’s distance or speed, lifts off a bit too late…who can say for sure.

Moving up the food chain

Happy Wife complained at the Starbucks this morning of having high interstitial fluid. (It’s the heat). I reminded her that her latte was a good diuretic. She proceeded to school me that diuresis (the reduction of interstitial fluid) is more involved than merely peeing out coffee.

“Sorry honey,” I said, “I got nothing.”

And so our day began.

One of those days you feel captive inside the airport hotel with few places to venture to on foot. Last night shortly after we arrived we crossed the gauntlet of traffic entering and exiting a major freeway and managed to find a decent Tex-Mex restaurant. We spotted the Starbucks next door. That was about it. Nothing else, really, except freeway and anonymous concrete as far as the eye could see. At least it beat hotel room-coffee and calling out for pizza.

Another few hours before we lift off for Portland. And then a couple more hours there before we lift off for the Greatland. Home after midnight.

But… But!  Eventually, on the pentultimate day of the tour, we found ourselves among the Bluebonnets

HW and I started the tour woefully out of shape. The last time I rode my road bike was probably September of last year. Longer still for HW. I think we were possibly the two youngest people on the tour, yet most days we came in last or near last. Not that there’s anything the least bit competitive about these tours, there isn’t, nobody really cares how fast or slow you are. But when people 10-12 years your senior finish the day a half hour or more before you, you do begin to wonder 1) how the hell they stay so fit, and 2) why they are not reaching for four ibuprofen the second they dismount their bikes.

By night we roamed Main Street in Fredericksburg in search of a decent place to eat. The city was originally settled by Germans in the late nineteenth century and so not surprisingly many restaurants feature German inspired fare. Somehow, though, schnitzel and potatoes over red cabbage doesn’t make the mouth water after 50 miles in the saddle in 82 degree heat. (I think we were also the only two on the tour to refer to an 82 degree day as hot). We tried a German restaraunt one night and the food was awful. The meat was absolutely flavorless, like it had been boiled in gray water. The noodles and fries were equally tasteless with the texture of wet cardboard. I added salt (a lot) to my (so-called) chicken-fried steak. No difference. All I tasted was salt. Which I have to admit was an improvement. A similar disaster played out on HW’s plate. To her credit she was brave enough to try the “blue cheese” dressing on her dinner salad (such as it was). Not me. The stuff came separate from the salad in a small plastic cup. Pretty typical, until you looked closely – small white curd-like clumps of who knows what sunk to the bottom of a milky-white oil substance. Whatever it was it looked to me like it had spoiled. The look on HW’s face after one mouthful indicated maybe it had. I hailed the waitress and asked that she bring us the ranch dressing instead. That, at least, was passable.

On our last day in Fredericksburg two women, at what came to be our favorite wine bar, where cowboys come to Tweet and drink Rose, turned us on to Ottos.

And Otto’s? OMG.  The venue ain’t much larger inside than the living room of a large house, but don’t let that fool ya.

For starters we shared the Foie Gras “BLT”

seared hudson valley foie gras, tomato jam, candied bacon, quail egg

HW’s entrée,  Duck Schnitzel

hand-breaded duck breast, spätzle, rotkohl, kirsch demi-glace, duck cracklins

Mine, locally-sourced Quail with potatoes voulere over broccoli

(special of the night so couldn’t find the fancy description online)

For dessert, a slice of sinfully delicious cheesecake with caramel drizzle and salted pecans

Better yet, one of the women at the wine bar who turned us on to Ottos called the restaraunt while we were eating to tell our waiter she wanted to pay for our drinks! Blown away we were by that Texas-sized generosity, I wanna tell ya’ll.

Guess which one’s cardboard

Waiting for the starting gun at the start of the LBJ 100. Must’ve been 1500 cyclists

Sensational day for cycling. Cool in the morning and 70 by midday. Free food and beer at the end. Impressive organization. I’d do it again for sure. This women rode thirty miles on this bike, in those clothes. It’s not visible here but there is leather saddle on the bike. Impressive effort. Captured her here performing for onlookers after the ride

Stopped at the Whole Foods flagship store in Austin while out shopping for a pair of sensible walking shoes for Happy Wife. She’d forgotten to pack flats or flip-flops. The healthiest food, the store claims, is near the entrance. The abundance is overwhelming

We didn’t intend to stay long, just wanted to check the place out. Then HW said, Hey, why don’t we pick up some cheese, hummus, crackers, and olives to eat back at our room? Brilliant! So far so good. Until we spotted the wine bar. Instantly we looked at each other, raised our eyebrows and nodded simultaneously. Not a word went between us. We tend to be of one mind in such matters. Before we knew it we were seated at the bar, the groceries paid for, opened and spread out in front of us like a picnic lunch. We were into our second glass of wine before we took note of the cheesy movie showing on the TV behind the bar: Circle of Iron. NYT review here. Think Quest of Fire but with more dialog. The lead dude looked like Peter Frampton but was actually Roddie McDowell, plus David Carradine, who played four different roles in the movie, and Eli Wallach, who had to sit in a barrel of oil for ten years to get rid of his genitals. I asked folks around the bar why, but nobody was sure.

If you want to shop while you drink you can. The bartender was happy to decant your beer or wine into a plastic cup. If I’m not mistaken the shopping carts had drink holders. What a country.

 Like in other cities the abundance in Austin is not evenly distributed

For those of you trying to guess where we stayed, The Driskill. Happy Wife paused to point out the obvious, Dude, that’s Mr. Driskill

Later it was back to Tim Love’s Lonesome Dove restaurant to celebrate HW’s birthday

We enjoyed the food so much the night before we went back for more.

Wednesday we packed everything up and headed west to Fredericksburg to begin the bike tour. Hill country! Pretty country. Bluebonnets! The landscape sorta reminds me of a cross between Pasa Robles, CA and the hills outside Santa Fe, NM. More later from the first day of the ride.

Today (Friday) was supposed to be the second day of riding, except we woke to heavy thunderstorms and sheets of rain. So the tour leader cancelled the ride. It was 84 yesterday. This morning it was 55. Not expected to reach even 65 today. Starting tomorrow, 75-85 and sunny for a week or more. Tomorrow we’re all entered in the LBJ 100.

The seat of state government. Or the Butt, as you please.

Inside the rotunda on the second floor we visited the chambers of the Senate and house of Representatives. Both were empty. Probably a good thing. Who famously said: government which governs the least governs the best? In any case, quite the fancy affair. The docent was very knowledgeable and apparently thoroughly enjoyed bending Happy Wife’s ear about the things to see and do about town. Hmm.

 She’s never been shy around guns this one. The bigger the better

Later, after considerable walking about we mounted our bikes and ventured out. After just a few miles of pedaling through an industrial area, a stop at an East side bike shop for air and CO2 cannisters we managed to find a really nice trail along a creek. All told we must’ve ridden 15-20 miles. Don’t know for certain, my cyclometer needs new batteries.

Back at hotel we cleaned up and were off again.

A stop here, a stop there, a martini and wine, and a thoroughly scrumptious beef taretare

We ended the night at Mike Tim Love’s restaurant where, if you ever come, DO NOT pass on the burnt carrots with honey and Meyer Lemon and goat cheese. Shessh those were good. Finally, we strolled back to the hotel where we both surrendered to sleep like two jet-lagged Alaskans. Have you guessed where we are?

Imagine packing a dozen eggs in a half dozen-sized carton

So far so good.

But will the hat fit?

Voila!

At check-in tomorrow we’ll be asked: “Bicycle?” Because I can’t tell a lie I’ll say yes. And yet, I know you must be wondering, isn’t it a sin of omission not to say Bicycles? Not at a $100 a piece (each way) it isn’t. Besides, it’s hardly bigger (and certainly no heavier) than a large piece of luggage. We’re flying first class so our bags fly free, but not this one, oh no. “You’re going on vacation to have fun and you want us to transport a bicycle? Oh baby, that’s gonna cost you extra, big time!” Pfft.

What I hate about airline policies like this is how arbitrarily they’re enforced. Find a woman in a fair mood and sometimes she’ll ignore the policy entirely – $0.00. Get some rule-bound old fart and he’ll insist you open it up to make sure you’re not trying to get something by him.

Either way, can’t wait to get there. We’ve heard the wildflowers are sensational this year.

Had a moment in the Men’s room the other morning where you think it’s just Number One, so you get going, then realize, no, Number Two wants out as well. (Must’ve been that banana). Anyway, without bothering to zip up I did a sort of modified Moonwalk to an open stall, hoping nobody would walk in just then. Sat down and while I got my business done I thought about just how absurd life can be sometimes.

Is it just me or does Trump not look like Jack Kemp back from the dead and too long in the Florida sun?

A close second was Happy Wife shortly after cleaning the downstairs toilet

Speaking of whom, poor girl, she fell on the ice and landed on the back of her head. Eight stitches later she was on the mend and a strict concussion protocol. She’s all better now, in fact the stitches came out this morning, a pro bono effort performed by her nursy friends at the kitchen table. It’s been a few weeks since the accident but I still test her cognition now and then, just to make sure: Tell me the one reason you married me? Any answer that doesn’t include rock-hard abs and chiseled features and I’ll know something’s wrong, she’s off to the Neurologist.

Given the paucity of posts here lately you might think it was me who fell on my head, causing sudden Agraphia. I have no real excuse, just a jumble of interruptive things to get done this past month, a few days under the weather and, honestly, just feeling a little enervated lately. That will have to change soon. We’re off for two weeks of vacation in the southwest the end of this month. We will be expected to exhibit vitality and good spirits. It all begins with me spoiling Happy Wife on her birthday with 3 nights in a 4-star hotel, dinner out wherever she pleases, an evening stroll along a bridge beneath which, we’ve been told, thousands of bats emerge each night to delight onlookers, and whatever else moves us. Following that, a 7 day bicycle tour.

Can’t wait.

Latest number one dislike: Web sites where videos begin automatically. There is no punishment too cruel for these site designers. If I want to know about the latest product to improve my colon health I’ll click the damn play button, okay? Mark my words, no self starting videos will ever – Ever! – appear here at Rod’s Alter Ego.

Hello! Welcome to the unfolding narrative of our daily lives. We have a house guest. Our friend, Mel, a traveling nurse of sorts, is here for several months to work at the radiation clinic where she used to work when she and her husband lived in Anchorage before moving to the southern most reach of New Mexico. A place we understand is so quiet at night you can hear a gecko yawn. Until Mel finds a place to rent she’s welcome to stay with us, being she’s quiet as a church mouse. You might be thinking, hey, lucky man, alone in the house with two nurses – RAWRrrrr. I assure you, those days are behind me. I mean the very idea I might one day come downstairs to find these two dressed in sheer white stockings, matching garters and sky-high white stiletto heels, playfully sparring like two kittens with their stethoscopes over who’ll be the first to listen to my heart, well…where was I, right, anyway, fuggedaboutit.

The earthquake a couple weeks ago turned the water at our Nest pooh brown. When the ground shakes that hard the rust on the well casing falls into the well. This is the second time this has happened since we bought the place over three years ago. It’s not a big deal, we open a faucet or two in the house and let it run, a couple hundred gallons or so and the problem resolves. Problem is, if you use the hot water before the water runs clear, as I mistakenly did, then certain filters and orifices in the on-demand water heater become clogged. Oh no, Maintenance. Wouldn’t you know it the heater was installed in a mechanical closet, the keyword being “closet,”  thus preventing ease of access by a six foot tall, one hundred ninety-five pound aging white male (did I mention I turned 56 a week ago today?). Imagine replacing the light bulb in your oven while jammed inside it. Worse, imagine you’re the Tin Man sans his oil can. Worse yet, the filter is at the back of the unit. Houdini couldn’t contort like I had to.

After maintenance was complete (sort of anyway – the hot water pressure is still not what it used to be meaning at least one more trip into the “closet” for me) Happy Wife, the dog and I walked to Tonsina Point. A glorious winter day, if you want to call this winter that is. Near forty degrees and still virtually snow free at sea level.

(One click remember makes most pics bigger).

After the river, we usually walk through a woods to access the beach proper. To stop and look up is to see the tops of hundred year old trees (Western Hemlock?) with their curious little moss-laden appendages sticking out

When we reach the beach all is peaceful. One earthquake in the right place though can turn this basin (Resurrection Bay) into a killer. The water drops off quickly to >160 fathoms (~1000′) in the center of the Bay. Get it shakin’ just right and it’s like a washing machine out there, sloshing against the mountains and drowning the lowlands (i.e. Seward)

We don’t dwell on that, but we’re aware of it. If we run for high ground the dog’s sure to follow us, so no worries there. And run we would, like a few weeks ago when we were down here and the 7.1 struck. At 1:30 am no less. It was dark then so it’s not like we could just step outside our bedroom door onto the porch to see if the water was retreating (the usual precursor of a tsunami). By which time it may have already been too late, again, depending on where and how big the quake was, as well as certain features of geology and geography. Happy Wife’s quick thinking is what would have saved us. She knew instinctively there was no time for analysis. Although in seconds I was on my phone surfing to the Alaska Earthquake Information Center, which posts information on quakes within like 30 seconds after they occur. By the time I discovered the quake occurred in Cook Inlet I was still in my clown pants wiping sleep dirt from my eyes while she was already dressed and frantic to leave, “We’re Going, NOW.” The city of Seward installed an early warning system for tsunamis a few years ago. But that night the sirens were silent. But what if the system failed for some reason? When your panicked all these things race through your mind.

Eventually we were grateful we were safe and went back to bed. The earthquake info site posted a 4.0 aftershock at ~ 4 am but we didn’t feel it. We drove back to Anchorage the following day and discovered all the drawers in our dressers and desks were wide open. A few things had fallen to the floor but nothing too serious. Remarkable, really, given how strongly the quake was felt in Anchorage according to friends and neighbors. Certain stores had shelves and/or cabinets collapse and fall, strewing merchandise all over the floor.

And so I survived to see another birthday. Happy Wife was in the mood to treat me to a night out, wherever I wanted to go. Sometimes she wonders if now that we’re in our fifties it’s still age-appropriate to put on the glam for a date night. “Dear,” I reassure her, “too soon the day will come when our hair has gone gray, our faces soft and fallen, our shoes have Velcro closures and all we have left is each other and the wisdom of elders.”

You’re right, she says, make me a drink while I go get ready

Be still my heart.