Our friend Meldyne and Happy Wife chill at the bar after a trying day caring for patients.

I chilled with them, although hardly due to work related fatigue. In fact, this afternoon I sneaked in a nap, having observed the apparent contentment it produced in the dogs who were at the time also both dead to the world. That, and my eyes grew heavy reading Where the West Ends on the Kindle Fire (aka “Kitty”, because we name everything around our house), which should not be interpreted as a slur against the vivid storytelling therein. To the contrary.

The first tale begins with the author and his good friend, both Americans, who we learn love their impromptu road trips, meeting in Turkey. There, the author suggests to his friend they drive to northern Iraq (and back) in two days. Just for a visit mind you. The author had previously visited northern Iraq as a journalist and wanted to re-experience it with his friend. They drive for hundreds of miles along the western and southern borders of Turkey, both of them suffering the symptoms of a nasty intestinal virus of uncertain origin. Eventually, they arrive at the northern border of Iraq, abandon the car there (because evidently only trucks are permitted to cross the border, not civilian vehicles), and then walk and/or taxi over the border under the escort of a suspicious man who we later learn is a Kurd. In other words, one of the good guys. This is 2006, a time when Kurdistan was very pro-American. The author had prearranged for someone to meet them in Iraq to be their escort for the day, but evidently neglected to establish a place where they would meet. After fumbling around for awhile, failing to find an Internet cafe to send an email to coordinate with their would-be escort, they instead settle for the services of another taxi driver who, once he learns these two are Americans, enthusiastically agrees to drive them to the University in the city of Duhok. A place that at first glance could pass for the Simi Valley north of Los Angeles. (Photograph is linked to other photos of Duhok).

That’s about the time a nap sounded good to me.

It wasn’t all pleasure reading and nap time though! No sir. Prior to said reading and nap I worked — yes, worked — to complete a feature in the software our company has been working on for about two years now, which I must say is coming along nicely. Having compiled said feature I immediately put it to use on a project we’re doing for a client, who is interested in our approach for identifying molecular markers of a certain disease they are studying. Sorry to be obtuse, but I think that’s all I’m at liberty to say about it right now.

Ending a diverse day of activity (and non-) in the company of two pretty ladies at a festive bar — what could be better!

Looks like Mr. Gregory may become a victim of his own advocacy.

Donchya hate it when that happens? And to think he thought there were not enough laws banning the possession of such things.

Hat tip: Tam

Christmas day and snow is imminent. A 32-bit world is reduced to 8, shades of gray, sans the Happy Wife.

A warm morning as we set out on the Brown bear/Black bear trail with the dogs and our friend Meldyne, who’s staying with us until she returns to New Mexico early in January. We love these trails in winter, fear them in summer, as they are aptly named. It was nice to see Campbell Creek open and flowing this time of year, evidence winter doesn’t always get its way, and fun to watch the dogs approach the thin tongues of ice jutting into the river, curious but cautious.

At home and cozy now. We have friends coming for Christmas dinner — surf ‘n turf including Alaska King crab and beef tenderloin on the grill. A perfect evening to be at the top of the food chain.

Merry Christmas all.

A curious creature isn’t he?

His name is Buddy. Buddy is in our care for a week or so while his owner companion is out of state for the holidays. He’s a mature dog and pretty smart, even gets along with Lucy, which is important because although Lucy has a very, very long fuse when it comes to aggression, she can bring out her whoop-ass when necessary, and Buddy is no match for her in that respect. Buddy discovered that this past summer when we watched him for a few days. He was in the backyard with Lucy and thought it would be good fun to nip at her ankles, and then run away when she turned to stop it. Of all the things Lucy playfully tolerates (nearly everything) ankle nipping is not among them. The Happy Wife said to me when I got home, “One minute they were playing, and the next I look out the window and Buddy is on his back, with Lucy’s mouth around him pressing him to the ground.” She didn’t mean to harm him, only to stop him, to let him understand in no uncertain terms: Don’t do that anymore. And just like that it was over and they continued playing.

It’s a model of the kind of swift justice quickly followed by detente that we (qua humans) envision for ourselves after a transgression. It’s what people mean, I think, when they say, “You can learn a lot from a dog.”

…

I finished our annual holiday newsletter today. It goes out via snail mail later this week to every victim recipient on my mailing list. If you wish to be added to the mailing list email me your snail mail address, or just wait a few weeks, I usually post a link to the pdf version here.

Here’s Lucy at Kincaid Park after a fresh ten inches or so:

Bigger.

She freaks me out whenever I see her “on point” like this. Peering into the woods possibly transfixed on a belligerent winter moose ready to commit a precious quantity of its meager caloric resource to a thorough stomping of me. Because there’s no way a moose could catch Lucy. You know what they say, when fleeing from angry wildlife it’s not critical you be the fastest in the group, just don’t be the slowest.

For the life of me I don’t understand how a 1,500-2,000 pound herbivore sustains itself through winter up here on dessicated twigs, branches and the occasional pastiche of wilted underbrush.

Anyhoo, turns out Lucy wasn’t pointing at anything in particular. Nothing I could detect anyway, when I turned and glanced into the woods fearful I’d see said moose rising like an apparition from the snow, hackles up ‘n ready to charge.

…

The men who wear the blue shoe covers are in the house today. The Happy Wife says the carpet really does appear cleaner after they’re through, but I wonder. If you expect a cleaner carpet you’ll see a cleaner carpet, no? An example of confirmation bias I think. Yet after years of marriage, and desirous of many more, I know better than to press my point of view on this. Plus the men with blue shoe covers left two new pairs of blue shoe covers for us to wear as we pad about on wet carpet. No extra charge, such a deal.

Just now the men are leaving. I overheard one man’s reassurance to the Happy Wife that the rug which he’d cleaned in the living room may not look like it’s been cleaned, but see here, if you turn on the light you’ll see it really has brightened up.

But of course!

Bless her, before they left the Happy Wife offered the men samples of her Christmas cookies, little white powdery balls of goodness.

Note to self: Careful what you ask for.

Presently snowing here to beat the band. Really, we have plenty now to insulate and reflect. Enough already!

A sad loss to our community was announced Saturday. Jens Hansen will be missed. I’ve mentioned how much the Happy Wife and I have enjoyed during our many years in Alaska sitting at the bar at Jens restaurant, drinking, eating, and carrying on with the staff and patrons, many of whom are regulars. Jens was an entrepreneur’s entrepreneur. A native of Denmark who moved to Alaska at age 24, he worked and saved as a chef at a popular downtown hotel for twenty years, until finally opening Jens in midtown where he and a quietly dedicated staff (many have worked there since the restaurant opened in 1988, a year before I moved to Alaska) have steadily provided fine food, wine, and good times.

Whenever Jens was present and learned one of his guests was having a birthday, his signature thrill was to put on the the Beatles’ song, Birthday, and turn it up real loud, much to the chagrin of his wife, who’d quickly dash over to turn it down, only to have Jens turn it back up when she left!

We will miss his gravelly voice and joyful spirit.

Godspeed, Jens, Godspeed.

In light of his opportunistic comment that the availability of guns makes mayhem easier, after an NFL player shot and killed his girlfriend and himself, Bob Costas will want to include cars as mayhem contributors, given the reckless use of one was recently responsible for the death of another NFL player.

I’ll be taken to task by some for saying this. Wait a minute, they’ll say, the clear intention of the former was murder (and suicide), the latter, while evidently reckless, was nevertheless an accident. That’s a fair point (although legally it’s not being treated as an accident). But then the Costas objection should be corrected: Bad intentions lead to mayhem. Because intentions originate in a human mind, not the barrel of a gun.

Besides, we don’t know if, absent the availability of a gun, the murderer would not have simply chosen a substitute weapon, like a knife, the weapon of choice of another famous football player with bad intentions who used it (evidently) to kill his ex wife and her friend.

What’s the word for that crusted plug that clogs the nozzle on the ketchup squeeze bottle? The one that resists the even flow of the tomatoey goodness until it can’t no more and then suddenly BAM! everything is red except the target meatloaf, and the counter and back splash look like the Tate-LaBianca murders. Equally hard to clean up from, too.

Thankfully the forecast calls for snow. Listen to me, grateful for snow. What gives? Well, it’s not because I’m a skier, I’m not, I’m a terrible skier. Closer to pathetic really. I want the insulation and light reflection snow provides. Especially the latter. We have a feeble sun this time of year and absent snow the dark ground absorbs all the light for itself. Making morning walks with Lucy less joyful.

And the world needs more joy, not less.

Here’s something: researchers claim they can detect colorectal cancer with a breath test. My dissertation research involved the study of human colon cancer. (Side note: If the malls are closed, you’re out of books to read, the chores are done, and especially if your normal sleep aid is failing you, please click the “About” link over there on the right, and look for the link to where you can read my dissertation).

Anyhoo, interesting article. Except I believe they understated the predictive accuracy of their test, unless they have more data than what was shared in the article, or a non-standard formula for accuracy.

The breath test analysis correctly identified 32 of the 37 patients with colorectal cancer and incorrectly diagnosed cancer in seven of the 41 healthy patients. Overall, the breath test had an accuracy rate of 76% in identifying patients with cancer.

In other words, 32 true positives (TP), 34 true negatives (TN), 7 false positives (FP), and 5 false negatives (FN).

Predictive accuracy = (TP + TN)/(TP + FP +FN + TN) = 84.6%

Some commenters to the article wondered if “shitty” smelling breath would produce a true positive. Ha ha, very funny.

5.8 magnitude. Epicenter ~30 miles from Anchorage. Across Cook Inlet near Beluga.

Caused the Cabernet in my wine glass to slosh a bit.

Update: Oh boy, we made the national news. Only two items fell from our bookshelf, a mask of peculiar origin (Happy Wife I’m sure knows the detail), and a small stalactite figurine. Lucy was home alone at the time. Brave girl.