The first time I wintered down here I had one goal and one goal only: Don't cut my hair.

It seems like everybody gets these great ideas for projects to accomplish over the Winter only to fall miserably short of their goals. Rather it's to write a novel, paint a picture or stay warm, Winter projects are infamously known to fail.

In 2003 I decided to grow my hair. I am pleased to say I was one of the few people on station who successfully completed their Winter Project.

This year, I set my sights away from personal hygiene and decided to become the best Ping Pong player I could possibly become without changing my name to Xing Xing. There is one reason and one reason only why I have this goal in mind. My eye of the tiger is to return to Utah and beat my friend Kent Smedley (decisively) in Ping Pong.

Smedley and I have been friends for almost twenty years, but I when I first met him, when we were roommates he beat me in ping pong, pool and foosball to the tune of $250,000. It all started rather innocently, like wagering a game of pool at fifty cents a ball or playing ping pong for two dollars a point. But, when I owed him $100 we did "double or nothing." When I owed him $200 we played ping pong for double or nothing. When I owed him $400, we played more Ping Pong, and the next thing I knew I owed him $250,000.

That kind of cemented our friendship. Smedley considers me his retirement plan. He will no longer play me in Ping Pong for $25,000 a point, because he gets tired of taking my "money," but he figures one day I just might win the lottery and then, paybacks a $250,000 bitch.

Since that one ill-fated day which seems like it took place nearly a quarter of a million dollars ago, the one sport I've never been able to best Smedley in is Ping Pong.

That was before, I went to Camp Summer Berg.

Antarctica has all of the coolest retirement center sports: Pool, bowling, shuffleboard, Bingo, Cribbage and T3 (This is the scientific condition (or at least the excuse we use) which makes our brains go senile from lack of sunlight. Right now McMurdo is like Alzheimer Alley). While I have been a player in all of these games, Ping Pong has been my focus.

This weekend we had our second Ping Pong tournament. The last tournament earlier in the season I came in second place, but I've been training. Working out my backhand and learning more spins than Dorothy Hamill on ice. And you should know I'm taking this serious when I can break out the 1976 Olympic references.

Well, if you can't beat'em.

Intimidate'em.

Once again the championship Ping Pong tournament of 16 was whittled down to just myself and Matt Okraszewski.

Without a doubt I played the best Ping Pong of my life. I channeled the spirit of the great Master Ping (as in Pong). In the best 2 out of 3 of 2 out of threes, we took it to 9 games. Maybe this means we played the best out of nine, I don't know? I'm a ping pong master, not a mathematician.

I'm also the first loser. I came in second place. As I was busy channeling the great Master Ping (as in Pong), Matt Okraszewski channeled every dumb Pollack joke he has ever been the brunt of (even if he isn't Polish-ski) which in turn had him channeling everyone's favorite retard, Forrest Gump.

At least that is what this loser has created for an excuse because I am a loser.

However, Matt isn't Smedley. Right now Smedley, my truck driving friend, is sitting behind the wheel of his big rig, double clutching down the midnight byways of cross country USA. He's sitting down and getting lazy. While I'm playing ping pong every day and getting busy. Soon, our paths will cross and he'll wish he was behind the wheel of his UPS semi-tractor trailer, because I'm a white-balled-Black-Plague-Red-Death-Paddled Ping Pong steam roller of BAM.

And, like successfully growing my hair, I won't fail when it comes to my Winter Project, "Get Smedley ."

But I'll still owe him $250,000.

If you don't see the sun, how do you know if this is rising or falling?

Either way. The colors today just seemed unnatural.

I posted the first picture a couple of hours ago, and then I saw another person on station, Chad Carpenter took the other photo from his day out at the airfield.

When I wrote the first sentence it seemed perfectly clear in my head what it was supposed to mean. But, what exactly happens during a Sun Falling? I don't think I've ever said, "Let's stay up late and watch the sun falling."

That right there is quintessential to what our brains are going through. Today, this older gentleman (63) named Ralph was in my office talking to my boss, MJ (whose age I don't know, but she's older than I am) and Ralph said, "MJ and I are old enough to remember when...um...we remember when...I forgot what we remember."

I said, "Do you remember seeing the Sun Falling?"

And everyone agreed, today was a beautiful Sun Fall.

There are few things that everyone agrees on, but everyone knows that this time of year in Antarctica is the best time to be here.

I was telling my friend Mary it's like the sun is starting to kiss the sky. We are getting those kind of colors that are just deep, rich and almost bloody. Like the sky is bruised from being black for so long it doesn't know what to do with color. Everyone always says this is the most spectacular time of year (most beautiful skies, craziest fucking weather, shit like that)--I suppose in this case "everyone" is correct.

This time of the year is so different it's not referred to in terms of spring, summer, fall or Winter. This is Winfly or "Winter Fly In." In other words, a month from today, the first C-17 airplane will bring in a new group of wide-eyed workers for the United States Antarctic Program. Those of us who have spent the Winter here will look like white sheets of paper to the "Orange People" who have just left their town and summer time.

The first time I stepped foot in Antarctica it was Winfly, and I remember freezing my respective ass off. The contrast of leaving summer and coming to Winfly is dramatic. On the other hand, this morning I said to Devin, "Today's a great day." And he said, "Yeah, I think it's minus 40." I checked the weather, he was right. It was a warm minus 40.

Since this really is such a beautiful time of year, I'll try and update with photos as often as possible, even if I don't have very much to say.

Today's photo was taken by Bill Henriksen, our National Science Foundation representative. On our company computer module (whatever it's called) there is a place where those who get to get out more often can leave photos for those of us who work without windows. This photo had a pretty good time exposure, because it's not nearly as bright as the photo makes it out. But it gives a good idea of where I'm situated in the greater scheme of things.

And then Mike Poole shows us what it looks like if you go outside and build an igloo. I haven't gone out much this year. But, Ben Bonnet will be happy to know that I'm letting you know that I'm one of the four smartest people on station again, after my trivia team won for the third out of fifth time this year.

Tonight, I'm staying in, as well, and playing in the dart league. It's not like Ben Bonnet is the only other person on station, but tonight my team "72 Boobs (me and Tad)" play his team "Team Closet." It should be a good match. I think we're #2 and they're #1.

I hope your life is as exciting as this.

Here's an igloo:

Some phrases just don't work very well down here.

For instance:

Here comes the sun. As sure as the sun rises. Stick it where the sun don't shine.

Other things like twilight, sunsets and sunrises are not in our vocabulary either. There are many reasons why our vocabulary and spelling diminishes over the Winter, possibly the reason is a simple as we just don't need to use as many words.

This morning, at breakfast, I was trying to describe an episode of the TV show with Raymond Ramono. I knew the fact this was a show that everybody loved to watch, but I could not remember the name of this television show if my un-sunkissed body depended on it.

For this reason and for seeing those beautiful things that happen when that bright thing in the sky starts to come up over the horizon, I'm really excited to cross one of the missing phrases from my lost lexicon and say, "Here comes the Sun.

I started my birthday by seeing this scrapbooking page my friend Wendy Smedley made. Wendy is the queen of scrapbooking, she wrote the book "The Idiot's Guide to Scrapbooking," she is also the Creative Editor for the scrapbooking magazine "Creating Keepsakes" and she keeps a blog about scrapbooking, too.

More important than her creative and business accomplishments (which I have no idea how she finds the time to do all of this), she is also the queen of the house to five boys and her husband Kent.

In 1989 Kent and I were roommates at Brigham Young University. We were roommates for six months before I found out his name was "Kent." Everyone, except Wendy, calls him Smedley. I was writing stories for the Student Review Newspaper and Smedley thought anyone with a Commodore 64 could be a writer, so he penned a piece about living in Utah.

He gave his story to me to proofread and it was horrible. I asked him if I could rewrite it and by the time the story came out in the Student Review the only words that were printed which originally appeared in Smedley's story was the byline "Kent Smedley" and the last line which said, "It was like a sack of Sego Lilies hit me in the head."

The weekend after the story came out, Smedley went dancing at the Provo Hot Spot called, "The Palace." When he came home that night he said he'd met a beautiful girl who introduced herself to him by saying, "I understand you're the one who wrote that funny story in the newspaper about being from Utah." He said meeting her was like getting hit in the heart by a sack of Sego Lilies and the funny thing is, now they've been married for over 15 years.

At that time I had no idea a friendship was forming between Smedley and I that will last a lifetime.

This has been a great birthday week for me. Because of the story Ben Bonnet wrote, my friends have shared stories, written emails and sent pictures showing how important our friendships have been. Because of my friends, I do feel rich and down here away from my family and my friend's-who-are-like -family, getting these messages has meant a lot.

By October, when I finish this work contract, I will have spent just over two years living in Antarctica. If the people here were as cold as the climate, I wouldn't keep coming back, but in the time I've been here, I've made very good friends in Antarctica.

For my birthday this year, since I turned 39, I decided to climb Ob Hill. Ob Hill is the nearly 700 foot hill that has the cross on top of it honoring the death of Robert Scott and his crew who died on their way back from the South Pole. It is certainly the most important hill in McMurdo and possibly the most known hill in all of Antarctica. At 39, I figured this is the last year I can say that I'm not over the hill, so that's why I wanted to climb Ob Hill. Next year, when I turn 40, I'm going to climb up Ob Hill and then go over the other side.

As long as I'm going to be "over the hill" at least the hill I'll be over is in Antarctica.

For my birthday the weather could not have been better. It was minus 13 on the 13th of July. Even though the wind took this day off, it wasn't easy to convince too many people to climb Ob Hill after putting in a 10 hour work day. Lance Anderson, Sky Hofmann and Ben Bonnet joined me on this climb. Climbing Ob Hill and living in McMurdo is kind of like walking down Broadway if you you live in New York City. Ben has more "Ice Time" than I do, however, he had never climbed Ob Hill. It has something to do with being a smoker. And yet, he still agreed to join me on this milestone moment of my life.

The first birthday party I had on July 9th, my friend Chris Wilt gave me a magician's cape he had made. I wore this on the hike up Ob Hill because it was my birthday and I could.

At the top of Ob Hill our Search and Rescue (SAR) crew had left a poster, held down with lava rocks and snow, wishing me a happy birthday. Ben lit a cigarette, I passed around a bottle of Johnny Walker Black Label Old Scotch Whiskey and a gentle breeze kicked up and blew my cape backwards. And I realized that if I was a superhero, then my super power would be my friends and family.

Thank you all.

(July 13 is my birthday. The lucky number 7 and the unlucky number 13. I've always liked this. One of the lucky things in my life are the people I know down here. I recently asked Ben Bonnet to write a story for me, about me, for my birthday. My birthday is Thursday and for my birthday I don't feel like writing. Thank you for this wonderful gift, Ben. I can only hope any one sentence is true.)

Hurricane Phil hit landfall on the coast of Ross Island last night causing mass hysteria and confusion. While the number of lives affected is not yet known, it is certainly the largest force of nature to hit McMurdo Station since Mt. Erebus spit up years ago.

When I think of Phil, I think of the shear force of his presence. I remember this episode of Cheers where Norm walks in and everyone cries out, "NORM!" Diane is jealous of the greeting that Norm receives every time he walks in and announces that she wants the same reaction when she walks in. She walks out and walks right back in only to hear, "NORM!" There is Phil and there is everyone else.

The one thing you have to remember about Phil is: he is a mortal. He breathes and poops and sleeps just like everyone else. He is like the great William Wallace. No one believes in his mortality...only his divinity. (Phil also mimics Wallace's life in his love for kittens. It's a little known fact; Wallace loved the kitties). There are so many Phil stories that, after you have heard so many of them, he almost seems to be more than a man. Uber-Phil if you will.

I first met Phil in August of 2003. I was brand new to the ice and Phil was finishing up his Shakleton-esque 14 months as a dishwasher. He knew how to play poker and I thought I knew how to play poker. As we were sitting at the poker table, he would occasionally pull out his little notebook and "take notes." No one ever knew what he wrote down, but my guess is "All work and no play makes Phil a dull boy" over and over again. We played with cash in those days instead of with chips and almost every hand someone would play a "Phil Bill." Phil had won a cribbage tournament that winter. This is not surprising, since he is "virtually unbeatable at cribbage." The disgruntled loser paid him off with all $1 bills that said things to the effect of, "Phil wears diapers" or "Phil still rides a tricycle." Every time we would play one of these "Phil Bills," we would ask him if it was true and every time he would say it was. This is when I first met Phil.

I didn't run into Phil again until January of this year when he came back down for the winter. That's odd to me now. I feel like I have known Phil for years, like we grew up together or something. Phil has a way of making you feel comfortable and happy and I suppose that this instant comfort factor makes you feel like you have known him for much longer than you actually have. It could be said that Phil is an illusion.

Phil is a rare bird down here (and everywhere else as well) and during the winter we don't have any birds so he is really rare. Phil is such a rarity because he is not possessed of the negative attitude that can sometimes permeate our little community. In a lot of ways he is just like a newbie: wide-eyed and happy to be here. Most of us become jaded as we work down here for a while. Not Phil, no-sir-e-bob. He is still tickled fuchsia to be down here and a part of the community. This gives him the ability to get along with everyone, even the people that generally aren't as accepted as much within the community. You look around at the mid-winter dinner and Phil is talking with everyone. The station manager, the guy from Crary lab, the girl that works up in the greenhouse...everyone. And they all have this look on their face. The look of someone listening to Phil and enjoying what is coming out of his mouth. My face usually hurts after talking.

I cannot just write a puff piece though. There are things about Phil that need to be a part of the permanent record. Phil was once arrested for possession of a nuclear warhead. While the charges were later dropped, most that knew him thought it was probably true. Phil has jaywalked in several continents, always with a lollipop. Always with a lollipop. Phil hates the French people and their croissants. I have to say these things because otherwise people might start to think that Phil is something else. While Phil is a great man, there is still so much within him that reminds us of our own frailties and weaknesses: those things that make us human beings. He also has dork glasses, but that is neither here nor there.

I am always jealous of just how much Phil has to offer the community. His personality is a morale boost in a place full of bitter complainers. Sometimes, it seems that everyone on station is complaining about just about anything they can complain about and yet, Phil will walk up with a big grin on his face and say so simply, "Ben, how's your day going?" Then he tells a story about something that happened today that was pretty funny and, before you know it, you are happy again. He published "The Shadow." I cannot tell you how wonderful it is to read a newspaper written by your friends and co-workers that you never would have figured had anything to say. So many members of our community have great things within them and to see it all drawn out of them by Phil into a newspaper was heartwarming for all of us. Without Phil, it never would have happened. And everyone would be the worse for it not happening. They would never have known what they were missing but they would have been missing a real something. No one had to miss it though, because Phil created it. He means more to the community than most people realize, including himself probably.

I never understood it when people say, "Tom's such a great guy. I'm lucky to be his friend." Well, if Tom is such a great guy, he probably would have liked you anyway. So I guess I would say Phil is a friend of mine because he's such a great guy that he realized that I am a great guy. (Self-gratification has always felt so good). And in summary, never underestimate the powerful addictive force of Lemonheads.

Postscript
I wrote this article a little over a week ago (although, in my current winter-over state, it seems like just years ago). In that time period, Phil was in the dunk tank at the 4th of July party and he was the horseshoe champion. You already know this, because it was posted on www.philjacobsen.com. When I started out the article talking about Hurricane Phil, I meant it. Life is a whirlwind of activity around him. He is not only out there doing things, he is out there doing things well and making friends along the way.

I have one last Phil story to pass along. When I wrote about Phil for my own blog, I wanted a photo of him to include with my story. I did an image search on Yahoo! on "Phil Jacobsen." I got 249 hits almost all of which were photos from his blog. It was like Phil's own personal gallery. So then I did a search on "Ben Bonnet." There were a lot of hits that came up, but as you sifted through the photos of male models, bunny rabbits, and ballerinas one thing was consistent: none of the photos were of me or had anything to do with my life. So, I told Phil about this travesty. Phil searched around and found out that, sure enough, I'm a nobody as far as Google and Yahoo! are concerned. So he decided to do something about it. He wrote a blog about me (He even titled it Ben Bonnet and titled the photo Ben Bonnet and used my first and last name all throughout the article) and through the power of www.philjacobsen.com drove me into existence with the internet search engine folks. I thought to myself what a nice gesture this was, even though I don't mind being "a real nowhere man." But Phil wasn't done. No. He wrote an article about toilets in Antarctica. I know that writing material is difficult to come by in the winter monotony, so I figured I would let him get away with it. Plus, if someone printed it out on that recycled paper that is so frickin' thin, they could use it as toilet paper and it would be totally ironic and functional. Little did I know that, every toilet photo in the article was named "Ben Bonnet" this and "Ben Bonnet" that. So eventually, when people search Yahoo! and Google for my image, they will get a bunch of toilets in Antarctica. Of course, the joke is on the male model who has stolen my name as well. I couldn't be happier. I have been laughing about it for about a week now.

There are, I'm sure, thousands of Phil stories. That's mine.

On the 30th of June we celebrated the 4th of July. And on July 9th I'm going to celebrate my July 13th birthday.

Sorry America. Sorry Mom. That's just how it is down here. Holidays and Birthdays are only celebrated on the actual day they occur if they fall on a Saturday or Sunday. Otherwise, all occasions fall on Sunday, because this is our day off.

Since I was living in Utah for a few years before I came down here, I've kind of been preparing for this "Holiday Switcheroo," but just the opposite. In Utah if July 4th falls on a Sunday, then the Mormons declare to celebrate the Declaration of Independence would be a sin on a Sunday so the nation becomes free on July number three.

I always thought, here this guy Jefferson who not only went to all the trouble to write the Declaration of Independence and get it signed on the 4th of July, but then fifty years later he died on the 4th of July. Wouldn't someone of fireworks important in Utah think, "Hey. Okay. I get it already."

In Antarctica at least we have the "our brains are frozen" excuse. And for some reason, in June we had a July party--no one even complained. I guess it's because our brains are frozen.

The Vehicle Maintenance Facility (VMF) was transformed into a carnival theme. My friend Tonya and I ran a quarter tossing booth. We set up a dining room table using dishes from the galley and then people tossed quarters hoping to win prizes. Like t-shirts, sweat shirts and candy.

For every dollar spent without winning a prize, the player received the prophetic prize of a sucker.

Having a quarter tossing booth was actually Tonya's idea. I asked her if I could help, because I knew with a quarter tossing booth, this sucker would have had a purse full of trouble losing money two bits at a time. It was much better working the crowd, being a carnine and running away to Antarctica to join a circus.

There was also a chili cook off, bands and a dunk tank. I was one of the six or so people chosen to sit at the dunk tank and have people throw balls at a stop sign sized target aiming to get me all wet.

I hadn't seen the dunk tank before this night and my vision was a far cry from reality. The dunk tanks of my childhood were made of plexi-glass, the water was clear and there was a window to see the person actually getting dunked.

In the dunking line up, the night rounded out with me and then our Station Manager followed by our National Science Foundation representative. Since I thought this was going to be a clear tank, I talked my friend Jon, the cook, into giving me a vial of yellow food coloring. I had this stuffed into my swimming shorts to make it look like I had pissed in the pool.

You know--for the management.

The tank wasn't see-through, it was made of corrugated steel that made water a rusty color of brown. I think it also had the distinction of being the only body of water in Antarctica that could have festered mosquitoes and malaria.

I didn't intentionally go the route of being the "Piss Boy" of Antarctica by discharging my yellow food coloring, because I knew it would not have brightened up the brown water. Instead, I dressed in safety gear and my shirt said, "Throw Your Balls at Safety."

In the fifteen minutes I sat in the dunk tank, I got wet. And, the hidden cap on the hidden vile of food coloring popped off. As it turned out, the joke was on me. The bottle was located in an inside swimsuit pocket, and as I tried to put the cap back on through my trunks, it gave the appearance I was piddling with my Peter.

Not real attractive, but man oh man, did people throw their balls to try and dissuade me from my one man red light district "Wet Show." I never did get the cap to go on, but I did get a difficult to explain stream of yellow running down my leg.

The next day the carnival cleared out of town and the VMF hosted an inside horseshoe tournament. There were sixteen teams of randomly drawn two-somes. My partner, a guy named Guy was an unknown in the indoor Horseshoe scene. In the last horseshoe tournament, a couple of months ago, my team came in 4th place.

The team to beat this year was Bob and Julie. Even though the teams were drawn at random, it looked like this was a set up. Bob has won the horseshoe tournament three of the last four times, spanning a couple of Antarctic seasons, and "Julie-with-the-golden-arm" has placed in the top three all but once in five games.

Cinderella Story.

Guy and I are the new Horseshoe Champs of the entire continent.

The other day I was doing some thinking in that place where a lot of people get to thinking and I thought you can tell a lot about a place by what their bathrooms look like.

There are a few different varieties of restrooms here in Antarctica.

Some of the places to go when you have to go aren't heated or plumbed so when your Peter Piper has to pick a pack of pickled peppers, you need do your business before the business end of your body freezes. These spots only have a seating for one and no number two is allowed. Called a U-Barrel because this means U can only P. Or, perhaps, the "U" means "Urination."

The Crary Lab restroom (where I work) is the cream of the stainless steel crop.

Some bathrooms are simply utilitarian where form comes second to function like the Vehicle Maintenance Facility's (VMF) facilities.

The VMF is where the mechanics work who fix all of the trucks, Caterpillars and wacky equipment used to traverse this crevassed continent. These are tough guys who don't need to pull out their wrenches at Bed, Bath and Beyond.

There are, however, other restrooms in workstations where the bathrooms seem to be as much an office as a place to relieve a couple of your orifices.

The Berg Field Center (BFC) is the homiest of homes when you need to let your buffalo roam.

A bathroom that minds its "Pees" and "Ques" is the ship shape restroom at the Fire Station. With its wood paneling and "Flammable" sticker warning on your way into their firehouse hotspot, you can't help but think that a lot of hoses have been unfurled in this three alarm bathroom.

Plus, to keep the pipes from freezing, the toilet is raised a couple of feet above the floor. Throw in a jester or two, and sitting on this throne you'll definitely think you are King of the Crapper.

The last restroom in the Antarctic Tour is called "The Flush Away." Located outside of Building 191 (known as "The Carp Shop"), this restroom is still a novelty at McMurdo. Up until 2003, the people who worked at the Carp Shop had to use a U-Barrel. Most locations that use the U-Barrel are located within walking distance to a plumbed restroom.

Not so with the Carp Shop. Walking in the cold, down a hill with your cheeks clenched had to have caused quite a few "Run Ins."

My favorite part of the new Flush Away is the "Falcon Waterless Urinal." You can pee and pee until the race horses come home without ever needing to waste water for your waste water.

Apparently when you use this urinal you're in the middle of a technical urine wonderland where gravity does the flushing, without a smell, a muss or fuss. These are the exact same kind of waterless loos in use at the new Seattle Library.

What exactly you can tell about an Antarctican when we pull out our Williams' and shoot a liquid arrow through our sewer system, I suppose that's up to you. As for me, I'm just happy that where I work I don't have to worry about frostbite.

P.S. After putting in some overtime working on this story once the 5:30 p.m. whistle blew, I lost track of time and my mind forgot to pay attention to what my body was needing.

There's no place like home.