"There's only two things that excite a man: expensive toys and real expensive toys." - Red Green of The Red Green Show, AKA, The Prophet

A very pretty view while driving. A burning bush tried to give me some tablets on this mountain, but I remembered to say, "Stranger, stranger! I don't know you!" Like all pictures on the site, click on them and they expand, taking you into Virtual Alaska!

After our fling with the President of Taiwan, it was time to head toward Anchorage, and our ostensible goal - Toys R Us.

We drove back through the beauty that is Turnagain Arm. The hotel that we had stayed at, had it not been socked in with fog and cloud, would have had the most wonderful view. As the clouds parted, you get an idea.

But, no time to do much touristing stuff. We had to get back to the road, to make the trip. The Mrs. was asleep through most of the trip back into Anchorage. She deserves it.

You see, she fed and took care of The New Boy when he got up during the night. A cruel combination led her to this current sleep-deprived state. You see, when The New Boy so much as does a baby's sniff, as gentle a sound as a butterfly's fart, she can hear it from behind two closed doors over the sound of the radio and my snores. Biology, I guess, has given her this curse of being woken by tiny baby sounds.

The second portion of this fateful combination is my utter incompetence when being woken from a sound sleep. I have no idea who I am or where I am or if the thing that was happening in my dream was real or not. I'm just as likely to attempt to feed and change the dog as The New Boy. Or try to feed The New Boy lasagna instead of formula. It's pathetic.


Yawn. Another wonderful, glacier-encrusted mountain.


Turnagain Arm. Named, no doubt, by a guy who wouldn't stop for directions.

So, The Mrs. had good reason to sleep.

We continued on down the road. Every turn of the car's wheels increased the tension in The Boy. He was like a string on Jimi Hendrix's guitar, being used by tiny mice in a tiny mouse version of the medieval rack torture device to torture some other mouse because they had a mouse dictator who was really not a nice mouse. Anyway, to illustrate, every time we could turn, he assumed that I was driving right by the only way to get to Toys R Us. A gas station attendant confirmed that on one occasion he was right, so we backtracked to get to Toys R Us. And there, at last, gleaming like a multi-colored changer-La of tedium, was his goal, his 1984 (The Boy is a bit of a despot at heart, and Big Brother might be what his school guidance counselor suggests . . . .).

"I SEE THE SIGN!"

We drove into the parking lot. His tension kept increasing. Soon, I was worried that the relatively high center of gravity of our 4x4 was imperiled by his excitement. I could see it now - "No, Officer, I was only going 15 miles an hour. But The Boy was bouncing back and forth, and, well it just tipped on over."

We got there, and got out of the parking lot. The Boy was jumping up and down, showing outwardly the excitement that he felt.

We loaded The New Boy into the shopping cart, and in we went. The Mrs. indicated that The New Boy was as ripe as produce in Siberia, and went into the bathroom to change him into somewhat of a Less Offensive Boy. That left The Boy and I to wander the aisle of a toy store.

Let me make this clear. I hate shopping for most things. Except for lumber, tools, and electronic devices, I hate it. There is one other thing I do like to shop for. Toys. Not baby toys. They're lame. But boy toys - cars - space ships - light sabers - I love that. I wasn't nearly as excited as The Boy, but some of it had rubbed off during the last few hours. I imagined wandering the store until The Mrs. finally joined us, and we could show her the bounty of boy birthday presents we had found.

We walked up to the very first display that we could see in the store. Hot Wheels. The Boy looked, selected a five pack of cars, and said:

"Okay. Let's go home."

I was so proud. He even shops like a man. Drive 16 hours, get the one thing you want, and go home.

Funny thing is, he could have gotten those same cars in Fairbanks.

We finally convinced him to get some other things. But it was tough. He loves firemen. Didn't want a fireman suit. He loves Star Wars. Just keep that crap on the shelves. The first thing he showed an interest in were the Thomas trains. No way. He doesn't play with them, and they cost a human kidney for the three-pack.

We finally loaded up our loot, and headed for the bookstore. There are bookstores in Fairbanks, but this was a Borders, so we sat down and had coffee and overpriced soda. The Mrs. and The Boy wandered and found some books. I sat with The New Boy and was amazed at how many Grandma-aged ladies came and gawked. All the Mother-aged ladies steered clear - they remember how nasty little babies can be. I guess that makes you a Grandma, forgetting the horrid baby parts. Or maybe missing the horrid parts. I don't know, not wired to think that way.

It was 6PM.

Now the question. Drive home or stay in Anchorage. What would we do? Hint: I'm a man.