The plane lands on Maui.

Everyone turns on their phone.

Satellites acquire.

Suddenly, I hear the texts queue up on my phone: tweet, tweet… tweet, tweet, like a songbird on steroids…tweet tweet… tweet tweet tweet…

They’re all from our house sitter: Came home and the septic high water alarm was on. Won’t go off. Loud. Annoying. Neighbor came over. Nice guy. Diesel mechanic, like my son! Lucy is fine. What to do?

Happy Wife and I collapse in disbelief. NOT. AGAIN. Two years ago on the eve of our flight to Hawaii a pipe in the septic tank broke, sending the high water alarm into paroxysms. We must’ve looked like parents who just got word their child had died, judging from the looks of the deplaning passengers observing our horror.

We walk to baggage claim; I call the house sitter; the neighbor is there; troubleshooting plan is devised; tools are acquired; time passes. Snow is shoveled to expose the tank lid; screws removed and gray water tank is inspected; no break in the pipe. Yeah! And so? Test the lift station pump manually, I say. I hear the alarm screaming through the phone. Neighbor removes fuse; alarm goes silent. Time passes; the pump is tested manually. But the water, she no come. Ah ha! Bad pump. Water can’t get to the leech field. Tank fills up.

Whew. Could be worse. Much worse.

Of course, this had to happen at 11:30 pm on Friday night. Septic people don’t work Saturdays. Nevertheless, neighbor calls and leaves a message. I thank him and house sitter profusely.

The following morning a reassuring call comes from septic people: “Rod, we got your back. We’ll fix this Monday. Enjoy your vacation. No worries.”

Reassurance accepted.

And so Happy Wife and I venture out for our morning espresso near the Napili Market. Marshall waits obediently near the door for his upright to return. I tell Marshall we’re from Alaska. Marshall says, “Alaska?! Do tell. I’m all ears.”

Later, Otis and I ride to Lahaina and back (~20 mi) to get my legs . I stop at Bad Ass coffee for an iced Mocha:

Back at the condo, Happy Wife and I expose our pasty white selves:

Later still, the sun sets behind our Mai Tai’s at the Sea House bar:

No Worries.

Arm candy (aka Happy Wife) Maui bound.

Bottomless mimosas free in the fun seats at thirty thousand feet.

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.