Driving to the barber shop the other day it felt like the driver’s side back wheel was ready to come off. I pulled into the lot, parked, looked everything over. Nothing appeared out of sorts.

Hmm.

These days it takes about as long to cut my hair (eyebrows included) as it does to comb it. Imagine dragging a rake through a desert. I still comb out of habit, not necessity. Actually, anymore I use a brush — Happy Wife’s. The bristles are closer together on a brush, I get more purchase, making me feel like the effort actually improved my appearance. It still costs me $17.00 for a haircut. Flat rate. Doesn’t matter. Hell, it could be Howard Stern in that chair. He could walk in, sit down, and say “Make me look like Jesse Ventura.” Wouldn’t matter — $17.00.

Lehi, my barber, always shows me his work in a mirror before I leave the chair, “How’s that. Think the missus will let you back in the house now?” It’s one of few narcissistic moments it’s okay to enjoy. Someone holds a mirror to your face and asks you to appraise your appearance. I look at myself and think, “Maybe save the selfie for another day?” It’s not that 55 years has devastated me, it’s just not a visage I think needs to be pixelated and preserved for posterity.

Some day, just to get my money’s worth, I’m going to have Lehi cut it all off. That oughta give Happy Wife a jolt.

I hand him a twenty and wave goodbye. He appreciates my business, is always grateful for the tip.

Turns out the wheel was about to fall off. Driving home after the haircut the noise and shaking got much worse. I slowed to make the u-turn a block from our driveway when the driver behind me honked. Which annoyed me at that instant — WTF, can’t I make a u-turn for God’s sake?!

Probably he/she was just trying to warn me was all.

Pulled in the driveway, got out of the car and looked at the wheel. 3 of 5 lugs gone, the pins sheared off. The two remaining lugs were loose.

Who would want to kill me?

Turns out it was probably me. The last time the wheel was removed was when I flatted on the Denali Highway, back in June when Happy Wife and I took off for an impromptu vacation. I must not have tightened the lugs properly. Although I do have a memory that I took special care to do so.

Hmm.

And to think they’ve been working themselves loose all this time. Yikes.

HW is back to sleeping in a tent in the backyard at night. Too warm in the house. Supposed to remain miserable through Friday, mid to high 70’s and sunny, and by Saturday turn nice again, low 60s and rain.

She’s doing the best she can under these difficult circumstances

Happy Wife led Dumpy Husband up a hideously steep climb to what she estimated was 1/3rd of the way to the summit of Mt. Alice. A young lady at the trail head, maybe half our age, mentioned to me that only a few people have ever made it to the summit. “Some have died trying,” she added.

Death? Like No Tomorrow?

Kids these days.

“Have a great day!” she said. And just like that she, her boyfriend (?), and their alacritous dog bounded up the trail and we never saw them again. By the time HW and I reached our turnaround point I was feeling the start of sewing machine leg. Which I knew was only going to get worse on the descent.

Here we were at our turnaround

And from Seward later the same day, the arrow marks our turnaround. The summit of Mt. Alice looms to the left.

I got snail mail a few days ago from a journal editor letting me know my story had not been accepted for publication. No biggie, right, add it to the pile. Except this story… I’d sent it in three years ago. Talk about your long wait time. It’s a story about a young man who was betrayed by his friend and mentor, with a tragicomic end. I rather like the story, but I agree with others who read it that it’s a bit long for a short story. I think it may work better as a book chapter.

Imagine, you’ve drifted off into a luxurious sleep. When all of a sudden, you’re awakened by this

It happened to me. July 4th. I’d checked out of the party early (being the wimp that I am), tended to my ablutions, chased my statin and two Ibuprofen with a cold glass of water, slipped beneath the covers and, well, like I said, drifted off into a luxurious sleep. Sometime later, I’m guessing maybe an hour, these five pushed open the bedroom door and woke me up. Even though I was groggy I had the presence of mind to snap a photo. Damn good thing I keep my phone bedside. Positively Hitchcockian.

The one far right was our guest from England. He’s leaving Anchorage tonight to fly to Chicago, a seven hour layover, and then on to Heathrow. Seven hours to Chicago, another nine to Heathrow. Ugh. One thing I love working for an Alaskan company is I no longer have to fly for work. We’re going to miss our friend from England. We didn’t get to know him well, but what we did get to know we liked very much.

He showed me how to root my phone! Encouraged me to keep at it with the guitar (even suggested a novel method for accelerated learning). Praised my latest software at work, and was a most gracious guest as we showed him all we could of this wondrous place we call home.

Oh yeah, and he liked my martinis,

Summer is holding on. Back into the 70s this week. (Speaking of luxurious). Along with our guest from across the Pond we had family visit us for a few days — thoroughly enjoyable. And now, this weekend, it’s just me and Happy Wife at our Nest, taking a breather, until more guests arrive in August. And then come September — Ta Da! — we are Wisconsin bound. Not saying where, exactly, but if you find yourself in front of a tv come 9/28 (hint: Monday Night), tune in to this, you may spot us!

A grand 4th it was! Although, as I feared, this year it was not a day marked by American Exceptionalism. Take for instance the Mount Marathon race. The course record for women was demolished by Miss Forsberg, a French woman who hails from Calais, France.

I caught her cruising to the finish line, her hair barely mussed from the effort, like she’d just come from the bathroom after freshening up

To be fair, a young Alaskan woman who finished second, her first year competing as an adult, also beat the course record by a few seconds. She will be one to watch in future years.

In the men’s race, a Spaniard, from Spain — nothing gets by me! — also set a course record. Nobody in sight behind him either as he also cruised to the finish

If you think this a race only for the young, think again. I captured this old timer as he approached the base of the climb. Must’ve been 65 or older. Alone in his thoughts I’m sure. Clearly he’s not in it to win. It’s about bragging rights if I had to venture a guess. Or something he does every year because of a promise he made long ago, probably to himself. Whatever it is he had a long time to think about it. That’s a steep mountain to get up and down.

 

Another one of the men approaching the start of the climb

Some return a lot more beaten and ragged than when they left

Here’s a look at the summit from near the finish, should you be thinking, “What’s So Hard, It’s Half Downhill.” Less than 42 minutes up and down? These people are not human

“May I have my Latte now please.”

Stat Dear!

That was earlier in the week. Now the long weekend begins. We are headed to Seward, the busiest weekend of the year down there by far owing to the Mount Marathon race. We’ve invited along a man I met at work who’s here from the UK doing some contract work. The irony of celebrating our nation’s independence from Great Britain with him has not escaped me. Maybe a little reenactment, sir? Haha.

By the way, why is it called Great Britain? You never hear Great Egypt, or Great Brazil, Great United States, or Great India. I was told by our guest that in fact it was a matter that had stirred a lively national debate. When put to a vote, Great narrowly edged out Fantastic and Amazing. I don’t need to remind you of the all the dangers of an excessive national pride.

And here I sit, as I type, eating an English muffin and listening to a woman on the radio with a heavy British accent go on about something or another. This is what happens when you let your guard down. The proverbial Camel’s nose under the tent. The seemingly innocent day-to-day things that become established in our lives may in fact be the harbingers of tyranny.

Gotta run. Many Honey-Dos to tend to before we can depart Anchorage. Supposed to be warm and sunny throughout the weekend. This pleases me greatly. Enjoy he Holiday!

If you had asked her forty years ago, “Can you imagine that someday you’ll be walking a beach in Alaska, on summer solstice, carrying dog poop, fishing line, and an empty can of Miller High Life inside a discarded plastic grocery bag?”

Well.

Sometimes, dreams come true

Mercifully cooler today. We slept together in the same bed! I felt like I had to learn everything all over again.

After a restful night of sleep we awoke, had coffee together on the deck — a soft boiled egg and muffin (me) — and then we rolled up our sleeves and completed laying the new floor in the guest house.

Supposed to be in the seventies again next week, near eighty in Anchorage.

…

The tragedy in Charleston. It doesn’t seem right to me to say nothing about it. Which might be interpreted by some as a kind of acquiescence, that tragedies like this will continue to happen from time to time and there’s really nothing more politicians can do about it. On the other hand, it peeves me to see the mainstream media thrust the mic in the face of every politician to goad them into saying something about it, and then grade the responses by depth of grief, or imbecility. For what purpose?

We live in a dangerous world. I wish it weren’t so. But it is. Everyday and everywhere be vigilant, careful, and selective of who you trust. What else can any one person do?

Her hair was wet because she’d just run through the sprinkler. At night she’s back to sleeping in the tent in the backyard to escape the heat in our second floor bedroom. There are forest fires burning north and south of us. Lowes and Home Depot have sold out of fans. Downtown, men stand on street corners prophesying The End of Times.

Tourists are puzzled. They step off the buses, some wearing coats — coats mind you! — and wonder why us locals appear so Woeful. “It’s summer,” they shrug, “supposed to be warm.” They don’t understand. What they want is tax-free Moose Poop jewelry. Their names appear on cards dangling from lanyards slung around their necks. This is so the tour guide can spot them more easily when it’s time to hurry them back onto the bus. And for the shop-owners, too:

“Evelyn is it, from Indiana?…yes Evelyn, I can assure you, all our turds come from 100%, purely grass-fed Moose — right here in Alaska!”

Ka-ching.

I take it all in while eating a polish sausage topped with grilled onions, seated on the rim of a concrete planter outside the Public Lands Information building. Just watchin’ ’em go by.

I never tire of seeing the tourists. To live and work in a place so many people can’t wait to experience, some for the first time — priceless.

Low 80s the past couple days. Forecast is for it to continue the next two, then cool down into the mid 70s as the month draws to a close. I just now kissed Happy Wife goodnight before she headed off to her cocoon of coolness in a swale of grass in the backyard. By the time it’s cool enough for her to return to the bedroom, sleeping together will seem new again. Some things are worth the wait.

Happy Wife and I slogged up to Marmot Overlook to glimpse Exit Glacier. Aptly named. One thousand feet Up in 1.2 miles. 74 degrees. 82 by Tuesday if the forecasters are to be believed.