First There was the Fist Bump...

...now there is the crotch bump, brought to us courtesy of TSA.

Really.

The crotch bump.

If you haven’t experienced one yet, it’s a sweeping upward motion during the pat down that lands squarely up against one’s genitals. I am thinking the fact that it’s done with the back of the hand isn’t doing much for me.

In fact the whole front/back of hand thing is puzzling. I don’t quite get how the back of a hand is less invasive than the front of the hand. Touch is touch. Someone sweeping the backs of their hands across my boobs is the same to me as someone sweeping the back of their hands. I get that this is a sop to keep the offended amongst us from reaching a fever pitch of protest that they might have to respond to– but still.

A grope is a grope is a grope.

My very first crotch bump occurred here at the ‘Banks – right after they installed Captain Marvel’s magic ray machine (aka the full-body scanner). I figured it was an accident – the result of an over-zealous, slightly clumsy TSA’er unaccustomed to doing full-body pat downs.

But now, having endured crotch bumps at various airports across the US of A, I conclude that, like zip lock baggies and 3-ounce gels, it is here to stay. Yet another development in this whole crazed process that does nothing to enhance our safety, but does everything to keep us in our places.

As a related aside, I routinely opt out of stepping into Captain Marvel’s magic ray machine. I do this because, yes I travel a lot and no, I don’t believe that just because the government gives it its safety imprimatur, it truly is. But mostly I do it because it is the last crumbling vestige of choice or individuality I can exert going through the cattle chute that American air transportation has become.

It's Been a (Persistently) Cold Winter

At right, Mac the Dog models the very latest in frost bite protection

Not that I am whingeing or anything, but this winter has been cold in a stubborn sort of way. Since the Great Winter Rain of Thanksgiving, we have had very few days above - 15 , and quite a number of days in the -30 to -40 range.

I knew it was a bad time to go Outside and leave the house and critters, but circumstances were such that I had little choice (no, this was not a trip to white beaches and turquoise seas). Despite the best and valiant efforts of the neighbors who tend to my place when I travel, I returned to frozen drains and frozen dogs.

The drains, although somewhat expensive to thaw, were at least remedied within 24 hours, and I now have a fully functioning system, albeit with a cracked 2-inch pipe from washing machine to main drain, but since I live in a post 'n pad simple box - with all of its pipes insulated and accessible under the house - this is a relatively inexpensive summertime fix. In the meantime, grey water leaks out when I do laundry and harmlessly forms a glacier on the gravel pad.

The frost-bitten dog is proving to be more challenging, however. In 20+ years of having sled and other assorted dogs, all of whom have lived outside when I travel, I never had a dog get frost bite, not even on their most sensitive naughty bits.

Until now. Inexplicably, upon arrival home, I found Mac the Dog with an alarming frost- bitten patch the size of a quarter on his side: fur gone, big necrotic cratered patch. And it's been growing daily.

Well, the obvious solution is to keep the dog indoors, and yes, he is indoors as much as possible, but this is a dog that drinks water by the buckets, and needs complete (and I mean complete) privacy in order to do his business. In his simple doggie brain, this translates into: "I can barely pee on a leash, and I most certainly cannot poop on a leash." Without the freedom to bury himself deep in the woods and deep in the snow, he really cant do anything at all. He also requires at least five to ten minutes of twirling in circles before he can settle down to toilet.

Ten to 15 minutes at minus 30, with no fur over a frost-bitten patch equals more dead skin and no healing. After two days of trying to protect it with salve and such like, the quarter has grown to a fifty-cent piece. And the side of a dog is proving to be a tricky place to affix any type of bandage, medication or cold protection.

The polar-fleece dog coat? Ripped off in minutes and left in the snow somewhere.

The vet-wrap rib-cage vest over salve, cotton balls, gauze and adhesive tape? Scratched off within 30 seconds, and half ingested, before I had even returned the vet items to their box.

So, this morning, I devised the frost-bite singlet, as modeled above. First, three layers of polar fleece protecting the frost bite - affixed with duct tape to the surrounding fur - then, the T-shirt, to prevent scratching and chewing, and to provide additional warmth. I am hoping the legs of the T-shirt, and the snug fit by additional application of duct tape will prevent him from wiggling out of the garment.

He's on a half-hour trial out in the dog pen now - as the coming week has meetings and other work-related obligations that will require him to be outside (although in a dog house with lots of straw) for some portion of the day. But in the wee hours of the morning I awake with visions of out-of-control lesions eating into the ribcage of Mac the Dog.

Who would have thought that a completely frozen drain system would prove to be easier to fix than a frost-bitten dog? Yet another thing learned*.

* along with the valuable arctic plumbing fact that while a steady drip through water pipes prevents freeze-up, a steady trickle, as from a toilet tank that was stealthily running, into a drain creates freeze-up. Lo, for the price of a $2o replacement toilet valve, there went $400 in thawing costs.

An Engineering Track They Don't Talk About at University

My dad was an architect, and quite a few skyscraper office buildings in a major US city incorporate his designs and his work. So I grew up looking at buildings and wondering about those who design and build them, as well as engaging in ruminations about what our modern collection of architecture - that which does not collapse due to shoddy design and materials (think McMansions here) - will tell those who follow us. Will the buildings which survive be architectural masterpieces on par with a Chartre or a Notre Dame, or will they be Olive Trees and Micky D's?

Speaking of which, when I have been inside one I have often wondered about the architects who design fast food restaurants. Are they people who managed the technical principles of architecture, but lacked all sense of aesthetics and design, or are they those that just barely made it through school? Maybe there is a lot of money to be had in designing these plastic representations of uber-America, or maybe there is just some bizarre satisfaction gained in creating big happy face clowns and kitschy roof tops.

Along that same drift of thinking - what about people who design vibrators, such as the Wascally Wabbit (tm) (it's water proof!)?? And how that little bunny gazes adoringly at the robust penis representation. The rabbit - so often referenced in the America sexual vernacular: they screwed like bunnies, the rabbit died, Hugh and his bunnies.... It's hard not to giggle at the Wascally Wabbit; oh Elmer, how did it come to this??

It takes some calculations, not to mention a whole bunch of metal ball bearings, to get that Wascally Wabbit rotating with all the insouciance of a young Lolita twirling a hula-hoop. Not to mention that the bunny ears are designed to flitter at a high rate of speed for extra oooumph.

Behold, the evolved, engineered vibrator, behind which there must be a mechanical engineer. True, one with a sense of humor (and not much color sense - why purple? why not purple?), but an engineer none-the-less, one could imagine. Harder to imagine, though, is the career path which led to such a point. It doesn't seem likely that vibrator design is one of those things that they, well, touch upon in engineering school.

But someone has to do it. And do it with flare. Carved dildos were found in ancient Roman excavations - will Wascally Wabbit and its kin be among our artifacts found by distant descendants? If so, they will perhaps notice the persistent use of sappy happy clown faces (with a twinge of the demonic) memorialized on scales large and small - from Ronald McDonald to the happy little munchkin grinning from under his penis cap on the Wascally Wabbit...

Little Penis Man: with the weirdly truncated arms

Freezing rain has turned Fairbanks into a NO DRIVE zone

How bad are the roads, you ask? So slick that a Subaru with winter tires going 15 miles per hour can't come to a stop.

My first sign to turn around and not even attempt Ballaine Hill was sliding across Ballaine Road as I  made a low-speed right turn on to it.  But no, I thought driving cautiously and slow might be alright.

My second sign to turn around and not try Ballaine Hill, even slowly, came before the crest of the hill, when I asked a woman pulled over on the should if she needed a lift.  Her car couldn't make it up the hill, she said, so she had called for a lift home.

By the time I noticed and paid attention to the third sign not to attempt Ballaine Hill even at a near crawl -- the third sign being all the other vehicles off the road below me -- I was already sliding downhill, ABS fluttering away, into the opposite lane of traffic, trying to gain some control over my direction and not slide into any of the other cars off the road.  This was all happening very slowly, mind you, but that was little comfort.

Visualize, for a moment, a curling stone.  You know how it comes to a slow, graceful spiral as it nears the end of the lane?  That was my trusty, sure-footed little Soob. By sheer luck and maybe some decent steering, the Soob gently nosed into a mini snow berm on the shoulder. On my side of the road.  Facing downhill. In theory, I could have tried to get down the hill.  Problem was, there was no guarantee I wouldn't hit all the other cars half-in/half-out of the lane.  And there was no guarantee I wouldn't end up spiraling into the opposite lane of traffic again.  Which was a far sight better than most of the other 8-10 vehicles off the road around me.  Most are going to require tow trucks which are going to be hard to come by today.

I managed to get all of the Soob on to the shoulder and walked back home on the snowmachine trail by the side of the road.  As I was walking I watched two cars crest the hill going way too fast, lose control and almost hit the Soob and vehicles coming up from the other side.  

Burning Man

Those who went before us were wise...especially about things outside the realm of the every day.

They knew the power of fire, and they never hesitated to use it. Its force is something I believe we tend not to think about too much in these days of other powers - like those that drive cell phones and computers, TVs and radios.

But when it comes down to dealing with evil, fire trumps all.

Many in life are lucky and pass their days without exposure to resident evil. Those who haven't encountered it may not truly understand its slyness. Evil's stalking grounds are more commonly the banal of everyday life: the chance encounter in a coffee shop, or a new colleague at work who seems really quite charming, until the mask is lifted. It excels at catching the unsuspecting off-guard, because while it is the expected companion of heinous crimes against individuals and against humanity, it is not expected to sit down at the dinner table in a quaint little restaurant. Sometimes resident evil is initially confused with abnormality, or a social or emotional dysfunction, possibly because it is pretty hard to get one's head around the fact that there truly does exist pure evil, even in neon-lit, box store-rich Squarebanks. And it's not always wielding an axe or a gun or some other very obvious and tangible instrument of evil.

For too long I left things in my house, stashed under my bed of all places, that carried the stink and contamination of the resident evil that had found purchase at one point in my life. Although these items had lain dormant all of that time, recently they came to life.

It was time to purify; throwing them out was insufficient, they were covered with the slimy slug trail evil leaves in its wake. Fire was the only route to protection.

Sure, burning at solstice is a cliche. But those ancients dealt a lot more with unseen forces than we think we do in this oh so modern and brightly lit time. Although often I think I would have preferred to give the whole experience a miss, most times I am grateful for what happened. Not only did I come out of it much stronger, but I gained awareness of the spirits and forces that are very much alive and cruising in our world. When science became a religion in the 20th century, its gospel of rational thought brought to us a dangerous myopia. It diminishes our abilities to discern that there is so much more walking these lands than what can be tidily explained by science.

It was a darn good fire, one of the best and the brightest I have ever tended.

Seasonality

Forswearing originality and a bit belatedly, here is the list of things that I am thankful for:

That...

...this Thanksgiving, I have a friend who is going to professional cooking school, and wanted, nay, begged, to do all the cooking for our communal dinner (dessert pictured at right).

...I didn't lose my dog on Thanksgiving Day. Oh, he went missing for a couple of hours - spooked by a dog team on the Goldstream trails - but he found his way home.

... of the 22 dogs I have had over the last 22 years, I have lost none of them, thus being spared the horror of repeatedly calling the pound, putting up signs, combing the trails, roads and woods, and facing many months of wondering what really happened to my dog.

... despite all my crazy athletic antics over the past 20 years, my knees, hips and ankles are still intact and functioning, and I can ski jor with my dogs.

...I have yet to burn down my house, despite a few close calls with creosote and,

....I have a huge stack of dry spruce to keep the chill at bay.

...they invented LED Christmas lights.

...I live in the Goldstream Valley and can ski whenever I want among trees covered in snow or hoar frost, on afternoons that are every shade of the palest yellow, orange and rose.

...I have not-so-new extended family that has not only taken me in, but has given me incentive to learn their language. Ma'shii cho, shalak naii.

...Apple makes a "shuffle".

...I have the opportunity to experience aspects of Interior Alaska that many often do not, even if at times it has been chaotic, unsettling and, a few times, downright scary.

...'Dweller passed on the wireless headphones - those might just have saved a budding relationship.

...I have a job, home and lifestyle that has turned out to be exactly what fits me.

...I live in Fairbanks, because even though it gets a lot of shit for being the stripmall arm pit of Alaska, it has everything I need, and it is only one small airplane hop or trail ride away from hundreds of miles of remote country.

...I have a core of solid friends who are particularly adept (especially Dweller) at pulling my fat out of the fire. Thereby enabling me to do some crazy-ass things.

....twenty years ago, I accepted an old Singer sewing machine from a very elderly lady; this sewing machine is still working for me, so that I can quilt, sew beaver hats, and otherwise keep myself occupied through long, dark winters, and finally,

that health insurance pays for happy lights, thereby enabling me to really enjoy this time of year without fatal leg chewing.

15 Minutes of Fame

When a copy of A Chronic Problem finally hit the vil – it generated a whole lot of interest on the vil street.

Not so much for its content – people are so totally, completely and utterly used to the News Miner publishing articles that cast Natives in a bad light – that yet another isn’t even worth the effort it takes to roll one’s eyes and say – here we go again.

Nope, what captured interest was the photo spread that accompanied the first article.

“Yo – look man – it’s your shoes!”

“And those there, those are my knees, man!”

“Ohhh, look, look there, that’s M----, see right there on the end of the bench!”

Inquiring minds might want to know how anybody could peg pants and shoes as their own – don’t many boots look alike, and how can you tell one pair of carhartts from another, for instance?

Well, because despite what the article implied, quite a few of these so-called chronic inebriates were not so blotto as to a) not be able to tell the photographer not to take their picture, at least not from the knees up, and b) not remember when the reporter/photographer came through downtown last spring.

So there they were, jocularly identifying quite a number of people in the photos that certainly are not homeless – including themselves – from the comfort of, well, their homes.

Yet Another Use for 100 Feet of Internet Cable

Alternative role for the moose-cutting, goose singeing spot:
a place to hang the laundry out of dog reach.

Yesterday, I volunteered to do the family washing. Armed with a book and enough change in a sock to do an inner-city mugging, old school style, I perched on the back of the four-wheeler surrounded by several trash bags stuffed full of laundry. Not even the loss of water pressure three-quarters of the way through the cycles slowed me down*. But, because the day was hot and sunny and the washeteria driers, like Laundromat driers the world over, have barely enough heat to dry tulle, I opted for the numerous clotheslines I had noticed strung among the trees at home.

Directly after hanging the second pair of jeans, I experienced a laundry malfunction. First one line broke, then the next, followed by a third and a fourth, dumping all the clothes on the ground. An inspection of the clothesline revealed it to be some kind of friable white plastic cord that had totally deteriorated in the sunlight and winter weather.

A forage of this house and the SO’s house-under-construction next door turned up no rope or rope substitute whatsoever. No wire, no phone cord, no extension cords, nothing.

I thought briefly of the brand-spanking new 100 feet of computer cable I just got in – but more than the fact that I needed the cable to hook up computers, I was just too lazy to walk back down to the office to get that or anything else that might work as clothesline.

So, I festooned the yard with duds. Since the family dog has a penchant for snitching (and chewing) shoes, towels and anything else that catches its fancy, I made sure that the sock racks (a.k.a. the saw horses) were up high off the ground. It worked. The dog only succeeded in making off with one towel that it was able to snag from one of the poles.

And while I managed just fine and made do with what I had and made lemonade out of lemons and did all those things that those annoying inspirational posters urge one to do, I made darn sure that clothesline is down on the list for the next box from town.

*Although the subsequent 24+ hour village-wide power outage a few hours later on one of the hottest days yet definitely would have. Suffice to say that tangled nests of wires festooning the village power poles are, like the Internet hook up, ghetto.

Greatest Letter to the Editor. Ever.

At least until someone one ups him. Gentlefolk, I give you the "Magic Truck" letter to the editor posted on the FDNM's website.

Thanks to KC at Geneflow for pointing this one out:

"Now the magic part comes into play. I, like almost all other pick-up truck owners, use the bed of the truck to “store” my trash. I put petrochemical based perforated carrying devices, (those are plastic bags with handles), that I acquire from Freddies, WallyWorld and all the other retail outlets in town into the bed of the truck. I put Styrofoam cups in the bed of the truck, I put paper sacks from the fast food joints into the bed of my truck."

I'll let you read the letter in its entirety and not spoil the pay off. I'd like to add that the truck fairies that are drawn to 'magic trucks' really render tarps over a load of treasure completely unnecessary.

Tannenbum

T'is nearly the night before Christmas and my tree is dead.

Not slightly brittle, dry and a bit musty, but dead.

Dead: ornaments dragging on the floor and falling off branches which droop and sag. Dead: the softly shurring tinkling, winkling noise as needles shower gently to the floor every time we so much as breathe on it. Dead: its unhealthy and somber shade of brown.

At least I am supposing that is its current color, as I refuse to turn up the lights to really inspect it. Suffice that the Ghost of Tree Past haunts me every time I look over to its corner - I don't need further proof of its deadness exposed in the harsh glare of a full-spectrum light.

This is the second year in a row that my Christmas tree is thoroughly dead even before Christmas Eve.

One might suppose that maybe I went to a bum tannenbaum purveyor, or that I bought it too early. Or put it too close to the woodstove. All excellent questions. And the answer to every one of those is nope, nope, and nope.

Because my blogmate and her S.O. got a tree from the very same place, nearly ten days earlier than mine and have parked theirs right in front of their monitor, and across the room from their wood stove, and, you guessed it, their tree is alive, luscious and vibrantly green.

"Perhaps you did not love it enough", opines CabinDweller's S.O. I laugh manically and throw an ornament (that has rolled off a limp limb) at her head. Didn't love it enough???

Man, I babied that sucker. I didn't make the mistake I did last year - which was to shove it under the dog box and give it a chilly, if not downright freezing, ride home.

Nope, not this time, not this tree. I left the truck engine running while I went and made my choice, so the cab was a cozy 60 degrees or so. It rode up front swathed in its plastic tree bag like some petty Jersey don that ran afoul of Little Nicky Scarfo. Once home, I whisked it into the house, cut several inches off its stump and plopped it immediately into the tree stand filled with fresh water laced with "Keeps-It-Green" (extends tree life! retards needle drop! exclaims the label).

I knew I was in trouble when even before I had finished decorating the tree, the tree had stopped drinking water (retards needle drop! reduces fire hazard!). And I was right. Twelve days later it is deader than dead.

Now I have had real "real" trees (as opposed to the Charlie Brown Alaska trees we all love for their ease in decoration) for several years. Sometimes I have bought them in the first week of December, and one memorable year, I left the tree up til Valentine's Day (though that was due to sloth rather than an especially vigorous tree). Never have I had trees die within two weeks of purchase, except for the past two years.

Which is when I started using "Keeps-it-Green".....hmmmmm.

Bringing Home the Bacon - Native Style

Somewhere in the Flats: So far I have gutted over 50 ducks in an afternoon, and plucked and singed many more. In the smokehouse there's meat still to be cut up from a moose brought in yesterday, as well as dry meat curing.

As we took care of the ducks, we heard the single crack of a rifle. With no other shots following, we knew that after we finished with the ducks, we'd be cutting up another moose. Sure enough, 20 minutes after we heard the shot, nephew was back for chainsaw, tarps, rope and extra hands to help bring the moose in. In the past week, six other moose have been cut and distributed.

All of this is the result of hard work by three hunters - men who are feeding their extended family, which includes their wives and children, a number of related elders, and four single women (both with and without kids), including myself.

This is subsistence hunting - where getting sufficient food for the winter takes precedence over anything else. The men do the hunting, the women are in camp or the village - cutting and smoking or freezing meat, plucking, singeing and gutting ducks, geese and the occasional swan or crane.

One can hear the righteous cries from particular segments of the population: unfair, poaching, wasteful and so on. Many of those who would condemn the number of moose and ducks taken would be the first in line to declare that, with rising energy costs and escalating diet-related disease in Alaska Native populations, a return to subsistence should be encouraged and promoted.

Fact is, very few Alaska Natives have left the subsistence way. Another fact is current ADF&G regulations do not allow for lawful subsistence hunting, at least in the Interior.

The bag limit for ducks is 30 in possession, and for moose, its one/hunter. Sure, a hunter can hunt proxy, but only if the person is over 65 and/or disabled. Single women under 65, regardless of ability, have to go out and hunt if they want to eat moose. How practical is that?

Speaking for myself, I certainly can wield a gun, and I probably could hit something as large as a moose, but it wouldn't be pretty, it wouldn't be clean, and it would likely waste a fair amount of meat. Furthermore, most women and quite a few men aren't strong enough to handle a dead moose on their own.

It makes more sense, and it is more humane and respectful of the animal to send experienced hunters out. The kill is likely to be cleaner with fewer chances of a lost but dying animal, and the chances of spoilage are reduced because the animal will be field dressed faster. Finally, even with the addition of store-bought food, one moose and 30 ducks doesn't feed a hunter's family, let alone his relatives that depend on him.

As for wasteful, this week I counted several boned-out rib cages, backbones and rumps in the local dumpsters. The heads, minus their racks, are left in the field by non-Native hunters. In contrast, Natives value and consume all of the moose, including the organs, stomach and head.

And as far as unfair goes, well, it is hardly fair that strong, accomplished hunters that provide for their families should be called unlawful. It's way past time for real subsistence hunting to be legalized here in Alaska.

Just something I contemplated as I ate boiled moose rump cooked over camp fire.

Architectural Digest #1: Soviet Redux

A weary traveler could easily be confused into thinking they landed on the wrong side of the Bering Strait if they strolled far enough along Nome's Front Street. Witness the excellent example of high soviet architectural style embodied by the state building. Or maybe its more evocative of a correction facility or a bunker.


Either way, one has to get up close and personal to appreciate the fine architectural detailing, such as the dumpster strategically parked by the side, the 1950s- era ventilation units, and the rusted window frames. Possibly most appealing is the building's backside, which is entirely encased in foam - not exactly the beachfront facade typically encountered when strolling the Corniche.



Which leads this author to ponder the following two points : is Nome where failed architects go and what was the state thinking when it commissioned these building plans? A local wag calls it the school of Brutalism, which really cracked me up when I first heard it, but as it turns out, the laugh is on us.

A little research reveals there really is an architectural style called Brutalist, and it's not, as one might expect, the archetype of the Soviet or Stalin years (Stalin rates his own eponymous style).

No, it actually arose out of the work of Le Corbusier; the term is coined from the French for raw concrete (béton brut), which Le Corbusier favored as a building material.

According to architectural references, the style is characterised by its rough, blocky appearance and the lack of effort to disguise or conceal the building materials used in construction. Although concrete is the material most commonly used in brutalist design, wood, steel, brick, glass, and iron may also be used. No word on the incorporation of foam, however.

Brutalist architecture never really caught on, as it too closely resembled the natural products of urban decay.

Except, apparently, in Nome.

Another Cabin Dwelling Mystery Explained

OK - so to be precise, I don't live in a cabin anymore - because nearly eight years ago I moved on up and got plumbing (although I didn't move on up to the hills, so I still freeze my bottom off down here in the Valley). Still, in important ways I remain closer to cabin-dwelling than not - one only has to tour my little enclave of Alaska-Appalachia to figure that out - from the press plate-roofed woodshed, to the chicken coop made of dumpster-salvaged wood and scraps.

But whether in cabin or plumbed "bungalow" (a quaint term for the rectangular T-11 box I currently reside in), I have always gardened - and I have always had a lot of containers planted with flowers and veggies. And every single year, they have been dug in by little red rats (aka red squirrels). At first, I assumed they were squirreling stuff away in the planters - so I looked for little caches of sunflower seeds.

None to be found.

Then I assumed they were eating the plant roots - nope, generally what plants didn't get dug out by the little bastards survived. Finally last week, I found out what it is red rats are after in the planters ... salt.

Salt from the liquid fertilizers, salts from the water. As I sat on my deck reading, I watched this particular fellow go from container to container, digging below the soil line and licking (and at times chewing) at the salt line left from years of watering and fertilizing plants. It didn't miss a one, and at every one, it dug in to get to the evaporation line.

Easy enough to fix in coming summers. And no, I don't use .22. They just come back. I tend to prevention rather than intervention. Besides flushing containers to wash out the salts is better for the plants anyway.

And now for something completely different...

...Chickens


Never doubt that I have some things to add to the latest offering from CabinDweller. Kudos to same for the top drawer and simple web research (nothing legislative staffers or gung ho enviros couldn't have done as well when preparing for and lobbying for this energy rebate deal) that points out some significant omissions in the current proffer of solutions to the great crude energy juggernaut* that is about to roll over us all.

But sometimes it is simply necessary to ignore these shibboleths and just take time to, well, take in chickens.


Chicken-watching: its the new Lexapro for this blogger.


Frequently, the end of the work day finds me sitting in my chicken coop with a glass of wine (or coffee if the evening's plans call for energetic efforts in garden, chopping wood, or socializing), watching chickens.


There is something supremely peaceful, nay zen-like, in observing these birds go about their avian business. There is the highly energetic scratching and shuffling, looking for bugs, grubs and other tasty treats. There is the favored dust pit in coop corner where the hens battle it out for the chance to get down and dirty, and then there is just the simple contemplation of a species born bipedal with no additional means to obtain food except by pecking. Of course, this is true of all birds, but somehow it has intrigued me most with chickens; perhaps this is the outcome of just too much wine in the coop.

Chickens do not deserve their reputation as being very stupid. That is true of the "bred to be dead" Cornish Cross meat birds, who waddle around like mini T-Rexs on steroids, but not true of layers, or your basic barn yard run chicken. Chickens have personalities and they are quite engaging. Then again, perhaps this particular paen to chickens could also be attributed to too much wine, then and now.

Regardless, I do think that sitting with the chickens (not to be confused with running with the bulls or dancing with the wolves) beats Lexapro hands down. Its cheaper, there are no side effects, and no withdrawal. Best of all, there's fresh eggs, and a ready and willing recycle team for weeds, veggies past their prime, stale bread and other leftovers.

* coined by the Brits during their empiric occupation of India; derived from the Sanskrit Jagannatha , one of the many names of Krishna, and referencing the multi-ton chariots carrying statues of Krishna that at times crushed festival participants.

Why, Why, Why?????

Or...it seemed like a great idea at the time

Write it off to too many Margaritas or something - but about a month and a half ago I got a bug up my nether regions to paint my kitchen, dining room and hall (which all share a contiguous ceiling -thus requiring an all-or-nothing approach). I was tired of staring at the soot-stained walls (thanks to a wood stove that tends to back draft in moderately cold temperatures) and thought new wall colors in shades of bright orange, yellow, and sun-drenched golden browns (a shade alluringly called Spanish Hollow) would be the perfect offset to next year's guaranteed winter blahs.

It wouldn't be nothing but a thang, I figured, after looking at how much of my wall space was taken up by doors, windows, built-in book case, stove, fridge and kitchen cabinets.

Unfortunately, I neglected to look upwards. Because, after I spent all day yesterday washing the bleeding walls and ceiling, and all day today painting just the ceiling, it finally dawned on me that this "no big thang" amounted to painting half of my house's ceiling space. Have I ever mentioned that washing/painting ceilings is the job I hate most in the world?

A job that I confidently stupidly predicted I could do comfortably in four days - from break down, through prep, to putting back all my stuff in my cheerful new space - is now looking lucky to be done in eight days.

But the beauty of living alone is that frankly, I got no one but myself to blame for this particular cluster/F, because of course now that the house is torn apart, the ceiling is half painted, and over a hundred dollars worth of paint purchased, I am on a one-way ticket in this little junket.

Shoot me if I ever again think that just brightening up the walls would be a weekend job!

I'd Blog About It, If I Could Only Concentrate

(zap, crackle) This past year has been full of lessons learned - such as never get involved with someone who has 275 convictions in the family and is proud of it - or assume that one can't fall under the spell of sexy belly fat.

(pop, ping) There is also my rueful acknowledgment, which doesn't really count among new lessons, that I utterly lack the ability to keep my head below the line of fire; the origins of my nom de blog.

And then there is the perennially valuable lesson: never ever quit drugs cold turkey, be they legal or illegal.

For well over a week now I have been in the throes of brain buzz; (zip, zap) forget about sleeping, and never mind reading, comprehension, or anything contemplative. All this would be the fuel of brillant intellectual genesis, if only I could slow the synapses down enough to engage in the activity instead of firing wildly and madly from one half-formed impulse to another.

(crackle, snap) Amazingly enough, it never occured to me that quitting Big Pharma one day cold (when I woke up and decided I was fed up with the ever-ballooning need for larger jeans ; Pharma = Phat) might lead to really unpleasant side effects. Perhaps that is indeed one of the other side effects of Big Pharma - since it smooths out anxiety and panic, why would one think about the potential nasties of quitting? After all, it's all good in the Pharmacopia.

CabinDweller was dumbfounded that I hadn't even googled for potential side effects (let alone consult with a doctor) before I just quit. But that would have required focused thought, which has been the root of the problem all along. (bzzzt, bzzzzt)

Seems like withdrawal can last anywhere from one week to seven. There's lots more unpleasant side effects than the brain quakes (as the literature calls them) - some of which I am now experiencing as well....

At least I think I am, but I can't really focus long enough to find out. (zap, zap, zap)

Seems like I can notch up another realized stereotype: the medicated friend who drives her friends nuts as she richochets from manic to depressive to manic again (" she' s off her meds again, time to let the calls go through to voice mail"). (snap, crackle, pop)

Posting Bail For Someone Near and Dear? Important.

Getting Alaska Airlines Mileage For It? Priceless.

Let's tag this as Things Learned:

1) There are only three bailbondsmen in the phonebook. Contrary to what one might think from the movies, they are not necessarily available when you need them.
2) You can post bail with a credit card.
3) You get to keep the miles earned if you use your Alaska Airlines credit card.

At right: Mastercard and Visa accepted here. A cellphone pic of the entryway at FCC.

But I am getting ahead of myself here.

It was the kind of phone call you don't want to get. A recorded voice with a heavy Southern accent came on to explain that the call was coming from the Fairbanks Correctional Facility, prompting the next thought that came into my head, something about one of my favorite movies, Cool Hand Luke. "What we have here... is a failure to communicate."

Then came the short clip where your near and dear one states either their name or a short phrase. In this case it was, "Come get me!"

I then took the opportunity to press a number on the keypad to accept the call.

For those of you living existences so pure and untrammeled by a brush with the law that you have never had cause to find it, our local hoosgow is located on a street just behind the Denny's on Airport Way. Which I find somehow appropriate.

As it was 11:30 p.m., the lobby was closed so I had to stand out there in the 90 degree entryway until a corrections officer came to let me in. And I should say, he was very polite. We got to the paperwork.

"You have a cash, check, a credit card?" As it turned out, my bank account couldn't cover it, so I picked through the credit cards. Aha. I looked at him and displayed my choice.

Why not get Alaska Airlines miles out of the situation? Why not create one's own silver lining?

1000 miles later, driving back out to the Valley, I had to wonder, do I get to keep the miles after the case is over? Because if they refund the card, don't they just go away? Turns out, the answer is no. The court system issues a refund check, so the charge stays on the books. I confess, I was really looking forward to having that conversation with Bank of America.