Was it something we said?

It is time once again, friends, for those in charge of redistricting to attempt to excise my neck of woods from the greater Squarebanks area. 

For those of you from Outside, (and thanks Immmoral Minority for the traffic!), we here in the locale of the Goldstream Valley trend a bit more left than a lot of Greater Redneckia. 

You wouldn't know to look at us, with our typical Alaskana:  beards, pickups, carharrts, bunny boots, guns, sled dog yards, etc.  But they are matched, in a weird oddball blend, with Subarus and hybrids, tattoos, dreadlocks, nice older folks who lived out here when you could still hunt here a few decades ago, libertarians, grad students, Teamsters, hippies, bluegrass musicians, the new Goths, and a few Ural-driving peeps. Chicken were "in" here long before it became all the rage in Brooklyn.
 
It's the real Alaska you don't see on the teevee, usually, where the fundamental rule is "live and let live."  You can be a raging fundamentalist religious-type out here, again, it's do what you do but don't bother/harm anybody else... unless of course you buy the one local little store out here and then break state labor law and all common sense.

See, it's basically liberals with guns.  Ester is not much different, though, perhaps weirder, with a better bar.  The two CDPs (census designated places) tend to vote Democrat, though I'd hazard a guess that we are mostly all undeclared voters.  (Like most of Alaska. Look it up!)  Now that it is time for the redistricting board to redraw the lines, every plan proffered by the Redistricting Board has removed Goldstream and Ester and put us with the gigantic boundary of House District 38.

Nothing wrong with HD 38.  It encompasses an awful lot of my favorite part of Alaska.  But we don't belong in it.  The problem is, how to get each House District to something near (there is a certain amount of deviation allowed) to 17,755 inhabitants as urban areas (the roadbelt in particular) continues to grow. 

I can see their point (if by "their", we pay particular note to Jim Holm)... this is an excellent opportunity to rid themselves of some pesky non-Republicans. And gerrymandering has been abused by both politicians since the 1800s.

(to be continued, as I have a day job)  But next time:

The Kawasaki finger & Back in the Day

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.

Not dead yet

Ahhhh, spring.  The gradual reappearance of the dog poops you missed during the deep dark, the combination of mud, dust and ice, the slow awakening of yours truly after months of dark beer and bacon-induced stupor.

As it is, I am missing the lovely 60 degrees in the Squarebanks due to work related-travel to chillier climes out on the coast. But the daylight, even without warmth, is hitting me.  This will be the year for chicken raising! I will weed the garden!  I will again rant and rave for the sake of lefty puppies, kittens, and rainbows... Or something like that.

So, yes, we're not dead yet over here at FBH.  Just finally recovered from the whole Palin thing -- Flic and I are back.

Note:  Of course, having not even read a blog in months, (months!), I pilfered a title from the Ester Republic without even knowing it.  Apologies Deirdre... glad to know you are Not Dead Yet, either.

Note 2:  Expect weird formatting to show up as we attempt to update the design of the blog.

Circling the Drain

No posting since January. Another Alaskan winter about to begin – although its been slow in arriving and is still parked somewhere outside of the ‘Banks. There is fast ice on the creeks and skiffs of ice on the rivers – as discovered as I flew east and north to a village today. ‘Dweller has been out in the vil somewhere on the coast for god knows how long….I just got back from being overseas and then promptly turned around and headed out to somewhere on the Yukon.

So…to resurrect this blog? Perhaps. Life stuff has definitely interfered with regular postings by the both of us. Weddings, aging parents, house selling, traveling: all that plus the usual activities of putting food up, cutting and hauling firewood, and maintaining the respective homesteads in the Valley. I hear that 'Dweller and her significant other put up a woodshed this summer – the chicken coop is still on hold for a future date. I didn’t do much around my place this summer as 1) it was a darn rainy and cold summer and 2) I spent a significant portion of it moving my parents out of their home for 46 years and that cleaned my clock. I wasn’t good for much else upon return to the 'Banks but sitting on the sofa watching really bad movies – and the Tudors. Arguably some more bad TV, but kudos for the costumes – a weird mix of 16^th , 17^th and 18^th century styles that worked. Well – it might have driven a costume designer or historian mad, but I loved the mix.

We are certainly girding our loins for the slouching towards Gomorrah that will be the 2012 election year, though at least Palin is on the way out – with the fizzling of her little nova as it winks out to total irrelevance audible all over the media galaxy. There is also the disappointing (but not surprising) mauling that Prop 2 took in the local election – there seems to be an overabundance of dense individuals that just don’t seem to get it – that if we don’t regulate the particulates, the EPA will – and that one way or another at some point they wont be able to fire up their outdoor wood boilers and blanket -belch their neighbors with the choking fog of smoke.

I might be able to roust 'Dweller back into the hitch of regular posting on this blog - maybe we will focus on the homey aspects of life rather than venture back into the political cesspool.

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.

On the DC Street Beat

Call me stupid, but I just don't get the British reference....

...So much for any hope of a return to civil discourse

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

Miller's Magical Mystery Tour

Poor Joe. Looks like he is running out of straws to grasp in his efforts to prove that no, really, he did win the senatorial election. Thus, in the spirit of Christmas, I offer a few more that he might want to consider including in his lawsuit(s).

1) It's all Wikileaks' fault: Really Joe, you did get the majority of votes, but Alaska's electronic ballot boxes were commandeered by Julian Assange and his merry band of cyberpunks, who erased votes cast for you (sorta kinda like what you did with your work emails). It's all part of the vast leftist conspiracy to take over the world that you and Sarah are so valiantly battling.

2) Little green men are responsible: As those familiar with Roswell and other alien sightings will tell you, Joe, its gotta be illegal aliens - whether terrestrial or extra. Remember a couple years back, there was that weird light that was seen in the sky near Tok? It must have been a saucer full of little green men who have been in hiding ever since, and somehow used their superior technology to queer the election results. Demand a hand recount, Joe!

3) It's climate change: Don't really know how to work that one into the lawsuit, Joe, but since climate change gets blamed for everything nowadays, how could you let this one pass? And since you obviously have your own unique interpretations of the law, arguing that climate change adversely affected your senatorial chances should present no challenge at all to you.

4) It's the fluoride: We've all been told that fluoridated water strengthens teeth and helps prevent childhood cavities, but it's a front, a sham. In reality, fluoridated water is being used to brainwash us, thereby preventing many, many people from being able to fully comprehend your stellar qualifications for the senate seat. Who knew that your greatest allies in this brave battle might just turn out to be Fluoride Free Fairbanks?

5) It's Obama's fault: Enuff said.

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.  

The Tea Party: Party of the Petulant

Joe reminds me of nothing so much as of a red-faced toddler drumming his heels on the floor and beating his sweaty little fists on the coffee table because he didnt get to eat the whole box of Sugar Bombs. With a poopy diaper to further enrage the lil' tyke.

Palin and Miller (aka Neo-Palin) have got that lower-lip pout down cold. When things don't turn out like the reality TV script said they would (whadda ya mean it takes more than 5" F**K Me heels and an up-do to win the vice-presidency???) , well these two do know how to pitch a royal fit.

Another "P" word: Paranoid. Party of the Paranoid, but we've known that for a long, long time. Voter fraud, conspiracy? Yeah right, Joe, gimme some of what you been smoking.

Because one thing is for sure - Joe's cognitive functions are a bit mussed up. He can't do maths to - well - win a Senate seat. Because, news flash Joe - winning the primary by just a couple of thousand votes when only about 28% (if that) of the electorate actually bothered to vote does not a path to the Senate ensure.

While it doesn't look like Joe is going to find out what moose-hunting along the Beltway is like, he is about to find out what eating crow is like.