"The only place you can find a Main Street these days is in Disneyland. And just try to buy a gun there." - Hank, King of the Hill

I know that this may sound slightly insensitive at this time a year, but, reindeer tastes good. If Santa shows at your casa, conk him on the nugget and take the reindeer. Mmmm. Reindeer.

So, another benefit on living in the Last Frontier. You get to be the first to do things.

I recently got a letter from the Fairbanks-North Star Borough. Borough is what we call a county up here. I think the primary advantage is that borough has more letters than county. Boroughs also have more guns than a county.

This isn’t the first letter I’ve gotten from the Borough. The first few (six?) were requests that I tell them about my property, things such as how much I paid for it. By law, however, they cannot get this information unless I give it to them voluntarily. By law, they can’t even come and visit to see if I’ve built a 7000 square foot addition (remember, no permits) and a six megawatt nuclear generating station. Not that I’ve done that. Yet. I’m saving for the duct tape for the joints on the radioactive cooling-water pipes.

This is the sign on the Alaska Pipeline. Probably too many words for our street.

Anyhow, this letter was a bit different. I and several other folks live on a private drive. By private drive, I mean a section of bare earth (actually packed snow right now) where no trees are currently growing. It’s bumpy, but living in Alaska, bumpy is how we like our roads, women, and beer. I don’t really know what I mean by the comment about the beer, but I just like typing “beer.”

This letter indicated that if one of our houses was burning, the local fire department would have as much chance of finding it as Jennifer Lopez would have of convincing a man that, you know, he was the first. This is, of course, despite the plume of smoke that would be evident in the six-month daylight duration, or the screaming, jumping, gesturing John Wilder at the end of the driveway should it be winter. Oh, yeah, and if you go to Google Earth my place is right there. But, you know, the dispatchers may not have exotic technology like the Internet.

What they wanted was rather simple, really. They want us to put up a sign at the end of our road indicating a street name. A street name that we get to pick out. I’m sure if you live, well, most place in the lower 48, this is an option that your grandparents might have had. Well, baby, this is our option. The Mrs. is as excited about this as I am. By the way, when was the last time you were excited about a letter from your county?

Not that it doesn’t come with a downside or two.

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If we chose a name, and the Borough approves it (which, unless it’s patently obscene, is a 100% chance) then we can put up a sign that says, “Wilder Lane.” We have to pay for the sign and the post, but we get to pick our street name. We still own the driveway, they can’t have that, so “Keep Your Grubby Butt Out Lane” is still an option.

I’ve seen streets up here with names such as “Memory Lane,” “Runamuck,” “Loose Moose,” “Dead End,” and “Lois Lane.” Since I have a passing fancy for a certain NFL team, well, I thought that “L Way” would be a good name.

The downside is this: If we pick a really cool name, like, “Duct Tape Way,” the chances that some fellow Alaskan will come with a set of hydraulic shears suitable for cutting through a M-60 Patton tank will chop up the metal pole and take our lovely “Duct Tape Way” sign for use as a basement sign.

So I put it to you, faithful readers, to help me. I’m willing to fund on a fairly neverending stream a street sign that would have the coolest, most kick butt name ever. Keep in mind this, though. I have to convince several sober neighbors who didn’t have a sense of humor that fossilized when they were twelve. Like me.

So, here’s a contest. I’m going to throw it open to ya’ll to give me suggestions on what we should do here. We can:

1. tell the Borough to pound sand (the Alaska option)
2. pick a really cool name that would be here forever (the John Wilder option)
3. pick a lame-ass lower 48 name like “Pointe Point Undangerous Fluffy Kitten Way”

This is the "pound sand" version. Giving Alaskan's crap about wearing seatbelts is like attempting to teach a bully a bunch of Irishmen at a neighborhood pub into drinking nothing but Diet Coke. As the old joke goes, it wastes your time and annoys the Irishmen. (A nod to Daniel in Eagle)

Give us your suggestion.

Don’t worry that it’s not good enough for anyone else to hear. Just sing a song give us an idea of what you would do if you lived in such a cool (both ways) place. Umm, if we get your idea past the neighbors and the Borough, we’ll pop a picture of the sign up on the net, complete with a loving link to you, and a beer if you ever make it up this far.