What’s ~4.6 billion years old, sometimes referred to as a “dwarf,” 93 million miles away, really hot yet still can’t melt a flake of snow in Alaska?

Hint (fill in the blank): Mama always told me not to look into the sights of the ___. Oh, but mama, that’s where the fun is!

It’s always uplifting this time of year. Right around my birthday ol’ Sol begins the Sisyphean climb back to its Zenith and our spirits are restored. Praises be. I’ve always said that it isn’t the winter cold that makes me moody so much as it is the short days. But not to worry, before long we’ll once again stow the bottle of Vitamin-D in the cabinet and look forward to months of midnight Sun.

Nothing lasts forever though

The Sun is roughly middle aged and has not changed dramatically for four billion^[b] years, and will remain fairly stable for another four billion years. However, after hydrogen fusion in its core has stopped, the Sun will undergo severe changes and become a red giant. It is calculated that the Sun will become sufficiently large to engulf the current orbits of Mercury, Venus, and possibly Earth.

Can you say Sunburn? When this day arrives it’s  gonna make present-day global warming seem like a mild hot flash.

We’re hosting a dinner party tonight. Roll-up lasagna, salad topped with oven-roasted sweet pecans, and who knows how many bottles of fine red wine. I retrieved a couple of beauties from our cellar I hope will show well. “Pinot Bill” will be here; he’s a good friend and former colleague now living in Texas who’s up here visiting for a couple weeks. Bill knows more about Pinot Noir than anyone else I know. Actually, he knows more about wine generally than anyone else I know.

One time he and I along with two other friends split a bottle of Domaine de la Romanée-Conti, one of the finest (French) burgundies in the world. We’re talking like a few thousand dollars a bottle, ordinarily, but somehow Bill manged to get a sommelier at a fancy restaurant here in Anchorage to sell us one for $575 (if memory serves me correctly; this was over ten years ago, when oil was >$100/bbl). It was an especially good vintage, too (1990?), making it all the more remarkable. One bottle is four healthy pours of wine, so ~$145/glass for each of us (less a small pour we shared with the sommelier; the proper thing to do). After the sommelier decanted the wine the four of us just sat there staring at that garnet beauty for what must’ve been ten minutes or more. The floral aroma rising out of our glasses was so striking even a passing waitress paused to wonder what kind of wine we were drinking. We were all super careful not to make any sudden moves or do anything that might spill a glass. We laughed about that. Eventually, one of us, I don’t recall who, carefully lifted his glass by the stem, did all the usual swishing and sniffing one does with a good wine to judge its legs and nose, and then gently tilted the glass back to take the first delicate sip. Given the transcendent aroma of this wine that enveloped our table it was unlikely it had been corked (spoiled), but aroma alone is not always diagnostic, so the rest of us were like breathless, transfixed on the expression of the first sipper, anxious to witness his first impressions of the wine. I could hardly wait, Please oh please, I thought, don’t let this bottle be corked. Well, once that first sip finally washed over his back palette his eyes rolled back and his mouth was agape like someone who’d just had an orgasm. Hooray, we’ve got a winner! Over the next two hours you’ve never seen four happy grown men savor a single glass of wine so slowly. I’m not exaggerating when I say that was the finest wine I have ever experienced.

By comparison the wines tonight will be more pedestrian, a twelve year Barolo and ten year old Caymus Special Select are my offerings. Who knows what other bottles our guests will bring. It’s always fun to decant the wines and have people taste them blind, and then try to guess the grape type, vintage, and region. As you might imagine, correct answers are inversely proportional to the number of glasses imbibed. Should be a fun soiree tonight. Looking forward to seeing everyone.

Can you tell from my mood the dwarf is back?

Just crawled out from beneath the rubble to let you know we’re still here. When the quake struck we were two or more hours into a delicious sleep at our Nest, which you’ll recall is virtually on the beach. It was 1:30 am.  Happy Wife leaped out of bed and announced, “We’re leaving NOW!” The entire house lurched and listed like a drunkard leaving the tavern. Must’ve lasted 40 seconds or more. That’s a frightfully long 40 seconds in case you’ve never experienced something like this. And I haven’t, not in the 25 years I’ve lived here. This one was very scary. At first I thought she feared the house might collapse if it kept shaking like it was, and it was bad enough I feared it might too, but as I started to come around I got her real concern — Beach. Ocean. Tsunami.

That never occurred, thankfully, given the quake was deep (~50 miles), so eventually we settled down and went back to bed. The Dog insisted on sleeping with us the rest of the night, sensing our fear I suppose. At some point his anal sacs went off. If you’ve never experienced this particular “fragrance”, well, lucky you.

Husbands, like myself, grow weary from time to time from the objectification we suffer at the hands of our own wives. Am I right, men? There are days when I just want to shout, “Look, I am more than just washboard abs, tight butt cheeks, well-muscled shoulders, and a chiseled jawline, okay? I’m more than merely arm candy, somebody for you to parade around at your office parties and at the clubs.” For one, I have feelings. And two, more often than not, I am happy just to cuddle on the couch with you. Does intimacy always have to be about S*x?!

And then you remember she is from Venus and you from Mars. Your motives may be unaligned, yes, but the physical attraction, the constant that explains both your orbits, these are identical.

Hello! I feel as though I owe all of you an apology for the utter dearth of new content here lately, for being a desert when you want an ocean, a vacuum when you desire a concert, folded arms when you need a hug. I’ve no excuses to offer other than by the time I get home from work, settle in with a martini, catch up on the news of the day, greet Happy Wife (HW) when she gets home, discuss our respective days, help prepare (sometimes) and enjoy dinner, linger on the couch and binge-watch Nurse Jackie (spoiler alert: She spins out of control in season 7), well, my creative juices have dried up. Plus it’s dark outside. The hypothalamus’ pull to sleep is too much to resist. There’s the weekend, but lately that’s given over to chores that pile up during the week because of…Work. You see the problem here.

My brother-in-law phoned to tell me he bought five Powerball tickets. He assured me that if he won we (HW & I) would never have to work another day in our lives. I was especially hopeful because he’d recently won a new 50″ LED flat screen TV in a local raffle in Fairbanks. Luck be a Lady Tonight! I thought. Alas, he didn’t win so both of us, HW & I, must continue to…Work. Thirty years ago I should’ve gone to work for the government. I’d be retired by now, with HW & I on full benefits and our toes in the sand. Don’t get me started.

David Bowie and then Alan Rickman, both dead at 69 from Cancer, in the same week, it was a little hard to take. I dwelt in the driveway last night with the car running listening to Rebel Rebel at a high volume that might have incensed my Mother when I was coming up (Hi Mom!). Possibly my favorite Bowie song ever,

HW likes Heroes the best, which is a good song, though far less edgy. The whole Ziggy Stardust venture was an acquired taste but pretty cool if you made the investment, especially at 21 in a haze of cannabis smoke.

HW’s coined a new species name for the Black Dog, Chester, who’s a cross between a Labrador and a Husky: Huskador. Similar sounding to the place where fine cigars are stored. The only thing stored in this dog is food, the kind that’s like $4/lb (!), and then only temporarily as he metabolizes it before eventually squeezing out very expensive poops. HW caught him “nibbling” on a colorful rug upstairs and “investigating” the wooden base of a banister support with his teeth. In other words, he ain’t perfect. Although based on past experiences with young dogs in the house this is nothing. Coming home to find the couch cushions eviscerated of stuffing, or finding evidence that the Dog thought two arms on the leather Barcalounger was really probably one too many, well, that’s severely imperfect. So, so far so good when it comes to the Huskador.

 To all of you (52+! this year) who received our annual newsletter (aka, The Niblet), you’re welcome. Extra credit for those of you who admit you enjoyed it! For those of you who have reached out to us to ask kindly that you be removed from the list — Fuggetaboutit!

Happy Wife rolled her ankle a week or so ago while walking the dog at the ungodly hour of 5:30 am. So for Christmas I bought her a festive red robe, drove her to the Nest and plopped her on the couch with her tablet, and generally tried to pamper her non-stop throughout the weekend. Which makes me sound unselfishly benevolent, until you realize she also made dinner those nights and walked the dog with me on the beach.

Bad ankle not shown

You see The Dog did what he could to provide succor.

I’m off all this week! It feels glorious. Being able to do what I want when I want, can’t beat it. It has not, however, exempt me from doing chores. For example, every day this week I am responsible for walking The Dog. This has to wait until the light comes up, about 10:00 am this time of year, and even then it’s a dim light at first, so I’ve been waiting until closer to 11:30 or so to venture out. No snow again this year, at least hardly any in Anchorage (but some in the mountains). Yesterday it was 45 degrees here and then the wind howled like a Spurned Lover all night long. This tends to make the trails icy, so “grippers” attached to the soles of shoes are recommended. After that the bathtub needs attention – it creaks and squeaks whenever somebody moves or steps in it while taking a shower. I think the source of the problem is just cheap material the tub is made from, meaning to fix this I should replace the tub altogether, but there’s a possibility I can get by on the cheap by greasing here or oiling there, being the tub is a Jacuzzi-style model mounted on a wood frame with an access port to get at the piping and motor. It’s weird, ’cause I think it only squeaks in winter and goes quiet again summer. The tub ‘n shower are on an outside wall which may have something to do with it. Ya think?!

Here I find myself in complete agreement with Mr. Lileks (~ 5:25). Especially regarding: Come they told me, a rum pa pum pum (~ 8:00).

Uh, no, Little Drummer Boy, no one asked you to come a pum pum. Seriously, what new Mother barely out of the stirrups, coming down off the epidural, asks to have a precocious little boy stop by to bang on his skins?

Joseph: “Kid, seriously? Take your drum and beat it, can’t you see we’ve just had a baby here!”

Of course the baby wasn’t Joseph’s. Meaning I doubt he was handing out cigars to his buddies afterwards. Nevertheless, he’d committed himself to the long haul, incredulous though he must have been —  C’mon Mary, this is me you’re talking to. You’re really sticking by this claim you’re a Virgin? Srsly?

These days there’s not a rational person alive who wouldn’t demand a paternity test. Back then, had genetic testing been possible, can you imagine the surprise on the analyst’s face — “Lady, I don’t know who you’ve been sleeping with, it certainly wasn’t this Joseph of Nazareth fellow that’s for sure, because we’ve never seen anything like this. Mam, may I ask that you please sit down. You see, what I’m trying to tell you is, these DNA sequences, they’re…well, they’re not human.”

Poor Mary. Isn’t just like a man not to believe the woman, to blame the victim. Although given her son’s eventual role in the creation of a new religion it’s hard to view Mom as the victim. It’d be like feeling sorry for Lebron James’ mom.

…

Solstice tomorrow! Like I said a few posts back, expect to see me on the back porch in my house slippers Tuesday afternoon at about 3:40 PM (AKST) raising a toast to the additional 10 seconds of daylight. Actually, come to think of it, I’ll likely be at work then. No worries; wherever I happen to be I will pause for celebration.

Still largely snow-less around here, in town at least, and no snow in sight, if the forecast is to be believed. We are headed down to our Nest for Christmas and the weekend that follows. Just the two of us and Chester (The Dog). To read books, watch movies, lounge in the hot tub, walk the beach, eat well, quaff often, and sleep soundly. To give thanks for what we have. And — despite the dubious feeling of honor many of you must have knowing you are a recipient on my mailing list — to get started on the 2015 Nibblet!

Until then, Here’s To Longer Days…(raises glass to toast you all).

So far every toy we’ve given the Dog he’s eviscerated. Usually in thirty minutes or less. Must have gone through a dozen or more by now. Happy Wife (HW) fought back and bought one that was advertised to be thee toughest Dog Toy made. It sure looked tough. It was in the shape of a pony, with synthetic animal hide and double sewn seams. I’d probably have broken an Exacto blade trying to cut through it. Twenty minutes later: Puffy white guts lay strewn across the living room floor. And there he was, looking up at us, polishing his teeth with his tongue, “That all you got?”

With some fight still in her, tonight HW brings home a small tire with a hunk of knotted rope through it. Ten minutes and he had the rope out. Five more and he was shredding the tread!

I look to HW, “Next time, let’s try the entire car.”

http://twitter.com/nflnetwork/status/672645102406275072/photo/1

First I learned of the murders in San Bernadino, and then Happy Wife (HW) texts me that a friend died of a heart attack this morning. Perhaps more an acquaintance than a friend, though HW knew her better than I did. Still. It was a day where my own problems ongoing laments were trivial compared to tragedies local and distant.

It doesn’t matter what the world thinks. In fact, The World doesn’t think. Humans think. Or some of them do. The rest of us tag along. It’s true. Day to day most of us merely react to what goes on around us. We’re not trailblazers or pioneers or go-getters in any sense. We busy ourselves fretting over the banalities of basic life. Not like Zuckerberg and his wife. For God’s sake, they’re barely past 30 and already donating umpteen billions to charities of their own devising. I’m not a Facebook user or engineer, but from what I understand of Facebook it doesn’t seem that amazing. Not 43.6 Billion worth of amazing. Then again, as I said, Leader vs Follower.

A fine Thanksgiving with friends at our Nest. Owing to our position atop the food chain, certain sacrifices, I’m afraid, had to be made

An ignominious fate to be stuffed, baked, and eaten. Out of respect for the bird we performed these deeds in private.

The name of the bird does derive from the nation of the same name. For the longest time Europeans, the Portuguese in particular, had been importing small hens via the Ottaman empire (present day Turkey). These hens, native to the east coast of Africa, became known in Europe as turkey-hens. Many years later New World explorers returned to Europe with birds that were mistaken for turkey hens, and thus were named Turkeys.

Don’t ask me about Chicken. I got nothing.

Nothing outside to give thanks for either. Heavy rain and high wind battered the Nest day and night. Add a moderate storm surge to an exceptionally high tide, and the entire beach just disappeared. The waves were so high they were lapping at the base of the decks on the sea-side cottages.

On the nobility spectrum, far away from Turkeys, these birds were undaunted by hideous weather