Maybe the question is: What *isn’t* there to do in Alaska!

Because there are a LOT of answers to that question!  You can’t find foreign food, you can’t safely go out without a sweater, you can’t be a happy vegetarian, you can’t drive a convertible, you can’t be from Alaska, you can’t tell time by the sun without also knowing the month, you can’t be ignorant of nature—or for that matter, even be un-awed by it.

You can, however, kill a significant amount of what becomes your diet.  You can travel several hundred miles to buy a new pair of pants.  You can know your neighbours, and you can know that you don’t have neighbours.  You can see a moose in your underwear.

You can live in a state that is three times bigger than Texas, that has the same population as Vancouver and Burnaby put together.  You can live in Hoonah,  on an island that has more bears than people.

You can own your own private gold mine.  You can go to Skagway, the gateway to the Yukon gold rush, a cruise ship destination, where half the stores in town are now jewelry stores for tourist—the tourists being the gold that the locals are now “mining.”

But most of all, you can see nature, in its power and glory, in living things that crawl and fly and munch their way across the forests. You can touch twisted, stunted plants that endure in windy cold passes, plants that witnessed the first explorers and prospectors to pass that way, and are still today the same sad size.

Alaska is a place you go to be alone, to see a place where history is still being written from raw materials by mavericks, iconoclasts, wood trolls and dreamers.

* * *

My trip to Alaska was split into two parts: First was Anchorage and the trip to Denali National Park.  Second was the cruise down the Alaskan panhandle coast.  The cruise will be a separate blog post, so if you’re just interested in that, you can stop reading here and go make yourself some nachos, and catch up with us in the next post.

The plane ride to Alaska was long and dreadful.  My sickness made the awful process of modern air travel even more awful-ish.  I had caught mono several weeks earlier, and while I was able to travel, I was not able to travel with my brain engaged, so Susie was in charge of such things as gate numbers and where my passport was.

Anyway, from Anchorage, we took a train ride to Denali, riding in the Gold Coach which had a glass ceiling.  We saw moose, black bear, swan and duck on our trip, and also had a fantabulous view of Mt. McKinley, now called Mt. Denali, the tallest mountain in North America.  It stood out so much higher than the mountains around, it reminded me of Fist of God from Larry Niven’s Ringworld.

The tiny stretch of civilization on the edge of the road on the edge of Denali consists of two large competing lodge campuses, and across the highway a collection of tourist shops: t-shirts, ulu blades, yarn, ice cream, scarves, socks, and various camping things.

At the lodge, you could each day go off and do an excursion.  I did only one: Husky Homestead, which was a visit to the Alaska husky training and breeding compound of Jeff King, five-time winner of the famous dog race, the Iditarod.

The Husky Homestead was amazing: As you get off the tour bus, each visitor is handed a weeks old puppy, eyes not even open, which you can coo over, pet, swap with others, and eventually hand back to the handlers.  So CUTE!  We got a great picture of the five of us all holding puppies: Susie, sister Debbie, mom Jan, dad Phil, and me.

King’s presentation and the whole training facility was damn impressive, and very well done.  I learned a lot about dog racing and the absolutely horrific conditions of endurance that you have to go through to even just finish, let alone win.

The other Gardners also went on a river rafting trip, wearing full dry suits because of the ice-temperature water of the glacier-fed river, and on a wilderness tour of Denali Park itself.

The lodge itself was very n.s.g. (not so good)—very low quality rooms and the mattress was one of the worst I’ve ever slept on, which was a shame, because I was sleeping a majority of the time.

We then took the bus back to Alaska, driving by a bus driver named Mike who talked NON-STOP for five hours to narrate the trip.  A quick day of touristing in Anchorage, where I discovered I really like Irish grandfather shirts and I ate a reindeer hot dog from a street vendor.

The next day, we caught the bus to Seward, which is a totally funky looking tiny little town that exists mainly to be a cruise (and other) ship docking spot.  I wish we could have spend a day there.

Getting on the boat required just a quick display of a passport (little confusion there, quickly resolved) and a free chocolate chip cookie and health questionnaire that I answered truthfully but still felt bad about getting on board with mono.

The ship set sail at 9 p.m. and bam, we were afloat!

To be continued.

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These are the things I’m thinking about tonight: the effects that negative emotions can have on the very things that counteract them; like how having an upset stomach can make you stop eating well, which keeps you from getting the food you need to be healthy and cure your stomach trouble.

As I fight with mono, and with worry about being away from Hop Studios and from decisions that are piling up in Vancouver about where to live and what to do about how I work, I realize how easy it has become for me to start vibrating in synch with the emotions around me, and in turn to influence those emotions with my own worries and concerns.

It doesn’t take much to set a group of people in tune—I think we’re prone to self-tune to each other’s moods and sounds and rhythms.  And if that tune is a minor chord, if it’s a funeral dirge, or if it’s simply discordant—the tune can be hard to change.

That’s why a break, a period of silence, can be so useful and important.  Returning fresh, with a deep breath and a renewed sense of harmony, I hope I can take this opportunity for quiet contemplation to create a resonant environment of emotion, to hum a happy chord, and to have that be the sound that fills the space in which I live and influence the people with whom I interact.

I hope that, returning from this vacation, that I’m able to—to start things off on the right note, and to have that be the music with which I face some of the things I’ve got on my list to do this summer.

So if you see me humming when I get back, you’ll know why.

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I came to this realization on the seven-hour train ride from Anchorage, Alaska, to Denali National Park.  This was a one-way trip; the return journey would be by bus and it’s not likely I’ll ever make this particular passage again. I had a window seat and as I settled in, I took stock of the entertainment options at my disposal for the ride.

First of all, let’s pretend I didn’t have any Internet access at all.  In fact, I could have used my iPhone on AT&T’s network for most of the trip, which meant I could connect to the Internet at any time.  But let’s pretend that I didn’t have access to the sum total of all knowledge created and digitized by modern society, that that’s somehow cheating, even though I have access to it most of my waking hours and will for the rest of my life with increaing frequency.

Instead, here’s what I had to content myself with: On my computer: hours of video: movies and TV shows and Web documentaries. Entire books, downloaded from Amazon.  Computer games with shifting maps and dozens of levels.  Yes, my battery would run out; there was undoubtedly an outlet on the train for me to recharge.  But I wouldn’t bother Why would I, when I also had….

My iPhone: thousands of photos, hundreds of songs and a few audiobooks. And of course, offline email, SMS and a phone.  Even if you hobble it: no Internet, no phone access, no GPS, there’s still plenty there to amuse and distract and fill your time.

When that battery dies, I’ll turn to the other things in my bag: a book of sudoku, probably 80 hours of diversion.  Aristotle’s “Ethics.”  Jeanette Winterson’s “The Passion”.  Stephen Pinker’s “How the Mind Works” (ok, I’m totally lying, that was in my suitcase).

And my juggling balls.  And my notebook.  And postcards to write.

Failing all that, I could look out the window. We passed a moose, a bear cub, a harlequin duck or a large swan.  The train approaches Mt. McKinley, the highest mountain in North America, with the greatest ascent of any mountain in the world.

We saw decaying DeSotos, river crossings, flood plains of ghosts forests where the ground turned alkaline after liquifying in the 9.2 Alaskan Earthquake, air force bases, private gold mines, summer work camps, and towns ever smaller and more oddly named (Honolulu?).

The conductor, worried about our ability to self-amuse, handed out decks of cards and score pads.  I did wander part of the train, but never got the chance to explore the entire length of it, so I missed the tiki bar and the gift store.

And what did I do with my time on the train?

I slept, and stared out the window, and talked to my family-in-laws.  I took some pictures, and thought about my life in Vancouver, and composed this blog post.

And I realized that, whenever that tipping point was, whatever the day was, in the past, where I was last bored, I had forgotten to note it, and like me on this one-way train ride, I would now never pass its way again.

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You might see me blogging a little more (you certainly couldn’t see me blogging less!) because I am, as of today, pretty much only able to go between couch and bed, swallow wincingly, and wish for more Neo Citron.

Susie caught mono about a month ago. So it’s pretty clear where I got it from, even though we made a real effort to not kiss, not let our toothbrushes share a glass, not share food, etc.

But obviously at least one little virus snuck through and POW! right in the kisser.

Susie was basically bed-ridden for about two and a half weeks, and is still not at 100% energy-wise.  I ended up doing a whole lot of work on her behalf and I was *totally* counting on being able to call those favors in over the next few years, but it looks like, nope, I’m going to have to lean on her immediately.

And Degan, too.  My friend Degan is living with us right now, while she transitions from her old place (she had a roommate situation that went bad in ways I don’t fully understand—but her roommate goes through new roommates about once a year) to her new place, which is going to be a single somewhat nearby.

Meanwhile, Degan’s living in our guest room and working out of our place (when the wifi works) and I feel bad because she’s running a non-zero change of getting this dread disease just by being around. Not that I’m licking doorknobs or anything, but still.

On the plus side, it’s still nice being able to give someone a place to stay and it’s nice especially to have Degan with us.  We’ve had roommates before with various family members, and it hasn’t necessarily worked out, but Susie and I are optimists, and so far, so good.

Of course, the real complication is that Susie and I are set to depart to Alaska next weekend, flying up for several days in Denali National Park, and then taking a cruise back down the coast, stopping in Skagway, Juneau, and other fun stops.

I don’t know now what’s going to happen with the trip.  All I do know, is that this is a lame way to spend a long weekend, the month of May, and my holidays. sigh.

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The master of ceremonies was an odd, funny and heavily accepted character called The Purrrfessor, who kept the show moving smoothly with corny puns and a fantastic sense of timing.

There were about 10 acts, some of which were artistic, and others of which were entirely camp.  For examples…

* A too-skinny, too-pale woman whom came out dressed as a moss- and vine-covered tree, who disrobed silently to heart-breaking Enya-like music.

* A pair of women who came out and re-enacted a geisha-girl vs. ninja battle that ended when the geisha managed to enact a “double-helicopter” boob attack on her adversary.

* A ballerina bumblebee, who started out looking like a costumed kid in an elementary school play, only to end buzzing around the stage in a G-string and pasties, accompanied by a cool ‘40s jazz singer soundtrack.

* My personal favorite: Shibooby Booberella, who came onstage in a gold one-piece and had the help of a back-up angel/guy wearing a fake muscle six-pack overshirt.  By the end of it, she was exploring the universe pretty much naked, shaking her assets while the crowd cheered and laughed and generally enjoyed itself.

Some observations about burlesque:

1. Some of the women were amazingly hot, some were below average.  Some had significant dance skills, or so it seemed, and others did not.  But none, at least to my eye, had the tanned toned fake plastic bodies of the stripper / model world.  These were, to over-use a phrase, “real women.”

2. The audience was dressed up.  Not a single guy was wearing jeans, and the women were all sorts of snazzy.  Which is not to say that everyone was dressed the same—there was a little renaissance faire, a little goth, a little bachelorette party, a little flapper style, and a touch of gangsta, too.  Which was all the more impressive considering this was in the basement of a Howard Johnston motel.

3. The crowd was at least 66% women.  In fact, I’m inclined to say it was 75 or 80% women, but that could be overstating it. I do know that, after the show was over, the DJ threw on some ‘80s tunes and the dance floor turned into a wedding-style party, and I was one of 2 or 3 guys dancing with 20 or 30 women.  I would have expected the opposite ratio.

I’d love to go again, and I know that Mandy had a great time, too.  The cost: $5.  The experience: priceless.

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When Susie and I were backpacking around Europe in the fall of 1998, we stayed for a night in a hotel in Kosice, Slovakia.

While there, I took the bar of soap because it was small and it came in a nice plastic holder, and because I thought we might need soap at some later stop.

We didn’t, but it was a handy thing to have in my Dopp kit, and I kept it even after our travels ended.

In fact, I’ve carried it in my kit ever since.  I’ve taken it to conferences, on vacations, on holidays, back to see my Mom, even on some camping trips.  It’s been to South America, Europe, Asia, and Africa.

It’s the most well-traveled bar of soap I know.

Recently, I was on Salt Spring Island, and the rented cabin I was staying in didn’t have any soap.  And so, I had a chance to use the bar for the first time ever.

But here’s the thing.  Instead of being happy that this patient little bar of soap was finally getting the use it deserved, I was hesitant, regretful, sad.  I was even tempted to shower without using it. Not because it was rare, or valuable, or broken, only just because it had traveled with me for so long, and it seemed to have powerful sentimental value built up.

But what the hell is the point of having it, if I am not ready to use it when its time is nigh?  Why shouldn’t I be happy, that it was being put to the purpose for which I was saving it, for which it exists, for which it was made?  If I’m not prepared to use it when I need soap, then why the hell was I carrying it around with me in the first place?

These feelings perplexed me, because they point to bigger issues that we all face.  The bottle of wine you save for a special occasion; the clothes you don’t wear because they’re too nice; the things you don’t say because it’s not the right moment.  They’re all examples of sentiment getting in the way of enjoyment.

Some people get that—that old palaces can have new glass pyramids added to them, and it improves them. That old books and songs can be remade into better ones.  That restaurants can add new dishes to the menu, and remove old ones to make room.

Sentimental behavior, it seems, can be as much a straight-jacket, a limit on behavior, and a damper on high spirits, as it can be a comfort and a positive reminder of past experiences.  I realized in the shower (where all good ideas start) that sentiment must be used carefully, if it’s not to hinder the growth of new memories.

That little bar of soap, that I carried with me so long?  It frothed up nicely.

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Thank you for your email. I understand you would like to have contact information of the trademark owner who filed a complaint for the trademark term ‘Kumon.’ Please note that we are unable to provide this information. If you have authorization to use this term in your ads then I suggest you ask the individual who has provided you this authorization to follow the trademark authorization steps outlined at http://www.google.com/tm_complaint_adwords.html.

Yes, I can try to get my Mom to get her regional franchise office to track down the person in Japan who is responsible for this policy.  Or Google can just tell me.  sigh.

Kumon Marda Loop
Help Your Child Learn
Start Today with a Free Evaluation
www.mardaloopkumon.com

Google has rejected that ad ... because it uses the trademarked term “Kumon”.

Problem is: That’s exactly the name of my Mom’s business.  Her business *IS* a Kumon center, and of course she should be able to use that name in her ad.  It’s her official business title, it’s on her sign, her letterhead—she’s of course entitled to use the trademark: she’s a franchisee.

Google says:

Ad Status: Suspended
Ad Issue(s): Trademark in Ad Content
SUGGESTIONS:  Please remove the following trademark from your ad: Kumon.

They go on to explain:

Trademark in Ad Content: Due to trademark complaints, we do not allow advertisers to use certain trademarked terms or elements in their Google AdWords campaigns. You can learn more about Google’s trademark policy at http://www.google.com/tm_complaint.html.

I’ve resubmitted the ad twice, with an explanation that she *IS* legally allowed to use the name of her own company, but they keep rejecting it.

Ah, Google, you silly nitwit.  That’s $30 a month you won’t be getting from me!

APRIL is the cruellest month, breeding

Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing

Memory and desire, stirring

Dull roots with spring rain.

- T.S. Eliot, The Waste Land

Sure, April acts cruel, but this February is giving it a run for its money.

So far, I count:

* 2 friends who were laid off
* 3 friends who have quit their jobs (2 for boss reasons, 1 for family pressure reasons)
* 2 friends who are so sick, they feel like their “lungs are coming loose”
* 1 friend who was deployed and just arrived in Iraq
* 7 people who are going through terrible relationship issues
* 1 friend who is trying to work through the anniversary of her mom’s death

* 1 couple who is facing the possibility of childlessness
* 1 friend who is facing losing her home
* 1 friend who was hit by a car
* 1 friend who sliced her hand so bad she’s been in a splint for a month
* general exhaustion all around

You probably could add your own chant to this litany.

I can, however, be thankful, and I am, that I haven’t heard about any deaths for me and my friends, or any separations. Those things are so permanent.  It just seems to me to be all about hard times right now.

Hard times in the economy.  Hard times at home. Hard times at work.  Hard times in love.

Well, the good thing about hard times is, by definition, they pass. If they didn’t, you’d just call it “life”.  Life is all the ups and downs together, and things get better as life goes on, especially when things are bad. Plus you have more good things to draw on as the years pass—memories of good days that carry you through the tough ones.

And life is long.

And February is not.

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It’s become one of the fastest moving fads in the history of social networking. In one week’s time, over 5 million narcissists, braggarts, exhibitionists, and serial jabbermouths have posted notes to Facebook, disclosing “25 random things” about themselves to their online network of family, friends, friends-of-friends, and of course more than a few pseudo-friends who are just keeping up appearances because they lacked the guts to decline a “friend invite”.

All the while, these very same people are exposing their dirty laundry, trivial observations, unsolicited fantasies, yawn-inducing confessions, white-washed biographical highlight reels and probably a hefty share of outright lies to an armada of sexual deviants, unstable stalkers, future blackmailers, potentially nefarious foreign and domestic intelligence agencies, and a legion of marketing bots- all of which are probably paying closer attention than those the list was intended for (for reasons best left unmentioned).

Just what kind of “random things” have been revealed via this mass act of egotistical disgorgement? Why, a friend of journalist Dan Zak of the Washington Post confessed, “I have pooped my pants more than three times as an adult.” Dallasite Mandy Aguilar reveals, “...my dog kisses me on the mouth. It’s cool.” An associate of Time magazine reporter Claire Suddath inexplicably revealed, “I like to tape my thumbs to my hands to see what it would be like to be a dinosaur.”

Multiple the pointlessness and puerility of those three disclosures times 41.6 million- and you’ll begin to get a sense of the sheer enormity of this catastrophe. Has there ever been a greater amount of trivial idiocy manufactured in a smaller amount of time and then forced upon a greater number of victims in the history of human civilization? Okay, besides the blogosophere then?

Unlikely.

Nevertheless, I’ll be publishing my own list quite soon.

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