Around this time last year, Paulette came up with the idea of taking the kids down to Mt St Helens as a kind of family field trip. Alex's school has the kids do show-and-tell, and encourages them to talk about things that start with the "sound of the week" -- that would be the letter of the week, but that's not how they teach reading at his school, they teach sounds -- and the letter V (or, rather, the sound V) was a few weeks away. Paulette's idea was that we could see the volcano one day, and then spend the rest of the weekend visiting friends in Portland, OR and hitting the Saturday Market.

A side note about the Portland Saturday Market: ten summers ago, some friends from my Cornell days and I converged on Portland for a mini-reunion that we have every year (each year in a different city), and we went to the Saturday Market as part of our weekend. While there, I saw a photographer's exhibit that was simply breathtaking, and I very much wanted to buy one of his custom-framed prints. It was amazing. But, I was also only two months away from getting married, and I wanted to make sure that Paulette wouldn't mind me blowing a big wad of cash on a piece of art just before we dropped an even bigger wad of cash on our wedding.

As it turned out, she and I have very similar tastes in art, but since we'd never really acquired any art up to that point, I wanted to clear it with her. The photographer didn't believe in having business cards -- he said he never sold any of his work by using them -- so I figured I'd just run back down to Portland to pick up his stuff on some future weekend.

I've never seen him at the Portland Saturday Market since then, but whenever I'm down there, I always look. I don't know his name. But I know I'd recognize his work if I ever saw it again. It was that amazing.

Anyway, circumstances interfered with the Mt St Helens trip last year, but this year, we made it happen... and, just in time for hitting the letter 'V' again this year. Or the sound, 'V'. Whatever. Paulette and I bundled up the kids in the minivan for what is expected to be our last family adventure together before the anticipated arrival of Baby 3.0.

We left after work on Friday, April 18th. Let me make a comment about April in the Seattle area: it never snows. At least, there's no record of snow accumulating in Seattle after April 1st. In late April, the tulips are already in bloom, and most of the trees have already flowered if not grown their leaves. As we were getting ready to leave, I had to snap a photo of the blanket of snow threatening our tulips. Crazy, crazy.

We drove down to a town near Mt St Helens; the plan was to make a hotel there our base of operations and we went back and forth between points Washington and Oregon. The hotel was ready and waiting for us, we all got a good night's sleep, and had a pleasant breakfast before heading off to the visitor center at Mt St Helens.

The lava caves we had hoped to visit were closed due to snow. In fact, so were just about all of the vantage points except for the main visitor center, which was far enough away from the mountain that the snowfall (it was still snowing) made it impossible to see. There was a little movie about the big eruption in 1980, and a scale model of the volcano and surrounding area that you can walk through. Nolan loved that part, while Alex preferred the movie.

We had a good visit at the center, but I was nonetheless a little disappointed that we didn't get the see the volcano.

After a refreshing dip in the pool and hot tub at our hotel (Nolan and Alex both absolutely love swimming. However, Nolan is still learning, so the hot tub was more agreeable to him because he could stand on the bench seats and didn't have to worry about actually swimming swimming), we headed down to Portland to visit with our friends Bjorn and Kirsten.

We had a fantastic evening. Excellent conversation, excellent food at a local Italian restaurant that was kid friendly, more excellent conversation, and just an all-around agreeably relaxing time was had by all. I've been a little out of sorts lately, and there's nothing like a pleasant evening with old friends to put one's mind at ease.

I must mention (if you haven't visited the link already to Bjorn's site) that Bjorn has an airplane named Superboy. In fact, if I recall correctly, Alexander's first plane ride was in Superboy. Bjorn loves to fly, and he told us he'd be happy to take us for a look at Mt St Helens if the weather for the next day turned out to be as good as the forecast claimed.

Although we have a lot of friends in Portland and surrounding areas, we ended up not making any other plans for the weekend, since we weren't sure how the kids would do on the trip. Sunday morning, we went to Saturday Market (I love saying that -- "Sunday, at the Saturday Market..."), and Alex was pretty obviously not happy to be dragged around while his parents wanted to look at the artsy-fartsy stuff on display. I did not find the photographer I'd been looking for these past ten years, nor did I expect to, but I can still hope that someday I'll bump into him again.

We had an appropriate lunch (Mmmm... outdoor market food) and then phoned Bjorn to see if he was still up for a plane ride. Silly me. The boys love airplanes, and Bjorn loves to fly. The weather was cooperating, so *of course* everyone was up for a ride.

Bjorn was so gracious with the kids. He had Alex help out by checking the fuel and plugging in the rear headsets. The plane may not look big, but it was able to hold me (and I'm pretty big) and Paulette (who is flying for two) and Nolan in the back seat, while Alex flew shotgun in the co-pilot's chair.

As it so happened, we flew up into a big bevy of clouds, but we found a hole that enabled us to get up above the cloud cover. ("Why not just fly through the clouds?" "Because the temperature up here is below freezing, and the plane would ice up very quickly if we tried.") At this point, it became obvious that we might see nothing but overcast skies (well... undercast, I guess, since we were above the clouds) blanketing the mountain, but what the heck, we were already in the air. So, we headed to Mt St Helens to see what we could see.

Keep in mind, just getting the boys up for a flight made for a wonderful time, and Paulette and I enjoyed sitting next to each other in the cozy back seats. But if we could actually get some snapshots of the mountain while we were there, well... so much the better. In fact, I should make this point if it hasn't become obvious already: Mt. St. Helens was the McGuffin for our trip. It was the excuse; it was not the reason. The reason was to get us out as a family, enjoying some different scenery and different settings. The goal was to leave work and the daily chores behind for a little while. That said....

Miles and miles of big, white, fluffy clouds rolled by beneath us while Alex enjoyed being the co-pilot and Nolan played with his trains. Then we saw a break in the clouds, near where the volcano should be, and lo and behold... Wow, what a view. We were so close to the crater, we could see the plumes of steam roiling up into the air. (For those who don't know, the volcano is still active... it's just not erupting at present.)

We snapped our photos. Alex would have some neat print-outs for his show-and-tell that week. All-in-all, though, it was just cool the way the weekend all came together. We had some pleasant quiet time as a family, enjoyed a soothing, low-key visit with gracious friends, and then had a private tour of a snow-capped volcano. A magically delicious weekend.

If a picture's worth a thousand words, let me leave you with this:

I don't drink. There's no particular reason; I simply never got into it. The taste of most alcohols simply doesn't appeal to me, although I will cop to occasionally enjoying a milkshake made with Irish Cream and coffee flavored Haagen-Dasz. Several of my favorite recipes call for cooking with alcohol (take a look at the recipes I've posted, like Jambalaya, for a tasty example). But that said, drinking isn't my thing.

The fact that I don't drink is somewhat unexpected, given my Irish heritage. Here's how Irish my heritage is: my grandparent whose surname at birth was McMahon died of liver failure, resulting partly from her penchant for beer. No kidding.

When my cousins and sister and I were kids, the biggest honor we could imagine during those summer weekends at our grandparents' cottage was to be allowed to carry the beer pitcher from the tap to where the adults were sitting in the yard.

[For long-time readers of my blog, I'll point out that these grandparents are not the ones who were Methodist ministers. Here's how NOT-Irish my other grandparents were: when administering communion, they used grape juice instead of wine. No kidding. ]

This is what it means to grow up as part of an Irish family: the tap I mentioned above jutted out from the side of a refrigerator that resided on the front porch of the cottage, with a keg inside. The fridge contained nothing else. I'm not making this up. The aforementioned cottage was in Canada, where the national bird is the Molson Golden. Okay, I made up the bit about the national bird, but really, what else has Canada contributed to American culture but hockey, beer, William Shatner, and beer?

The extended family that populated my summer visits to Canada were consummate story-tellers and avid card players, and beer was ever present in the background, no doubt helping to facilitate both. Given that I soaked up all the story telling and card playing, I find it an interesting quirk that I never had any interest whatsoever in appreciating so-called adult beverages.

[I will also acknowledge that another aspect of my Irish heritage involved being exposed to Irish "cuisine," which consists of boiling "food" until it has no flavor and no nutritional value. Salt to taste. "Food" consists of some combination of potatoes, cabbage, and "meat." Luckily, I have also ducked that aspect of my Irish heritage.]

Later, in my grad school days, I made it a point to learn what wines go best with the meals I would prepare for my paramour at the time. She came from a family that had some means, and I occasionally felt like my blue-collar background colored (unfavorably) their opinion of me. On occasions when I was not feeling particularly charitable about an upcoming visit with her family, I'd contemplate asking them what meal they would be preparing so that I would know what kind of beer to bring.

But for all that I was steeped in the couture of wine and the culture of beer -- ha! "Steeped!" There's another drink I don't drink: tea -- I've simply never acquired the taste.

A few years ago, I tried explaining to someone that I never could get into the taste, and she pointed out, "Allan, people don't start drinking for the taste." [This someone has, in the ensuing years, become quite the wine snob, so she might or might not give the same response in her older, wiser frame of mind.] While I know that this is not necessarily true, it does bring up the valid point that some people don't drink for the flavor, but for the effects.

I have long suspected that my lack of interest in drinking might be related to my innate desire to maintain self-control. But I have added a few data points in recent years that make me wonder about another possibility.

As I mentioned a few years ago when it happened, I required oral surgery that involved reconstructing my gum line -- a gingiva graft. During one of the procedures, I was offered nitrous oxide to augment the anesthetic, and I decided to try it. As soon as they started, I had to wave them off to tell them to stop.

"This feels terrible. I'm all light-headed, and I feel like I might throw up."

"We told you it would make you feel a little like you've been drinking." For a second, I was afraid they wouldn't turn it off; the person controlling the gas seemed genuinely surprised that anyone would not want to feel that way. This was a truly frightening moment for me. Then she eased up on the gas, and the terrible feeling evaporated with it.

As I may or may not have mentioned in my posts about my oral surgeries, I was prescribed a small amount of Vicodin/hydrocodone to use as a pain killer. This drug did absolutely nothing for me. Nothing. I have long wondered why something so useless could be such a hot commodity. My painkiller of choice remained Advil, even though it presumably has more serious side-effects (stomach bleeding, anyone?).

Which brings us to a few days ago. I've been recovering from an ear infection these past few days, and saw my doctor on Wednesday to have him check on my progress and to discuss pain management. My approach as been: when it hurts, take lots and lots of Advil. Alternate with Tylenol. Repeat as necessary.

Talking to your doctor can sometimes be a good thing. He pointed out that I was taking a toxic amount of Tylenol (notorious for potential liver damage), and a prescription-level's worth of Advil. He recommended a short course of Vicodin to help manage the pain, "Which should go away in a few days anyway," and would do less damage to my body in the meantime.

So I filled the prescription. I noticed immediately something different: unlike the other times I'd been given hydrocodone (the generic equivalent), these pills were large enough for a horse. Insofar as this medicine had never had an effect on me before, I took one right away (this was during a break at work) with lunch, unconcerned that I'd be driving a few hours later.

Horse tranquilizers.

An hour or three later, I noticed that I was sleeeepy. Then I made the connection: bigger pill might mean an actual effect. Then I noticed: my ear still hurt! When I'd had my oral surgery, the doctor who prescribed the Vicodin said that I'd probably still feel pain, but I just wouldn't care. I thought about that. Did I care that I was still in pain?

$%*!, yes, I cared! Ouch!

So, there I was, sleepy but still in pain. *And* I had some driving to do. And, come to think of it... I was just as uncomfortable as I'd been when I'd briefly tried that nitrous oxide.

Looks like I picked the wrong week to give up caffeine.

Twenty ounces of Dr Pepper (have you ever noticed that there's no period in the "Dr" part of Dr Pepper?) and four Advil later, and the effects of the hydrocodone were again rendered moot. I had been worried it would take longer for the hydrocodone to wear off (unlike the nitrous oxide, where the effects disappeared immediately), but I guess my body just didn't have much use for it.

So, what have I learned from all this? Well, for starters, I won't be taking Vicodin / hydrocodone ever again. It just plain doesn't work for me, and makes me feel anxious and sleepy, to boot.

I've learned (or, perhaps, reaffirmed) that it's very, very difficult to give up Dr Pepper.

...and I'm wondering if maybe, just maybe, one of the reasons I've never developed any interest in alcohol has something to do with my body already sensing that it simply has no use for depressants. I realize that narcotics and alcohol are chemically different, so it's possible that I'm over-generalizing with this guess. Then again, nitrous oxide is a depressant, and it is neither an opiate nor an alcohol.

Whether my aversion to alcohol and other depressants is psychological, physical, or both, I do know this: it has nothing to do with virtue, and it has nothing to do with fear. The concept of temptation holds no meaning when one is not even interested.

True to my Irish roots, I may die of liver failure. However, it would be the results of my accidental overdose of Tylenol, and not because of beer.

Kentucky Derby, May 3rd, 2008.

NBC is covering the Run for the Roses. This is not the first year they've covered the event; they should know what they are doing, right?

So far, after fifty minutes, they have yet to talk about any of the $#&! horses. They have yet to talk to any trainers. They've spent about thirty seconds on a fluff piece about jockeys.

They've interviewed Hugh Hefner and asked about his hotel accommodations. They've talked to Terrell Owens about how things are going with the Dallas Cowboys, and right now they're talking to some guy from the New York Giants. NBC has spent more time talking about football than about the Kentucky Derby.

What the intercourse is up with that?

Wait... wait... Bob Costas will be on in ten minutes. Maybe they'll talk about the freakin' horses before the race actually starts. One can only hope.

Taking a page from ABC News' playbook on how to cover the issues, I guess.

My wife and I often enjoy picking up college courses recorded by The Teaching Company. We recently picked up a new geology course that has the latest research on the state of the field these days.

Wow, what a fascinating topic. It's amazing how much there is to learn, and how we know what we know, and how the development of the field has affected our understanding of biology, cosmology, and so on.

We picked up the course on DVD (some courses are also available in audio-only formats), figuring that the visual nature of the lectures might be of interest to our budding young scientist, Alexander. By way of planning for an upcoming family outing to Mt. St. Helen's, we skipped ahead to a lecture regarding the eruption of this volcano in 1980.

The volcano and its activity since its most recent eruption are fascinating, but the lecturer also went into the tectonic activity that makes this region ripe for a catastrophic earthquake. I've known for years now that when Mt. Rainier blows, we'll likely have a couple of months warning, but the eruption could produce lava flows (floes?) as far north as Seattle. In fact, we live in an area that was partially hit by Rainier two eruptions ago.

[For those who don't know: Mt. St. Helen's is south of Rainier, putting it closer to Portland, OR, but still rather nearby.]

What I didn't know was that our local region was wiped out by a 9.0 magnitude earthquake just over three hundred years ago. Because of the way the Juan de Fuca fault works here, we are already entering the "danger zone" for the next catastrophic quake. That said, it's more likely that the next big one will hit in 100 to 200 years (these big'uns tend to hit four-hundred to five-hundred years apart), but we're still entering dangerous geological times.

The instructor of the course gave a compelling argument that Seattle and Portland are likely to be destroyed within the next couple of hundred years.

This isn't necessarily as scary as it sounds. History contains several examples of cities destroyed by a catastrophic event, only to be rebuilt. Such examples include San Francisco after it's big earthquake (and subsequent fire) of 1906 and the devastation of Tokyo and Yokohama following the 1923 Great Kanto earthquake.

Then again, the above mentioned earthquakes measured a mere 8.0 on the Richter scale, and they *did* kill hundreds of thousands of people. I don't know if I'd necessarily prefer to be hanging around when a 9.0 hits. While Seattle and the surrounding areas will certainly be rebuilt following a major volcanic eruption or earthquake, I might be inclined to miss the main event that leads up to a new and improved city.

For all that, though, when it comes to being the most dangerous city in America, Seattle certainly stakes a strong claim, geologically speaking.

Los Angeles, eat your heart out.