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Wherein Ben and Damon rekindle their longstanding friendship and put aside their bitter feud while reevaluating the truer meaning of prandial; Ben eats a rack of lamb and, without eggs, Damon suffers a fit of epilepsy and is comforted by a misplaced sparrow’s egg, which he places in his bicycle shorts for good luck.

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Wherein Ben and Damon visit hell and are not truly welcomed by the devil inasmuch as they are politely invited in for tea and a Salmonella Scramble which, being presented to them in the form of an egg, they cannot refuse and later regret it post-prandially.

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If you were to judge a city based on the average depth of the tread on its vehicles’ snow tires, Anchorage would fare terrifically well — the typical two-door Nissan has tank treads that could pull it up a side of an ice wall. If, however, you were to judge a city based on the cleanliness of its streets and vehicles by measuring the total amount of road dirt and pebble in tons, then, perhaps, Anchorage would be mentioned only as a footnoted last place — there is only one color that outlines Anchorage in April, and that is “dirt grey.”

If I were to create the definitive criteria for judging the cities I have graced, however, neither of these measures would serve to address that which I feel is important. Instead, I would demand that a city be judged not by its inhabits, its poverty rate, its crime, its abject visual horror, or its job availability — a city, as far as my eye can see, should be judged solely on its proximity to snowcapped mountains.

Anchorage, Alaska, makes the list.

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