Intruders!

The electrical wiring in our apartment made me nervous. We'd turn on the outdoor porch light, and immediately blow the circuit for the entire entryway. On the irregular morning where I'd feel like coffee instead of tea, the grinder would have to wait if we were using the microwave. Use them both at the same time, and again: blown circuit. Neither bathroom had power outlets. This left Kate blow drying her hair in the living room, and me with a stubbed toe after any midnight pee. (I love me the nightlight). When the wall outlets died in our bedroom, I finally had to write our landlady and request an upgrade.
Boli, the squat Indian homeowner who rents us our house, was decidedly cheery about my request to spend hundreds of thousands of her rupees. My overt referral to a fire hazard must have had an affect. Kate told me that Boli would send the team of miscreants our way, power saws and wiring in hand.
The problem is that I work from home. When Henry, and I think the readers might remember him as the beer drinking, shade-hanging Dude-lookalike, and the crew show up at 8:30 for a day worth of noise, I'm pretty much hosed. It's hard enough to focus on pipelines when the snow is falling in the mountains and my skis are crying in the closet. When you add into the mix a din of ungodly proportions, this wiring can't get fixed quickly enough.
The good news is that the guys are slated to finish tomorrow, and I'll once again to make toast and hot water at the same time. The bad news: it's snowing like crazy up there, so the distractions continue, regardless.

Rights Within Reach

The sidewalks in my neighborhood are a patchwork collection of concrete, paving stones, and flagstone slabs meeting at irregular intervals. With each house, the footpath changes color and texture, but when a pedestrian passes along one of the flagstone strips, there is a real possibility for a turned ankle. It seems like one stone will end, and the other will haphazardly begin four inches away and half a foot down. Thank god the Rollerblade revolution has peacefully concluded, or we'd have quite the adolescent mortality rate here in Boulder.

I dodge these pitfalls when I walk down to Pearl Street. In particular, there are bars and restaurants, as well as plenty of funky little stores that sell anything from books to statues of the buddha. Sadly, my favorite store on "The Mall" just closed down. It sold fun, quique one-off cards, but I guess people are cutting back on their boutique card shopping. Fortunately, there is also one that sells notebooks, pens, cards...a stationary shop. Of course, we're in Boulder, so it's called a "Paperie", but cognates are a powerful thing. Plus, I speak a little French. Ju Sui Glamour.

When I got to the store, the mission was to find a particular style of notebook as a gift for Christmas. I asked the woman who was working at the cash register if they carried such an item, but before she could respond, a patron turned to me and told me that I should really go to Design Within Reach. They have exactly what I'm looking for. At first, I looked at the woman as though to thank her, but then realized she didn't work there, and I'd stepped into a weird conflict of interest. The woman behind the register tried to inform me that they had entire shelves dedicated to notebooks, and surely I could find something to my liking. The shopper just sort of grinned, as if to say "We both know you want to leave to see if I'm right. Design Within Reach. It's only four blocks away".

In fact, I did kind of want to leave to see if they had exactly what I was looking for, but felt an odd sense of duty to at least make a passing glance at the wall of notebooks. I felt bad for the owner, who had clearly not been to pleased to have her customers advising other clientele to head for the exits. Didn't I have some kind of responsibility to at least try to find what I was looking for in her shop? I remembered my favorite card store had just shuttered. Now, I'm gonna have to get all my cards from Target, and even if they're cheaper, they'll never be unique. I can personally guarantee that Target Corporation will never sell a card that has small, colored squares and writing that says "You are Fucking Awesome." If I headed to DWR, this cute little paperie might be next.

Thankfully, my phone rang, and I was able to say "Hold on, I'm in a store. Let me step out." loudly enough to take my leave with an excuse. I needed to see about a notebook that I could get only four blocks away. Everyone in town is raving about it, and I don't want to miss the boat.

As I finished my conversation on the phone, I started walking towards the DWR store. My mind was wandering back to how I'd taken my wallet and bolted from a store, and how the owner must be standing behind her counter looking at the remaining customer with violence in her heart. Maybe I was giving myself a bit too much credit, but, to be honest, that's kind of my thing.

Deep in thought, I stumbled unprepared into the ambush. The people who ask for your money or a signature for a ballot initiative are usually easy to spot. They're the ones that another pedestrian is shaking their head "No" to while hurrying away. And, they usually have a clipboard. I see these people every day that I'm down in Denver walking to catch my bus or train, and they're a mainstay on Pearl Street, too. I just want to keep walking, and don't want to take their requisite "one minute" to save anything. Some electronic distraction is the best defense, but as I'd been lost in the thought of competitive notebook peddling, my phone was nowhere near my ear.

"Do you have a minute..."
I knew where this was headed. The Environment? No, I'm sorry, I don't. Can't you see that I'm wearing a Patagonia jacket? They give 1% to the environment. Isn't that enough for you people?
"for gay rights?"

I've never heard that one. Caught totally unprepared, I could only be honest and look her right in the eyes and reply, "No." I kept walking.

It came out so harshly. Yes, I do have a minute, just not this minute. You see, I've gotta get to Design....oh Jesus. I'm no bigot, but I felt like I had voted yes on Proposition 8. I felt like I had voted according to Focus on the Family's command. I felt like a jerk.

I hope she could understand that I was just doing my part to...to...to... To what? Close local businesses? Just as I had when I blew off going into the card store two weeks ago, and right before they closed their doors for good, too?

When I got to the corner, I got did what any caring, upstanding citizen would do. I kept on walking, zigzagged my way back to the paperie. I might not ensure civil unions, but I might just keep a local stationary shop buzzing along through these tough economic times.

Holiday Cheer

Normally, I don't seek out house music. I'll happily listen to it, and dancing like an entranced whipsaw at a live show brings a smile to my face. The names of the individual DJ's themselves, though, mean no more to me those of my neighbors' pets. I'll gladly throw a stick for the friendly Labrador at the end of the cul-du-sac, just as I can be convinced to pay $15 bucks to hear somebody like Pete Tong or Armin Van Buuren spin a record at a downtown club. I don't want to buy the dog food or pay for a trip to the vet, though, just as I'm not too interested in getting obsessed with the club scene.

The problem with techno in Denver is that the clubs themselves are, unless you're incapacitated with drugs, unrelentingly self conscious. If you look hard enough, you see plenty of empty space, and a decor that looks more like recycled linen than anything else. I've yet to find one that tricked me into thinking that I'd stumbled into a reincarnation of Studio 54. Instead, I'll dance knowing full well that a glittering 7-11 stands just next door. This is fine if I get thirsty and need a Gatorade, but somehow it detracts from the allure that the party of a lifetime is going on back inside. When I was living in Madrid, I went into a few clubs that were large and ostentatious enough to leave me wondering if the Spanish government wasn't partly funding the place. Golden pillars supported a hovering stage where the DJ played to a 6 story house utterly packed to the gills with revelers. Everyone was dressed in their best leather and mesh, knowing full well that anything like a John Elway jersey would get you thrown out of the establishment and possibly deported to Portugal. Back in Denver, though, the shine just isn't the same, and some tool in his Bronco shirt has a good chance of getting into the festival.

This disparity in ambiance didn't stop my friend Rob from getting me a ticket to see Christopher Lawrence play music at a place in Denver called 'The Church'. Rob is much more of a music connoisseur than I am, and in homage to his superior knowledge, I tried to replicate his excitement for the show. In truth, I'd never heard of Christopher Lawrence, but I didn't want to ruin the fun. Playing along, I even rallied the enthusiasm to eat a bunch of mushrooms just to get in the groove. It wasn't too long before the crowd turned into a pen of bouncing rabbits, much to my delight. I was dancing like a maniac, and at the end of the night, I had developed a sort of affinity with Mr. Lawrence in spite of any shortcomings with the Denver club scene. He and I had bonded.

So you'll understand my nostalgia and surprise when I met a man named Christopher Lawrence on a climbing trip years after the bunnies attacked my cerebellum. I was down in Kentucky enjoying the out of this world climbing at the Red River Gorge, camping with my friends Dan and Derek. Dan had grown up in New York, and had moved to Colorado for college. He and I met out in Rifle, and have been buddies for a few years. Derek is another climbing buddy, although I just met him a few weeks before the trip to the Southeast. He had been on a cross country road trip, living out of his Toyota LandCruiser and climbing for six steady months. Derek had just finished his fellowship as a pathologist, but wanted to indulge in some climbing before getting too serious with medicine and regular employment. Immediately after meeting in Rifle, we hit it off, and he invited me to fly to Lexington after his road trip took him to "The Red". There, he'd pick me up and climb with me for a few days. Knowing that Dan and Derek were both down there, and that Derek had generously offered enormous convenience if I made the trip, was too much to pass up. I booked my ticket and prayed for good weather.

When I arrived, the guys had set up a tent city at a campground called Lago Linda. This sort of redneck resort caters to climbers, and has cabins for rent along with their rougher amenities. We camped in a converted horse barn, but had access to electricity and hot water. Survival is practically a given, and comfort is entirely possible, with these two facts. On my second day at the "Lago", Dan ran into his old buddy Christopher from New York. He sauntered up and we immediately started talking.

Christopher was also a climber, and was renting one of the aforementioned cabins from the resort. He had known Dan for years, and even took him climbing a bit before Dan turned into a total wonderkid and started crushing 5.14. When I was introduced to "Christopher Lawrence", I thought there was no way it was the same guy. Sure, he looked much like I remembered him, but my view of the stage wasn't immaculate. His bleach blond hair was the same, but he looked a lot older in person. 'Huh,' I thought. Name checks out, hair looks the same, and the fact that he is nearly deaf from years "in a band" also seemed to fit. I couldn't tell if it was the same guy, but I just hung out and tried to cover my bases by not doing anything foolish either way. I didn't want to act starstruck and fawn over "my favorite DJ" just in case it was mistaken identity, but I wanted to mention that I'd seen some great house shows just in case it actually was him. That way, I could play it cool and tell him, when and if his identity was confirmed, that I had known all along.

I asked him about his music, and he started telling me about all the punk he played growing up. The wall of amps behind his head was the main culprit for the hearing loss, but he'd gone from the drums to a career in photography. He'd been climbing for 25 years, and had plenty of stories from trips around the globe, but he made his money behind the lens.
"So you're not Christopher Lawrence The DJ?"

He smiled wryly and said I wasn't the first person to get confused, but he was in fact Christopher Lawrence The Photographer. That's how his contact info went into my phone - "Christopher Lawrence, Photog not DJ". Christopher and I spent a few days hanging out together, climbing and drinking at a Halloween party. We were talking about trips we'd like to take, and places we'd been, and had a bonding moment regarding sailing. Where he'd taken to it, and found it almost as gratifying as climbing, I was just getting over my most recent sailing experience in Greece. Regardless, the talks would always come back to climbing and travel, and he told me about his yearly trip to Mexico during the Christmas holiday. For the past couple of years, Christopher and a few friends had been down to Potrero Chico for Navidad climbing. Given my longstanding desire to climb the huge sport routes down there, some heading skyward for 20 pitches, I found myself salivating with jealousy. My holiday traditions didn't leave much room for rock climbing.

One tradition has been our family's attendance at a weird, old restaurant up in Empire, CO. We'll all go out for a dinner right before Christmas. The roots of the experience lie with my stepmother, who found this old hotel and restaurant decades ago when she was still in her first marriage. Each year, her for over 20 and our family for 12, we'll pile into the car and head West towards the ski areas, stopping in a town on the shoulder of Berthoud Pass to take over a certain dining room. The Peck House always has a roaring fire going when we get there, and the menu NEVER changes. The waitress, her hair always in the ever tight bun, and her slim figure tucked neatly into the same formal red dress as always, describes with pride the pate or mushrooms that are special for that night. She makes her announcement as though we'd be blown over with surprise. Actually, we all know what we're going to order before we even step out of the car, just as we know there will be a family picture in the sleigh on the front porch while we try to avoid freezing to death. The evening is typically a nice reunion, and it doesn't last so long as to become a burden. After dessert, we head back down the highway and close the chapter on The Peck House tradition for another year.

Another annual ritual, though this one more of a recent phenomenon, is overt charity. Oprah took to her daily television show one specific episode a few years ago, and talked at length about what a wonderful and fulfilling experience it was to give away money or gifts to perfect strangers. I imagine that it is entirely superficial for her bottom line, given that she has a net worth that is greater than the GDP of many developing nations. My stepmom saw this particular show, and liked the idea to the extent that a few weeks before Christmas, we would get an envelope stuffed with $100. The catch: the cash wasn't for us. We had to take to the streets like a modest Oprah army, distributing the loot to unsuspecting strangers. We were forbidden from doing something like give it to our girlfriends in order to curry naked favors, or engage in any other kickback schemes. The rules have remained fluid over the years, and have recently expanded to prohibit any internet microcredit organizations. That bylaw was directed mostly at my sister Megan. A few years back, she'd pledged the money to a candy vendor on the streets of Asuncion, Paraguay, via the internet. Simultaneously, she aroused suspicions amongst my dad and stepmom that she'd broken rule No. 1 and simply pocketed the dough. They heard of her "internet donation" because that was another rule. We all had to hit the streets and give out the money before Christmas eve, so that when we had dinner that night before Santa stuffed our stockings, we'd all be able to share our tales with the benefactors. I mean, how much fun is it to give away money and not hear about the homeless man's reaction when you bought him new boots? If a tree falls in the forest with no one around, does it make a sound? If your kids give away your money without you knowing exactly how and to whom, are you still generous?

I like to spread the $100 around, preferring to drop $20 here, $10 there. One night, though, I went a bit bigger than usual, and offered to pay for a large part of the dinner bill for an adjacent table while eating at a restaurant. Colorado was enduring quite a snowstorm, and my friend Ethan was in town for some skiing. After a day on the slopes, we were ready for a hot meal, so Ethan, Kate and I went out for a burger and a beer. The table next to us had two men and one woman, all of whom appeared middle aged. They were pretty somber, expecially in light of the huge snow the mountains were getting, so I assumed they needed some cheering up. Perhaps their goggles had gone missing, or they'd failed to tune their powder skis. I slid my chair to their table, startling one of the elders into grabbing his knife in defense. I talked quickly, and flashed the cash to keep from getting stabbed. When the older woman began to gently cry, I wondered what the hell I'd gotten into. She explained that her mother had just died, but her flight was cancelled out of Denver because of the weather. Now, she was going to miss the funeral. She said that it made her day, and though I don't think even giving her the whole $100 would have brought her mom back, at least I'd lucked into doing something.

That story went over well when I retold it at the dinner table on Christmas eve.

And on the very night of retelling my tale, Santa slid down the chimney and deposited a heap of gifts at the bottom of a 20 foot fir tree standing in my dad's living room that, luckily, has a vaulted ceiling. You might ask, 'Where the hell does one find a tree so over the top?' I'd answer, 'At Greg Penkowski's forest hideaway, of course!'

Greg and my dad shared a law practice for a few years back in the 1990's, and they've remained passing acquaintances ever since. It seems like quite a regression to go from sharing an office with someone to seeing them just once a year, but Greg is a huge Soviet man with more than a hint of oddness. I guess that's enough for my dad and his old law partner. This isn't to say Greg's a bad guy, and he has sincere kindness and generosity in his heart. He will always shake your hand with his bear paw, though just a bit too firmly, and for a few seconds too long. Now and then, I see him sitting on a bench downtown, watching the crowd stroll by on 16th Street with a grin from ear to ear. I wonder, then, if Greg has lost every last marble, or if he's just more suited to fresh air. Aside from my coincidental meetings on the sidewalk, I see the Penkowski clan only one other time during the year. We march onto their mountainous 160 acre estate with saw in hand. Greg sets aside a Saturday in early December each year, and has a whole team of wannabe foresters slip and slide on the hills above Golden in search for that perfect Christmas tree.

Along the way, my dad has gotten the idea that bigger is better, so each year we're all called into action to scour the hillsides for the perfect two ton behemoth. It gets chopped down, we gather around and grab branches, and then lug the sacrificial foliage back to the waiting Suburban. When we're back at the vehicle, my dad does some strange gyration he calls "The Tree Dance", which is more seizure than coordinated movement honoring the fir's demise. When he comes to a stop, all the Pharo kids look over their shoulders in prayer that no one was looking, and then heft the tree onto the roof of the car. After everything is tied tightly, we walk back to the campfire Greg has stoked, and rip through some of the wine he's donated. After a few glasses, our feet will get cold, we'll have caught up with all the necessary pleasantries and platitudes. We'll leave Greg, his wife Francis, and their two kids for another year.

And on my way home, I'll usually think to myself, "These Pharo traditions are nice. But man, it sure would be pretty great to be down in Mexico, climbing with a deaf man and a herd of rabbits."

Full Circle

Last night, around the dinner table, my step mom asked all of us who had come to Montana for Thanksgiving about the most scared any of us has ever been. We went around the table, starting with her story of a friend who fell down a mineshaft while they were out on a hike. Joey was the one who, for five hours, stayed at the entrance to the hole while the others went to get help. When Search and Rescue arrived, she had been trying to talk her friend into continual consciousness with varied success. The friend, we'll call him Al, had begun hallucinating from the pain of his broken hip, but otherwise had undergone the ordeal with amazing luck. The rescuers killed the rattle snake he'd been keeping company, and they measured the fall at 60 feet. That's quite a distance, especially when you consider that at the bottom was a piece of rebar sticking straight out of the ground. Al had tumbled down the shaft and somehow missed that, as well.

The act itself was terrifying, I'm sure, but one reason I think the story qualifies as her most terrifying is due to the protracted nature of the whole thing. A tumble is one thing, but when you've got to sit and think of the repercussions of gravity for half a day, that's quite another. Especially when the victim is saying, "I hear a rattle".

In another interesting twist of Al's fate, he works at the EPA in Denver. His employment isn't so overwhelmingly interesting, but when you consider that Spencer, my step brother, works for an oil and gas lobbying group that generally opposes the EPA in Denver, we begin to breach irony worthy of head scratching. Apparently, Al and another woman from Spencer's employer are nemeses, and Al is a total pain in the ass for them. I'm sure he has always had it out for the extractive industries after that fateful day hike.

When it was my turn, I talked about how I'd been climbing a particular route that left me above some 30 year old quarter inch bolts that were rusted to all hell. The slab moves were only supposed to be 5.10, but when I looked about 15 feet to my right and saw a dusting of chalk, I knew I was off route. Maybe the route was 5.10, but I found myself in some slippery 5.12 R territory. I was perched on a dime sized edge for what seemed like an eternity, and while trying desperately to match feet in my efforts to get back on route, I careened off the wall. Looking down, I had sufficient time to wonder just how far I'd be going when the bolt tore out of the wall, but my daydream halted when my face slammed into the rock. There was an immediate shock of pain, but then I realized that I'd only gone 25 or 30 feet, so the protection must have held. More pressing was my dismay at what was tumbling down the rock. Two white nuggets were rolling down the face, and I quickly ran my tongue across my teeth. Interestingly, all were accounted for, and I realized my mistake. In my mental haze, I'd mistaken spilled chalk from my chalk bag as molars.
Besides a few more cuts, bruises, and a face that looked like it had just met the business end of a boxing mitt, I was ok. Standing on that edge waiting to die was likely the most scared I'd ever been, though.

When I woke up the morning after our story session, I was prepared to amend my tale of terror.

I dreamed that it was raining in Boulder and I was trying to get home. A group had gathered in the lobby of a local hotel, and were drinking and catching up. All of these people were alums from Wheat Ridge High School, home of the Farmers and my Alma Matter. Normally, I find any reason available to avoid cocktail hour with old high school acquaintances, and for this night I decided I just had to walk in the freezing rain. Fully drenched and shivering, I returned to the lobby and said hello to the group. I expressed how much I missed everyone and everything long forgotten, and excused myself. It seemed I was cold and wet, and needed to get home. How convenient. In my dream, I had reunited with my girlfriend from those same high school days, and here she was sitting in this very hotel. When I asked her what room we were in, my head spun. Terra, the old high school flame, explained that we weren't actually staying at that hotel, but lived together down in Westminister. Not only had I gotten back together with my high school girlfriend, I'd decided to move in with her, and into possibly the worst city in America. Three strikes, and I'm out.

When I woke up, I wanted to tell my family of the horror. I figured they'd laugh about the gigantic step backwards that a reunion with history would represent. Thinking of me living in Westminister, a soulless city along a highway that is full of shopping centers and apartment complexes would set them to howling. Instead, the whole family was still asleep, inebriated from too much turkey.

Alone, I made some coffee in hopes of freeing myself from the pain I was feeling. Too much food over the last couple of days was leaving me sluggish. Normally, I'd just take a heaping spoonful of pure psylium husk and be done with the stricture the following day, but I hadn't brought any. When I saw my father's Metamucil on the counter, I figured that it was an acceptable substitute. In the quiet of the morning, I chugged down some fiber and smiled at the reality of becoming my father, at least in my guts. Like him, I could look back with some perspective at the choices I'd made, and know that if I'd made them today, it would be the most terrifying decision of my life. In it's proper context, though, it's just a punchline that takes 12-24 hours to come full circle.

Patty bein' Patty

First off, a report about Sonic Youth.
Yesterday was my seventh day trying the route. Spending a week of your life trying to move 70 feet is pure, unadulterated slowness. Can you get up and go to your fridge and get me a beer? That's how much progress I would make in a day. Luckily, I think day 8 will be my last down there. I managed to set a new high point, where previously I'd fallen only as high as the 5th bolt, which is at about 35 feet. Now, I've twice fallen grabbing, but not quite reeling in, the absolute last hold on the route.
Tomorrow I'm headed back with Dan Knights, and am feeling really good about my chances. Mostly, it's because of Dan. He has two claims to fame. First, he belayed me on Anarchitect when I did that route back in June. That one is, so far, my best send in CCC, and I'm liking the symmetry of his presence for what should be my new personal best in terms of difficulty.
Dan's second claim to fame is that he is a world champion rubik's cuber. I don't mean it off the cuff like he's really good. I mean he boarded a plane and flew to Toronto in 2003 and set a world goddamn record for the thing. He makes up for it by being a math genius (obviously), an exceedingly strong climber, and generally a great guy. I'm dumb, weak, and horrid. Like I said, symmetry.

I'll post my results for the route tomorrow.

While baseball lacks the appeal of rock climbing in my eyes, it does have one very signifigant magnetic force: Manny Ramirez. Specifically, Manny acts like himself. With alarming regularity, he is a GOON, and sometimes he's just totally normal. The media, teammates, and pop culture just shruggs it off as "Manny being Manny."

Today, I went for Patty being Patty.

I've been working on a pipeline project for a client for over three months, and I'm really getting ready to just finished it. Today, we had a final conference call with about 15 people, and settled on some changes I'd make on my portion of the application. I'd have a two other people check on my final draft to review specifics. Chuck and Larry are the two in question, and I've worked with these two guys before. Chuck looks like Jerry Garcia, and I'd say is about 55. Wild white hair compliments his soft, nasally voice, and his background in chemical engineering is matched by his experience as a construction guru and general savant. I like him a bunch, and enjoy working with him.
Larry is a surveyor who is working on the project, and though I've never met him face to face, I imagine he looks a lot like Chuck. He is similarly experienced and thoughtful, with a level of technical expertise that I don't have. Larry has probably been a surveyor since Nixon, and he might be 70, but who knows. Larry and Chuck have worked together for years, and though I want to crack the joke about "I now pronounce you Chuck and Larry," a film about gay marriage with Adam Sandler and the King of Queens guy, I refrain.

Larry and I were on the phone today after the conference call. I asked him about the review that he and Chuck would be doing on my report. He said they'd work on it in tandem, and I could think of it as "the Larry and Chuck tag team."
I chuckled at the joke, and went back to my computer to finish the document. When I was finished, I got prepared to email it to both of them. Here is the actual text:

Gentlemen,
(Or, as Larry referred to you both, the Larry and Chuck Tag Team)
(Or, as you're known within the Mexican Wrestling Federation, El Hombre and El Vampiro)

Please take a look at the attached Plan of Development. It has the changes we talked about this morning, all tracked for ease of editing.
When I get back the version you two have settled on, I'll tidy everything up and send it along to the BLM.

Thanks very much,
Patrick (Or, El Guapo, as I'm known down South)

* * *

Now, El Hombre means "The Man," El Vampiro means "The Vampire," and El Guapo either means "The Handsome One," or "You're Fired," depending on which Spanish to English dictionary you're using.

Who the hell knows if they got the email and laughed like crazed kids on pot, or if they discussed my obvious insanity. I just hope that we can get to a point in my career when email recipients shake their heads and say, "That's just Patty being Patty."

Nice Pants

Back in the 1990's, when America was still a great nation with a citizenry that could still get out and buy such textile luxuries, Dockers launched an advertising campaign titled "Nice Pants". You remember it, don't ya? The hunky model dressed in the great utility chino suitable for work, lounge, and golf would strut around a city, likely San Fransisco, and fend off the advances of women admiring his trousers. "Nice pants," they'd all say as they sinfully devoured his lower half with their eyes. Indeed. If it were really San Fransisco, he'd have been prancing around the Tenderloin district averting the advances from Hugo the Gay Cuban. Wherever the locale, America needs more nice pants. Specifically, Kate needs some nice new pants. Ski pants, that is. Waterproof, warm, and preferrably a fashionable green were her requisites, and I tried to deliver. I figured it was better that I do it, lest she turn to Hugo.

Dear lord, did I try. I went to The Bent Gate, where all I found was a pair of shoes for a certain someone. That certain someone was me, and it got me no closer to my goal of finding Kate a birthday present. I went to Neptune Mountaineering. There, focusing on the color of the pants in question, I found nothing for her OR me. Same for BC Surf & Sport, Boulder Ski Deals, and Echelon Sports. No luck at Sports Authority, The Ride Room at Loveland Basin, Patagonia.com, or Patagonia's outlet in Dillon, Montana. I looked at a bike shop that didn't sell skis, and in Longmont, happily known as Boulder's ghetto, I found a bike shop that did sell skis, though no ski pants. My quest culminated in total failure at a shop called Sniagrab, an old Gart Sport's spin off, and last stand for acres of unwanted fabric.

A salesman over at an adjacent ski shop told me he thought he'd seen some green pants hanging on their racks. I walked across the parking lot and wandered into the warehouse-come-ski shop. The walls were eye-scaldingly white, no music played as a distraction, and in front of me were racks upon racks of ski wear. Coats, pants, helmets, boots, binding, skis and snowboards. This is where odd sizes, wild colors, and fur lined fashion has come to die. I immediately wandered to the section labeled as "Women's small," and assumed I'd soon find the answer to all my shopping woes. I searched for longer than expected. Sure, I saw fiery red, bleach white, and plaids from any number of companies. But no green. There was a green, orange, and brown pattern that resembled a highly organized game of chutes and ladders, but no simple kelley green. There's not even lime.

But then, I see it. In a different section, this one labeled "Youth Large." Deep, dark green. Perfect. I call my sister and ask her if it might fly. She tries to talk me out of it, asking what sizes Sniagrab has in the youth aisles.
"Only a medium and a large."
She tells me that only an extra large will do, a very polite way of telling me that my idea smells of stupidity and desperation. Which it does.

I bought them anyway. I'd talked myself into the large pair after holding them up in silhouette against a woman's small and deciding that it was pretty close. That's just the kind of gift every girl wants for their big day, right? "Not quite right, but pretty close. I love you, what's for dinner?"

Earlier in the day, I had been by my dad's house, where I picked up the container of ski accoutrements that Kate had been storing there. Feeling sly from my bait and switch, I stashed the pants in the box knowing that she'll look inside when I bring it into the house, instinctively checking to see that I've collected all of her things.

I walked in the door upon my arrival at home with the big box in my hands, and then went back to my car for other things to bring inside. The box sat idly by the door through the unloading process, and I asked her what we're possibly going to do with it in our cramped home. Then, through dinner, I asked if she'll find a place for it. When we're finally both in bed, the box hadn't moved, and I'm not sure if I'm mad because the living room is cluttered, or if it's due to the surprise left hidden.
"Just go open the damn ski box!" I nearly shouted, wringing any romance of the moment directly into the toilet.

When Kate came back into the bedroom, she's was smiling and putting the pieces together. Indeed, that's where I'd been during all of my secret missions in the evenings. Buying boys pants. She tried to slip them on, but they were meant for a human even smaller than my girlfriend.
"They're so green, but I don't really care if they're that color. We should go together and look. Maybe I should get some white ones. That'd go better with my jacket, anyway."

So now it's back to Sniagrab for a return, and maybe another swim through the endless rows of hanging pants, swinging silently on the racks. If we don't find anything there, I know Boulder Ski Deals has quite a selection. Just no green.

Foolish Designs

When Barbara called during dinner, congratulating me on my new place and offering to start up a subscription to the Rocky Mountain News, I could hardly get mad. She was just doing her job, and I'm sure she has enough people acting like jerks and telling her to quit bugging them that I decided I didn't want to be one of them. I politely told her that I already had a subscription to another paper and was content with that one, but I hoped she would have a nice night. Then, I walked outside to get some stuff out of my car, and heard a camera take a picture of the inside of my pocket. That's when I stopped being forgiving of people "just doing their jobs".

What idiot engineer decided to make a flip up cell phone with a camera function and useless voice activation on the outside of the keypad? Fools, all of them! The whole point of a flip phone is to keep it harmlessly neutered when it is closed. That's it. A car doesn't start when the keys are in your pocket, the microwave doesn't cook food until you hit the start button, and Pandora.com doesn't play music on your computer until you open the browser. So why, in my phone's photo archive, do I have 26 pictures of the opaque innards of my Carhartts?

Another flaw I've found, in in a jacket of mine. I have this Patagonia coat that my mom got me, and it is almost bad-ass. The only problem is that the arms are too short. I think Patagonia decided that America likes to think it's fit and trim, but in fact, it is actually a bunch of sluggards standing on the sidelines. Sometime recently, Patagonia stopped making clothes to fit athletes, and started making stuff to fit the average REI shopper. So now I have a medium jacket that keeps my wrists warm, so long as I don't bend my elbows. The minute I try to feed myself, wipe my nose, or tie my shoes, I've got a problem. My mom got me the jacket and I've used it a fair amount over the last year, but now I'm wondering if I should try to foist it onto some armchair mountaineer browsing craigslist for the latest in outdoor fashion. I'd gladly take the proceeds and apply them on a replacement with superior sartorial effects, but would hate to bum out Mama Sus. I should wash the thing, too. Especially if it's up for sale.

And as for the ultimate in poor design, let's not overlook the abject disaster that is the radio in my Subaru. Somehow, I either lost a connection in the wires that link speakers to tuner, or applied some secret voodoo to the buttons that magically initiated a "Mute" function. One day, it was working fine, and I was singing along to Steve Miller as we both flew like eagles. I parked the car to jump in with my buddy Rob, taking his auto to go climbing for the afternoon. When I got back to Abby the Subaru, she was only capable of a whisper. Now I have the volume cranked up as loud as it will go, but can barely hear what song is playing. Not to mention that there is absolutely zero hope of catching the nasaly croaks from NPR. On top of it all, I'm a little worried that the problem will resolve itself as quickly as it came into being, and I'll jump with fright as the volume cranks back to record setting levels while a shower of blood streams forth from my shattered ear drums. I took to letting my laptop ride shotgun for a while, propped open and playing iTunes. Then I realized that if I got pulled over, I'd get a ticket for, if nothing else, being a total moron.

Guilty. But so are the audio techs at Subaru.

A climbing weekend

Today in Boulder, it was 70 degrees. I'm not one to take one piece of anecdotal evidence and blow it out of proportion (yes I am) but it seems hard to dispute that something is happening with our climate that isn't totally normal. I did, however, take advantage of the warm air and headed down to Clear Creek with my buddies Brian and Erin for another go at Sonic Youth. Spoiler alert: I didn't send.

Along with Kate and our buddy Dave, the three of us had spent Saturday down at Shelf Road. It was one of those glorious late fall days where the sun is beating down on the golden walls of the Cactus Cliff, washing the valley in warm light all the way down to Little Bear and Blanca Peak. Count on Shelf to attract a fair share of idiots, though. Some group of butt-nutts from Fort Collins (figures) were talking about how excited they were to drink until they shit blood that night. We ran into another guy who had recently assaulted one of our Boulder buddies at a cliff back on the Front Range. But perhaps the most troubling realization of the trip to Shelf was that one of my toenails is going to fall off, and it hurts like hell to toe in really hard with my left foot.
Thank the sweet god of Mexican food that La Casita welcomed us with open arms, cold margaritas, and really good tortillas after all the madness. We weren't sure if we were going to find that particular restaurant in Colorado Springs, but Brian "eagle-eye" Lichtenheld spotted the sign from the highway and had us pulling a u-turn at the next exit. We started to consider a Chipotle substitute, and I'm a serious Chipotle fan, but I'll say with great confidence that we came out ahead thanks to Brian's sniper vision.

With bellies full of Tex-Mex, Kate and I got in some serious sleep on Saturday night. We woke up Sunday and decided to do our own thing for the day, with her hanging with a friend and me making my way south the the project. I met up with Brian and Erin along the highway after they came down from another cliff, and we headed up to Primo wall to warm up and so that Erin could try a route she's been working on. After we survived some substantial rockfall set off by a herd (pack? pride? gaggle?) of bighorn sheep, the three of us took off down the canyon and tried to beat the setting sun for one quick burn on Sonic. I fell just below the first roof, which was frustrating given that I felt pretty good. I pulled back on and then climbed through the next couple of difficult sections, only to fall again just below the anchor. On one hand, I feel really good that I've got the route down to two hangs. That's usually a good sign that it will come together soon. On the other hand, it's almost sad to see hard projects come to a close.

I feel like this is probably going to be the last route I get serious about this season, and it has me coming to terms with the reality that winter is setting in and we'll be skiing soon. Of course, given the recent heat wave, maybe not. Rifle might be coming back into shape, for all I know.

New project

After Rifle shut down for the season, I figured that the heavy projecting would have to wait until the spring. Wrong. How the hell did I forget about Clear Creek?
Sonic Youth is one of the more conspicuous routes in the canyon, rising steeply out of the creek just opposite a major parking turnout around tunnel 4. The route ascends an overhanging dihedral and sneaks out of three successive horizontal roofs. The moves are powerful and bouldery, but with two very good rests thrown in the mix, it feels like it can come together pretty quickly. I've been on it four different times, and with each attempt, I get more and more hopeful that it can go down.
I was down there with a couple of friends yesterday, and learned a few tricks that I'll use to hopefully send the route the next day I'm able to get on it.
I think there is a general consensus that Anarchitect, a route I've previously sent in CCC, is actually harder. I'm not sure. Anarchitect is more technical, while on Sonic Youth, you just have to bear down and toss towards some good holds and hang on to the wall. Anarchitect is certainly more my style, but I'm trying to learn how to thug through hard moves.
I'll keep you posted, and hopefully get it finished up soon to round out a really good, successful season.

Zen and the art of knicknack avoidance

I've got nothing against stoners. In fact, given the proper context, I think they might be on to something . But thank God I wasn't high when I was stumbling around Target this morning. Any sense of alacrity goes straight down the tubes after a....ummm...."mindset" change. I get distracted easily. (My mom reads this blog, so I'll be discrete. You know what? This post is going straight to hell. I can already feel it. Ma, quit reading.)
So there I was, on a mission. All I needed to do was return a telephone and pick up some TP. Basic stuff, in and out. About a week ago, I bought an extra phone just in case our Comcast service problems were actually caused by a dead handset. When they replaced the modem and the dial tone returned, I knew I didn't need the extra electronics. That meant I'd have to return to The Store of Very Many Aisles, as it's known in the third world, in order to get my money back. I don't need to explain why I needed more TP.
I was making my way back towards the paper towels, napkins, and TP when I passed by the condom shelf and thought,
"Goodness! Look at that selection! Colors, styles....MAGNUM! I should check that out!"

Now without getting into any uncomfortable details, I'm in a safe, monogamous relationship, and I'm not really in the condom market right now. Then, a voice in my head, apparently one that had come under the influence of marajuana and was enthralled with the prospect of seeing its first magnum, said,
"But you could try to make those balloon animals, if nothing else....Come on. PLEEEEEASE."

I continued on, grabbed only the TP, and headed to the front of the store for checkout and my exchange. Target has shelves upon shelves of stuff you don't need, but if you let your guard down for even a second, you'll get suckered. On the way to the register, I passed by the clothing section. A woman was holding up three different colors of turtle neck sweaters, wondering to herself which one might look best with her skin tone. I guarantee she didn't wake up today and write a to-do list that included "Buy Turtlenecks". You gotta be careful in there, my friends.

This power to avoid the unnecessary doesn't seem to run in the blood of all of us. Take the turtleneck woman, for example. At the check out line, I saw her again. With all three colors. And when I was back in Kentucky on my most recent climbing trip, I saw one of the most egregious examples of when a man should just say no.

The Kroger grocery store in Stanton, KY is home to all imaginable stereotypes of the rural south. Speech is slow, friendly, and slurred. Physical education has long been forgotten at Powell County High School, home of the Fighting, albeit lethargic, Pirates. Tobacco is king, high fructose corn syrup is just corn, and America elected a Negro. "Sweet Jesus, Gawd Almighty!"

In the check out line, I saw a man and his progeny. I'm willing to bet that they were father and son given their genetic similarities (each with a swinging gut, rat tail, etc.) and matching overalls. The son looked to be about 13, and had in his hand a bottle of beer weighing in at exactly 40 ounces. He held it behind his back until his father was loading up the conveyor belt with fixuns. Sheepishly, the boy placed it in line with the rest of the food.
"Ah nah. I ain't gonna buy you that."
"Come on paw." He looked sheepishly at his bare feet. "Please."
"Oh all right."

If I find myself back in Target, tantalized at the prospect of latex, I might just cater to that begging voice. I could always give them away to strangers who I deem unfit to parent. I would have given them away to the man in the check out line, but it seems to me that after 13 years, the damage is done.

They're watching you, too...

About an hour after Comcast's repair man left the house, my cell phone rang. It was someone from their "Escalation Department" checking to make sure everything got straightened out. It was nice to be able to report that yes, indeed, everything had turned out well, and that the phone was fully functioning. If I'd have continued my blogging bellyaching, I fear that the sniper posted on the roof across the street would have been forced to "silence the target," as I'm sure they say over at "Escalations." In truth, I was stunned by how well they responded.
So much so, that I even argued with Kate about the bill. Her mentality, no doubt derived from too many hours behind the wheel on the New Jersey Turnpike, is to argue that, because we didn't have service for the first eight days of the billing cycle, we shouldn't have to pay for it. I can see the logic here, but given that our bill is all of about $20, and the prorated portion is essentially like arguing over the cost of a Venti latte, AND Comcast seemed to genuinely want to fix the problem, I'll happily pay it.
Kate still thinks that not contesting the bill, at least on principle, is crazy. I feel like maybe it is just service karma, so I want to call a truce by quietly paying the bill after they return service. Keep in mind that she recently dealt with multiple thousands of dollars of disputed charges and payments from both Washington Gas & Electric and Marsh & McLennan. D.C.'s utility company continually sent her double charges, misplaced her refunds, and lost her bill info. She happened to meet their CEO at a federal policy meeting she was attending for work, and the problem was magically solved. Marsh & McLennan kept her on the payroll for months after she quit, continued her AT&T account and charged her for it, and never reimbursed her for some expenses. It might be solved now that she's called their general counsel. These two companies need some internet monitor software and an Escalations Department.

Speaking of the man monitoring your every move...

When I lived down in New Zealand just after college, I had zero contacts and even fewer marketable skills other than the muscles in my back. Accordingly, I worked some pretty shite jobs. Worst of the bunch was unloading 60 pound boxes of frozen squid from boats that had recently docked in our town of Dunedin. My roommates were also expat Americans looking for some cash, and together we'd sit in our living room and peer out the window of our rented flat down towards the harbor. If no boats came in, we'd return to our Scrabble, tea, and rag weed, and debate the benefits of staying home. Sure, we weren't making any cash, but all three of us knew how bad the work on the boats really was. Neil, one of my roomates, had grown up on construction sites and was no stranger to some tough manual labor. When he looked at me through exhausted eyes one day while we were working and claimed, "This is the hardest goddamn work I've ever done," I was equal parts bouyed and deflated. On one hand, if Neil thought it was hard, it meant I was pretty tough if I'd survive the shift. But on the other, it was the hardest godamn work I'd ever done, too. Clawing at icy bricks while angry Maoris yelled at me to work faster, occassionally tossing a loose squid like a football just past my ear to make sure I was paying attention, was just not much fun.
On the days when the boats would come in, they'd be accompanied by a cloud of seagulls looking to pick up a snack from the boxes that broke open during the unloading process. We'd all look at the birds, look at each other, sigh, have one last cup of tea and scrabble game, and pack our lunch. Work was calling, in the form of a hungry gull screaming for lunch.
We'd walk the mile or so down to the harbor and check in to the foreman's office. In New Zealand, they do nearly all payroll through direct deposit. We'd tell the guy in charge our bank account number, hope to god there'd be a deposit instead of a withdrawal in a week's time, and put on our uniforms. We'd find our size of rubber galoshes with steel toes, a hard hat, a high visibility reflective vest, and whatever clothes we'd brought along. The holds of the boats are giant freezers, so we quickly realized that multiple hats, coats, and long underwear ensembles were required.
The shifts would last for 40 minutes, and then a third of the workers would get a 20 minute break. This cycle would rotate for as long as it took to unload the entire boat, usually 12-18 hours. During our breaks, we'd drink a couple of cups of coffee, eat a sandwich or two, and try to shake the cold out of our bones. On the dot, a different work crew would emerge from the boat, and we'd have to head back in. All the workers were free to leave at any time, and usually a 10 hour day was all our skinny American asses could handle.
At the start of the shift, the hold was packed so tightly that it would be impossible to even get in, so we'd have to open one of the hatches and start digging like miners. Once workers had exposed a big enough space in the hold, the roof hatch could be lifted open and a crane would swing a giant basket into the clearing.
From this point forward, the crane would lower an empty basket into the hold through the hole in the roof, and pick up a basket that was full of boxes, continually rotating the two baskets. This cycle would continue until the only frozen things left on the boat were humaoid.
I think we got paid $14 NZ Dollars an hour, or about $10 American.

When the boats weren't in harbor, we would occasionally work for a temporary labor agency. HireEquip would scour Dunedin for businesses that needed chores done, and send out the underling Americans to weld, stock grocery shelves, sweep floors, whatever. Thank god I had an iPod. We'd contracted on to do a number of different jobs, and swapped off working for the docks when a boat came in. When the agency called our house one day and asked if we wanted to work, we made one crucial mistake. We should have looked out the window.
The HireEquip guys arranged all the day laborers who had answered their call in front of the waiting van. They explained that they'd be driving us to the harbor. Tom, my other roommate, looked at me and mouthed some choice words, and I knew exactly what he was thinking.
HireEquip paid all of its employees a flat rate of $10 NZ Dollars, regardless of the job. They'd hire us out for whatever they could get, and keep the difference. That's how they made their money, and that is exactly how we'd be losing ours. Tom and I spent the day knowing full well that we'd be paid about 30% less for the exact same work we'd been doing on our own just a few days earlier. The next day, we decided to cut out the middleman.
We went back to the docs, knowing that there'd still be work. The morning saw us back in the boat, loading the last of the boxes into the crane basket. After that, we were above deck sorting different kinds of seafood, and loading them into various containers bound for California, China, and Japan. During our time out in the open air, we saw one of the HireEquip overlords milling around. He'd brought a crew of guys to the docks, and was making sure everything was in order.
"Oy. What are you two blokes doin' about?"
"Working."
"Not for us, so hell no you ain't. That violates your contract. You're going to be paying HireEquip $1,500 in restitution."

The bad guy in this story had clearly been established.

His threat centered around a clause in the contract we signed with the temp. agency that limited us from taking employment with any group we'd worked for on behalf of HireEquip. I checked the contract when we got home from the docks that day, and there was some wording that certainly tried to prohibit this kind of behavior. It makes sense from a business standpoint, but we felt like it was pretty lame given that we'd worked for the squid companies before ever doing a day through HireEquip. I started freaking out, thinking the cops would knock on our door and I'd be liable for a sum of money that I didn't have at the time, regardless of the exchange rate. I called my dad, an attorney, and he pretty much lawyered up on it.
"Do they define employment?"
"No."
"Unenforcable." Then he started referring case law and lost me immediately. I was too wrapped up in the cozy blanket called unenforcable.
For the next few weeks, we'd all gasp when someone would knock on the door, cry when the phone would ring, and gingerly open the mailbox like there was an anthrax scare on the South Island. Nothing ever came out of it, but we certainly weren't keen on returning to the harbor to look for work, and we could pretty much count temp. work as unavailable. With fewer and fewer work prospects, it was only a matter of time until we'd run out of funds and need to book our tickets home.
Eventually, we did just that, bringing the New Zealand chapter to a close. I couldn't help feeling like some international criminal when I went through customs. When the feared strip search didn't materialize, and armed guards didn't appear at passport control, I took a big breath of relief.
Big Brother in New Zealand wasn't nearly as pleasant as his American counterpart. Here, they might try to fix your problems, but down there, they just threaten you with fines.

Comcast is Choss 2

Simone, my longtime landlord and college buddy, used to work for a software development firm that, as best I can tell, wrote programs for companies that needed to monitor internet traffic. Specifically, the programs he helped write would search the internet for keywords, specific sites, and likely blogs that were concerned with the client's product. So it was with shallow familiarity, sometimes known as "Modern Jackass" insight, that my recent interaction with Comcast failed to faze me in the least. When I originally compared them to crumbly rock at John Wallace's behest, something deep down told me that they were watching.
I checked back to the site today to review if anyone had commented on any posts. Frankly, I was hoping that someone would have read Volume I and told me that I was a genius. The next best thing was when Mark Casem left a little note for the subsequent post, "Comcast is Choss."

"I would like to apologize for troubles you are experiencing with our company.

I decided to leave a comment so that I can offer my assistance in resolving the issue with your phone service.

Please send me your best contact number as well as the phone number on the account so that I can assist further.

Thanks for sharing this post. I appreciate the opportunity to assist."

Mark Casem
Comcast Corp.
National Customer Operations
We_Can_Help@cable.comcast.com

How bout that? It's a wonder that Comcast's software didn't alert John Wallace that someone was talking about him. I have a creeping suspician that Mr. John Wallace, of NBC fame, or Mr. John Wallace, petroleum magnate, would have been the first to hear the gossip. Sometimes these artificial intelligence things can't be trusted to differentiate.

But now that they're aware of my service issue, I'd like to also bring to light my dissatisfaction with their billing policy. Before sending me an invoice, I'd at least like to receive a functional telephone line. I rarely get the chance to tell my boss, "You know what, I know you want that lease report tomorrow, but how 'bout you pay me today and I'll get back to you next week." I am going to wait to write Mark at Comcast until after Friday, when we have the next repair man scheduled. Hopefully he'll just fix the line and not have to wrestle with any monsters, aka black widows.

But speaking of John Wallace the petroleum magnate, I used to caddy for him when I was in high school. John made an appearance as Matt Hickey's guest in the annual Member-Guest tournament, I believe called the Sliceroo. Truth be told, I spent so much time heavily innebriated at Lakewood Country Club that I might have made that up. Regardless, John later went on to orchestrate a hefty investment into his oil company from Vegas tycoon Kirk Kerkorian. In an eerie Six Degrees of Separation sort of way, I feel like I should be offered preferred stock in Delta Petroleum for my brokerage/putt reading services. And I can clean a 9 iron 'til it sparkles.

I don't think it would be too good of an idea to get into the old Lakewood stories Can you honestly be taken seriously when you're rolling on the floor of your boss' office in tears because your high school girlfriend has made out with one of your buddies? Or when Matt Hickey, the member who invited Wallace to LCC for a few rounds, approaches the caddy shack only to be greeted with "Whattup, Meat Cock!" At least I didn't wedge a golf cart under the truss of a bridge. That was somebody else.

Comcast is Choss

Choss: Bad rock, unsuitable for climbing.
The first time I heard anything other than rock described as "choss", John Wallace was speaking in reference to Fish Oil that wasn't molecularly distilled. When the term "choss" can be transferred from limestone to extracted fats from tuna, I'm firmly supportive. Bear in mind, I've seen John, dressed in an argyle sweater vest, nearly get into a fist fight with some poor sap who brushed against John's Audi that was parked at the Ruckman Cave. He's unpredictable, but provocative.
Anyway, Kate and I have been trying to get this house phone set up, but it has become an exercise in near comic ineptitude on the part of Comcast. We've had multiple people to the house to try to get it fixed, but so far, the best we can do is call out and speak with someone for about 40 seconds before the line goes dead. Where are we? Baghdad? Hey, Comcast, I asked our president elect if we can get this thing straightened out. His response? "Yes we can!" You have an executive mandate to hustle up.

Speaking of Mr. Obama, WOW! Oddly, some of my readers are actually loyal McCain fans, so I'll respect their defeat and temper my reaction.
I had a serious fear that a shadow element of Americana was going to vote strictly on race, leaving the Republican party in power on the "principle" of bigotry alone. Enough stories were coming out of battleground states that featured startlingly overt racism that I began to worry that America was still in the midst of some aspect of the civil war. Even if those feelings influenced some voters, it was a fringe bloc that doesn't deserve much attention any more.
Also, I feel like politics have taken this wild twist where debate isn't really an option, and the other side begins to represent the antichrist to one constituency or the other. I'm don't like this development. I'd like to be able to talk to conservatives without feeling like a Johnny Wallace fistfight was about to ensue. We're to the point where even a rational explanation of a voter's position instigates boiling blood on the other side. Maybe it's always been this way, and I'm just getting old enough for some level of consciousness to take hold.
Regardless, I'm really excited to see how this turns out. I think Obama has the potential to be the next FDR, bringing back the American hegemon. On the other hand, he could be the next Carter, where our economy crumbles, fiscal incentives are skewed, and the Chinese legally own us by 2020 . I don't see any middle ground potential. I happen to believe he'll end up as the former, so he got my vote. This does, regardless of the outcome, feel like we're witnessing events on par with the most important times in America's history.
So, Mr. Obama, you can start getting this ship righted by fixing my phone. I gotta call my mom.

Volume I

Roman numerals are so distinguished. Here at Abaluba, we're going with mock antiquity in a bid for credibility.

I've been barraged with emails in regard to the "Mailbag," and they'll be divulged, dissected, and dealt with momentarily. But first, the news...

In the most pressing event of the morning, Comcast dispatched Ron to our house in Boulder this morning. He was the man who'd install the new phone line. While most of the country is going wireless, Kate and I are returning to the stone age. Verizon cell phones get pathetically little signal in the apartment, thus requiring us to embrace what technologically amounts to smoke signals.
Ron and his nine fingers showed up at 7AM, and I greeted him at the door in underpants and a serious case of bedhead. Pleased to meet you.

Ron slowly made his way about our modest domicile. Given this stature, his pace was forgivable. He looked at the cable line running along the entire length of the ceiling, connecting television in the back room to coaxial input in the front. He made his way to the art studio that shares the hallway, and after judging a few paintings, headed back to the van. At this point, Kate and I realized that we'd just go about our business as Ron went about his. He seemed to have things under control. I was shaken from my morning chores only after Ron and Kate started chatting. It became clear that Ron, a perfectly capable telephone installation man, was less than thrilled to pull double duty as exterminator. The black widow he'd found while working would have to be killed by the man of the house. I shrieked, allowing Kate the honor.

You see, my friends, I really hate spiders. Especially ones that give you AIDS, as I've heard black widows are wont to do.

We now have a phone. We'll soon have an apartment full of deadly chemicals. Deadly, I hope, only to critters with more than 2 legs.

Now, on to the emails!

J.K. from Princeton NJ writes:

Dear Pat,

Did you ever see the Seinfeld episode where George loses his job and is moping around at Jerry's trying to figure out what to do for work?

George: I could do something in sports.
Jerry: In what capacity?
George: You know, like the general manager of a baseball team.
Jerry: That could be tough to get.
George: Maybe I could be an announcer or a color guy. I make all those interesting comments during the game.
Jerry: Well, they tend to give those jobs to ex-ballplayers or people who are, you know, in broadcasting.
George: Well, that's really not fair.

How would you rewrite this script from the perspective of Pat-as-George? You know, before Jerry crushes your dreams.

And a fair question, J.K.! Thanks for your response. Life, it is said, is not fair. This is especially true (can there be shades of gray with truth?) in the world of employment. As we'll all recall from recent blogging, I came close to changing jobs, applying for a full time position with the Access Fund. Everyone can breathe easily knowing that I faced down that minotaur and his 40 hours, drew upon a reservoir of courage, and slayed the vicious threat. (Rewritten history at its finest, folks.)
My life would have become much less my own, my time given over to a more regimented schedule. That is, after all, what grown-ups do. Instead, I am back at the old gig, panhandling for big oil in this harsh, uncaring world, albeit from the comfort of my own (spider ridden) living room. As soon as the news came that I'd not be working at the Fund, Kate encouraged me to find another alternative. Enter Seinfeld:

Pat-as-George: I could be a writer.
Kate-as-Jerry: In what capacity?
Pat-as-George: You know, like screenplays, or a novel or something.
Kate-as-Jerry: That could be tough to get.
Pat-as-George: Maybe I could write a funny memoir like David Sedaris. I make all those interesting comments about being a gay southerner with a speech impediment.
Kate-as-Jerry: What? (Pause) Maybe you need to write a memoir before you can be taken seriously as an author of memoirs.
Pat-as-George: That's really not fair. I blog, after all.

So that, my friends, is how things are going to start. At a certain point, I'll find meaningful, adult employment. Maybe even as an author. Until then, I'll have the unwavering support of Kate-as-Jerry to buoy me against the injustices levied against the educated, healthy, white male in today's America.

Another gentleman in that distinguished demographic is none other than S.S. from Washington, DC. He writes:

Bow Ties, god knows I love them. I will wear them out to social events that require a certain level of dress with friends, but I just can't make the leap to wearing them to work.

In Washington DC I have seen my fair share of bow tie wearers and I admire them. I tell myself when I have worked in the business a little longer I will start wearing them. I fear that if I wear the bow tie to work it will some how affect people's perception of me which, if true, could be a big problem in my line of work.

That is the sad truth that drives me deeper into this thing called the rat race. Word hard, look acceptable, don't take over a half hour for lunch, watch what you say, don't step outside the circle, etc. The idea that I consider wearing bow ties to be too rebellious for work scares me a little.

By gaining and maintaining social acceptance now, I can secure financial security in the future, but at what cost?

(Abridged)

Hey, S.S., I'm struggling with it too. Granted, not in any way, shape, or form that might be recognizable to the D.C. elites. I am, after all, a Maverick. I take long lunches, don't watch what I say, and have only defined the "circle" as a charred, ashen ring around what used to be called "dignity" and "acceptable behavior."

I say, bust out that bow tie! We're fighting a losing battle here, and by that I mean we're all on the clock. Even in the best case scenario, you've only got another 60 years before you die as a feeble, quivering husk of a man. If the best case scenario has you going out in Depends, at least do it with some style. I'll advise that the more we cast aside the bounds of convention, the better off we'll all be. What's the worst that can happen? They fire you? Face facts, man. Obama is getting elected next week, and I'm not going to entertain another reality. To do so would be too painful. But the point is, welfare is going to be expanded vigorously, so you've got a safety net. And if food stamps can't provide all the necesary calories, I'll be hiring interns for my booming writing business. Anyone that shows up in a bow tie gets a paycheck. You can bank on that.

One final email from H.S. in Denver.

Lets say you grew up to be a lion, and me a gorilla... who'd win in:

A) a match of wits

B) a match of strength

C) a good ole American eating contest?

Yours truly Shaquille Orangutan

To fully understand the context of this question, you need two bits of info. For my half, refer to my Fall Classic post. For H.S.' part, you need to know that he has a deep rooted love of the gorilla. Perhaps it stems from his parents, scientists both. H.S.'s folks travelled the world, bringing knowledge and experience to their children by way of lavish gifts of African taxidermy. H.S. shared a bedroom with a full sized silverback (dead and stuffed, of course) since his infancy. Alternatively, H.S. was also assaulted by a midget dressed in a gorilla suit in a Dutch strip club, and I'll swear to it as a primary witness. Either way, this love goes DEEP.

A) Round one goes to the lion. Next to humans, chimps, and dolphins, the gorilla is one of the smartest animals on the planet. Before you get too carried away that "Planet of the Apes" is going to soon be reality, think of how smart that gorilla must have been to jump out of the bushes and into the aim of a gun toting H.S., Senior back in the Congo. Mr. Silverback just KNEW he would be travelling to America, the land of the free, in no time flat. He didn't account for the value of a pulse, however.
A lion, on the other hand, knows that it's better to rest in the shade and and play Mancala. As everyone knows that Mancala is a test of strategy, patience and cunning, we'll use it as a proxy for wit. And given that I, as a lion, have had plenty of time to hone my skills, I would whump a dead gorilla's ass, roaring "Mancala!" with my final marble. Too easy.

B) Strength is a tough one. Let's say the zookeeper had some peanut butter in a jar that he needed opened. If he set it down in the lion's den, I'd just have to try to open it with my fangs. The jar would undoubtedly explode, leaving me with a mane in sticky condition and a mouth full of glass. A gorilla, on the other hand, has the advantage of opposable thumbs on his hands AND feet. Mr. Gorilla would whip open that jar for the zookeep, and get a treat for his troubles. Strength to the ape.

C) The final test. The "good ole American eating contest." Inadvertantly, H.S. the Gorilla gave this one away. Why? 'Cause American eating contests usually focus on either hot wings or hot dogs, both of which are mostly made from meat. That gives the king of the jungle a king sized advantage. He, we, and I are serious carnivores. While the ape can make due with leaves, twigs, and the occasional howler monkey, I eat protein all the time. Winner - Me! 2/3 ain't bad, especially when it means I just bested Shaquille Orangutan.

I've been getting a few more emails, and one specifically concerns Kentucky's Red River Gorge. Given that I'll be going to scale those eastern bluffs in mere hours, I am going to do more thorough research before I breach the subject of Miguel Ventura and his Portugese Pizza. Stay tuned, rubes.

Mailbag Precursor

Ladies and Gentlemen, I've got an idea for the blog. In the past, I've asked some of you to come up with topics of your choosing, and I'd write about them. Now, I'd like to emulate a writer I follow and do a post where I answer readers' emails. I want questions, statements, random observations from day to day life...whatever. Email me at patrick.pharo@gmail.com and put "Blog Mailbag" in the subject header. I'll publish a post with the highlights soon (or, if no one writes in, I'll just make stuff up and attach your names anyway). Check back often.

If you're feeling a little uneasy, or unsure of what to write about, I'd like to assure you that I am putting ZERO constraints on this. Think performance art. That being said, I once heard a story about a performance artist who got onstage, took out a pistol, and shot himself in the arm. On second though, I'm putting one constraint on this little reader contest. I'm not going to enact bodily harm upon myself, no matter how many of you maniacs write in to tell me otherwise.

I just want to get a little reader interaction, and see what happens. I'll answer questions, publish stories and my reactions to them, and in some way try to come up with a theme for the mailbag. As Kate asked, "who reads your blog? And how many people?" I guess this way we'll find out. I told her it was about 8 souls.

Fall Classic

I'm feeling like a real American. Planted on the couch, I flipped on the TV after an exhausting day at the office, and the old Fall Classic was on. Game one, Phillies at Rays. I just needed a beer to complete the ensemble, but please keep in mind that it's me. A full, steaming tea mug sat at my feet.
Like any good American twenty something, the first thought to go through my mind was, "I wonder if I coulda been a pro baseball player." This is the same sport that sent John Kruk to its upper echelon, so to wonder if I could have at least come off the bench didn't seem so far fetched. Making things stranger still is the fact that most of these guys are my age or younger. Every guy has to face down that reality at some point - the fact that they're never going to be a pro athelete - and watching guys born when I was in 7th grade will expedite the process. I'm usually slow to catch the "reality" bus. When someone asked what I wanted to be when I grew up, expecting a reasonable, rational answer, I told them I'd like to be a lion. At 9, a child should know better.
But here I was, sitting in front of the tube, wistfully thinking about what might have been. That's when some little league moments flashed through my mind. I lived for the eye-black, the wrist bands, the new batting gloves. Never good enough to make a more serious travelling team, I'd supplant high level competition with semi-pro materialism, and the fanciful daydream that, one day, I'd prove to those coaches that I'd simply been overlooked.

It's a wonderful summer Saturday, and my coach, Coach Kjderquist, is calling me in as a relief pitcher. "Coach K" is just a high school kid, the catcher for the Wheat Ridge High School Farmers. To the ragged band of 11 year olds (some of whom are just two years removed from a remarkable Jungle Book fantasy), he might have well been Babe Friggin' Ruth. Coach K towers over us, professionally chewing gum and seeds. Our team's uniforms mirror the colors and logo of the high school, so when he wears his to the games, he looks just like the managers on tv. He spits in the dirt, tap signs on his chin and elbows to the hitters in the box, and "yell just 'cause he's excited, not mad." We call him Coach K at his behest, because God knows how many teachers, telemarketers, and scouts have mispronounced it. If anyone reading ever needs to know, it was Cheddar-Quist. Like the cheese.
"Pat! You're in!"
I race in from my position at second base, ready to be the literal center of attention. I warm up, and then face my first batter who RIPS a pitch well over the left fielder's head and trots around the bases for a home run. Center of attention, and now thoroughly flustered. I make it out of the inning eventually, though I don't remember any other details. All I know is that the kid who crushed my pitch is also on the mound, and I'm dying for revenge.
Righteous retribution presents itself in the form of an at-bat. I come up during the next inning to face the nemesis. I swing, connect. It's not a moonshot, but instead a worm-burner that sneaks through the infield. At least I'm fast, so I'm running like hell. By the time the poor outfielder comes up with the ball and throws it back towards the infield, I'm around second and sliding into third for a triple. Sure, I'd just hit a grounder, and sure, it basically just got hung up in the shaggy outfield, giving me time to sprint the 120 feet between home, first, second and third. But as I dive into the bag to the "Safe!" call of the umpire, I'd recovered a little dignity.

All that dignity was lost when I looked right at the pitcher and yelled "Yeah! I can hit it too!" Even as I was shouting, I realized that I brought my knife to a gun fight.

* * * *

That next season, I am running under a foul ball, vehemently shouting "I got it!" That next season put my age at 12, however, and 12 put me in the cruel grip of puberty. There is nothing on a baseball field to hide behind when you've just had your voice crack at the top of your lungs.

* * * *

Gym class in sixth grade, it's spring. We've just started practicing for our upcoming baseball season. We're playing dodgeball, not baseball. I catch a throw from the opposing team, and run forward as I pick out my targer. Meredith! I peg her while she's not looking, both showing her who's boss and assuring that she'll refuse my date request when we're in high school together.

My god, I've got a cannon! This season, I may strike out 1,000 opposing batters. I might throw out every runner who tries to steal second. No one will break for second if they get a hit when I'm patrolling center field.

Striding backwards, wary of any throws aimed my way, I trip over the outstretched leg of my friend Sean Ray. I topple backwards, and reach back to break my fall. Instead, I break my wrist clean in half. When I cradle my arm towards my belly in wounded self defense, the once straight bones now make two distinct turns. Right then and there, I realize that the season is D-U-N done. I abandon all rules of the boy playbook, and begin to cry. I can't bear to see the season evaporate.

Now that I'm on the couch, watching all those other kids who have grown up to play in the World Series, it's not so bad. Not when I've got tea and HDTV. And hell, I'm starting to grow quite a mane.

Ups and Downs

I'm feeling like The Dude.

It was 'up' this weekend when I sent Never Believe. Truth be told, I wasn't sure I would do the route this year at all, so when I sent it on my last burn on Sunday, I felt like I dodged a bullet. Next week's weather is looking touch and go, so a season's worth of training was looking like it'd come up short. Saturday's attempts were sorry enough to leave me swinging in the air on the end of a rope, swearing at the top of my lungs. I fell on multiple attempts well below my high point on the route, and was wondering if I'd lost so much strength from my time off that I was doomed. That fate seemed especially cruel given that I'd come so close to sending just 10 days before, falling just below the anchors. It was looking like I'd have to be content with whatever else I'd sent this season. Even though I could be proud of a couple of other 12b's and 12c's, I wouldn't have done a 12D.

When I managed to put it together on Never Believe for what might well be my last route of the season at Rifle Mountain Park, things were definitely up. Never Believe is my first 12D at Rifle, and Rifle's a place where I feel like grades are legit. I've done a number of other hard 12's, and even a couple of easy 13's, on the front range, but sending in Rifle feels like there is some vindication involved.

But remember that in The Dude's world, it's ups and downs; strikes and gutters.

I had been in the running for a job with the Access Fund, the national advocacy group that works to keep climbing access on public and private land. The job description seemed right in my wheelhouse, and in my phone interviews with the Executive Director, I learned I was one of the finalists. My mind started running through the possibilities.
I knew I'd be working more hours for less dough, but the trade off, working for something I was really excited about, seemed like a great challenge. I started thinking about budgets, and felt like I could make it work. My commute would be WAY more convenient, and I'd have consistent interaction with people who are much more in my peer group. I started adding up some of the trips I have planned (skiing in February, East Coast with Katie for New Years, climbing over Halloween) and even began to think about how I'd manage to get the time off from my new job. I had even settled on which pants to wear for the interview.

When I got a phone call today from the Access Fund, I assumed it would be to check my schedule and set up an interview. Unfortunately, the bomb quickly dropped. The position had been filled. Part of the job revolved around managing a large fund for land acquisitions, and while I've got plenty of experience with the land acquisition part, the person who would be taking the job had just been in charge of another acquisition fund. Damn, it was hard to argue with that.

I was left to try to put together what just happened. A few minutes prior, I'd been putting together a wardrobe that would impress my new colleagues. Now, I'm sorting through the aftermath. I'm back to square one, which, in truth, is a good square. My job doesn't suck in the least, and I've got fine colleagues who are suitably impressed with my trousers. (And any who might be reading need not go forth with any of this to one John L. Obourn, Jr.) But the problem is, I've been trying to figure out where to go from here, even if here is just fine. I've taken the GRE's, the GMAT's, and applied for other jobs. I've even tried to enroll in a GODDAMN REAL ESTATE COURSE. That one really threw my friends and family for a loop. The point is, I've been trying to figure out what to do with myself ever since I graduated college, and the only thing I can come up with is to go rock climbing as much as possible. Maybe that's the point.

At least I've got something I can grab onto. The holds on climbs don't pay, but they give me something on the upside. The Dude abides.

Eastward Ho!

Good news, Rockers and Rockettes!
I'm headed back to the Red for Halloween. It seems the only Rockette who isn't totally psyched at this development is my ladyfriend, Kate. Any holiday with a government mandate for couples and individuals alike to get dressed up like disco queens and drink 'til they're blind is a fine occasion for romance. Alas, the only curvey object in my hand will be a chilly bottle of Ale81. And it's not even infused with alcohol.

In preparation for the Red, I've gone back to Rifle for some last minute training. Sure, there might have been that ulterior motive of my stratospheric level of psych for climbing there right now, and I might have had a longstanding open project that required attention before winter sets in, but whatever the reason, I was wrestling Colorado's finest limestone choss again this weekend.

Kate and I got out there early enough of Friday to snag THE primo campsite. At this time of year, early sun is a at a premium, and we were in trusty Number 8. It didn't stop us from stoking up the fire in retaliation to morning's bitter temperatures that kept the early motivation low, despite the sunlight. As you'd expect, all of our friends came out of the woodwork to share the site, and by Sunday, No. 8 looked like the Hunchback Grimper Carnival had come to town. The tent city spilled nearly to the road, and we even got a highly anticipated cameo by Leslie The Paranoid Schitzophrenic. Everyone got a little jumpy when she spilled out of her car, along with skis, a turntable, and a years worth of newspapers. Please sweet lord above, don't let a loaded handgun come next!

The rest of the visitors were totally enjoyable. Dave Snyder stuck it out with us for the weekend, and this was one of the highlights given that he's one of the nicest, most relaxed people I've ever met. If I ever get to the point where I'm easily crushing 13c, I'd like to do it with as much style, humility, and humor as him. Have I mentioned I have a man crush on the guy?

Kate was motivated to get a lot of mileage in this weekend, and the work she's been doing there is really starting to show. She now has a slew of warmups that, last year, would have been projects. Now she's putting in burns on a fanstastic 12b, Lost and Found. Two years ago, mid 5.12 wasn't even on her radar, and now she's putting it together. It's been cool to watch her get motivated to really push herself and test her limits.
I got on a bunch of climbs, too, and had some success of my own. When Katie and I got up this morning, though, we both felt like Tony Yao ran us over in his green micro bus. I am sore everywhere, and my fingertip skin is so thin it hurts to open the fridge. Now, I just have to clean up the camping gear from the weekend, and get psyched for the Red in just over two weeks. In the interim weekend, maybe a trip back for more bolt clipping on the Western Slope, weather permitting.

Del Taco's unique deivery

This weekend, I was in St. Louis for a friend's wedding. Tom, my roommate from our days in Madrid, was set to tie the knot with his longtime girlfriend, giving me a great chance to meet up with some old friends.
The two buddies who I was most excited to see were Neil and Vino. Admittedly, Neil and I are probably closer, but that's bound to happen after all the bonding we did in New Zealand. Unloading squid boats and shivering over countless pots of tea in our uninsulated shack will do that to men. And let's not forget the hundreds of cases of wine consumed, and millions of Scrabble tiles laid.
Neil now lives in Knoxville, TN where he's going to school for architecture. The distance between our respective homes is enough to keep our friendship relegated to the telephone most of the time, but Neil and I are built on the ability to sit for hours and just talk. Our lives seem to correlate, and our worries and experiences seem to exist, at least in part, as a mirror image of the others'. Sometimes, and especially with a friendship such as this one, face time is essential. We were both looking forward to a little tea over word games.
Kevin Barnes, the man the world calls Vino, resides in Dogtown, Missouri. Literally on the wrong side of the tracks, this St. Louis neighborhood can barely contain his destructive energy. Kevin and I started our international brotherhood of crime and mischief in Madrid, where my first memory of him was as he pranced across Gran Via, gladly playing the skulls of unfamiliar geriatrics as though they were bongos. On a trip to Portugal, fueled by the whining of Neil Young, Kevin ripped ornamental fish statues from their moorings in a public park, and gladly affixed them to the roof of a police cruiser. He denies the involvement. It may or may not be true that my father has referred to Mr. Young as a thin-lipped Canadian pinko fag, but I'll never disparage tunes that could inspire such madness. Old man, take a look at your life, I'm not quite you.

Back in St. Louis, and Vino shows his quality as a host. While Neil and I were looking for stuff to do around the city, our Dogtown denizen came through as the guide. Naturally, we ended up at the Budweiser brewery, taking the tour and salivating for the free suds. Midway through, we were in a gigantic, temperature controlled warehouse. Looming tanks, cold to the touch, were stacked four high and six across, each one said to contain enough beer to last a man over 100 years if he drank a case each and every day. Kevin saw a coiled hose hanging from one of the tanks, and asked if "anyone wanted a rip from the party hose?" His eyes sparkled as a memory apeared.
"Oh my god, that reminds me! I went to Del Taco the other day for a burrito. The guy said I couldn't have one, their meat hose was broken."

Meat Hose?

"I bet I could hang on for eight seconds."

I believe you can, Vino. I've never doubted ya. But I know that I was already dubious of Del Taco, in my mind a second rate substitute for Taco Bell, which in its own right is a second rate substitute for FOOD. Now I'm steering clear at all costs. Unless, of course, I've had one too many rips off the party hose. Then a burrito might be pretty good.

Back on the Farm

Rob and Rebecca were back in rural Illinois for a birthday party. They traveled all the way from Boulder, Colorado, not for just any birthday party, but a surprise party for Rob's great aunt who was turning 95. Rob's midwest family has had an up and down year.
On one hand, this special relative was nearing the milestone of 100 years of life upon the blessed great American plains. Farming is good. Ethanol, for all its water quality destruction, and despite the fact that its actually an energy negative endeavor, has gained favor with politicians who have trumpeted it as the key to breaking our fossil fuel dependence. This boom in ethanol is driving up the price of corn and, subsequently, land values. Indeed, farming is good, even if is based on an essential farce, and denies any ecological repercussions.
Tough times hit the family this year in the form of Rob's grandmother passing away at the ripe old age of 97. She got to see most of the bad times of farming, sadly missing the ethanol boom. Rob has been back to Illinois several times in the past few months, first for a health alert, then for a funeral, and later for an estate closing where he was named as a beneficiary. For the fourth time in 2008, Rob is back, although this time, his live in girlfriend was in-tow. With midwest farmers come midwest virtues, and here we arrive at a funny exchange:
Rob and Rebecca are speaking to the guest of honor, Great Auntie Rose.
"Rosie, this is my girlfriend Rebecca."
"Oh!" Rose exclaims from under thinning gray hair and behind oversized party sunglasses, complete with yellow lenses and large lettering over the eyes that exclaims 'Happy Birthday'. "And what are you two doing?"
"We'll, sorry Rosie, but I have to say. We're living together in Boulder."

I'll add that, as a veteran of careful conversing with my own grandparents; Catholic, ex Air Force farmers and parents of nine children, I'd have avoided the whole "living together" bomb.

"Well Robert, I'm so glad you introduced me to your fiancé."
"Girlfriend."
"Fiancé."

For the rest of the evening, as Rob and Rebecca would meet other party goers, Rob would specifically name Rebecca as his girlfriend while Rose would stand behind his shoulder and whisper, "fiancé."

Later, she asked what the couple was planning in the future, besides getting married of course.
This happens to be a bit of a sore subject, as Rebecca has explicitly stated that she wants to get married and have a kid, preferably yesterday. Rob isn't sure he knows what to do, and I'm no help. My advice usually is on the fence, and the best I can do is hint that he'll never find a smarter, more charming woman who will put up with his dutch ovens, drive by wet-willies, and rock climbing habit as Reb. By the way, Rob's 37.

"Well, we're talking about getting married and maybe kids. We'll see."
"That's fine, as long as there's no abortions."

Rosie layin' down the law.

And on a related note, I'm wondering when my next trip to my family's farm should be. My grandfather and I were on the phone the other day chatting and catching up when he told me he and grandma were planning on having a bunch of the kids to the farm for Thanksgiving. With 9 kids and 28 grandkids, the permutations of who will be there comes out to something like 475, which is tough because I'm really only close with about 6 of them. The rest are either too young, too nice, or too religious. I haven't made any firm plans, but I don't have a damn clue what to do.
Besides a farm invite, my father and stepmother are headed to Montana for fly fishing at the Bighorn. Typically, I'd jump all over that, and I'm just happy to be back on the team after Greece. But I know that it'll come across as kind of crummy if I bail on my mom's side of the family for a more exciting trip with my dad. Most exciting is a third invite to go to Red Rocks for climbing, which looks great except that Kate's birthday is the Saturday before Thanksgiving, and that's when the Red Rocks ride is slated for takeoff. I could try to go to the East Coast with Kate to visit her family, as I did last year, but then I'd feel extra toadish for bailing on all of my own family. What's a boy to do. I think I'll figure out a way to go climbing....shocker.

VP Debate running diary

Wow! I am going to throw down a running diary of the debate.
Live from St. Louis, at 7:02. Here we go.

Biden needs a gene transplant, according to Brokaw. Ha! We'll see if he is just a windbag...but let's be honest, I'm really watching to see if Sarah Palin turns to dust on national TV.

Palin starts talking about kids soccer games. I get tired of the "woman of the people" schtick.

Bipartisanship question. How the hell did McCain and Palin grab the mantle of change? And no, neither one did answer anything even remotely close to the question.

John McCain voted the exact same way. Huh. This banter seems like several things come to the fore. First, I don't believe a word. Second, I hate politicians.

Palin seems like she is in high school giving a report to civics class. Kinda like a cheerleader who is trying really hard, but failing on all fronts. Derek is watching here, too. Aparently he's being driven crazy by the hair in her eyes. That doesn't bug me so much as the cheerleaders.

Biden: Too many numbers about healthcare, but saying that McCain's healthcare plan is the "ultimate road to nowhere" was a solid punchline.

Palin took on big oil companies? Isn't she a champion of opening ANWR? Odd. What makes my head spin is how prepared these two had to be. There are way too many stats and vote histories going on here. How many hours did these campaigns staffers need to sit with Biden and Palin in order to run through potential ammo? Good grief.

So, lemme get this straight. Were mortgage lenders signing up people for loans even if borrowers weren't asking for them? Did the borrowers have anything to do with it? I guess that's not a solid argument tactic. To blame the audience for not reading their loans.

Do either of these people speak english? If so, it'd be nice if they got to speaking it, and without running on for far too long.

Biden: John McCain has been dead wrong. Ironically, that's the worry on every American's mind. John McCain is going to be dead, and we'll have Pres. Palin.

Are we getting the word "Nucular" from Palin? I guess that's the Republican pronunciation. Tomato Tomatoe. Also, is Palin running through the names Ahmadinejad and Kim Jong Il just to prove she knows some foreign leaders' names?

Don't really like Joe Biden using the third person. It's kinda like Flava Flave, only an old, balding white man.

I've completely tuned out at this point. It's 8:04. At 8:24, I've snapped back to attention because we are getting towards closing statements.

Palin: We might have gotten the first god reference. Fight for freedom. Vote for them and you'll tell your kids what freedom is, but he'll be a slave. Ok.
Biden: Get up together. Another God reference. Vote for us.