Windy day in paradise. Climbed to Flagstaff (highest point in the area, I think) and attempted unsuccessfully to fly a kite. A Professor, an entrepreneur, and a nurse historian walk onto a hill....


Keep noticing odd things down alleyways here in Dunedin. Like New Orleans, most should never see the light of day nor be posted on a public blog. Here are a few exceptions:


Note the caption in the balloon.


Meanwhile, General Franco is still dead. Even more amazingly, Kenai is still alive. Pushing 16.

Back to the States to see the family and a week of reunions. Kids from the ward, old friends, extended clan. 20th High School. I've been thinking for two weeks about what to say about this, and nothing choate has formed. In the end, it has all been said many times and more effectively than I could hope to summon. As we age and the navel gazing becomes more of a necessity than a luxury, thoughts of how we experience reunions of all sorts and the emotions around them become irresistible bits of self-analysis. Sunday's Doonesbury dealt with just this topic:

So I leave the analysis to the professionals. Instead, a story that keeps coming to mind every time I consider the reunion and all the old friends present.

A couple of years back I was in DC for a conference of some sort. The conference was adequately dull for me to justify wandering off onto the Mall and into the Library of Congress. The Library is a complex of three old buildings connected by an incredible system of underground tunnels, reading rooms, vaults, and so on. The public is only allowed into the foyer and the viewing gallery, only those who are Readers (certified and screened) are allowed into the stacks and the other facilities. Needless to say, my certifications were not sufficient.

The foyer has numerous halls running away from the reception area, with doors along each side. As is my wont, I started walking down trying any door not marked with some aggressively censorious note. If it doesn't say don't, then I can. After a bit of wandering and a few sheepish grins to harried bureaucrats in their airless offices, I found a maintenance stairwell going up and down from the floor I was on (I love stairs that go both up and down). Shutting the door behind, I set off.

Upstairs the stairwell ended in a maintenance cubby obviously used for breaks and drinking, judging by the half-stashed whisky bottle and the games of tic-tac-toe scrawled on the wall in marking pencil. The door at the top was open and opened into a dusty attic with windows looking out upon the Mall. After a bit of exploration I sat on one of the window ledges, cracked it open, and smoked a jay while the tourists flowed past below and oblivious. The day was gorgeous.

Fortified and newly intent, I headed back down and past the ground floor into the catacombs. Once I was in the tunnels no one questioned my right to be there, which is a really useful trick. In most bureaucratic organizations, once you are past the outer gate inertia leads everyone to assume that you are where you are supposed to be. A friend once set up cones and used rented equipment to tear up all the pavement in front of a store that had ripped him off protected by the same concept; if you are wearing the orange vest and have a jackhammer, you clearly know what you are doing. He then packed up and left.

So I spent the rest of the day wandering the tunnels, careful not to pass outside of the security ring but otherwise thoroughly enjoying the experience from the actual stacks and reading room down to the Reader's break rooms full of strange academics. At 5 pm I walked out with a group of them and went back to my hotel.

Near as I care to tell, I am fortunate to have a cadre of friends discovered the same way. Opening unmarked doors, talking to the troubled and strange, being in awe rather than terror of the deeply unusual. Many of the people I have met truly live this way, where I only dip my toe and consider myself baptized. The reunions demonstrated what number have learned to love the chaos of our lives, and how many it simply irritates.

So to crib from Mickey Rourke and Charles B: "to all my frieeeends". The artists and the drones. The damaged and the healers. Joyous and bleak. Brilliant and ashen. I love you all greatly, and with my family (whom I am lucky enough to be friends with as well) you have made my life a continuing pleasure.

Even when you irritate the hell out of me.

Since many of my crew were far too stubborn to actually attend the reunion itself, we organized a little gathering the night before at Poplar Street (cousin Josh's great bar). Far too many people to post pics of, but just a smattering;

Travis Herbert and Erica Dillon, both artists in the true sense of the word.

Bob White and Chris Roberts, whom I had not seen in 18 years, it will not be so long again.

Greg Alt, my brother in arms.

Veering back to a different reunion, the McLanes gathered for a feed.

My twin nephews, just turning 16. Can't wait to get to play weird uncle with them. I had fantastic teachers (all props to Gary and Craig).

The newest addition, and the twins youngest brother Miles. Check out the eyes. This boy has p0wer. At least over my father.

Maybe a bit over me as well.

Right, off to bed. Just found out that Karen is so anxious to see me that she showed up at the airport 24 hours early. Air New Zealand put her on a flight anyway (I am beginning to love that airline) and we will see if she can get in from Auckland on standby. If so, I had best get some sleep. Girl wears me out.