Every now and then, something happens that is pretty embarrassing. It could be as simple as tripping on the escalator and falling face first into a crowd of terrified Japanese tourists (hasn't happened to me). It could be as complex as being indicted as the ringleader of an illegal import/export cartel which connects willing homes in Dubai with rare South American monkey-lizard cross breeds (has yet to happen to me).
Falling somewhere in between was the day my homemade commando suit failed under my body weight, sending me crashing into the clutches of imagined Viet Cong.
I've never known why I liked the military idea growing up. Maybe it was the family ties to the Air Force, or just my love of gadgetry and the knowledge that a soldier was outfitted with a backpack full of nicknacks. Maybe it was just a sense of patriotism that had yet to be shattered by the Bushit of today's Washington. Whatever it was, I loved me some camo, and would run around in the woods of my backyard until the end of summer vacation.
One particular day, I decided that life as a paratrooper was the ticket. At only about 10, I didn't have access to my own private plane, so I was forced to improvise. The accessories of note seemed to be a parachute, a gun, and a field of enemies. I could rummage in the garage and probably make it work.
What I found amid the 8-tracks, cobwebs, and Christmas ornaments was the realization that being a paratrooper would be a cool, but even cooler would be a paratrooper with a unique predicament. I wanted to somehow rig my school book bag with cord that could be tied to the swingset in the backyard, and hang from the arm straps. This would, in my prepubescent mind, replicate a scenario in which I would have already jumped from the plane, but had become entangled in a tree behind enemy lines. With the enemy swarming in, I would be forced to unleash the mighty power of my Super Soaker 2000, AKA M-16, and mow down my attackers. I envisioned a lethal firestorm, delivered as I swiveled about, hanging from my backpack that may or may not have been decorated with Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles and foil gum wrappers.
I almost had to abandon this plan a few days later while at REI. I told the guy behind the counter of the climbing department that I needed some small diameter cord. When he asked what it was for, I was petrified. I couldn't tell him what I really planned to do, i.e. play pretend commando. I sat in silence until he asked if a cat had gotten hold of my tongue, at which point I snickered, and ran from the store.
Still determined to keep my murderous fantasy in existence, I returned to the garage and eventually found some glorified shoe string. With this, my backpack, and Super Soaker, I headed outside to the swing set.
The loop of cord went around a beam about 8 feet off the ground, and through the hang loop of my back pack. (You know the one; a small nylon loop between the shoulder straps used for hanging the bag on a hook at the back of the class.) My backpack was now hanging from the wooden beam, and standing tip toe on the top of the plastic slide, I slid my arm through the first strap, then the second. For a split second, I was hanging, imagining my parachute in a tree and communists approaching. Just a split second, though, because I was quickly separated from this make believe reality when the straps broke and I came crashing into the grass.
I had dedicated days to a fantasy that was entirely ridiculous. What would I have done if the nylon hadn't broken? Swung around for a few seconds and claimed victory over an invisible enemy? Is that what I'm doing now, climbing around (albeit with a better rigging system) in Rifle and Indian Creek? Now a days, I buy my harnesses, and retire my ropes after they've seen too much enemy fire. It's all still just fun and games.
Tuesday, April 22, 2008
Monday, April 14, 2008
off the deep end
No one wanted to go to Fiji. Of course, only one person wanted to go "totally nuts," but nobody else voted, so that one voter took all the marbles. Any complaints will seems eerily reminiscent of the criticism American democracy faces from a populace that only sends half of its registered voters to the polls. Does this mean I only have two readers?
Who cares, let's go nuts...
My stream of consciousness begins with the hint at the close of the last post.
My forehead is sore and showing signs of a slight bruise. It's an odd place to punch someone, and now Will's left fist is fully aware of just such a fact. He has just reared back to recreatedthe scene from the barn. His miscalculation centers on the disparity between horse neck and human bone. Dad sank his hand into hide, and though I'm no physicist, I know that the force was given a split second to decelerate, a crucial factoid. Will's knuckles met bone, and even his rage at my thieving couldn't stop the throbbing of an immediate cessation of velocity. I couldn't let that poor girl fall prey to such a sorry pick up line.
"Wanna see Pat's mom's butterfly collection?"
She had to be delivered to a better one.
"Wanna hook up?"
Just before the punch, I rolled off the couch and touched nose to floor. Enter blood (stage left). Or, more appropriately, exit blood (nostril right).
Now my nose is bleeding again in the shadow of the Matterhorn. The January air is cold and dry, and my face knows just how to react. Even in college, I still fall prey. Tom can hardly sit by as I slump in front of a pharmacy and press newspaper to speed a clot. Horses draw families towards hotels or restaurants. The very restaurants who pay once to advertise twice. The ink now integrates the pores of my cheeks. "Eat at Heinrich's," I silently say to my fellow tourists. Zermatt is a beautiful Swiss town that does not allow cars. A tragedy that I can't smell the freshest air in Europe through the hockey scores.
The hockey players are all on the bench, and now I am the one skating. It's middle school, and all I can think of is the freedom of solitude. Not from everyone, but certainly from the corruption of my parents. They don't take bribes, but mercilessly siphon any aura of cool from me. Keeping them as far away is a critical step to deceiving any would be mates. I see one, she is sitting on the boards while the dozens of teens skate a lazy, counterclockwise circle around the rink. My strides begin to come quicker, and our eyes meet. Just as I open my mouth to say hello, and announce that my cool is overwhelming, the toe pick in my rented figure skates takes hold of the ice and sends me careening forward onto my face. My parents must still be too close.
Now they aren't close enough. I no longer need them to exist at a distance. I am no longer convinced that acknowledging them will bring an end to my social career. My mother can teach me patience and compassion, and my father can show me wisdom and strength. Give me all of your lessons before the butterflies are eaten by birds, the mountains crumble into the sea, and the ice melts away, leaving the rest of us all swimming for our lives.
Who cares, let's go nuts...
My stream of consciousness begins with the hint at the close of the last post.
My forehead is sore and showing signs of a slight bruise. It's an odd place to punch someone, and now Will's left fist is fully aware of just such a fact. He has just reared back to recreatedthe scene from the barn. His miscalculation centers on the disparity between horse neck and human bone. Dad sank his hand into hide, and though I'm no physicist, I know that the force was given a split second to decelerate, a crucial factoid. Will's knuckles met bone, and even his rage at my thieving couldn't stop the throbbing of an immediate cessation of velocity. I couldn't let that poor girl fall prey to such a sorry pick up line.
"Wanna see Pat's mom's butterfly collection?"
She had to be delivered to a better one.
"Wanna hook up?"
Just before the punch, I rolled off the couch and touched nose to floor. Enter blood (stage left). Or, more appropriately, exit blood (nostril right).
Now my nose is bleeding again in the shadow of the Matterhorn. The January air is cold and dry, and my face knows just how to react. Even in college, I still fall prey. Tom can hardly sit by as I slump in front of a pharmacy and press newspaper to speed a clot. Horses draw families towards hotels or restaurants. The very restaurants who pay once to advertise twice. The ink now integrates the pores of my cheeks. "Eat at Heinrich's," I silently say to my fellow tourists. Zermatt is a beautiful Swiss town that does not allow cars. A tragedy that I can't smell the freshest air in Europe through the hockey scores.
The hockey players are all on the bench, and now I am the one skating. It's middle school, and all I can think of is the freedom of solitude. Not from everyone, but certainly from the corruption of my parents. They don't take bribes, but mercilessly siphon any aura of cool from me. Keeping them as far away is a critical step to deceiving any would be mates. I see one, she is sitting on the boards while the dozens of teens skate a lazy, counterclockwise circle around the rink. My strides begin to come quicker, and our eyes meet. Just as I open my mouth to say hello, and announce that my cool is overwhelming, the toe pick in my rented figure skates takes hold of the ice and sends me careening forward onto my face. My parents must still be too close.
Now they aren't close enough. I no longer need them to exist at a distance. I am no longer convinced that acknowledging them will bring an end to my social career. My mother can teach me patience and compassion, and my father can show me wisdom and strength. Give me all of your lessons before the butterflies are eaten by birds, the mountains crumble into the sea, and the ice melts away, leaving the rest of us all swimming for our lives.
Tuesday, April 8, 2008
wrangler punchup
Bayou Bob's serves a mean catfish po' boy. "Bob," infamously Bayou in culinary talents and drawl, hosted four of us for lunch today, and I was treated to quite an afternoon.
My old man was seated directly across from me, and let loose on a barrage of stories in a Texan accent I've not heard from his mouth since his mother's funeral attended by all the Lone Star Pharos. It must have been the presence of Ed, another good ol' boy, that spurned him on to say things like "yewsta could" and "by gawd, I reared back un socked 'er as hard as I could." "'Er" indicates the feminine, not just a lazy tongue.
In my father's youth, he was a counselor at a summer camp called Cheley up near Estes Park. Estes is a quaint little hamlet that beckons tourons from across the nation to plug their campers and RV's into water and sewer lines. It begs them to sit back, enjoy the view, and eat a hamburger flavored ice cream cone with sprinkles on top. Really, when you're looking up at the Diamond, only the biggest, most bad ass wall in Rocky Mountain National Park, you need fuel for the viewing. Although, to be fair, despite Estes' putt putts, fudge shops, and junk peddling, Cheley was actually a ways from the town center.
No matter. Dad worked at this camp, taking young brats away from their parents for a few weeks at a time. His job was to lead hiking, camping, and horseback riding trips. I envision him as a strapping college kid with a full head of hair and a mustache. There actually are pictures floating about somewhere with some significant lip fuzz. I like to think of the blackmail potential, but this strategy seems likely to backfire given that he has seen me wear dozens of neon wrist bands and pink spandex shorts. He might have pictures of that, too.
Family lore tells of a conversation the two of us had regarding my affinity for the bright colors and arm decoration:
"You look gay."
"Do you mean happy and care free, or that I prefer my own kind?"
"Does it matter?"
I was 10 at the time of this little chat.
So imagine my father, all young and muscled and furry, and probably even sporting a bracelet, anklet, and necklace. Affinity of jewelery is genetic, I hear.
As he tells it, he is in the barn with another counselor and two horses. The horses are in their stalls, and each counselor is saddling his respective pony. These stalls are not much bigger than the animals themselves, but each wrangler is inside the stall fidgeting with a bridle and saddle. While my dad is adjusting various equine straps and buckles, the mare he is working on decides to do something stupid. My father professes to hate horses, so at this little turn of events, he exhibits zero surprise.
His horse leans over the railing and bites a chunk of flesh out of the horse one stall over. This sets off quite the chain of events. Upon having a billiard ball sized hunk of muscle torn from its body, the adjacent horse reacts with wild bucking, snorting, jumping, and screaming. Needless to say, this puts my dad's friend, the other wrangler, in quite the tight spot. Dad decides to put an end to things right then and there, so he rears back, and as hard as he can, punches his horse in the throat. At this little assault, the mare stumbles backwards and crashes through the gate, onto the main floor of the barn. Its shod hooves provide comically little traction, and legs sail akimbo. In the kicking madness, the saddle flies off, and for whatever reason, this sends my father totally over the edge. He grabs the halter rope and drags a 1,200 pound beast back into the stall. He admits a level of blinding rage, because at this point he is now back in the confined space with a horse that is wild eyed and seeking revenge. The horse jumps around wildly, crashing into the sideboards of the stall. Luckily for my father, enough room exists between the rails for a human to slide out, and he does just that.
"But I'll aim ta tell you, boy. Next time she and I went out fer a ride, when I said left and pulled them reins left, there weren't no confusion. We went left. I'm da boss."
And with that, the boss set to demolishing his shrimp po' boy. He's the boss, so I didn't tell him that the catfish was better. I'll let him have things his way. Don't need to be punched in the neck to learn that lesson. Although that reminds me of the time Will Gorman punched me in the forehead...
My old man was seated directly across from me, and let loose on a barrage of stories in a Texan accent I've not heard from his mouth since his mother's funeral attended by all the Lone Star Pharos. It must have been the presence of Ed, another good ol' boy, that spurned him on to say things like "yewsta could" and "by gawd, I reared back un socked 'er as hard as I could." "'Er" indicates the feminine, not just a lazy tongue.
In my father's youth, he was a counselor at a summer camp called Cheley up near Estes Park. Estes is a quaint little hamlet that beckons tourons from across the nation to plug their campers and RV's into water and sewer lines. It begs them to sit back, enjoy the view, and eat a hamburger flavored ice cream cone with sprinkles on top. Really, when you're looking up at the Diamond, only the biggest, most bad ass wall in Rocky Mountain National Park, you need fuel for the viewing. Although, to be fair, despite Estes' putt putts, fudge shops, and junk peddling, Cheley was actually a ways from the town center.
No matter. Dad worked at this camp, taking young brats away from their parents for a few weeks at a time. His job was to lead hiking, camping, and horseback riding trips. I envision him as a strapping college kid with a full head of hair and a mustache. There actually are pictures floating about somewhere with some significant lip fuzz. I like to think of the blackmail potential, but this strategy seems likely to backfire given that he has seen me wear dozens of neon wrist bands and pink spandex shorts. He might have pictures of that, too.
Family lore tells of a conversation the two of us had regarding my affinity for the bright colors and arm decoration:
"You look gay."
"Do you mean happy and care free, or that I prefer my own kind?"
"Does it matter?"
I was 10 at the time of this little chat.
So imagine my father, all young and muscled and furry, and probably even sporting a bracelet, anklet, and necklace. Affinity of jewelery is genetic, I hear.
As he tells it, he is in the barn with another counselor and two horses. The horses are in their stalls, and each counselor is saddling his respective pony. These stalls are not much bigger than the animals themselves, but each wrangler is inside the stall fidgeting with a bridle and saddle. While my dad is adjusting various equine straps and buckles, the mare he is working on decides to do something stupid. My father professes to hate horses, so at this little turn of events, he exhibits zero surprise.
His horse leans over the railing and bites a chunk of flesh out of the horse one stall over. This sets off quite the chain of events. Upon having a billiard ball sized hunk of muscle torn from its body, the adjacent horse reacts with wild bucking, snorting, jumping, and screaming. Needless to say, this puts my dad's friend, the other wrangler, in quite the tight spot. Dad decides to put an end to things right then and there, so he rears back, and as hard as he can, punches his horse in the throat. At this little assault, the mare stumbles backwards and crashes through the gate, onto the main floor of the barn. Its shod hooves provide comically little traction, and legs sail akimbo. In the kicking madness, the saddle flies off, and for whatever reason, this sends my father totally over the edge. He grabs the halter rope and drags a 1,200 pound beast back into the stall. He admits a level of blinding rage, because at this point he is now back in the confined space with a horse that is wild eyed and seeking revenge. The horse jumps around wildly, crashing into the sideboards of the stall. Luckily for my father, enough room exists between the rails for a human to slide out, and he does just that.
"But I'll aim ta tell you, boy. Next time she and I went out fer a ride, when I said left and pulled them reins left, there weren't no confusion. We went left. I'm da boss."
And with that, the boss set to demolishing his shrimp po' boy. He's the boss, so I didn't tell him that the catfish was better. I'll let him have things his way. Don't need to be punched in the neck to learn that lesson. Although that reminds me of the time Will Gorman punched me in the forehead...
Sunday, April 6, 2008
tick fever
Clear Creek Canyon links Denver's never-say-plan sprawl with the never-say-never pipe dream of Gilpin County's legalized gambling. Tour buses roar west towards the cacophony of slot machines. $3.99 all you can eat prime rib buffets lure the malnourished. It's not all bad, though. The saving grace of the canyon is the sport climbing found on its walls.
I spent the weekend climbing in Clear Creek, and was introduced to an organism even more numerous than the gamblers - ticks.
On Saturday, I was belaying a friend when I felt the unmistakable sensation of something crawling up my leg. The first tick of the season was making his way for the warmth and blood supply of my crotch. For this little act of treachery, he was summarily smashed between two stones.
Now on the lookout, I began to see more of these little demons. One more on my shirt sleeve. And another on a pant leg. When all was said and done, I was patting my legs and arms like some Balinese monkey hunter, thinking that each hair follicle disturbed by the rustling of the wind would surely deliver Lyme Disease or Rocky Mountain Tick Fever in a matter of hours.
(Editor's note: Lyme Disease is an East coast thing, and Pat is a total bug-o-phobe. Just because he killed a black widow in his sleep once, don't let him tell you that he is above his terror.)
In the unflinching company of a full length mirror, I danced naked until we were both convinced that I didn't bring any unwanted guests home for the evening. Content in the knowledge that nothing would drink my blood that night, I headed to bed thinking about a return trip the next day to link the moves on the route and tick it off in my guidebook, as they say.
Sunday saw me back at the wall, roping up under the same route. As several other climbers passed, I issued a warning.
"Just to let you know, I was here yesterday and I pulled off about 4 ticks."
Convinced that I was the "Asshole of the Week," they looked at each other in total disgust.
"I don't care what routes you did yesterday."
Realizing the miscommunication, I explained that I was talking about disease carrying parasites, not another word for "send," or "redpoint." We all had a good laugh, wondering who in the world would possibly be so lame as to announce to a total stranger their day old successes on the local choss.
I could deal with some strangers taking me for a loudmouthed chump. They might be onto something. What I couldn't deal with, however, was another tick attack of the 6 leg variety. By the end of our time climbing on the second day, I had pulled another 3 ticks off of my legs. I was beginning to feel like a chimp with all of my nervous grooming.
At this point, we had had enough of the infestation, and headed home. I was in the neighborhood, and decided to swing by my parents' house in Golden and hang out with their dog. Clarence and I had a grand old time watching me do the naked mirror dance again, and I was thankful that the folks were out of the house. That's kind of a one man (plus one canine companion) type of show. Satisfied that I was tick free, I thought I'd give the mutt some exercise.
Here is where things really go to hell.
Clarence was enormously excited when I chucked his boomerang toy across the cul-du-sac for him to chase. He'd race across the yards to grab it, and then come bounding back to fetch it again. I'd congratulate him with shouts of "good boy" and scratches behind the ears, but this wasn't quite enough to satisfy him. Clarence rolled over, mutely demanding his belly be scratched.
Mind you, I had just spent the previous two days being swarmed by ticks.
What should I see when Clarence kicked his legs in the air? That's right, a little spot that sure looked like a buried bug. With a little closer inspection, I saw another spot, although this time right on his penis. Great. I decided right then and there that I wouldn't be using my hands to pry those suckers loose.
My father is quite the fly fisherman, and as such, has any number to helpful tools in the house. Forceps are great for this kind of thing, so I grabbed a pair from his tackle box and headed back to the front yard where the dog was still panting after his wind sprints.
I gave Clarence one of those "this is going to hurt you a lot more than me" speeches, and rolled him onto his back. I thought it would likely be best to get my sea-legs under me, so I started with the one I saw on his belly. I grabbed ahold of that spot, and the forceps clamped down. Just then, I realized this looked just a little off. I'm no doggy dermatologist, but the resemblance to a mole, especially given the dearth of visible legs, was uncanny.
Clarence was still on his back, and I squinted, leaning in for a closer look. The jury was out on the nature of these spots, and I'd rather wait until Pops got home before doing anything rash, especially involving a penis that wasn't mine.
Unfortunately, someone else arrived on the scene first.
A neighbor stumbled upon Clarence and me while walking down the street, likely scarring her for life. Here I was, holding down a puppy, prodding its genitals with some sort of metal pliers. Further, my face was mere inches away from said prodded genitals. I tried to call out, but no words could fix this perceived animal abuse. I might be banned from the Mesa Meadows subdivision at the next homeowners meeting.
Mistaken Labrador fellatio makes Saturday's Asshole of the Week confusion seem pretty tame.
I spent the weekend climbing in Clear Creek, and was introduced to an organism even more numerous than the gamblers - ticks.
On Saturday, I was belaying a friend when I felt the unmistakable sensation of something crawling up my leg. The first tick of the season was making his way for the warmth and blood supply of my crotch. For this little act of treachery, he was summarily smashed between two stones.
Now on the lookout, I began to see more of these little demons. One more on my shirt sleeve. And another on a pant leg. When all was said and done, I was patting my legs and arms like some Balinese monkey hunter, thinking that each hair follicle disturbed by the rustling of the wind would surely deliver Lyme Disease or Rocky Mountain Tick Fever in a matter of hours.
(Editor's note: Lyme Disease is an East coast thing, and Pat is a total bug-o-phobe. Just because he killed a black widow in his sleep once, don't let him tell you that he is above his terror.)
In the unflinching company of a full length mirror, I danced naked until we were both convinced that I didn't bring any unwanted guests home for the evening. Content in the knowledge that nothing would drink my blood that night, I headed to bed thinking about a return trip the next day to link the moves on the route and tick it off in my guidebook, as they say.
Sunday saw me back at the wall, roping up under the same route. As several other climbers passed, I issued a warning.
"Just to let you know, I was here yesterday and I pulled off about 4 ticks."
Convinced that I was the "Asshole of the Week," they looked at each other in total disgust.
"I don't care what routes you did yesterday."
Realizing the miscommunication, I explained that I was talking about disease carrying parasites, not another word for "send," or "redpoint." We all had a good laugh, wondering who in the world would possibly be so lame as to announce to a total stranger their day old successes on the local choss.
I could deal with some strangers taking me for a loudmouthed chump. They might be onto something. What I couldn't deal with, however, was another tick attack of the 6 leg variety. By the end of our time climbing on the second day, I had pulled another 3 ticks off of my legs. I was beginning to feel like a chimp with all of my nervous grooming.
At this point, we had had enough of the infestation, and headed home. I was in the neighborhood, and decided to swing by my parents' house in Golden and hang out with their dog. Clarence and I had a grand old time watching me do the naked mirror dance again, and I was thankful that the folks were out of the house. That's kind of a one man (plus one canine companion) type of show. Satisfied that I was tick free, I thought I'd give the mutt some exercise.
Here is where things really go to hell.
Clarence was enormously excited when I chucked his boomerang toy across the cul-du-sac for him to chase. He'd race across the yards to grab it, and then come bounding back to fetch it again. I'd congratulate him with shouts of "good boy" and scratches behind the ears, but this wasn't quite enough to satisfy him. Clarence rolled over, mutely demanding his belly be scratched.
Mind you, I had just spent the previous two days being swarmed by ticks.
What should I see when Clarence kicked his legs in the air? That's right, a little spot that sure looked like a buried bug. With a little closer inspection, I saw another spot, although this time right on his penis. Great. I decided right then and there that I wouldn't be using my hands to pry those suckers loose.
My father is quite the fly fisherman, and as such, has any number to helpful tools in the house. Forceps are great for this kind of thing, so I grabbed a pair from his tackle box and headed back to the front yard where the dog was still panting after his wind sprints.
I gave Clarence one of those "this is going to hurt you a lot more than me" speeches, and rolled him onto his back. I thought it would likely be best to get my sea-legs under me, so I started with the one I saw on his belly. I grabbed ahold of that spot, and the forceps clamped down. Just then, I realized this looked just a little off. I'm no doggy dermatologist, but the resemblance to a mole, especially given the dearth of visible legs, was uncanny.
Clarence was still on his back, and I squinted, leaning in for a closer look. The jury was out on the nature of these spots, and I'd rather wait until Pops got home before doing anything rash, especially involving a penis that wasn't mine.
Unfortunately, someone else arrived on the scene first.
A neighbor stumbled upon Clarence and me while walking down the street, likely scarring her for life. Here I was, holding down a puppy, prodding its genitals with some sort of metal pliers. Further, my face was mere inches away from said prodded genitals. I tried to call out, but no words could fix this perceived animal abuse. I might be banned from the Mesa Meadows subdivision at the next homeowners meeting.
Mistaken Labrador fellatio makes Saturday's Asshole of the Week confusion seem pretty tame.
Saturday, April 5, 2008
you think you're tough?
I saw a slideshow by Ed Webster on Friday night. You've likely never heard of Ed Webster, and you likely don't much care about his slide show. That's fine, it's over anyway.
Ed was a prolific rock climber in the late 1970's through the 1980's, and had some incredible slides and fascinating stories to accompany the images. His exploits, at least for the purposes of this particular show, centered upon the Black Canyon of the Gunnison, and Eastern Utah's Canyonlands, Towers, and the Wingate sandstone of Indian Creek. Undoubtedly, he could have talked for months about the adventures of his life, and his off the cuff comment "this was just before I got back from Everest, when I still had all my fingers and toes" hints at other war stories.
While he spent over an hour talking about new routes through the fragile and terrifying pegmatite bands of "The Black," the first ascent of Supercrack, and huge falls onto jumars that left the ascender's teeth unthinkably embedded in the rope, the transcendent moment of his show was the very end. I can't say it better than he did, as he displayed a slide of his juvenile self basking in the glow of the desert sun atop a newly climbed tower, arms extended in pride and elation.
"And that's what it's all about. Looking out over the world below you with the sun on your face, and you can just yell 'Yee Haw! I'm alive!'"
Thanks, Ed, for putting it in perspective. He talked about losing friends and lovers (and nearly himself) to gravity, rubbing elbows with legends, and a life of travel, but each and every day was spent in the pursuit of a simple gratification that reinforced his feeling of being truly alive. And he did it all in EB's and painter's pants.
Ed was a prolific rock climber in the late 1970's through the 1980's, and had some incredible slides and fascinating stories to accompany the images. His exploits, at least for the purposes of this particular show, centered upon the Black Canyon of the Gunnison, and Eastern Utah's Canyonlands, Towers, and the Wingate sandstone of Indian Creek. Undoubtedly, he could have talked for months about the adventures of his life, and his off the cuff comment "this was just before I got back from Everest, when I still had all my fingers and toes" hints at other war stories.
While he spent over an hour talking about new routes through the fragile and terrifying pegmatite bands of "The Black," the first ascent of Supercrack, and huge falls onto jumars that left the ascender's teeth unthinkably embedded in the rope, the transcendent moment of his show was the very end. I can't say it better than he did, as he displayed a slide of his juvenile self basking in the glow of the desert sun atop a newly climbed tower, arms extended in pride and elation.
"And that's what it's all about. Looking out over the world below you with the sun on your face, and you can just yell 'Yee Haw! I'm alive!'"
Thanks, Ed, for putting it in perspective. He talked about losing friends and lovers (and nearly himself) to gravity, rubbing elbows with legends, and a life of travel, but each and every day was spent in the pursuit of a simple gratification that reinforced his feeling of being truly alive. And he did it all in EB's and painter's pants.
Thursday, April 3, 2008
transit watch
“This vehicle is equipped with surveillance cameras for your security”
I assume these cameras are actually in place for my surveillance. It’s one thing to video me while I am riding the light rail home to Boulder after another day at my boring job. It is quite another to do so and discreetly call me a moron. Although, maybe if I continue to go to my boring job, I am, in fact, just such a moron.
The great youthful hope is that we will all find work that inspires our creativity, utilizes our talents, pays us well, and grants us ample time off to live our lives. Such a reality is essentially a mathematical impossibility. But that’s another story. Or just part of the story.
On my commute, I see the world on the way to its job. I ride the bus, and then the spy train that monitors every breath, but both of these boxes have windows. That was really the least they could do. Out these windows, I see a strange migration. Every morning, a line of people forms, extending fifty feet across and three miles long. The census bureau is still calculating, but preliminary numbers show that everyone is there. The line only lasts for a few hours max, and switches directions, 180*, every 6-10 hours.
There is another line that forms every day, but this one is much less predictable. I only see it on special occasions. Migrants pack themselves between ropes to form a snake. When they come to the front, they are told to strip off their shoes and, if they are wealthy enough to own keys to cars or homes, made to display their key ring. All seems well, though the lighter migrants scan for darker ones, especially those camouflaged in head wrappings. Occasionally, an old lady is assumed to be one of the head wrapped darker ones in disguise, and given a battery of tests. Mostly, she passes.
I assume these cameras are actually in place for my surveillance. It’s one thing to video me while I am riding the light rail home to Boulder after another day at my boring job. It is quite another to do so and discreetly call me a moron. Although, maybe if I continue to go to my boring job, I am, in fact, just such a moron.
The great youthful hope is that we will all find work that inspires our creativity, utilizes our talents, pays us well, and grants us ample time off to live our lives. Such a reality is essentially a mathematical impossibility. But that’s another story. Or just part of the story.
On my commute, I see the world on the way to its job. I ride the bus, and then the spy train that monitors every breath, but both of these boxes have windows. That was really the least they could do. Out these windows, I see a strange migration. Every morning, a line of people forms, extending fifty feet across and three miles long. The census bureau is still calculating, but preliminary numbers show that everyone is there. The line only lasts for a few hours max, and switches directions, 180*, every 6-10 hours.
There is another line that forms every day, but this one is much less predictable. I only see it on special occasions. Migrants pack themselves between ropes to form a snake. When they come to the front, they are told to strip off their shoes and, if they are wealthy enough to own keys to cars or homes, made to display their key ring. All seems well, though the lighter migrants scan for darker ones, especially those camouflaged in head wrappings. Occasionally, an old lady is assumed to be one of the head wrapped darker ones in disguise, and given a battery of tests. Mostly, she passes.
Wednesday, April 2, 2008
paint by numbers
The cottage Neil and I rented in New Zealand came furnished. This is perfect when you are looking to live somewhere for a while, but hoping not to accumulate anything remotely resembling a couch. Perfection falls flat, though, when your decorator fashions the place after a hospice. Quaint, tranquil scenes of the beach, and still life birds told us there was nothing to fear. The end would come softly, like a mother's embrace, and we would be whole again. They also said our friends would make fun of us, and girls would ride off on someone else's Harley. We needed some bad ass art!
I'm no artist, but I took the job. I like to think that what I created from plywood, duct tape, and one small, sample sized jar of blue paint was simply a transitional phase in my development. Picasso had a blue period before he settled on Cubism. I could have a blue period.
My formal training in the arts extends only to the 6th grade. After that, we weren't required to enroll in anything which might advance our cultural understanding. I was always a sports fanatic, so I picked gym classes over learning about aperture, overture, or underture. Besides, I held a lasting memory of our elementary school art teacher melting down after her room full of rowdy 5th graders refused to be quiet. That particular classroom door on the 1st floor of the Wilmore-Davis school might still bear the dent of a cowboy boot kicked in anger. This act alone was sufficient raw emotion to scare me away from the arts until I fled the country right after college.
Given enough time, I guess I was ready to try again. Especially when combined with the prospect of living abroad in a house fit for an old lady. I tried to imply a sense of Mel Gibson's valiant Scottish war mongering from Braveheart, and unfurled a blue background crisscrossed with the the raw wood which I didn't paint. What I got was partially painted wood. Nothing more.
Neil recognized my efforts and allowed the three monstrosities to hang in our living room. What a gentleman. Our friends laughed, and the girls all chased the bikers, anyway.
Tuesday, April 1, 2008
april first
When I was in high school, my dad and I fought all the time. It's almost funny now, because we are actually friends, but when the threat of flying fists hung in the air, my boyhood home was entirely devoid of humor. I would spend a rather large portion of my conscious day scheming ways to either annoy him or push him close to rage, and one way I thought to do just that was to play an elaborate April Fool's Day joke on him.
The plan called for my high school girlfriend to call the house, and in a frantic, teary voice, ask to talk to me. If memory serves, my sisters were supposed to avoid the ringing phone and leave the answering to my dad. I would listen intently for a few minutes, ask a few pointed questions such as "are you sure it's mine?" and hang up. The punchline would apparently be for me to tell my dad that my girlfriend was pregnant. April Fools! Fisticuffs. Curtain.
Thankfully, I never got around to acting like such a total asshole. I think I knew deep down that I hoped to someday return to a place of friendship with him, and that if I kept lobbing missiles across the wall we had built, that reality of reconciliation would grow less and less possible. I'm glad that even embroiled in the idiocy of 18 year old testosterone, I never let things get too out of hand.
Instead of being known as the day my father snapped and killed me, April Fools Day is going to have another important connection in my mind's memory. Peter Knuti was born on April 1, 1982. He died on another spring day during my junior year of high school. Before he lost his battle with cancer, he was my best friend growing up.
Peter was raised in a house just down the street from mine. He and I had the same scrawny blond look that is so fashionable amongst the youth in suburban America. We played soccer and baseball together, and ran amok in the woods behind a neighbor's house until our moms would call us home for dinner. We spent a huge amount of time together, and I remember thinking that we were nearly interchangeable. That is, until he was diagnosed with Non-Hodgkins lymphoma.
The details are slightly fuzzy after this many years, but I know Pete was in and out of the hospital for months before the doctors got his disease into remission. It seemed like all was well with him again. I would see him walking the halls of our school and remember that we had so much shared history, looked so similar, but that we were no longer interchangeable. He was a cancer survivor. All I had survived during the time was my parents' divorce.
During the years following their split, the frustration I felt towards my mom and dad ebbed and flowed. In high school, though, I was dragged back to that feeling of abject frustration, and found myself much more at odds with each of my parents than the immediate years prior.
In a strange coincidence, the anger that I felt towards my folks for being human and deciding they wanted different lives returned at the same time as Peter's disease. Though his cancer had been in remission for enough time to allow most of us outside of his family to forget, it returned despite our willful ignorance. When it did, things went sour in a hurry.
I never saw Peter after he checked back into the hospital. I know they amputated his leg in a last ditch effort to separate him from his eventual killer, but even that drastic step was insufficient. Before he passed away several weeks after his amputation, he was able to call the school and speak with his old classmates. It never occurred to me then, but he was saying goodbye. Our final conversation ended with me saying "See ya later." I still fucking regret that.
He has been dead for 10 years. Happy birthday, Pete. You motivate me to live.
The plan called for my high school girlfriend to call the house, and in a frantic, teary voice, ask to talk to me. If memory serves, my sisters were supposed to avoid the ringing phone and leave the answering to my dad. I would listen intently for a few minutes, ask a few pointed questions such as "are you sure it's mine?" and hang up. The punchline would apparently be for me to tell my dad that my girlfriend was pregnant. April Fools! Fisticuffs. Curtain.
Thankfully, I never got around to acting like such a total asshole. I think I knew deep down that I hoped to someday return to a place of friendship with him, and that if I kept lobbing missiles across the wall we had built, that reality of reconciliation would grow less and less possible. I'm glad that even embroiled in the idiocy of 18 year old testosterone, I never let things get too out of hand.
Instead of being known as the day my father snapped and killed me, April Fools Day is going to have another important connection in my mind's memory. Peter Knuti was born on April 1, 1982. He died on another spring day during my junior year of high school. Before he lost his battle with cancer, he was my best friend growing up.
Peter was raised in a house just down the street from mine. He and I had the same scrawny blond look that is so fashionable amongst the youth in suburban America. We played soccer and baseball together, and ran amok in the woods behind a neighbor's house until our moms would call us home for dinner. We spent a huge amount of time together, and I remember thinking that we were nearly interchangeable. That is, until he was diagnosed with Non-Hodgkins lymphoma.
The details are slightly fuzzy after this many years, but I know Pete was in and out of the hospital for months before the doctors got his disease into remission. It seemed like all was well with him again. I would see him walking the halls of our school and remember that we had so much shared history, looked so similar, but that we were no longer interchangeable. He was a cancer survivor. All I had survived during the time was my parents' divorce.
During the years following their split, the frustration I felt towards my mom and dad ebbed and flowed. In high school, though, I was dragged back to that feeling of abject frustration, and found myself much more at odds with each of my parents than the immediate years prior.
In a strange coincidence, the anger that I felt towards my folks for being human and deciding they wanted different lives returned at the same time as Peter's disease. Though his cancer had been in remission for enough time to allow most of us outside of his family to forget, it returned despite our willful ignorance. When it did, things went sour in a hurry.
I never saw Peter after he checked back into the hospital. I know they amputated his leg in a last ditch effort to separate him from his eventual killer, but even that drastic step was insufficient. Before he passed away several weeks after his amputation, he was able to call the school and speak with his old classmates. It never occurred to me then, but he was saying goodbye. Our final conversation ended with me saying "See ya later." I still fucking regret that.
He has been dead for 10 years. Happy birthday, Pete. You motivate me to live.
ultimate third wheel
My grandparents own this family compound out in the middle of nowhere in Missouri. I like to think of it as a much less powerful, much more white trash Kennebunkport, Maine. Grandma and Grandpa live in Kansas City, but are out there now and then. Otherwise, the farm sits like an oasis of peace, quiet, and potential liver failure.
The place sleeps about 50 between the three houses out there, which is a good thing 'cause the folks are seriously Catholic and had 9 kids. Multiplication took over, and those kids had kids. Now there is a whole army of cousins. Occasionally, we all get out there. Mostly, though, the farm just plays host to one or two of the cousins who is in college within a 200 mile radius. Now, it's my sister Reilly. A few years ago, it was me.
Back in my day, we would swing through Sedalia, a town of maybe 30,000 people and about half an hour away. We picked up booze before sequestering ourselves at the compound for days of mayhem.
Sedalia is home to Whiteman Air Force Base and a gigantic Wal-Mart. There are Nascar stickers everywhere, and the populace appears to gorge entirely upon High Fructose Corn Syrup. This place has some jowels. Needless to say, we wouldn't spend any more time than was necessary to pick up a metric shit ton of beer and food and then get out of there.
Back at the farm, we would immediately throw in "Ain't no fun" and start singing Snoop's praises. It wouldn't be long before someone (usually me) was stumbling drunk and knocking TV's through windows. It got to the point where I could hardly explain the damage to my grandpa anymore.
Q: Why was there one mismatching 10 gallon gasoline canister in the barn?
A: I threw one (still full) into the bonfire. Feast your eyes on the replacement, pops!
Shame.
At one point, I was having my own private rave on the lawn at 2:30 in the morning. My buddy Tom came out to turn down the music so he and his new girlfriend could get some sleep before returning to St. Louis early the next morning. He found me asleep, half propped in the backseat of another friend's car, legs splayed out in the grass and torso happily on the backseat. I was later told that it looked like a crime scene.
He wrestled my shivering body out of the car, only to have me come to and demand the party continue. Tom is wiser than I am, and he suggested sleep. In a warm bed. It might have been November, but I was in a wife beater and my underwear. Does the white trash stay in Sedalia? Maybe not.
I crashed through the living room and jumped into the first bed I found. His. Right between him and his new girlfriend. When I got up in the morning, I was alone. A voicemail was on my phone, and Tom was single again. I'll take the blame.
The place sleeps about 50 between the three houses out there, which is a good thing 'cause the folks are seriously Catholic and had 9 kids. Multiplication took over, and those kids had kids. Now there is a whole army of cousins. Occasionally, we all get out there. Mostly, though, the farm just plays host to one or two of the cousins who is in college within a 200 mile radius. Now, it's my sister Reilly. A few years ago, it was me.
Back in my day, we would swing through Sedalia, a town of maybe 30,000 people and about half an hour away. We picked up booze before sequestering ourselves at the compound for days of mayhem.
Sedalia is home to Whiteman Air Force Base and a gigantic Wal-Mart. There are Nascar stickers everywhere, and the populace appears to gorge entirely upon High Fructose Corn Syrup. This place has some jowels. Needless to say, we wouldn't spend any more time than was necessary to pick up a metric shit ton of beer and food and then get out of there.
Back at the farm, we would immediately throw in "Ain't no fun" and start singing Snoop's praises. It wouldn't be long before someone (usually me) was stumbling drunk and knocking TV's through windows. It got to the point where I could hardly explain the damage to my grandpa anymore.
Q: Why was there one mismatching 10 gallon gasoline canister in the barn?
A: I threw one (still full) into the bonfire. Feast your eyes on the replacement, pops!
Shame.
At one point, I was having my own private rave on the lawn at 2:30 in the morning. My buddy Tom came out to turn down the music so he and his new girlfriend could get some sleep before returning to St. Louis early the next morning. He found me asleep, half propped in the backseat of another friend's car, legs splayed out in the grass and torso happily on the backseat. I was later told that it looked like a crime scene.
He wrestled my shivering body out of the car, only to have me come to and demand the party continue. Tom is wiser than I am, and he suggested sleep. In a warm bed. It might have been November, but I was in a wife beater and my underwear. Does the white trash stay in Sedalia? Maybe not.
I crashed through the living room and jumped into the first bed I found. His. Right between him and his new girlfriend. When I got up in the morning, I was alone. A voicemail was on my phone, and Tom was single again. I'll take the blame.
vacation equation
Boulder's street corners usually host at least one ragamuffin dreadlocked hobo with a sign that says he is just traveling through and could use some dough to get to his next destination. This always used to piss off a buddy of mine in college, to the extent that he would roll down the window of his big-ass SUV and berate the wayward wanderer.
"You only get to travel if you have money, asshole! Get a job."
Needless to say, our young friend with the sign would be no match for such open hostility.
This college buddy (who just happens to have a bunch of family money), has a specific notion about the process of things. In his world (and basically in everyone else's) travel is a privilege that only comes with savings. I can see how this is generally the way of the world, but the more I go to The Creek to climb, the more I see exceptions to the rule.
On my last trip out there, I met a guy named Dave who was staying in the adjacent campsite. I would say living, but "living" typically infers a long term, rent paying arrangement between landlord and tenant. Given that the camping is free and entirely unregulated, Dave's situation fails to meet those specs.
Regardless, Dave would swing by our camp each morning and night to say hello and shoot the breeze. We'd tell stories, talk about our goals for each day, and relive the aches and pains of jamming our knuckles against rock. Dave even had a mutual acquaintance with my climbing partner for the trip, and they talked about "Dirty Tony" like he was a favorite soothsaying uncle.
"Remember how he had 12 plates at one time that he nicked from the trash?"
"Did you know he eventually got arrested for it?"
I don't think this Dirty Tony was related by blood to Dave, but the more time we spent with him hanging around our camp, the more I wondered if Tony had a weighty influence on the worldview or our new neighbor. Especially after we gave him a ride into Moab.
Dave was in the Creek without a car of his own, so he hopped in with us on our way back to Boulder. We offered to drop him off in town on our way through, presumably so he could get some groceries, take a shower, shit in a real toilet, and resupply before hitching back to his dusty tent.
"Just drop me off by the gas station. The City Market has the dumpsters pretty much on lock-down."
"What do you need gas for?"
"No, the Texaco's dumpster has way easier access."
What came out over the course of the next several minutes was that Dave's town priorities differed greatly from most people's. While the first thing I would do in town is bathe, Dave's main priority was finding an edible garbage stash. He explained that it wasn't like he would swim to the bottom, or plow through the wet trash bags, but if something was new enough looking and close to the top, he might as well grab a snack.
This brings us back to our corner beggar. I assume that this guy suffered a tongue lashing at the hands of my old college friend with some sort of plan.
"I have $600 bucks, and I want to get to California. I can hitch to Omaha from St. Cloud, and stay with my cousin, and then maybe score a ride with a buddy from Creighton when he goes to Colorado for spring break!"
So Mr. Beggar finds himself in CO, now down to 30 bucks, but he still really wants to get to the urban wasteland that is San Diego.
What the hell for? Who cares. He's on the way.
Now his vacation equation is going to need a bump in cash, so he heads to the corner of Pearl Street and Broadway to see if the hordes of Audi driving 19 year olds can "spare a buck for a bro'." Enough bro's spare enough bucks, and Mr. Beggar finally gets to San Diego, the Whale's Vagina, only to end up in a ditch in a drug deal gone wrong. Drat.
But Dave isn't in a ditch, he's in my car, funking the unholy hell out of the back seat's atmosphere. Further, he has his own vacation equation to work out. If he grabs enough expired Little Debbies from enough Texaco dumpsters, he can wait it out in the Creek for an extra few days. Maybe he planned it, maybe that's just how the whole situation evolved. But I know Dave's vacation equation called for something akin to standing on Pearl and Broadway.
My vacation equation? I had to get back to work. Even if it was a few days earlier than it could have been given begging, depravity, and a suspension of mild germophobia.
"You only get to travel if you have money, asshole! Get a job."
Needless to say, our young friend with the sign would be no match for such open hostility.
This college buddy (who just happens to have a bunch of family money), has a specific notion about the process of things. In his world (and basically in everyone else's) travel is a privilege that only comes with savings. I can see how this is generally the way of the world, but the more I go to The Creek to climb, the more I see exceptions to the rule.
On my last trip out there, I met a guy named Dave who was staying in the adjacent campsite. I would say living, but "living" typically infers a long term, rent paying arrangement between landlord and tenant. Given that the camping is free and entirely unregulated, Dave's situation fails to meet those specs.
Regardless, Dave would swing by our camp each morning and night to say hello and shoot the breeze. We'd tell stories, talk about our goals for each day, and relive the aches and pains of jamming our knuckles against rock. Dave even had a mutual acquaintance with my climbing partner for the trip, and they talked about "Dirty Tony" like he was a favorite soothsaying uncle.
"Remember how he had 12 plates at one time that he nicked from the trash?"
"Did you know he eventually got arrested for it?"
I don't think this Dirty Tony was related by blood to Dave, but the more time we spent with him hanging around our camp, the more I wondered if Tony had a weighty influence on the worldview or our new neighbor. Especially after we gave him a ride into Moab.
Dave was in the Creek without a car of his own, so he hopped in with us on our way back to Boulder. We offered to drop him off in town on our way through, presumably so he could get some groceries, take a shower, shit in a real toilet, and resupply before hitching back to his dusty tent.
"Just drop me off by the gas station. The City Market has the dumpsters pretty much on lock-down."
"What do you need gas for?"
"No, the Texaco's dumpster has way easier access."
What came out over the course of the next several minutes was that Dave's town priorities differed greatly from most people's. While the first thing I would do in town is bathe, Dave's main priority was finding an edible garbage stash. He explained that it wasn't like he would swim to the bottom, or plow through the wet trash bags, but if something was new enough looking and close to the top, he might as well grab a snack.
This brings us back to our corner beggar. I assume that this guy suffered a tongue lashing at the hands of my old college friend with some sort of plan.
"I have $600 bucks, and I want to get to California. I can hitch to Omaha from St. Cloud, and stay with my cousin, and then maybe score a ride with a buddy from Creighton when he goes to Colorado for spring break!"
So Mr. Beggar finds himself in CO, now down to 30 bucks, but he still really wants to get to the urban wasteland that is San Diego.
What the hell for? Who cares. He's on the way.
Now his vacation equation is going to need a bump in cash, so he heads to the corner of Pearl Street and Broadway to see if the hordes of Audi driving 19 year olds can "spare a buck for a bro'." Enough bro's spare enough bucks, and Mr. Beggar finally gets to San Diego, the Whale's Vagina, only to end up in a ditch in a drug deal gone wrong. Drat.
But Dave isn't in a ditch, he's in my car, funking the unholy hell out of the back seat's atmosphere. Further, he has his own vacation equation to work out. If he grabs enough expired Little Debbies from enough Texaco dumpsters, he can wait it out in the Creek for an extra few days. Maybe he planned it, maybe that's just how the whole situation evolved. But I know Dave's vacation equation called for something akin to standing on Pearl and Broadway.
My vacation equation? I had to get back to work. Even if it was a few days earlier than it could have been given begging, depravity, and a suspension of mild germophobia.
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