Perils of Caffeine in the Evening

Just a quick post.  We hiked up an incredibly steep trail to the top of “The Chief” (pictured below), about 2,000 feet of elevation gain in a mile and a half of hiking.  We were rewarded with this panoramic view of Squamish and Howe Sound:

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After we hiked down, our son still had energy to do some “bouldering”, so we grabbed some gear out of the car and hiked into an area strewn with “rocks of interest”.  Mrs. Perils summoned up a bit of energy to try a problem or two:

Kayaking today out of Porteau Bay on the sound while all the other folks go looking for rocks.

Against heavy odds, we connected with our son and his companion here in Squamish.  We had a convivial repast at the Howe Sound Pub:

Tomorrow we’ll do some combination of climbing and hiking, as they have to head back to Seattle by nightfall Friday.

At our Drinking Liberally meeting the other night, a couple of us boomers were engaged in conversation with a Gen-X or so fellow, and the familiar resentments about economic and cultural hegemony bubbled up.  At one point, the Gen-X guy posited that, in our dotage, we boomers would never settle for the “senior citizen” label.  I allowed that we were even chary of the AARP’s “retired persons” tag.

It was then, in a moment of alcohol-fueled synaptic serendipity, that I foresaw my future franchise: a publication, a product line, or an entire ethos under the trademark “Artificially Hip”.  It crystallizes all the posturing inherent in trying to be eternally young while dealing as surreptitiously as possible with the topic of prosthesis.

Artificially Hip.  It’s mine, all mine.  And it’s going to make me a fortune, and ease a generation into its grave.  Don’t thank me, Gen-X’ers, just buy my magazine.  And keep paying your Social Security taxes.

As I alluded previously, we drove north to Squamish, BC today for a long weekend.  We congratulated ourselves as we sped north out of town, while the southbound lanes of I-5 were at a standstill.  This is Seafair weekend in Seattle, a festival of Blue Angel exhibitions, unlimited hydro racing on Lake Washington and archipelagos of rafted-up drunkenness.  I-5 was backed up due to FAA-mandated bridge closures during Blue Angel practice sessions today and tomorrow.

Our smugness lasted all the way to the border, where there was a 45-minute wait at the Blaine crossing:

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The fun continued as we approached Vancouver.  I consulted Google Maps for our routing to Squamish, and it prescribed following Hwy 99 straight through town and up the coast.  I thought this would be a cool way to get an eyeful of the city;  I neglected to discern that Hwy 99 becomes a surface street through town, subject to ill-timed lights and impossible left turns.  At one point, sitting on Georgia St, I began to wonder if we had enough food on board to last a weekend, and whether the plants in the hanging baskets along the street were edible.

In (over)due time, we made it to the Lion’s Gate Bridge, which afforded truly stunning views east and west.  A couple other major slowdowns/stoppages at Horseshoe Bay and at some construction zone (they’re bulking up the pretty little Sea to Sky highway in order to accommodate traffic for the 2008 winter Olympics, which will be held largely at Whistler/Blackcomb), and we landed in Squamish.  We were entertained for most of the drive by one or more French-language stations, and Mrs. Perils, veteran of French I - IV at good old Perrysburg High, amused herself by trying to track the announcer’s patter.

We first hit Starbuck’s, and without thinking I plunked down a US $20.  I was startled to get $19.95 back, then realized I wasn’t in Kansas anymore, fiscally, anyway.  We left messages for our son and his companion, who came up to Squamish on Tuesday morning.  We’d like to meet up with them for dinner at the Howe Sound Pub, but they’re up here somewhere:

Mrs. Perils, I think, is channelling our recently-departed cat, yowling and scratching at the door, so I think it’s time to head to the pub for dinner.  More anon.

After the somewhat jarring events of yesterday afternoon, we decided to walk (instead of drive) to the weekly meeting of Drinking Liberally at the Montlake Pub.  On the way, we came upon these artichoke/thistles, avidly patronized by a group of largish bumblebees:

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The walk took us through the University of Washington campus.  The evening light afforded us a pleasing view of Mount Rainier from Red Square:

As usual when we’ve attended Drinking Liberally, we met engaging folks with interesting slants on the local political scene.

I should be packing for our sorta-impromptu trip to Squamish, BC tomorrow, but here I am instead, revelling in your attention.

Our household is down a man since yesterday.  When we returned from Ashland last month, we observed that our 12-year-old cat Simba was looking a little portly, and presumed that he’d wheedled extra feedings from the caregivers we’d retained to sit with Mrs. Perils’ mother while we were gone.

He kept the gut in spite of a return to a more usual feeding regimen, but seemed his “normal” self (I’ll qualify this later) until Monday night, when he seemed to have hit a wall and started acting very mopey and sluggish.

A trip to the vet yesterday confirmed that he had a large “mass” in his abdomen, and the outlook wasn’t good.  For $450, we could get an ultrasound and diagnosis, and then pursue whatever treatment might be indicated.  $2,000 to medically torture a cat that hasn’t done me any harm seems like money ill-spent, so we had him euthanized.  Mrs. Perils had feared a round of guilt-tripping from the vets, but they were very caring and professional.

We obtained Simba from a litter dropped by our across-the-street neighbor’s cat.  Our son picked him out and named him.  Then, when it seemed another from that litter was not going to be claimed, we got his brother and named him Rico, after the MTV eminence Rico Suave.  As time wore on, Rico became the dominant cat in the house and intimidated Simba.  Simba, never a really bright boy to begin with, spent more and more time outside and became sort of feral.  When he could slip by Rico, though, he’d slink into the house or into bed with us and be very affectionate.

You would think, since Simba made a career of being virtually invisible for long stretches, that Rico wouldn’t even realize that he was gone.  Oddly, though, Rico seems a little disoriented since Simba’s Last Ride.  Makes you go “hmmm”  a little.

He wasn’t much of a pet in the usual sense, but I miss him a bit. 

Simba, left, and Rico, right, caught in a nanosecond of truce.

Home again last night to find openly-expressed skepticism about my self-diagnosis of a pathological and debilitating niceness.  I disagreed, but was uncomfortable with expressing said disagreement and instead busied myself with dusting and placing flower arrangements strategically around the house where she might encounter them unexpectedly and be pleased with me.

Remember last weekend, when we were remarking (I don’t actually complain about anything) upon the temperatures in the mid-90s?  Today it didn’t quite hit 70, and tomorrow it’s chance of rain and high of 63.  Global warming, it seems, has a coquettish streak.

There’s talk of heading to Squamish, BC next weekend.  It’s a rock-climbing mecca where Mrs. Perils and our son have spent time, but I’ve never been.  Nearby Howe Sound looks to have some kayaking potential.  I’ll see how the work week transpires.

Travel Update - I walked over to a local Sears store a mile or so from my luxurious hotel here in Milwaukee and purchased two pairs of socks.  The folks who work at my client’s here are now spared the sight of my bare ankles.

Weather Update - I have forfeited my right to comment on the torrid west coast heat wave due to my fleeing to the midwest.  While I understand it’s now 20 degrees cooler in Seattle than it was over the weekend, here in Milwaukee it’s in the mid-80s, accompanied by its trademark mugginess.  A run this evening, despite my new, svelte airfoil, left me pretty drenched.  I like this weather sometimes, though, because it brings a whiff of home, or what used to be home.  And I saw a lightning bug!

Problem Solved An article in yesterday’s Seattle Times revealed like a lighthouse beacon something that, in retrospect, has probably afflicted me all my life.  I’m too nice.  The article basically faults people, especially guys, who are so conflict-averse that they surround themselves with a pillow-like shell of niceness that, yes, most often protects them from the vicissitudes of those who aren’t so nice, but also is a prison from which they can never articulate and assert their own desires.  Moreover, :

“Nice guys are fundamentally dishonest,” says Dr. Robert Glover, a licensed marriage and family therapist in Bellevue, and author of “No More Mr. Nice Guy!” one of two books on the subject by local authors. The nice guy says what other people want to hear and hides their mistakes to avoid conflict … Glover has worked for years counseling men whose need to please has interfered with their work and relationships. These men generally fear being the brutish jerk that people dislike. By being extremely nice, they believe they’re different and therefore better than the typical guy.

I think you’ll agree that, once you view the world’s problems through this lens, you’ll be pretty angry with us (formerly) nice guys.  Problems have festered all over the globe due to these craven, grovelling imposters.  Remedial actions of honest, responsible nastiness were long overdue.  Let’s hope it’s not too late.

I made my escape yesterday from the hellish inferno of Seattle, headed for the milder climes of the midwest, where it was a mere 85 degrees.

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Mt. Rainier, Mt. Adams in the background

As usual, I felt a pang as the Cascades rolled away behind my plane.  Every time I do this, I promise myself that I’ll get out hiking when I return.  I haven’t been to the Mt. Rainier park in a really long time now.

Lake Woebegone, MN?

As we descended on approach to Minneapolis, the prairie radiated the fullness of summer in countless shades of greens and blues.

The shoes are cruel enough - but those ankles are excruciating

Getting dressed this morning, I discovered that I’d forgotten to pack dress socks.  I’m faking it with the darkest running socks I have, slinging my slacks a little lower and taking advantage of my desk’s “modesty panel” (one of the more risible euphemisms).  Looks like a shopping trip this evening.

It’s hot here, in Puget Sound parlance.  Sorry, John from Texas and anyone else moldering in more hostile climes, but I’m gonna bitch anyway about 96-degree weather.  Even if it does drop to the mid-60s in the evening.  Understand that I have no air conditioning either in my house or in my car, and I haven’t had the presence of mind to schedule client visits to those of the economic stratum that actually have air conditioning.  You guys have issues.  You know you do.  You need to call me.

Since I’m flying to Milwaukee Sunday, I sorta blew today off, work-wise.  I’d been thinking earlier in the week of doing an overnight kayak trip, but stuff kept pushing me later and later in the week, and I really don’t want to battle the hoi polloi for beach space on a summer weekend.

So, my grandiose plan got funnelled down to a day trip today.  I launched from the beach in Mukilteo, a town north of Seattle, near Everett, which I know mostly for its Washington State Ferry service to Whidbey Island.  Of course, my impeccable timing combined with my congenital morning sloth saw me launching at 1:30 PM, pretty much high noon, Daylight-Savings-Wise.  On the hottest day of the year.

I paddled up to the port of Everett, then back south to somewhere near Picnic point.  There wasn’t anything really remarkable about this part of the Sound, but I’d never paddled this particular shoreline, there was an afternoon Mariners game that dissuaded me from heading south, and, ultimately, I needed to just point myself out the door or I wouldn’t have left the house at all.  Through some ham-handedness that I won’t elaborate on just now, this is the only photo I have from the trip worth posting:

I thought it might be a little cooler on the water, but there wasn’t much breeze, and the only respite was to dip my hands into the 50-degree water, which felt like shoving them into the freezer, and provided agreeable relief.

After I got home and stowed all my kayaking gear, Mrs. Perils evinced a desire to walk a bit.  On such a night, where else would we walk but Gasworks Park:

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It looks like an Ingmar Bergman skeleton-dance up there on the hill, but when we got up there, everyone was possessed of adequate human flesh except this unfortunate pilgrim.  Don’t know what his particular complaint was, but I think I might like his shoes: