"I'll have you know that Superman was laced with metaphor. Subtext layered on subtext." - Commander Tucker, Enterprise

The Boy continues his photographic acumen. Because film costs nothing but disk space. And I'd never think about taking a photo of the living room while hanging upside-down on the Laz-E-Boy.

Time to change out the tires. The Mrs. has had studded snow tires on since, well, October. That’s seven months. More than half of the year up here, so it makes sense to have the studded tires. Alaska allows them until May 1.

When we bought the car (used) it came with two sets of tires and only one set of rims. The nice rims had the studded snow tires mounted on them. The regular road tires didn’t come with rims. We used some crappy rims for the regular tires, and kept the snow tires on the fancy alloy rims, since the snow tires were on most of the time.

But, this is the time of year that we swap ‘em back and forth.

The Boy and I were ready. Actually, he was more ready than I. The Mrs. had long indicated that she wanted a baby-dragger, that is, some sort of chariot-like device that would allow her to pull The New Boy around behind the back of her bike, like Charlie Sheen on a rickshaw ride in Bangkok. Not that The New Boy has any similarity to Charlie Sheen. The New Boy appears to be sane.

Anyhow, The Boy was ready to go in record time. Unfortunately, he was ready to begin swapping out tires, whereas The Mrs. was ready to go buy a baby-dragger. One guess as to who won.

We went to go buy a baby-dragger. The Boy was beside himself. Actually, The Boy was beside The New Boy in the back seat, so it worked out okay. We went off to Wal-Mart to buy the baby-dragger. The Mrs., for whatever reason, figured I needed a Superman t-shirt and we left Wal-Mart. We went home after I got a haircut.

Getting a haircut was an experience in itself. You in the Lower 48 probably just walk in, wait 10 minutes, and get a haircut. In Fairbanks, that’s just not possible. The Boy and I waited a good hour while the nice folks at Supercuts finally got to me. It was a very good haircut, but probably not worth $22 and an hour of my life. I talked with the owner, and she said that Fairbanks was so short of hair stylists that they would only work the hours they wanted, which didn’t include any Saturday time. I felt sorry for her, but thankful that soon enough nature would preclude the need for me having to have any haircuts at all, only sunscreen.

We finally got home, and the derby began. I got to work. My list included:

• Cutting Wood,
• Stacking Wood,
• Splitting Wood,
• Cleaning Out Ashes,
• Cleaning the Chimney,
• And,
• Starting a Fire. (does anyone else notice a theme here?)

All of that was before changing out the studded tires for the regular ones. We finally got there, though, and The Boy was ecstatic. He rejoiced in every bit of our work, from helping to move the tires out, to getting me another damn beer. (Important Safety Note: Drink beer after chainsaw work, not before. Drunk people with chainsaws, well, they’re called “Lefty” or “Stumpy.”)

Mainly The Boy wasn’t exactly helpful. He was, well, there. And, when doing boring work, that’s pretty important by itself. It’s nice having someone there just to talk with, even if the conversation skews more toward The Grim Adventures of Billy and Mandy than the implications of Schrodinger’s quantum theories on whether or not The New Boy exists when we aren’t filling him with massive amounts of groceries.

We finally finished. I was a mess from head to toe, and The Boy looked as fresh as a daisy. Which, I guess, is okay. Being five means the hard work of being an adult hasn’t hit yet, and he can play and enjoy without much worry. I like having him around while I work. I fantasize about the days when he will be stacking the wood, changing the tires, cleaning the chimney, all while I enjoy a nice beer on the deck.

Ahh, a few years from now. Would Clark Kent enjoy a beer while his son worked? Yeah. Superman may be good, but he’s not perfect.