Let me tell you about this tiramisu cupcake I discovered recently at Middle Way Cafe. My first bite started out rich but not too sweet, with tangy sour-cream frosting, and ended delicately, with espresso-soaked white cake. The flavors unfolded in my mouth like chapters in a satisfying novel — intriguing, self-sufficient, not overdone. It was near perfect.

(This is a follow-up to my column about the lonely death of Daniel DeNardo, a perennial fringe candidate, that ran this morning.)

I found a friend of Daniel DeNardo's. Her name is Pat Thompson, and she is 83. She met him decades ago through Holy Family Cathedral. He was a very devout Catholic, she told me, and sometimes helped with communion at the Providence hospital chapel.

She saw him frequently over several decades.

"He was like a son to me," she said.

She cooked for him and shared with him vegetables from her garden. He was a strict vegetarian.

This is where I lost DeNardo's trail, the spot in South Anchorage where he said he lived, but it turned out the address was a fake. (photo by Erik Hill)

Plenty of people can recognize Daniel DeNardo, one of the city’s more prominent conspiracy theorists. He’s been a perennial political figure for 20 years and filed nearly 100 lawsuits against everyone from Sarah Palin to Congregation Beth Sholom. But in two days of calling around, I could not find one person who called him a friend.

DeNardo died June 28 at Providence Alaska Medical Center. He was 62. His body is lying in a funeral home, waiting to be buried. It appears nobody can find his next of kin.

Every first-time home-buyer has a moment when the reality of their new purchase sets in. Maybe it's when they get that set of keys. Or when they see the insane figure that represents how much they'll pay with interest.

My moment came one morning last week, when I went into the bathroom to brush my teeth and did not smell marijuana wafting through the floor from the tenant below.

My neighbor's a.m. pot habit had annoyed me for months, but right then I felt a little sad. The downstairs apartment was empty because I'd just bought the duplex where I lived. This neighbor moved out the day the deal closed. And now the bathroom smelled like shampoo and the carefree days of being a tenant were over.

I'm working on a renting column and want to hear your adventures in being tenants. Crazy landlord? Great landlord? House with mice in the walls? Outstanding roommate drama? Send it my way.

Here's a few stories that came in over the last few days:

"I live (currently) next to a halfway house in Airport Heights. The landlord failed to mention this to us when we moved in. The worst part? My bedroom window is right next to their patio. For the last few months I've tried to fall asleep to the following: Smokers with lung disease coughing so hard they throw up, a woman who would stand outside and scream obscenities (at no one), and most recently a rapper -- who has declared that 'this town is too small for him.' He also has a drum set.

Drive through Mountain View and you’ll see a dozen attempts to cure one of the city’s roughest, poorest neighborhoods — to repave it, to bring it art and low-cost housing and retail jobs and social services. You’ll see trailer parks closed and flowers planted. You’ll see a new middle school, a new library, a new shopping center and a string of made-over buildings, new paint and glass and corrugated metal.

But you won’t understand the neighborhood unless you find its commercial heart. It’s shaped like a Red Apple.

In a city of polished corporate aisles, of Fred Meyers and Carrs-Safeway and spendy City Market, there is no other store like the Red Apple Market, an oversized Mom & Pop operation where prices are low and inventory spans the globe.

I was in the suicide lane on the way to work, waiting for a break in traffic to make a left turn when I noticed the driver in the car behind me. He was a sweet-looking grandpa with a Santa Claus beard and an endearing set of visor shades. I gave him a little “Hi Santa” smile in the mirror.

He didn’t smile back. Instead, I watched him clearly mouth an unprintable word in my direction. Then he swerved around me and sped left across traffic, apparently tired of waiting for me to turn. Through his rear window, I saw him in relief, giving me the finger on his way to the post office.

Earlier this year, that sort of thing might have been jarring. But I’ve become a newspaper columnist. Mainlining hostility from strangers is part of the job description. It occurred to me as I was pulling into the parking lot that I’ve kind of gotten used to it.

From time to time, I'd like to share Anchorage observations from readers. Here's a recent Facebook post from Michilani Taniguchi Wiseman:

I think I have this. PMSS.

The mosquitoes were so thick out there that they burn coils inside to keep them from coming in. The second night we were there, the mosquitoes had found a way into our trailer and we woke up splotchy and itchy. There had to be at least 50 inside. We had to spray with Cutter as soon as we went out the door and even our poor dog had to be sprayed just to go pee. After awhile she didn't mind being sprayed. We had citronella candles and coils burning just outside our door at all hours.

I was chasing my cousin's baby down an alley off 12th Ave yesterday evening and I happened to hear two different Michael Jackson songs blaring out of windows. It made me think about how my parents rented a VCR in the early 1980s for us so we could watch the Thriller video.
It doesn't matter what you think of the guy, his music is playing in the background of a lot of people's memories. Below is a sampling of status updates from my Facebook account over the last 24 hours. Feel free to add your thoughts below.

"vividly remembers the first CD he ever bought with his own money - Dangerous."

People hold prejudice in their hearts like a secret, Biringanine Bagalwa told me in his Midtown living room on Tuesday. You can’t see murderous intentions in their eyes or hear it in their voices, but don’t think they won’t arrive at your door late at night wanting to kill you. That is one thing he will never forget.

Bagalwa is part of small group of African refugees resettled in Anchorage by the American government. They come from Ethiopia and Sudan, Cameroon and Somalia, Liberia and Togo, Congo and Gambia. Many have lived for years in refugee camps. They have traveled 8,000 miles to start their lives over, but the people who work with them say the traumas of their pasts aren’t left behind.

Anchorage police say they've found another dead homeless person. Click here for the story.

Lots of questions: Why do we still not have autopsy or toxicology information on the others? Will we get it? Who is this latest person?

I'll update as I have more information.

UAF says 5.7 earthquake today at 11:28, 58 miles NW of Anchorage.

Did you feel it?

I made it into the Anchorage Assembly chambers on Wednesday just about the time a Christian guy in a red shirt was testifying in detail about how gay people are into flogging. It was X-rated and creepy no matter how you cut it, but it was especially weird because my mom was in the room along with a lot of people carrying Bibles.

You know you're having a good day as a columnist when the outrage is coming from all directions. There have been a boat load of responses to this morning's column about Palin and they are all over the map.

From the anti-Palin camp, they've been something like this, from Laurie Charbonneau:

There are many of us attractive , intelligent, educated and well rounded women in the world. We work hard in our chosen professions...(I have a Masters in Social Work) we take care of our families, and try to teach our children right from wrong. We are politically active and know and understand what is happening in our governments. Jealous of Sarah Palin? No my dear...not a chance.

Her interviews leave me slack jawed and stunned. Her vitriol and her revenge tactics are obvious. She was not upset at the A-Rod joke...she didn't like her look being likened to a "slutty flight attendant". However, to complain about that, well..even that twit knew it would come off as petty. She is also angry with Letterman for all his jokes during the campaign.

I wasn’t surprised when I watched David Letterman’s jokes about Sarah Palin last week. I wasn’t particularly outraged, either. In fact, to be honest, I laughed a little.

For anyone who missed it, the latest scandal in Palin world unfolded after the governor and her husband objected to Letterman’s jokes about Palin looking like a “slutty flight attendant” and her daughter (either Willow or Bristol, depending on how you read it) getting “knocked up” by Alex Rodriguez. Letterman made a weak apology. Palin went on the “Today” show. People organized a “Fire David Letterman” rally. Letterman made a more serious apology. And then Palin Facebooked that she accepted it on behalf of young women everywhere.

The spare room: Click here to post your own messiest room photo.

It should have been a wake-up call when I came home and the dog didn’t greet me at the door.

I called her name. Nothing. Then I heard one staccato bark. I knew that bark. It was her “help me” bark.

I scanned the backyard. I looked in the laundry area. The bathroom. The bedroom closet. As I neared the spare room, I heard it again. I pushed the door open, fighting the weight of a massive pile of laundry on the other side. I lifted away an old space heater, and shifted a plastic garbage bag meant for the Salvation Army. A gray muzzle appeared from between a fallen rug cleaner and a basket of dirty towels. I cleared a path for her. She ran straight to her water bowl and started slurping away. She’d accidentally become entombed in my secret zone of chaos. She was dehydrated.

(Video by Bill Roth)

Chuck Johnston’s ice cream truck plays circus music, a loop of tunes recorded on a keyboard set to sound like a calliope. It conjures the feeling of the old-fashioned Big Top, of tightrope walkers and clown cars. The tape has been copied so many times it has a hissing, nostalgic quality, like an old record that never stops. If you listen close, you can catch a few wrong notes.

Just when I thought I'd heard everything when it comes to the city's equal rights ordinance, I got a press release about Renee’ Scott, aka Mrs. Alaska, the state's newly-crowned representative in the competitive world of married beauty queens.

As her first act of business, she will be showing up at the Assembly meeting tonight to stand against the mayor's "effort at instating special rights for homosexuals." She'll be wearing red, the color of the ordinance's opponents, along with her crown and sash.

Really? We have record numbers of homeless people dying in the woods in Anchorage, villages decimated by flooding on the Yukon, sky-high rates of domestic violence and alcoholism, and the Mrs. is getting wound-up about protecting gay people from discrimination? This is priority number one?

I had a lot of messages over the weekend in response to my column about my visit with Pastor Jerry Prevo. One of the themes among the writers was the thoughtful question: if you don't feel you've experienced discrimination, why should there be a law here?

Here's a good example, from reader Larry Kaniut, who was kind enough to write me:

if you feel unthreatened by the community, why would you feel it is necessary to have "rights" that you already have?
and another question, why do people use discrimination as a weapon. we discriminate every day--you did as you purchased your vehicle, chose the route to ABT, examined Prevo's glasses and office decor. discrimination is good. unfortunately people try to use the word as a weapon. without "preaching" may i say that the Bible encourages us to use good judgement. we are to make wise decisions. However that does not translate to being judgmental.
thank you for sharing your personal insight. may your writing bring you much happiness and help make the world a better place.
wishing you the very best,
larry kaniut

I'd be lying if I said I didn't want Jerry Prevo to like me as I was driving to the Anchorage Baptist Temple on Wednesday afternoon.

Sure I was gay, and he knew I was gay, and he was a hard-line Evangelical Christian pastor who'd successfully led every Alaska anti-gay measure in my lifetime. But I looked totally normal in my church clothes. I was smart, I was funny, I was from his neighborhood. What wasn't to like?

My plan was to talk with him about why he was fighting an effort to add sexual orientation to the city's anti-discrimination ordinance. I promised myself that I would really try to listen to him. I crossed into the East Side, where I grew up, passing Value Village and Max's Beefy Burgers and the flower shop. Maybe, I thought, Prevo had some valid points about the ordinance being poorly written. Maybe we could find some common ground.