Great quotations, a couple of pictures, exhausted muscles

The Madison Street Marathon is now history. It is milestone moments such as these that call for great memorable words. Here are some we might choose from to commemorate this unprecedented event:

"Veni. Vidi. Vici."  (I came. I saw. I conquered.--Julius Caesar)
"Damn the torpedoes, full speed ahead." (David Farragut)
"This is one small step for a man, one giant leap for mankind." (Neil Armstrong)

"I'm tired. I think I'll go home now." (Forest Gump)

I think that last one sums it up. According to the phone applicationMapMyHike, which is astonishingly unreliable, we hiked 32.86 miles yesterday, beginning at 8:31 and ending at 10:30 or thereabouts, a 14-hour drudge. Ugh. Google maps claim it's only 27 miles. It's still a drudge.

And there must have been some continental plate shifts during the hike, because every time we reached the Alaska Way Viaduct (me, Wilson, and the kin), the application recorded a different elevation; same for the crest of the hill. Well, maybe someone was moving the convenience store at Madison and 17th around. Maybe that explains it.

The chart below shows six of the nine ascents we performed. (I saved the file and started a second one for the rest of the climbs, rather than risk loss of data by waiting too long. Trust me--Wilson and I did nine ascents.) The red line shows elevation and the time of each ascent. Some were longer than others for a number of reasons, including proselytizing.

During our first climb we were passing Seattle Academy, where a faux Cardinal was giving hugs to incoming students. All the Wilsonians wanted some of that, so we posed for a photo. Since the Academy has a main building across the street from my condo, we made a point of marching right past the classroom on each climb. That yielded results. There are students from the Academy who spend time in Africa. Some of them deflate soccer balls to fit as many in their luggage as possible, then re-inflate them when they get in-country. The One World Futbol got some attention.

The Cardinal at Seattle Academy.

Joe Colgan at the federal building.

On our second ascent I discovered it's hard to eat an apple, control a drippy nose by sniffing, and breathe at the same time. This is important and useful information. I took a mentholated losenge to dry up the schnoz. It was on that hike that we met Joe Colgan, an organizer of an on-going peace vigil at the Federal Building on Madison. Joe lost his 30-year-old son in Bagdad and wants the country to spend less time on war. The vigil is held every Tuesday, 11 a.m.-1 p.m. Joe liked the message about the One World Futbol and made a donation on the spot. On my way back down for the fourth climb I caught Joe just as they were folding their tents and noted that, since he bought at this particular time, he could opt to name one of the ten balls I'm taking to Ecuador.  Perhaps for his son. He was excited. I hope he follows up.







Climbing up that hill was a chore on the 4th ascent. Something definitely was not right. I guess a banana smoothie with OJ and cottage cheese isn't a sufficient way to start a Marathon.  I stopped into a favorite spot, the Mediterranean Kitchen Kabob House at Boren and Madison and ate some carbs via a Mezza tray: Baba ghanouj; labneh; tabouley; sahrah; falafel; tomatoes, cukes, olives and dolmathes. I was dragging and needed the break. Coco-Cola never tasted so wet.

Yum! I needed that.

On the fifth ascent, I was about to cross an intersection when a young man suddenly interjected a question about the marathon. Turns out he was a Somali. He didn't need any indoctrination on the value of the One World Futbol, because he had played with makeshift soccer balls as a young man. Abdirahman Kenan now studies environmental science in Seattle. He was not the only immigrant we met today who had used makeshift balls to play what is likely the world's most popular sport.

Abdirahman Kenan wanted to know!

By the time I got to ascent number 7 the lunch starch had kicked in, but I needed a boost, so we stopped at McDonald's for a medium fries and an obscene Strawberry milkshake with whipped cream and a maraschino cherry. God it was good.

It was dark for the eighth climb. The kids took a moment to rest at the Alaskan Way viaduct before heading up to the condo.

That's the big wheel in the background.

All right, that's enough. It was time for Wilson and me to have some private time together, so we tucked in the little ones for the night and did the ninth climb -- the victory lap -- without them. Then we cuddled up for the night. Just like old times.

They were told to behave while we did the Victory Lap. "Be quiet and no giggling!"

All right, so I should have shaved. Wilson didn't care. Who else matters? We were dragging it and I was too tired to hold a sharp object against my throat. Well, OK, it was I who was dragging it. One marathon is quite enough for me, thank you. (That's the kiddo, about 38 years ago, in the photo. He had Teddy. I have Wilson.)

It was a good day. With a 50 percent chance of rain, it only sprinkled. We got a lot more response than I've taken time to tell. If something comes of it, we'll let you know. Thanks for following along.

Love,
Robert
and Wilson

And the kin

Marathons and the rarámuri

It's 7 a.m. I'm writing this on Marathon Day. It's probably the only marathon I'll ever do, and I'll be walking. Not like the real marathoners--the ones who run 200 miles and think nothing of it.

Oh, perhaps you thought a marathoner was someone who ran 26 miles in a few hours. These folks are the also rans.  The Rarámuri of the Sierra Madre mountains of Mexico put ordinary marathoners to shame.

According to Wikipedia, the Tarahumara word for themselves, Rarámuri, may mean "runners on foot" or "those who run fast."  And it is to the Tarahumara, a people who live on the edge of civilization, that I dedicate my walk today. I don't stand in awe of people merely fit to run. I stand in awe of the Tarahumara, whose civilization, according to Wikipedia, is on the brink of collapsing. I encourage you to spend a few minutes going to Wikipedia to read about them.

I heard about the Tarahumara 30-40 years ago when a friend went deep into the Copper Canyon to witness them. Mexico's Copper Canyon is four times the volume of the Grand Canyon and hundreds of feet deeper. In 2008 I rode the Copper Canyon railway from El Fuerto along the West Coast of Mexico to Chihuahua State, stopping at the canyon's edge. Greeting us at the doorway of our train car were natives selling baskets. And what wonderful baskets they were! Seven years later you can still catch a slight smell of the grass they were woven from. A friend of mine who was a Canadian First Nations Tsimshian basket goddess who has her work in the Smithsonian thought they should be worth a great deal more than the pittance I paid for them -- $10-15 per basket.

These are people who live under the roughest of conditions. Walking along one scary edge of the canyon I noticed some sticks pointing up from a defile in the rock. It was a ladder, perhaps 25-40 feet high. (I was afraid to peek over the edge, and there was no way I was going to measure it. Children with babies slung in a fabric wrapped around their backs climb those ladders to bring their goods for the tourists, and the toddlers run along the edge of the canyon walls, freaking out the tourists who lurch to grab them -- needlessly. The Tarahumara are born to that land.

If you Google Tarahumara running, you can find information about their amazing running ability, And you can read how they stayed in the Copper Canyon's recesses to avoid the Spanish. And how the drug trade is threatening them -- just as it is affecting us tourists. The tour company I relied on for the Copper Canyon rail trip is no longer in business because of the risks involved in traveling the route.

I've said almost enough. I have a Marathon to walk, and it's almost time.

But I would be remiss if I didn't thank my Maui hostess, Diana, who put up with me for a week and provided a base of operations for my trudge down into the crater of the Haleakala volcano. Diana just purchased three more One World Futbols for donation, bringing the number raised so far to 74, so I'm on the verge of 3/4 of my goal. I would also like to thank Mary Jane, Marianne and Darlene (a high school chum I've known since the second grade) for their purchases as well. Together, you ladies have purchased 7 of the 10 balls designated for Ecuador, and you have the right to assign them names, if you like. I'd suggest names in Spanish or Quechua.

Thank you.

Love,

Robert, Wilson

and the kin.

Marathonus interruptus

Or actually, postponedus

"Death is nature's way of telling you it's time to slow down."

Sunday, 8:30 a.m.
When I was a young second lieutenant attending Defense Information School to learn how to be an Air Force Information Officer, an Army major conducting a lecture one day shared a homily with our class that I have never forgotten:

Death is nature's way of telling you it's time to slow down.

Translation: There's always tomorrow. (Or, in this case, Tuesday.)

It's raining. It's really raining. There are about 13,000 people lined up at this moment to make the 5-K St. Patrick's Day Dash from Seattle Center down Fourth Avenue, and they're going to get soaked.

Because it's raining. 100 percent chance of rain today.

Charlie Brown also liked to say that "it's only a little rain." Yeah. Right.

Meanwhile, I am sitting at my computer smirking because I've moved the Madison Street Marathon to the real St. Patrick's Day -- Tuesday!

For being two days early, they get wet.

For being two days late (I was going to do our Marathon on the Ides of March), I have a pretty good chance of staying dry.

What's not to like?

After all, the story about Pheidippides running the original Marathon makes absolutely no mention of rain.

So by virtue of the power vested in me (by dint of the fact that this is a one-man, nine-futbol Marathon, with me being the man) I am postponing, for two days, my long hike up and down Capitol Hill nine times  and laughing at the besotted leprechaun's.

Of course, Wilson doesn't care one way or the other. Wilson--and his eight kin who are going along for the ride --is indestructible. But I'm not.

Love,

Robert,
and Wilson,

and Wilson's Kindred Marathoners:

Shakedown hike

Greetings.

Me and the relatives, at
Rattlesnake. Wilson is behind
me, hanging onto my belt.

It's less than six days away from the Madison Street Marathon, so I took time  Monday to get a little practice in by taking Wilson's relatives on a jaunt up Rattlesnake Ledge just outside of North Bend, WA. Part of the practice is proselytizing, and I'm not sure how successful I was, but there were some great moments.

Conversations can start spontaneously, when you're carrying eight One World Futbols, with a ninth bobbing along behind, attached to your belt. People notice that.

Among the ones who noticed were the two Jeffs.

The first Jeff told us he had worked for the state department in Africa and was allowed to take along soccer balls which he deflated so he could cram more into his limited luggage. Once he was in-country, he re-inflated them, and  filled them with self-sealing goop for the inevitable puncture. He knows the life of those soccer balls is limited, and well understood the value of unbreakable soccer balls. Jeff would have liked to know that there was a way to transport them deflated, to save space.

The second Jeff was walking by when I and my hiking companion, Mary Jane Gibson, took a lunch break. Jeff asked about the pile of futbols resting at my feet. He is planning his first climb of Mt. Rainier this summer and had a personal project: raising money for a heart fund.

At Rattlesnae Ledge a naturalist from Florida expressed curiosity about the futbols. When she found out about the mission of sending indestructible soccer balls to children in third-world environments, she urged us to contact a friend involved with Paramedics for Children, a Honduran charity. The friend would love having the One World Futbol to distribute, she said.

There were also three men whose curiosity took over as they passed us on our descent. One shared that he had spent a few weeks in Southeast Asia, including travels in Indonesia.

A couple that had had traveled all over the world recognized immediately the value of the One World Futbol. The man said he had visited bleak villages in Morocco, where a soccer ball was the toy that kept both adults and children entertained.

There were others. People who have been to the third world don't need an explanation. They notice how the other half lives, and we had a clear sense that, if they could make a difference, they would want to.

There were other things we learned on the shakedown hike: The eye-bolts I use to string the balls together don't pull out, and the thread tying them together doesn't wear out easily. But as light as they are, carrying those futbols does put a strain on the shoulders more than a backpack does. It will be interesting to see how that works out over the 27-mile Madison Street Marathon that I, Wilson, and Wilson's eight relatives take on Sunday, March 15, the Ides of March.

Love,

Robert,
Wilson,

and the relatives.

Meet the relatives...and the contest winner

Two news items today: There was a gender contest winner after all, and Wilson's relatives have descended on my condo. First, the news about the visitors:

This probably comes as no surprise, but as soon as you announce a relationship, as we did in our March 1 dispatch, you get to meet the relatives. If you're lucky, you only have to meet a few of them. And Wilson and I were fortunate--only 10 of Wilson's kin descended on my condo this week, and fortunately, they don't take up a lot of room. And being virtually immortal, they don't consume a lot of food and drink.

This is a group shot of them in my TV/Guest/Living Room/Study. That's Wilson, in the center, wearing their usual kinky see-through net restraing tether. It's what keeps us together on the trail.

And here's Wilson with the two relatives that will be going to an orphanage in Ecuador. If you look closely, you may distinguish the difference between them and the others. Well, OK, maybe. The rest will be hiking with me and Wilson for our Madison Street Marathon on March 15.

Piercings

In order to carry eight of them on that 27-mile jaunt, I've taken advantage of the rather strange piercings Wilson's kinfolk go in for -- studs with loops. It always grosses me out when people tug on their tongue studs, but these aren't as disgusting, because the futbols have good body tone and they don't have pieces that flop around when you tug on the studs.

I call these particular studs Wilson Marathon Loops. I'll be connecting them with twine to gather them together and provide a convenient hand hold while I'm hiking. People will gawk and say, "Doesn't that hurt? Why don't they deflate?!?!" and I'll tell them, "because these balls are tough enough to survive in a refugee camp!" Something like that.

 There will be two bunches of four futbols hiking with me, while Wilson will be attached to my back and bobbing along behind. I'll have a photo for you next week, after the T-shirts arrive.

Ooops! I just checked the mail. The T-shirts  have arrived! The image below shows what the back and front look like. The right side shows the truer color -- which virtually matches the futbols. I'd model it, but Wilson can't hold a camera steady, and no-one else is around right now.

Naming

Now naturally you are wondering about the names of the other futbols. That's up to you. Anyone who purchases a one-world Futbol online will have the opportunity to name one of those balls and to actually sign it with a message of good will to the people of Quito, Ecuador. A Spanish or Quechua name is preferable. And you can sign your name, as well. You just tell me you purchased a ball. If the numbers of donations increase, I'll take your word that you are one of the donors. Most of you readers are pretty trustworthy.

Oh, I know--signing the ball isn't quite the same as having your name etched into a brick next to the Pike Place Market pig, but it's something. Hope you like the idea.

Correction:

Oh, by the way, sometimes it's hard to get good help. I'm not going to even hint at who made the error, because my staff is so small it wouldn't be hard to figure out who I was talking about, and I don't want to embarrass anyone. But someone failed to notice that we did indeed have a contest winner for selecting Wilson's gender. Carla Stanley, the customer service representative for One World Play Project, stated it succinctly in an e-mail:

I don't think Wilson is male or female. I think he is the embodiment of the best in all of us because of the love he has spread by virtue of his One World Futbolness.

There's that "he" pronoun again. Well, OK, Carla,you still get the chocolates. There's a picture below of Carla up real close and personal with a Wilson stand-in. Are they smooching? It's hard to tell, but I have my suspicions. The photo caused me to Google "kissing with eyes open," and some of the commentary was fascinating.

For her astute answer, Carla has received a box of See's chocolates, and not just any chocolates, but chocolates whose initials represent the five letters of her name (lemon, lime, almond, cherry, raspberry, coconut, etc.) Carla expressed her appreciation by sending us a photo of the chocolates, the enclosed card, and the stand-in for Wilson, at the right. She noted the stand-in was a little irritated due to the absence of a mouth. (Must have been a one-way kiss, eh?) Carla won't be able to share those chocolates with any One World Futbol anytime soon. Like that bothers her.

I think that's all for today.

Love,

Robert, and
Wilson

The Madison Street Marathon

The ups and downs of hiking Madison Street five times. Nine times makes a marathon.

What I don't get is how Pheidippides was able to run 26 miles, 385 yards without so much as a sip of Gatorade. So, if thousands run in the marathons all the time and survive, why did the very first marathoner die? Was it exhaustion,  or perhaps an imbalance of electrolytes? Or maybe he succumbed to the world's greatest charlie horse ever experienced up to that time--a secondary effect of said  electrolyte loss? I've had some of those "yell, fall down, and clutch your legs" charlie horses myself, which has led to heavier use of my Platypus hydration system. I don't think they had Platypi in Ancient Greece.

Whatever the case, Wilson and I are not keen on Pheidippides' outcome. That's why, when we hold the Madison Street Marathon to raise awareness of the One World Futbol, it's going to be a walking marathon. And there won't be big crowds, so we won't have to negotiate with the city and mark off streets and control traffic and pay special fees. It will be more like the original one-man marathon, except it doesn't involve a war. People won't be hacking or spearing each other, and we won't run and die. At least I hope not.

Wilson and I have scoped out the route, which runs from the crest of Seattle's Capitol Hill (right at the radio towers and Trader Joe's) to the point where Madison Street descends to meet Alaskan Way right under Seattle's Alaskan Way Viaduct. If you trust Google maps, you can count one round trip as 3 miles. Last night we walked it five times , for a minimum of 15 miles. The hike began at 3 p.m. and lasted a little more than five hours, which meant our speed was very close to 3 miles per hour.

Trader Joe's on Capitol Hill is one terminus for the Madison Street Marathon.

Until the invention of the internal combustion engine, three miles an hour was the universal speed limit. Caesar's legions could march about that speed, and so did Napoleon's troops, the story goes. So if you believe that stuff, we were making good time. The MapMyHike software in my Droid telephone claims we  actually hiked 16.56 miles. I'm more inclined to believe Google maps, so I'm claiming 15. Total elevation gain yesterday was 2,045 feet, not very impressive. We can do 3,000 feet in the four miles it takes us to get to the top of Mount Si. When we do the complete marathon, we'll be climbing that hill nine times in about 9-10 hours.

Path of the Madison Street Marathon.

So far, we've been getting in shape for the big hike by completing three half-marathons, including last night's. 

Now, as we said, this is not going to be one of those great big everybody-show-up-and-run marathons. Although we're putting a team together, Robert may be the only human taking part. That's OK. Pheidippides ran alone. But if anyone wants to join us for all or part of the marathon, just e-mail us at dancingpotter@gmail.com, provide your phone number, and we'll follow up. Or, if you prefer that we do the heavy lifting, you can sit back,  click on the link at the top right of this page, go to the Wilson campaign, and donate a futbol. Each purchase gives up to 30 kids in some distressed community an unbreakable toy and the gift of play.

As for the date of the marathon, we're toying with the Ides of March--March 15, a Sunday. Most of you know what date that was--a couple thousand years ago, Julius Caesar got stabbed several times, not only by his political opponents, but also by his most trusted friend, Brutus. Nothing worse than getting stabbed with a great big hunkin' knife by someone who had your back. Marc Anthony called that "the most unkindest cut of all."  ("Most unkindest?" What was Shakespeare thinking when he put those two superlatives together? I can just hear the English teachers groaning.)

Well! Most of you readers probably recall what happens when you stab Wilson--nothing! So I guess Marc Anthony nailed it, when he said Caeser "should be made of sterner stuff." Imagine if Wilson had been Caesar's body double and was wearing Caesar's toga at the Roman Senate. What a different world it would be today.

But I digress, I'm writing this last night, and that's all I'm going to say for now, because I'm tired. That half-marathon wore me out. Time to lay down and wait for my charlie horse. I should start yelling around 2 a.m.

Love,

Robert
And Wilson

Night, at the other terminus for the Madison Street Marathon, the Alaskan Way viaduct.

Wilson comes out . . .and discovers love

I know you folks  have been waiting with bated breath Since Valentine's Day to find out what readers had to say about Wilson's gender. Well, you may be in for a big surprise.

Let me prepare you. Wilson lives on Seattle's Capitol Hill, where, as Garrison Keillor might say, "all the women are strong, all the men are good looking, and a whole lot of the kids are adopted."

Wilson: Not what 

you thought

That's right, Wilson lives in a community where gender lines are greatly blurred. None of the responses to my Valentine's Day question about Wilson's gender took that into consideration. It's time to rethink my truly adorable indestructible  little traveling companion, who has become a very close, personal friend in a very special way.

Times have changed. For example, Only a few years ago I was dancing with an attractive, tall computer programer who had kids. My partner was more solid and taller than I. And he was beginning to deal with his ambivalent gender by wearing clothing usually reserved for women, and using the ladies room at the dance hall. That guy could do dips better than any female follow I knew.

It felt strange dancing with he-she, which made me appreciate how strange the world may have felt to him-her, and the courage that was involved in coming to grips with the dichotomy.Then, for about a month,  he-she wasn't at the dance venue. And then he-she was back--most of him, anyway. He left part of himself in Thailand, where she had enlisted a surgeon to indelibly clarify her gender for the remainder of her days.

Wilson doesn't have to worry about that. Unlike gays, lesbians and transexuals, Wilson can't have a sexual identity crisis, because Wilson isn't sexual. (Wilson is a perfect sphere--no gonads in sight.) So what do you call that? Pregendered? Pregendered in a post-gender age? Nongendered?

And how about those pronouns?
And what kind of pronouns do you use? He? She? It? I kind of like "they." Give credit for that to those uppity feminists who threw a hissy fit because of the predominant use of the male pronouns. Now we end up with language like this:  "If anyone is missing a set of keys, they can find them at the lost and found." "

"They" has becomes the new third person nongendered singular.

Can't we just be friends? Well, no!
Remember the movie, "When Harry Met Sally?" Billy Crystal tells Meg Ryan that "men and women can't just be friends." Well, Wilson and I have spent a lot of time together. And I've had my hands all over the little critter -- but in a platonic sort of a way. Really. Uh, oh, here comes Wilson now.

"Robert?"
Uh yeah...?"
"What is love?"
"Ah, geeze, Wilson. Don't ask me that..."
"But I really want to know."
"Yeah, you and everybody else."
"Oh c'mon..."

"Uh, well, that's hard to say. I can only speak from my limited experience. But you might learn a little bit about that from Tevye by clicking your mouse button on the photo below:" (The schmaltzy video will open in a new window.)

"Wow. Was that what it was like for you?"
"More or less.

"You know, Wilson, women like to talk about 'intimacy.' They haven't got a clue what it is. It's not just rubbing your surfaces together. There's something more. It's the sharing. And the times we've spent together. And the memories we accumulate along the way. And the trust. It's not your story. It's not my story. It's our story."

"Robert, remember when we were at the top of Costa Rica's Irazu volcano, and you were wheezing and dizzy from the 11,000-foot altitude? You held me up and we did that little dance from Rocky.

At the Irazu Volcano, Wilson and Robert imitate Rocky from the movie of the same name.

"Yeah, Wilson, and you were there right next to me, when we all watched that little turtle making it's desperate run for the Caribbean."

Wilson was there to watch The Little Turtle that Could.

Wilson took the stabbing like the

 little indestructible critter they is.

"And that girl-thing was so impressed when we were climbing Little Si and you stuck your pocket knife in me to show her how resilient I am."

"And that time at the torture museum in Rothenburg, when I let you try out the stocks."

In Rothenburg, Wilson learned all about shaming.

"And it was sure comforting for you to hold me during those tense moments in that East German Stasi interrogation cell."

Wilson and Robert wait for the man with the with the clip board and the electrodes.

"And letting you hang around  Checkpoint Charlie  where the Americanskis and the Russkis used to face each other eye-ball-to-eyeball during the cold war."

At midnight, Wilson hangs around the former frontier.

"And ever since I saw the Nazi Burger King in Nuremberg--Hitler's old power station that's now schlepping fries--I've wondered just what french fries taste like."

The power station for the Nazi parade grounds now sells the Whopper.

"You know, Wilson, it was a real comfort to have you along on that six-hour rain hike up Mount Si."

Wilson was there for all six hours of that cold, miserable hike.

"And I appreciate you taking me along when  we descended into that dry,desolate crater of Maui's Haleakala volcano. You were so tired after climbing from 7,300 feet to almost 10,000 feet, to get out of that hole. And, we did it together!

Wilson at the bleak basin of Haleakala's.

Wardrobe malfunction
"Hey, Wilson, remember your wardrobe malfunction on the Chirico Trail to Poo Poo Point on Tiger Mountain? You slipped right out of that kinky see-through net tether you like and went rolling down the trail naked as a jay bird! (Nobody who saw it laughed, because you look the same from all directions.) Fortunately, my hiking buddy Sue Butkus was there to fix that tether.( I was too shy to handle your garment with people watching.).

Third Rainier attained.

"Well, what I really remember, Robert, is how blue the sky was above Mount Si when we completed enough vertical feet gained to equal three Mount Rainiers. I was on that climb right behind you. I never saw such a blue sky!

Mount Si's famed "Haystack." The tiny colorful dots are people. This was our third "Rainier."

"You know,Wilson,  I can't tell you how many women I've met online who say they want to get together to see whether there's any "chemistry." But it's the time together that make the bonds so tight. My 31-year marriage didn't start out on whether the "chemistry" was right. It started with three mini-disasters in a row. But we got there, and we did it without hurting someone else in the process. It was a clean join. If you're interested, I'll tell you about it some time.

Coming attractions
"And, Robert, you know what I like to think about--it's what's coming up next. In April we'll have another great adventure -- Ecuador! And we'll be bringing some of my relatives along for that one. At least two will end up playing with kids in an orphanage, and another six or eight will find other homes somewhere around Quito."

"Yeah, that'll be fun. Then, in May, I'll be taking you to Tijuana so you  can watch a couple dozen Catholics from St. John Vianney Parish in Kirkland  build a house in a poor neighborhood."

"And by mid-summer, I'll be tied to your ankles as we start our 3,000-foot butt-slide down the snow field from the top of Mount Adams, looking out over all creation. I'm revved!".

"Robert?"
"Yes, Wilson."
"Do you love me?"
"Ah, geeze Wilson! Let's not go there."
"Robert, I'm asking you a question. Do you looooove meeeee?"
"Uh...OK, I guess I do."
"And I love you too...Poochie Poo."
"Uh. Wilson. People are reading this. Lots of people. They know me. I'm going to hear about this. Lay off the pet names, OK?"
"Why not, Punkie?"
"Wilson! "
"Yes, Poopsie?"
"Wilson! Knock it off!"
"Robert?"
"Yeah?"
"Are we having our first fight?"

After all this time, we finally shoot our first "Selfie."