Juneau That?

As we were leaving the birthday barbecue at his house today, my brother-in-law mentioned having seen 30 Days of Night. "Oh, we went and saw that when it came out!" I exclaimed. "My two brothers and I! Because we're from Barrow!"

"Alaska?!" said my brother-in-law in some surprise, because that's where Barrow is. Well, and also (I suppose) because this would be the first time in the 18 years he's known me that I ever mentioned having any brothers.

"Yes!" I said. "So of course we had to see the movie!"

"You're from Alaska, really? Isn't that something? I had no idea!" cried another one of my in-laws. So I had some 'splainin' to do.

Actually, my favorite part of the backstory that Robbie, Justin and I came up with for our 2007 Corpus trip - the one that cast us as a family of tragically orphaned whale-marketers from the northernmost point in the U.S. - is our attempt at preparation for possible quizzing from strangers. "What if somebody asks us who the governor of Alaska is?" said Justin. "I don't know who it is, do you?"

"All I know is it's a woman," said Robbie. "We'll just answer that we disapprove of her politically, so much that we refuse to mention her name in our family. That way no one will catch on that we don't actually know what her name is."

Kind of funny, now, in hindsight. But not as funny as the fact that the whole movie was actually filmed in New Zealand. I don't know when I'll stop being pissed off about that.

Meanwhile, back at the ranch, my sister and her boyfriend took me out last night. Do you remember being young? I used to be able to go out at 10 p.m. and have a full night ahead of me. Nowadays this is more problematic. We arrived at the club where the band they knew was playing, and found that (1) the air conditioning has gone out, (2) the band was very loud and not all that good, and (3) I am old. So after an hour or two, I ended up ditching my sister and her boyfriend - who had found a good parking space, a commodity not to be sacrificed - and simply walking the 2.4 miles home, by myself, at 12:30 a.m. In flip-flops. I may not be dewy and carefree anymore, but by God, I can still get blisters in my toe cleavage.

Of course, yesterday was the Fourth of July, or the 78704th, as we call it here in my neck of the woods. There was a Michael Jackson tribute car in the 78704th of July Parade, decked out in glitter and memorabilia, someone dancing maniacally in a gigantic Afro wig in the back. No Farrah Fawcett car, no Billy Mays car, no Ed McMahon or Karl Malden (or his nose - alas, USENET! I knew him, Horatio) or Mollie Sugden cars were in evidence. I'm deeply disappointed, and I am unanimous in that.

But the Muppets are always there for you. Thanks Jen of Cakewrecks for posting this. I'm a day late, but my heart is in the right place:



Alaska!

The Journey of a Thousand Miles

Magda and Dumas are safely home in Barrow now. They traveled back with heavy hearts: the urn in which their father’s ancient ashes reposed overturned in the back of Dumas’ car when they hit a pothole in Gonzales, an ignominious scattering for the dignified and stern old Russian. Shaken, his children swept what they could out onto the beach without further ceremony. Their trip back to Alaska was spent mostly in silence, pondering the foolishness of their efforts, and wondering why they had once more made this epic journey, for so little reward to anyone?

But their depression was not destined to last, for on their return, they were overjoyed to find their brother Edwin safe at home; he had survived his sojourn in the belly of the whale, and in due course he emerged from it in the natural way, completely unscathed – only wanting a long shower, and expressing a marked disinclination for sushi.

Dumas is now a changed man: abandoning his dream of bringing a Super Wal-Mart to his hometown, he is now cultivating grapes in a fledgling vineyard where the retail giant was once to set its mighty foot, and looks forward to sampling the as-yet-unnamed fruit of his Bacchanalian efforts.

Magda, meanwhile, is meditating on the myriad blessings of her own personal advantages; loving and supportive family members; kind, loyal friends; a fun, steady job where her useful work is appreciated and rewarded; and the excellent health to continue enjoying all this wonderful bounty for a long time to come. What a lucky creature, what a child of good fortune she is. What could she possibly have to complain about?

Okay, so the sunburn hurts really really bad. But hurts will get better.

The Journey Continues

There are certain advantages to having a literary alter ego, but occasionally there are drawbacks as well. For example, Magda Silhavy went to the beach today and burnt her pallid Alaskan hide to a crisp, which means that this evening, I find it particularly uncomfortable to wear things that chafe against my skin, such as, oh I don't know, clothes.

The sacrifices we make for our art.

Magda - I - and my brother Dumas are once more in Corpus to scatter our late father's ashes in the balmy waters of the bay; leaving them on the baggage carousel in Seattle, we found, was not adequately respectful to the old patriarch's memory. This is a more sobering trip than the last, as we are mourning the loss of our brother Edwin to one of the very whales he loved and worked for all his life. We are once more struck by the differences between Corpus Christi and our own hometown of Barrow, Alaska.

We don't really get wine festivals back home, but attended one in Rockport yesterday. Dumas suggests that perhaps we could start a winery back in Barrow. What could we call it? We're a little stumped, but frankly, in the wake (so to speak) of the current tragedy, we've gone right off whale marketing. Never mind that we have a three-day growing season. I've seen those tiny wine bottles they sell on airplanes; if that doesn't represent a niche we were destined to fill, I'd like to know what does?

During the course of the evening, the emcee began walking around among the tents and tables, greeting guests and asking what their favorite wine of the day was, and where are they from? Naturally, Dumas and I felt that this situation was custom-tailored for us, and began casually placing ourselves in the emcee's path. We're from Barrow, Alaska! Nobody else here is from that far away!

But he evaded us, so many times in fact that we began to suspect he was doing so on purpose, especially when he singled out a guest drinking Coors Light. We left in disgust.

Another thing we don't have in Barrow is cockroaches. But back at the hotel, dozing off the wine, I saw something moving underneath the notepad on the nightstand. I lifted the notepad to see two German cockroaches, engrossed in one another, tail-to-tail. I slammed the notepad back down onto them hard.

If I'm not having a good time, I don't see why anybody else should.

Also on the nightstand is an evaluation card. Outraged, I scrawled "FUCKING COCKROACHES!" in the comments section.

It occurred to me that clarification was needed. "(Seriously, they were having sex)," I wrote underneath, and added after further thought, "(I squooshed them)."

Also unheard of in Barrow are nightclubs such as the one where friendly locals Omar and Garrick took us dancing last night; nor, as I discovered to my dismay today, is the sun nearly as strong back home.

So it's rather ironic that they don't have whale blubber sunburn balm here, where the need for it is so much greater. That will just have to wait until the next chapter, the scattering of our father's ashes, and our eventual return home.

If only Edwin were here to experience it all with us.

Sleepless in Austin

If it's not one thing, it's another: this time, not only did Papa Silhavy's ashes get left on the baggage carousel in Seattle, but so did poor Magda. Oh! the indignity!

Those things pinch, too.

Meanwhile, here in Austin, I had a pretty quiet couple of days off, which I dedicated largely to manicure upkeep. This gets old after a while.

Do you know what a Beverly Hills manicure is? It used to be called an American manicure - as opposed to French, you know - back when I used to do the fake nail thing, which nobody does anymore, except in Beaumont. It's clear pink polish over the nail beds and sheer off-white on the tips, which gives the overall effect that you have really nice nails that aren't all split and peely and uneven-looking; and like a lot of the dumb stuff we dames do in the name of beauty, takes quite a lot of effort to make it look like you aren't even trying.

On those stupid MySpace survey things when one of the questions is "What's the first thing you notice about the opposite sex?" no man has ever, ever, ever answered "Her fingernails." Not the gay ones either. Nobody.

The other thing you can do if you take time off during the week is go to breakfast at Magnolia. Even on a Thursday morning there's a fifteen-minute wait. Forget about the weekend. It's a pity, because I remember a time when you could go there and actually hope to eat something yummy - gingerbread pancakes, perhaps, though my personal favorite is the Popeye omelet - within a reasonable amount of time. Now the waiting area is just as packed as Rain on a Saturday night. They should have bouncers who turn you away if you don't smell like locally-produced, organic personal hygiene products.

You can also go to happy hour and show up early enough that you might get a table and/or a parking space.

When I lived in Corpus, the thing I really liked about it was that it wasn't crowded. There wasn't a lot of traffic, and even Wal-Mart shopping was not a completely traumatic experience. You could pop by the HEB after work to pick up a few items and have no trouble whatsoever acquiring a shopping cart (as long as you weren't looking for one of those kiddie-car shaped ones, because they don't have those there at all) and be in and out in fifteen minutes. If you went out dancing, there was room to get away from the person grinding on you if you wanted to (which you did; there are no cute guys in Corpus). People who live there tend to move away after a while, so there's plenty of elbow room.

Austin is wonderful and people keep moving here in droves and now it's just too crowded to go anywhere, but that's okay because you couldn't afford it anyway.

I hear Barrow is lovely this time of year.

Once More Into the Beach, Dear Friends

This post guest-written by Magda Silhavy

The time has come, once again, to leave my remote but dearly loved home in Barrow, and make my way once more to the strange hot lands of the south: to Corpus Christi, whose tepid waters bear so little resemblance to the gray and icy ones I have known all my life. This time, however, I do not journey with my dear brothers and business partners, Edwin and Dumas. This is the busy season for whale marketing, and no time for all three of us to be away. I alone will go, then - yet not alone: two intrepid friends bear me company.

There is Ik-Ik, our family's attorney, who goes to ensure that the terms of my late father's will are carried out according to the spirit, if not the letter. After our last disastrous attempt to scatter his ashes in Mexico, when Dumas absent-mindedly neglected to pick up the urn from the baggage carousel in the Seattle airport, some others of us in the family felt it was time to get the law involved. Ik-Ik - the only son of our long-time family friend and live-in helper of indeterminate gender, Nyuk-Nyuk* - has interpreted my father's will to mean that it's good enough to scatter his ashes in the Gulf of Mexico. We need not actually cross into that unfamiliar land. And I am sure they have mariachi music in Corpus, so Dad should be happy. I look forward to at long last discharging my filial duty - as you may recall, Papa Silhavy died at the age of 97 while crossing the Bering Strait from his native Russia, when Edwin, Dumas and I were in our infancy. So this is long overdue.

Ik-Ik is a friend to the family and I have known him all my life, but another man travels with us who may cause some disquiet in my bosom. His name is Zachary. Zachary is a good man, but a stranger, an adventurer, a loner. He runs his own business from just outside town; he owns a small plane, and earns his living contracting out to local farmers, spraying pesticide on their fields. No one knows his last name: they merely call him Zachary, the crop-duster.

Don't get me wrong! If you are traveling to lands unknown, Zachary is the man to bring, and he comes at Ik-Ik's insistence. But you see, Zachary was once my lover. Our relationship was forever sundered when he was inducted into the elite and mysterious Barrow Fight Club (as a rule, we don't talk about it), and he left me alone to face the sobering realization that the man I once cared for would rather get punched in the face than enjoy my favors.

There's really just no good way to take that one.

Nonetheless, there is a task to be done, and do it I will: I am strong, and determined, and one day I shall be mayor of our village; and you don't get to be mayor by crumbling at every minor little personal setback. No, I shall do my duty, and leave our family business, www.whalebarrow.net, in the capable hands of Edwin and Dumas; Ik-Ik will turn his practice over to a junior partner for a few days; and, God willing, Zachary won't even think about crop-dusting until his return home.

We arrive in Corpus on Thursday: wish us Godspeed, my friends!

-----------
*Ik-Ik doesn't know either. In his culture, it's considered extremely rude to inquire of your parent whether he (or she) is your mother (or father).

Son of Nyuk-Nyuk

by Dumas and Magda Silhavy

You may remember that last May, my brothers Edwin, Dumas, and myself made the long journey from our adopted hometown of Barrow, Alaska, to Corpus Christi, Texas. We were on our way to Mexico to scatter the ashes of our beloved father, who was killed by a moose at the tender age of 97, while our family was crossing the Bering Strait from his native Russia.

It was a lot easier back when there was a land bridge.

Our mother, who came to our father as a mail-order bride from Las Vegas, halfheartedly raised us alone before abandoning us to our own devices; she shacked up with some loser in Nome, and the three of us, practically orphans, struggled to make a life for ourselves. And of course we ultimately did, becoming successful whale marketers. And having established ourselves as prominent citizens of Barrow – I myself plan to become mayor one day – we decided the time had come to lay our father to his final rest in Mexico, where he can forever after enjoy the strains of mariachi music. Ah, how Father loved mariachi music!

Unfortunately, Dumas left Dad’s ashes on the baggage carousel in Seattle.

We’re planning another trip, and this time, we plan to bring help in the form of a brilliant young attorney named Ik-Ik, though you may know him as Tony, or perhaps even Cheryl’s Bitch. Ik-Ik is the only son of our maid (or butler), Nyuk-Nyuk, of whose gender we have never been certain. But surely, surely, his (or her) very own son can tell us. We’ve always wondered!

Ik-Ik claims attorney-client privilege, and isn’t talking.

Ik-Ik is the executor of our father’s estate, so it falls to his lot to oversee the arrangements for disposition of our father’s remains which were spelled out in his will. We’ll enjoy the chance to make the trip with him, and I personally feel that, after a couple of mojitos, and maybe a brownie or two, Ik-Ik will spill the beans on his mother’s (or father’s) gender.

Dumas disagrees.

No one in Barrow knows, Dumas points out, whether it was Nyuk-Nyuk or his (or her) spouse, Chris, who was pregnant. Both of them had been seriously overweight, and had cut out whale blubber in an effort to trim down; both of them had then lost about 100 pounds each, and it was during this time that Ik-Ik was born. Nor was Ik-Ik delivered in a hospital, or even under the careful eye of a midwife: eschewing even such assistance as is embraced by many Alaskan natives, Chris and Nyuk-Nyuk delivered their son alone, in the isolation of their own igloo.

Ik-Ik himself, remarks Dumas, addresses both his parents as “Baba,” so even he may not know which is which. And if he were uncertain, he could hardly have asked. To inquire of one’s parents what their gender may be is the lowest form of rudeness in Alaskan culture. It's unthinkable. It's even worse than wearing white mukluks after Labor Day.

Whatever mysteries Nyuk-Nyuk’s indomitable parka may conceal, we expect to have another enlightening and meaningful trip to Corpus this year. Especially if Dumas remembers to pick up Dad’s ashes.

I'm from Alaska!

This post guest-written by Magda Silhavy

My brothers Edwin, Dumas and I (and a few distant cousins) went to see 30 Days of Night today. It's not really my kind of film - I generally prefer movies without quite so much decapitation - but I had to see how our hometown would fare. I haven't been home in so long! It's been months since we snoeshoed merrily along the lanes, waving cheerfully to our neighbors, cold but happy, our bellies full of Nyuk-Nyuk's delicious polar bear stew, not a care in the world.

I tell you what, we leave for a few months and the whole place goes to hell.

It didn't look quite right, though. Of course the long night casts unfamiliar shadows over everything, and the vampires and all the screaming were a bit distracting. But where was City Hall? Where was Nyuk-Nyuk's house? And our houses? And the historic district, where Dumas wants them to build a Super Wal-Mart? And where was Barrow High???

(Goooooo Pharaohs!)

They weren't there, and I'll tell you why: It was filmed entirely in New Zealand!

Outrageous, but at least it clears up the question of what strange language the vampires were speaking. It must have been Maori.

A Journey of Self-Discovery

To Corpus Christi: indeed. Well, introspection is one thing. But this is a long, serious roadtrip I'm planning with two of my dearest friends, so we need a long, serious backstory.

Justin, Robbie and I are Edwin, Dumas, and Magda Silhavy: two brothers and a sister. Born in St. Petersburg, Russia, we have lived since infancy in Barrow, Alaska; and in fact we have no memory of any other place.

Dumas is 28, I am 29, and Edwin is 32. We have come to Corpus via a tortuous route and are on our way to scatter our father's ashes in Mexico. Our father, a Russian by birth, had an unsurpassed passion for mariachi music.

Our mother was not Russian, but a mail-order bride from Las Vegas. The couple crossed the Bering Strait into Alaska, a few thousand years behind the times perhaps, but better late than never, in the late 1970s. Our father died in the crossing. Polar bears may have been involved. Penguins are right out.

Though our mother raised us alone, she was never much of a parent, and abandoned us to our own devices when Dumas was only eighteen. She's shacked up in Fairbanks with some loser now. Edwin, ever the peacemaker, tried to persuade her to come to Mexico with us to scatter Father's ashes, but she told him to stuff it.

Our arduous journey began with a dogsled trip from Barrow to Nome, where we did not see our mother, but caught a single-engine plane to Anchorage. From there we flew to Seattle; from Seattle, to Houston, where we rented a small green VW with a Flying Spaghetti Monster emblem on the back, and wilted purple flowers secured to the windshield via the windshield wipers. (Hopefully it won't rain.) Our journey will only be complete when Father's ashes have been laid to rest in the land that he loved so dearly.

Meanwhile, our work at home is on hold. We're well-educated professionals, you know: we graduated from Barrow High (Gooooooooooo Pharaohs!*) and from UAF with degrees in marketing. We are marketers. We market whale products. You can find us at www.whalebarrow.net.

I don't like to mention it, but Edwin and I have a sneaking suspicion that Dumas may have a hidden ulterior motive for the trip. We suspect he may be trying to recruit people to move to Barrow, enough people so the town can get a Super Wal-Mart. We dearly hope we are mistaken, but we fear not. Dumas' strange obsession is a source of unease in our otherwise peaceful family.

This trip may bring out more truths about our family than we ever cared to know, so it's a good thing we're bringing plenty of vodka.

----------------------------
*Pharaohs is not right. I can't remember the actual mascot, though.