A rainy Bay Area day, excellent weather to catch up on errands, clean the house, and do some blog writing and more work on ‘The Mount Whitney Journals’. Today a return to 1998, trip #1 with Mike Gibbons and Mike Galli. On this first trip, we only acclimated for less than a day at our campsite at the Whitney Portal. It was a wonderful first trip, and like many people, I now look most forward to time in front of the campfire at night under the stars.
THE MOUNT WHITNEY JOURNALS – Book I – 1998
Thursday, August 6, 1998 As mentioned, we talk about things sublime and we talk about things that are less so. As Galli starts to speak, I silently pray that he is not about to regale us again with stories about the world of insects. Instead he proposes the question, “If you were stranded on an island for the rest of your life, and you could have one woman, one meal, and five albums or CDs–8-tracks in my case–which ones would you take?” I respond first and, like a football captain choosing sides for a pick-up game, quickly choose supermodel Christy Turlington, although I fear that someone like that might have difficulty coping with the solitude, and with being away from New York City fashion society. But I figure that if she ever gets an attitude or gets mouthy on me, I could trade her sorry ass in for Isabella Rossellini faster than you can say “Revlon”. Rossellini, more mature and well grounded, I’m certain would know her place. I realize that it would probably be much more sensible if I pick a more rugged, low- maintenance, outdoorsy type along the lines of Sigourney Weaver’s Ripley character from the “Alien” movies, but only the ones where she still had her hair. (The shaved head of ‘Alien 3’ was not a good look). However, since it’s just make believe, I stay with Turlington as my starter with Rossellini as first alternate.
Oddly, I put more thought into my choice of food and music than into my choice of a companion for the rest of my life. Perhaps, this gives me a clue as to why I’m still single at the age of 38. For my meal, I choose the 22-ounce prime Porterhouse steak from Il Fornaio, although upon being reminded that I’ll be eating this same meal everyday for the rest of my life, I almost change my mind. But in the end, I figure that no matter which meal I choose, I’ll tire of it eventually. I also figure that by eating all that red meat, I’ll get fat and my cholesterol level will skyrocket, allowing me to mercifully die of a massive coronary at precisely the time my five music choices are boring me to tears and Turlington, by now, also fat because of the same diet, is driving me up the wall complaining about the same old routine and same old food, and now Rosellini won’t touch me with a 10, 20 or 30-foot pole because I’ve let myself go and I now weigh 400 pounds. So to make a long story only slightly less long, I stay with the Porterhouse.