Here's to Rambling

On a recent trip to Homer, AK, my brother and I were sitting beside our raging inferno of a campfire when we got into a discussion regarding what, exactly, flame is. I asked my chemistry teacher just that my Sophomore year of high school, but he just scoffed at me and said that it was a chemical reaction, in that "why would you ask such a moronic question" way he had about him. Much to my dismay, it was his intelligence, and not mine that was called into question during the exchange. I've considered the question virtually every time I've stoked a fire since, but it wasn't until a few days ago that I discussed it again. This is what my genius brother pulled out of his ass, with a little help from me on the details: When gases are energized to a certain point, they begin to emit photons, or pockets of light. Burning debris give off a multitude of super-heated gases during the ignition process, and these gases are in turn emitting photons. This would explain why flames flicker in the wind (the air moves the gases and in some cases cools them, thus minimizing the flame), why the flames only reach a certain distance from their original source (the gases eventually cool enough that they no longer have the energy to emit photons), and why different substances have differently colored flames (different ignition sources = different gases, different gases = different photons). It makes perfect sense to even my simple mind.
My mother and brother are flying up to Prudhoe Bay tomorrow for a "family tour." Ironically, they're going to be up there while neither my father nor I will be (note: I'm working three two-week shifts in Prudhoe Bay this summer, totaling 84 hours of work each week. I don't remember how many total hours that works out to be, all I care about is that I'm making a shit ton of money for 6 week's work. I'm sure there will be a bitchfest blog soon enough). It's interesting to watch half of my family ask the same questions and stress over the same issues as I did not a month ago. I answered their questions like a (pretending) seasoned pro. "No, Mom, don't wear Danskos and khaki. They'll get ruined." "Of course they're going to feed you, I don't know of a place up there to buy food other than the Commissary, and I doubt they're going to have you living off $7 bags of M&Ms." The most disgusting thing about the whole ordeal is that they're going to fly up, tour, and come back in less time than it takes me to complete one day of work.
My dad went to the doctor yesterday and came home almost entirely sedated. He's not yet back to full working order, so tomorrow while my brother and mother are traipsing around the arctic wasteland that I call home for half the summer, I get to be on Daddy Duty. My job is to make sure he doesn't fall down the stairs or otherwise harm himself enough to warrant a trip to the ER. This is how I love to spend my weekends: writing pointless shit by night, taking care of drugged up parents by day. This is what I was made for.
One of my best friends from high school got married today, and I wasn't there. I've got to be one of the worst friends on record. Not because I wasn't there, hell, if I'd have spent the $800 on a plane ticket to fly to Kansas for his wedding then I'd be a contender for Grand Viceroy of Friendship. No, the real issue is that I've met his now-wife a total of one time. For about 7 minutes. I've known this guy for going on 7 years. He's the one who during high school I could call crying at 3 in the morning, and who would listen to be blubber until I sobbed myself into a coma. And now I don't even know his wife. I was the first one he told when he started dating her, and then when he bought the ring, but she remains an enigma.
So Critter, my cat, is going on 19 years old. In the past 6 months she's gone from Fatcat to barely there. I honestly don't know what I'm going to do when she finally dies. She's been the one constant in my life, family notwithstanding, for as long as I can remember. When we got back from Homer I was genuinely surprised to find her alive after being alone for just 4 days. Why do we have pets? Missing them is terrible.
Goddamn am I depressing. "Perk up, twatwaffle!" -that's what my brother would tell me.
On a happier (and literally lighter) note, it's well after midnight and the sky is a color of blue that reminds me of Downy. Downy-doused cotton balls. That's what I love about this place; during the summer months the nights are never darker than dusk (not to mention the fact that all the things up here that can kill you are big enough to see coming, and shoot if one is properly armed). Makes staying up 'til ungodly hours entirely too easy. It's my kind of place!