This is probably a bad idea. I shouldn't be writing now, because I'm pissed. We'll see if I can hold myself in check and stick to the subject at-hand.

That first weekend, I was really itching to do some sightseeing. I hadn't gotten bored with the snow-covered Chugach mountains ringing the edge of Anchorage, but I definitely wanted to see something more. Something else. Something new.

Well, I'd seen mountains, and I'd seen snow, and I'd seen frozen smog, and I'd even seen frozen seawater by that point, but one thing I hadn't seen was a glacier. Kind of hard to believe that, given all of the natural wintry beauty around me. When I'd first arrived, I'd thought that I wouldn't be able to take a piss without hitting glacial ice, but I was wrong.

Alaska's number one visitor attraction is the Portage Glacier, about an hour South of Anchorage. Given the fact that I only had about five hours of daylight within which to play, I left the apartment early on a Saturday morning, just before the Sun came up.

You know how people, usually when they're stoned, are always saying stuff like, "It's not the destination, it's the journey that's important?"

Well, maybe those stoners have made the same trip I made that day. Every 10 feet, I wanted to stop my car, get out, and try to take it all in. Mountains, frozen beaches. Icebergs the size of houses, eagles and seagulls. Everything was new to me, and everything was just amazing to me.

Like, there was one stretch of road. I came over a small hill, and saw an icy beach to my right, and mountains to my left. At the side of the road was a yellow sign:

Avalanche Area!

No Stopping!

And, sure enough, there seemed to have been a recent avalanche. On both the left and right sides of the road, there was a wall of snow and ice about 20 feet high. It had been neatly cut to allow for the road. Very damn cool.

And every mile or so there'd be a damn moose standing at the side of the road. Surreal. The whole trip was surreal. The whole place was surreal. Me being in fucking Alaska was surreal.

Instead of taking an hour to get to the glacier, it took almost three hours. I kept stopping and getting out of my car, feeling that if I was outside then the experience would be that much more real to me. And cold. Mustn't forget about the cold.

There was an actual visitor's center there. For some reason I hadn't been expecting that. That stupid building contrasted starkly with the natural beauty all around it. So I only spend about a minute inside. Just long enough to pee. Then I went back out into the cold and along this trail next what I suppose was the Portage River.

That was kinda funny - you couldn't even see the glacier from the visitor's center. All that was in there was maps and dioramas and shit like that. To get to the actual glacier you were supposed to get back in your car and drive for a while longer.

Fuck that. I walked it. I walked along the shore of the lake for what seemed like forever, but there were gobs of icebergs keeping me company. I also met a few people coming the other way, and they all assured me that (a) the actual glacier was up ahead of me, and (b) they hadn't seen any bears.

So I walked and I walked and I walked. The trail switched from a sidewalk to a dirt path to a dirty swath of packed snow. It was a long and cold walk.

But it was worth it.

Now, there have been several times in my life when I really wished that I had a camera with me. When I finally came around that last bend in the trail, and found myself staring at the glacier, that was definitely one of those times. But alas, I didn't have a camera. Oh well. I figured I could just buy a postcard at the visitor's center. Plus, if you've seen one glacier you've probably seen them all.

And I'd finally managed to see one.

Yay!

I might have been able to climb up on the thing. There were chunks of ice ranging from the size of toasters to condominiums, but by then it was getting close to dark, so I walked back a short distance to this boat ramp place and talked one of the tourists there into giving me a ride back to my car.

It was a fun day.

I forgot to buy a postcard.

A few days ago someone - MisunderstoodGirl, I think - posted this to facebook. I was thinking that I'd do a vlog about it, but I don't feel like putting clothes on right now, so I'll just type my answers. How quaint.

If you could, at this very moment, take a ride on anything in the world, what would you most want to ride?
A dragon. Also, I'd like dragons to exist.

If you could get one thing back that was either lost or destroyed, what would it be?
The second car I ever owned, a 1979 firebird. It wasn't that great of a car, but I liked it, and I went through a lot in it. Whenever I dream about any of my old cars, it's always that one.

What is one item you own that has virtually no monetary value but has such sentimental value that you would not sell it for $1,000?
My rock, of course. Duh.

If you could know without a shadow of a doubt the answer to one question that has always troubled you, what question would you want to have answered?
Is there any point to any of this?

If you could bring back any tradition that seems to have faded into the past, what tradition would you bring back?
Knocking cute girls on the head and dragging them back to the cave. It just seems like our current way is a lot harder.

If you could open your own retail store, what type of merchandise would you sell?
Probably pool & billiards supplies. Or maybe books. I dunno, I can't really see myself running a retail store of any kind. That would be boring to me. Wait, do bars count?

If you could have any book instantly memorized from cover to cover, which book would you choose?
I think a World Almanac or something like that, with lots of facts.

If, with your safety guaranteed, you could experience something very dangerous, what would you want to experience most of all?
If my safety was guaranteed, then it wouldn't be very dangerous, would it? Anyway, I think climbing Mt. Everest would be cool.

What is one field or profession that you never persued, but that you think you probobly would have been quite good at?
Anything scientific. Astronomy, perhaps.

If you could invent a pair of glasses that would allow you to see abstract things, what would you want to be able to see most of all?
A person's aura. Kinda like in that movie Shallow Hal.

Every single time, it happens. Every single fucking time. I see, and it happens. I hear, and it happens, I smell or I touch, and it happens.

And I can't describe it with any clarity, and I can't endorse it with any understanding, and I can't espouse it with any eloquence, and I can't dismiss it with any abruptness. I can't I can't I can't I just fucking can't.

It's just fucking there. It just fucking happens. It just fucking is.

Why?

That's the question that I ask myself every 10 seconds. That's the question that everyone on Earth asks me every chance they get.

"Why?" they ask.

"Fucking just because," I reply.

Eyes meet, and circuits close. Words are exchanged, and energy flows. Auras merge, and affection glows.

And, every now and then...

Hands touch, and desire grows. Skin slides, and lust shows. Lips meet, and love overflows.

Why?

Sometimes I wish we would just talk about all this. Not discuss and not debate and certainly not argue. Not lie and not predict and not dismiss and not make excuse after fucking excuse. Just talk.

I guess it's because I'm a man. I always think that things can be fixed. Even when they're not really broken. I constantly look for the words to make everything okay, and I constantly ignore the fact that okay may be too lofty a goal.

Lately though, more and more often, I've thought about eschewing words, and letting actions speak my volumes for me. For us. Words, after all, have done zero good.

Perhaps it's time for action. Perhaps it's too late for action. Fuck, perhaps it's too late for anything.

The way I see it, there are two times when I absolutely should not be writing here. One of those times is when I'm sad.

I know, I write when I'm sad all the time. It's par for my particular course, I guess. But the deep sadness that I sometimes feel, I don't write during those times. I'm too busy trying to breathe and keep my heart beating. So you guys are spared the really depressing stuff. You're welcome.

The second time when I shouldn't be writing anything is when I'm pissed.

Like right now.

There are so many things that I want to say. So many accusations that I want to level. So much pressure that I want to vent. So much truth that I want to fucking scream.

But, I shouldn't be writing when I'm pissed, so I won't. You're welcome.

So let me get this straight. These two guys are going to the flipping White House to have beers with the flipping President of the flipping United States, and they've chosen Red Stripe and Blue Moon.

A Jamaican pale lager and a pseudo-Belgian. That just seems so sad to me. It's like they put zero effort into their choices at all.

And the flipping President has chosen Bud Light.

And most of the people at Rich O's, myself included, voted for the guy.

If I ever have a beer with the flipping President - any day now, I'm sure - it's going to be an Alaskan Smoked Porter.

My brain tells me that I should be writing something now, before I go back outside to cavort with the stobors. Of course my brain has no idea what I should write, so I guess it's up to the rest of me. My fingers, perhaps, because my heart is all tapped-out, and my dick isn't much for words. It's more of an action dick.

I'm not really sure when it was that I became wise. Sometime over the last few years, I think. It's like I stopped getting birthday presents and started gaining wisdom. Or at least a very good imitation of wisdom. Good enough to fool most people, including my lovely self a lot of the time.

I found myself today in the most unlikely of conversations, giving the most unlikely of advice. Unlikely, that is, unless you actually know me, and not many people do. Lots of people think that they know me, but they're wrong. I'm a better person than many people give me credit for, and I'm a worse person that many people suspect. I'm a person, is I guess what I'm saying. If I were 100% good I'd be some kind of supreme being, and if I were 100% flawed I'd be a dipshit, but I'm somewhere in the middle, just like almost everyone else.

Anyway, today I found myself in a conversation about relationships. Because I'm some kind of expert, I guess. It's like quitting smoking; I've done it a million times it's so easy. Well, I haven't quite had a million relationships, but I've had my share. So maybe that makes me wise in a way. I dunno.

I'll paraphrase from today's conversation, in which I pretended to be wise:

Every new relationship seems perfect. But then it turns out that everything isn't quite perfect, and people get disappointed and they start to question the entire relationship.

Every relationship in history has followed the same pattern. Sometimes they last beyond that initial disillusionment, and sometimes they don't.

I think back to the relationships that I've had. Not all that many, really, and except for the ones that were doomed from the start, they've all followed that pattern. Not many have made it passed that first round of disillusionment, but the ones that have, the ones that have lasted have all been something really special to me. They're still really special to me.

I'm in one of those relationships right now, and even though I know that almost everyone on Earth would say that I'm in no such thing, I will say without hesitation that almost everyone on Earth is wrong. We are in a relationship, and we've made it passed that first disappointment, and the second and the third, and the fourth.

But we're still here, in one widely varying form or another, we're still here.

Doesn't that mean something? Shouldn't that mean something?

Isn't this supposed to be the goal?

Because, as I said today in my unlikely conversation, Perfection doesn't exist, so shouldn't a relationship be more concerned with surviving imperfection than with seeking perfection?

Am I the only person who sees this?

When I was about ten years old, I felt an earthquake in Southern Indiana. It was a very mild one, and I might not have noticed it at all if my grandmother's hutch hadn't started rattling.

Then, in 1994, I felt an earthquake in Seattle. This one was a little stronger - it kinda felt like a very heavy truck had rumbled off the road and then lightly smacked into my building.

In 1996, the day after I'd arrived in Alaska, I was sitting in a chair in the living room of my Anchorage apartment. I was taking a swig of soda from a can, and I leaned back to get the last few drops.

The next thing I knew, I was on my back, and the chair was on top of me.

The news said it was an earthquake. To me it seemed more like an earthjolt but I'm no seismologist. Whatever else it might have been, it was certainly a harbinger of things to come.

During the months I spent in Anchorage, I never went a week without feeling at least one earthquake. Some weeks would bring as many as three or four. None were ever particularly strong. Even that first one hadn't been more than a 5.2 or so - it had just caught me off-guard and off-balance.

Most days I worked in the customer's building, but every now and then I'd have reason to visit my own company's Anchorage office. Calling it an office was a bit of an overstatement. The company had been founded in Anchorage, but had relocated to Seattle at some point, and there was only one permanent Anchorage employee. A nice girl named Brenda who did everything from sales to accounting to first-level customer support to sweeping up at the end of the day.

She didn't like earthquakes very much. So I had a lot of fun walking heavily around the office, making the floor creak and the partitions sway. I never could see Brenda when I did these things, for if she'd been able to see me that would have ruined the jokes, but I liked to imagine that she crawled under her desk every time I did it.

Good times.

---

One of the things that struck me as funny about Anchorage was actually one of the more depressing things. People are always yammering on and on about how beautiful it is in Alaska. And it certainly is. Words are inadequate to describe some of the natural beauty I saw up there.

But one of the most beautiful phenomenon was actually man-made, though I didn't know it until Brenda told me.

See, it was so cold up there that the actual smog would freeze.

Frozen smog would coat the leafless limbs and branches and twigs of every tree. It turned every tree into a crystalline work of art. It wasn't like the ice-coated trees I'd seen before. Nope, it was fuzzy and delicate. Just really really pretty stuff.

Caused by air pollution, but still one of the most beautiful sights in one of the most beautiful places I'd ever seen.

MusicalYuppieDude and I working on building a HatGirl sandwich.