Heard a news report today that many Facebook users who take a hiatus from the site eventually return to become repeat users. This, in spite of the low quality posts they complain their friends make, one of the main reasons mentioned for taking the hiatus in the first place.

Never got hooked on Facebook myself. Been quietly devoted to spinning the silk of my peanut on the  WW-Web for over ten years now, and I’ve no intention of moving or duplicating my e-persona to any social network du jour, lest it become a gateway experience to the harder stuff. The one exception is LinkedIn, but I’ve not found that to be habit forming. Virtual people pop up in your inbox from time to time with exclamatory invitations, “Hi! I’d like you to join my network!” You figure, what the hell, it only costs a button click. And then you’re connected with them and they with you. A big deal? I don’t think so, except I suppose some people feel the number of connections is proportional to their professional reputation.

Got the southern fence extension up today, raising a 6-footer to an 8-9-footer, to discourage from crashing into the backyard and ravaging our trees while we’re in Maui all but the most committed moose. Wouldn’t want this happening again.

And I completed my 52nd trip around the sun yesterday. Today, my birthday, I begin the next revolution. Happy Wife bought me a guitar for my birthday. I don’t know how to play, I can barely strum a single chord, but come the completion of my 53rd revolution I’d like to be able to play (and sing) for her, Harvest Moon by Neil Young.

In a phrase a dear friend of mine who died far too early once attributed to me, “Hard hard can it be?”

Stopped at a bar in Moose Pass today en route to the beach house. I had no idea guns had to be checked with the bartender. Up here, at least in summer when business picks up, I figure that’d keep a person about as busy as an ordinary coat check girl any place else in America.

Head feels like it was injected with cotton from a gun used to spray insulation.

Ugh.

Nothing like a shot of Dextromethorphan laced with Acetaminophen to keep this cold victim sleeping soundly. Pharmacologically speaking, Dextro- is a dissociative hallucinogen, albeit a relatively mild one in the dosage I took. And it’s available over the counter — what a country!

Molecularly speaking, the active metabolite of Dextro- (like many “pro-drugs“, Dextro- is first metabolized in the liver by the CYP enzymes into an “active” drug) is an NMDA receptor antagonist. NMDA is a cell surface protein (receptor) in the brain that acts to control neural plasticity and memory. When the drug binds to NMDA it inhibits this activity. More than you wanted to know?! Consider yourself fortunate, usually you’d have to pay big bucks to learn this stuff from PhDs.

Anyhoo, I don’t know what, specifically, the Dextro- “disassociates” us from, but it sure does induce wacko dreams.

In one, I was driving a car in the city where I grew up (physically, not intellectually, that came later) and my passengers were two people I recognized I went to high school with. They’re married now, to each other, a real Ken ‘n Barbie thing. Anyway, at one point the three of us were driving on what I recall was the freeway, I went right instead of left and suddenly the road just ended. There was no time to stop. Off the edge we went, into the air, for what felt like minutes, one of those dreams where you’re helplessly falling and there’s nothing to do but wait.

We crashed into the murk of the Milwaukee River, all of us shaken but uninjured. I remember climbing from the car soaking wet and Barbie was complaining because she needed to get to work and how the hell were we going to get her car (why I was driving her car I don’t know) out of the damn river. And then we were at some house (don’t know whose) waiting for Barbie to shower and dress for work.

And then Happy Wife must’ve turned over in bed, rousing me from the dream state.

Figures I should get a cold now, we leave for Maui a week from today. We were fortunate to be able to upgrade to 1st class.

“Mr. Nibbe, is there anything more I can get for you?”

“Why yes, two more Mai Tais, and a shot of Dextromethorphan. Oh, and another Mai Tai for Happy Wife too, please, ‘cept hold the Dextro- on that one.”

If you’ve not the slightest interest in nuanced Libertarianism, could care less about it than, say, the current temperature in Fairbanks, Alaska (it’s -29° F), don’t know or care what “nuanced” means or think Libertarianism is only for people who want (legally) to get stoned, then ignore the remainder of this post.

For all others, I read a fascinating post at the Popehat blog recently, complete with surely one of the most lively and thought-provoking comment threads I’ve seen in some time. Must’ve spent the better part of two hours one morning reading this. Afterwards, I’m unsure if I’m a left-libertarian, a right-libertarian, an anomaly, a closet anarchist, or a blissfully confused white man with a Midwest pedigree unaware of my own state of privilege and how it has rendered me irredeemably prejudiced and incapable of understanding the real reason why a young women once abused by an alcoholic parent can’t now stop whining and start her own business. Or maybe instead it’s because my skin color closely matches a band-aid.

Plus, I learned I may be an example of the reciprocal of the Dunning-Kruger effect!

Allow me to recommend from the cast of characters in the comments: 1) The pith of Robert White (Spoiler Alert: you may not like Bob); 2) The under-privileged conscientious objector, Kat; 3) Kat’s spicy antagonist, Julie; 4) The art of Graphictruth; etc..

At the end of the day, yes, there’s a lot of noise on the Blogosphere, but if you listen carefully every now and then you pick up some signal out there.

I’ve added Popehat to the “Sometimes Interesting” roll over there on the right. Need to keep an eye on these people.

Lucy & I were charged by an angry moose today. We’d just come down the hill and over the bridge on the far side of the lake when I heard this distressed wheezing and grunting sound. I looked up the hill and among the birch trees saw a young moose coming fast in our direction. No big deal seeing a moose, we see them all the time in Kincaid Park, but this one appeared frightened like something was chasing it. Except I didn’t see anything behind it, and its hackles were up and its head lowered, a posture consistent with an angry moose. It was charging. Us! I thought Holy Crap, and started into a run down the trail along the lake. I shouted to Lucy to do the same. I slowed down just enough to turn and look, and sure enough the moose was still coming. We picked up the pace. I stopped again in another fifty feet or so and turned again. I didn’t see it moving but then I spotted it in the trees. When it saw me it started running in our direction again! We ran the rest of the way to the parking lot and stopped again, but this time no sign of the moose behind us.

I’d seen this sign a thousand times at the trail head but never paid it any attention:

BIGGER.

Years ago before Happy Wife and I were together, she was running on a popular Anchorage trail with her dog when a bull moose charged them. She ran for cover behind a tree and the moose pinned her down there. Every time she tried to escape the moose moved to stop her. Eventually, someone at a nearby house saw she was trapped and called the police. The police came and distracted the moose long enough for Happy Wife to escape, and then they shot and killed the moose. The story made the local newspaper and Happy Wife was pilloried in the comment section with claims she behaved irresponsibly around “our urban moose”, and now she has the blood of a dead moose on her hands. One outraged person even called her home phone to chew her out! Sheesh.

Lately, I hear lamentations emanate from the country’s mid section: It’s so cold!

And I am supposed to moved by this?

Where was the reciprocal concern for We Alaskans last December when for weeks — weeks! –a drop of snot would freeze before leaving the nostril. In Fairbanks (aka “SquareBanks”) it was so cold — “How cold was it?!” — diesel fuel gelled. That’s how cold. Yet instead of sympathy from our fellow countrymen to the south, instead of answering the president’s inaugural beseechment to show concern for others over ourselves, we heard instead, that’s right: Silence.

Proving my long-held contention that few in America care much about what goes on in Alaska. So long as the oil keeps flowing and the wild salmon appear on dinner plates, whatever.

So; so sad to hear it’s cold America. Point your ear northwest and listen carefully, you may hear the sound of my tiny violin play.

And now Lucy and I are going out for our morning walk. 34° with a freezing rain advisory. Don’t you wish!

We were at the beach house Friday & Saturday night. On Saturday we witnessed certain people, 150 of them, leap into 36° saltwater to raise money for cancer research. Surely there’s a better way. Frogmen in dry suits were standing treading nearby to save anyone who might have gone into shock or needed help getting out of the water. None did during our watch. Banana man doing a flip was a nice theatrical twist. (Turn the video quality to at least 480p).

Later, Happy Wife discovers a starfish in a pool at low tide.

BIGGER.

The tide was low enough to expose the isthmus leading to a small monadnock offshore.

 

BIGGER.

All in all two great nights except Lucy was restless all of Saturday night, freakin’ out every time a slab of snow slid down the metal roof. Bless her, Happy Wife spent the entire night on the floor with Lucy to try to keep her settled.

Proposed title of a forthcoming book from Armstrong: “It’s Not About My Red Blood Cell Count (Either).”

Then what the hell was it about?

Nevermind. No one will believe you anyway.

…

I have a been a bicycle enthusiast from the time the training wheels came off my Schwinn Stingray. It was on 84th street, I was a young boy. I briefly turned to see my father far down the sidewalk, no longer running behind me holding the sissy bar to keep me balanced. I was riding, on two wheels, all by myself! Never again has a single experience reified the concept of freedom for me like that day on my bike.

It sickens me in a way to see this house of lies come crashing down on Armstrong, someone who had almost single handedly resurrected interest in cycling in America in the early part of this century. And now this betrayal. Pathetic.

A little contrition might have been nice, not that I expected it.

 

I’ve been having a conversation with myself over the national debt, knowing full well that, like bad summer weather, shaking my fist at it won’t make it go away. Surely we can all agree this debt is a bad thing, created by decades of profligate overspending in Washington, largely on things the government should not have been spending money on in the first place.

The dumbed down appeal from the president is that we as a nation can’t default on our obligations, the money was authorized to be spent by congress, we spent it, and now we have to pay our bills, he says. Others in government want to make their approval to borrow more money (I guess from China) to service the debt contingent on large spending cuts to stop increasing the debt. The president’s response to this is, he will not have the country’s obligation to pay its debt held hostage to a demand to reduce the growth of its debt. Huh? Reducing the growth of the debt is a conversation I’m willing to have, he says, but not now, down the road.

Oh, I see.

Reduced to a household metaphor graspable by The Folks: “Honey, we need to get another credit card just to pay the interest on our other ten credit cards, and later we can discuss whether or not to continue eating out every night.”

That kind of logic would go over like a fart in church at most supper tables. But coming from Washington, we are all supposed to just smile and say the president is doing the best he can, this isn’t a problem of his creation, he inherited it from the bad guys, the ones bent on destroying the country and its reputation, therefore don’t listen to them.

At this point in my schizophrenic conversation the principle and practical diverge. In principle, I agree with the bad guys, we ought to reduce the size of government to lessen its influence over our personal and economic liberties. The most obvious way to accomplish this is to severely reduce the amount of money the government spends. But in practice, how much should I really care about something I have no power to change? Indeed, what if not changing it, but encouraging it, for the rest of my years in this life is in my own interest? After all, in the next decade the government will begin mailing me and Happy Wife social security checks. Before long (by law) the government will be our primary health insurance provider. If principled arguments for severe austerity include the reduction or delay of these things to me and my wife, why should I agree with them? The usual come back argument is that I should think beyond myself and consider our children’s future, how they will have to bear the economic burden of continued profligacy in government. Except we don’t have children. Our concern may extend to our nieces, and possibly their children, but beyond that relationship my concern rapidly fades to good luck.

Anyway, an ongoing conversation with myself, which lately usually occurs during winter walks in a world of white.

Summit Lake, 75 miles south of Anchorage:

BIGGER.

The Packers were like a boat that could not get on step. They were close — hell it was 24-24 late in Q3. But leave the bow flapping in the wind too long and you begin to take on water, left vulnerable to the rogue wave. Plus no defense in the world is prepared for a quarterback to rush 200+ yards.

In other words, maybe next year.