I'm in Walden, a little town about 60 miles east of Steamboat Springs, doing some work. I do land contracts and ownership research for the oil and gas business, an important irony given what I just read.
Back up. I'm in Walden, a town of about 1,000 people. I got shut out of the courthouse because they close for lunch. This is Small Town America's version of the Spanish siesta, a vestige of times long forgotten. Rainy and cold, this was no afternoon for a rest on a park bench until the Treasurer came back from her Reuben. I shuffled back to my Subaru, beautiful rusting Abby, and fired up the computer to look at some files. What pops up, but a wireless signal! In Walden, of all places.
So here I am, wildly distracted from the lease files I was going to review. The New York Times led with an article about oil futures flirting with $140 a barrel, and my reaction of "good" comes with two motivations. First, I work in the oil and gas business. Work is plentiful and I'm fairly compensated. But on a deeper note, and here is where things get more complicated for me, I really wish people would drive their cars less, buy smaller homes, manage their energy demands, and live lives less connected with machines connected to power outlets. I'm as guilty as anyone. How else can I write this blog, save with a computer and its "sinister" power cable?
But as crude prices rocket towards the stratosphere, we are quickly going to be faced with a difficult reality. We can't continue to believe that energy is cheap, and we will need to treat it accordingly. When gasoline is $5 a gallon as it will surely be in the next two years, we are going to ride the bus. When our electricity bill triples because Congress finally enacts a carbon tax on coal, we are going to turn off the goddamn lights. (Unrelated to crude prices, I know, but I was striding towards a blanket energy tangent) When diesel is $6 a gallon, our food might be expensive enough for all of us to take those outrageous quarter acre lots and grow a garden.
The point is, energy is the hub of the entire economy. And the more expensive our current forms of it are, the sooner we are going to have to rethink the way we do business. Starting with this blog. Power off, saving juice.
Thursday, May 22, 2008
Monday, May 19, 2008
anarchitect
Andrew took one for the team today, and went with me down to Anarchy Wall in Clear Creek to give me a belay on the route I've been working on. He hurt his finger to the point that he hasn't been able to climb for about a month, but was psyched to get outside and catch me as I lobbed off the quintessential, benchmark 12d on the Front Range. I really appreciate the fact that even though he is incapacitated right now, Andrew is willing to give up a few hours of his afternoon and let me try the route.
I first got on "Anarchitect" a few years ago, and it was entirely over my head. The opening moves were impossible, and I ended up aiding through on a top rope so that I could try some of the higher sequences. I remember lowering off and thinking that there was absolutely no chance of me ever linking all the moves together on lead.
Fast forward to this spring, and I've gotten a touch stronger. Beyond muscles and tendons, though, I think the real key to me getting close to sending the route is an understanding about just how much effort goes into doing a hard route. Before I had been beaten up by harder local routes and projects in Rifle, I naively assumed that people just walked right up and did whatever route was in front of them, regardless of the grade. There might be a few people who have the incredible talent and skill to do that, but I sure ain't one of 'em. That is, as far as I can tell, a major reason that I enjoy climbing routes that give me fits. I've learned to embrace the fact that routes like Anarchitect take a number of tries spread over days of work, and the reward isn't cheapened by its relative ease of attainability. Sending this route is going to be hard earned and well worth it.
The route starts with some interesting and insecure moves along a sloper rail that feels delicate and slimy. I think I've tricked out a sequence that involves a fair bit of knee scumming, and I'm doing this low crux at just the first bolt on virtually every go at this point. From here, you get a bit of a reprieve at a break in the wall, but immediately dive into another hard section. Fortunately for me, I'm tall and have some decent footholds to use. Otherwise I'd be doing a moribund shuffle along the likes of what my friend Olivia has to conjour, basically pulling on a small sloping rib of a hold with zero feet. Above, a couple of small holds give way to a decent jug at the fourth bolt, but the feet are small, a bit polished, and sloping away from the climber. It makes getting much energy back a tough order, but I keep telling myself to take big breathes and wait until my body is ready to launch into the final difficult section.
Out of this good hold, I move left into a pretty poor finger lock with misplaced footholds. I nearly have to campus across to another finger lock, and this saps a lot of whatever juice I can get back while at the rest. From here, I move up to a sloping pinch and small crimp where I need to fire in a pretty desperate clip, or skip it and face a much bigger fall if I blow the crux. Fortunately, the feet are better through this part of the headwall, and if I can just remember to pull really hard with my left hand and right foot, I uncoil myself up to a reasonable hold in a slot. Doing the move after a hang on the rope feels well within reach, but after all the difficult climbing below, I'm debilitated with hypoxia and have a hard time making my body do everything it needs to in order to stick the move.
There are a great couple of moves above this final toss to the slot, but hopefully nothing that will spit me off. Getting this done before I head off to Greece would be really satisfying, but I may only have one, or at most two, chances before the flight next Tuesday.
I first got on "Anarchitect" a few years ago, and it was entirely over my head. The opening moves were impossible, and I ended up aiding through on a top rope so that I could try some of the higher sequences. I remember lowering off and thinking that there was absolutely no chance of me ever linking all the moves together on lead.
Fast forward to this spring, and I've gotten a touch stronger. Beyond muscles and tendons, though, I think the real key to me getting close to sending the route is an understanding about just how much effort goes into doing a hard route. Before I had been beaten up by harder local routes and projects in Rifle, I naively assumed that people just walked right up and did whatever route was in front of them, regardless of the grade. There might be a few people who have the incredible talent and skill to do that, but I sure ain't one of 'em. That is, as far as I can tell, a major reason that I enjoy climbing routes that give me fits. I've learned to embrace the fact that routes like Anarchitect take a number of tries spread over days of work, and the reward isn't cheapened by its relative ease of attainability. Sending this route is going to be hard earned and well worth it.
The route starts with some interesting and insecure moves along a sloper rail that feels delicate and slimy. I think I've tricked out a sequence that involves a fair bit of knee scumming, and I'm doing this low crux at just the first bolt on virtually every go at this point. From here, you get a bit of a reprieve at a break in the wall, but immediately dive into another hard section. Fortunately for me, I'm tall and have some decent footholds to use. Otherwise I'd be doing a moribund shuffle along the likes of what my friend Olivia has to conjour, basically pulling on a small sloping rib of a hold with zero feet. Above, a couple of small holds give way to a decent jug at the fourth bolt, but the feet are small, a bit polished, and sloping away from the climber. It makes getting much energy back a tough order, but I keep telling myself to take big breathes and wait until my body is ready to launch into the final difficult section.
Out of this good hold, I move left into a pretty poor finger lock with misplaced footholds. I nearly have to campus across to another finger lock, and this saps a lot of whatever juice I can get back while at the rest. From here, I move up to a sloping pinch and small crimp where I need to fire in a pretty desperate clip, or skip it and face a much bigger fall if I blow the crux. Fortunately, the feet are better through this part of the headwall, and if I can just remember to pull really hard with my left hand and right foot, I uncoil myself up to a reasonable hold in a slot. Doing the move after a hang on the rope feels well within reach, but after all the difficult climbing below, I'm debilitated with hypoxia and have a hard time making my body do everything it needs to in order to stick the move.
There are a great couple of moves above this final toss to the slot, but hopefully nothing that will spit me off. Getting this done before I head off to Greece would be really satisfying, but I may only have one, or at most two, chances before the flight next Tuesday.
rock chalk jayhawk
Graduations and weddings come ready-made for overindulgent celebration. The University of Kansas' Commencement took place this weekend, and Reilly was there for her final send off. The rest of the clan rolled into Lawrence primed to properly acknowledge the sordid truth that the final Pharo sibling (under)graduated, and only rip roaring rollicking would befit such an accomplishment. I know the kids read this site, and as such, I'll minimize my lauding of a weekend that can be best summed up by my sister's drink of choice. "The nicest vodka that still comes in a plastic bottle." So that's how it's gonna be...
To be fair, vodka is more the serf's drink of choice, and most of us pick gin. The gentleman's rotgut. Reilly seems the one most prone to Russia's poison, despite our efforts to right her.
The Pharo/Porcelli/Kimball clan came in from Denver, and my uncle and aunt came up from Dallas. Another uncle came in from Portland, and my grandparents are just up the road in KC. This adult show of force complimented the dozens of friends and family that arrived in support of the other 13 girls my sister Reilly lives with. In some states, that kind of living arrangement has been outlawed as a brothel. Best I could tell, 1334 Ohio Street in Lawrence masquerades as a saloon. Music pours out of the windows, and beer comes right out of the faucet. A cowboy's horse may have even been tied to the fence. The wild west lives on!
We spent time at a few other locales around the college town. Namely: the Chi-Oh fountain, a sweltering football stadium wreathed in round Midwesterners, The Wheel, The Hawk, Yokohama's, and countless shops. The best t-shirt of the week featured the faces of Bush, Cheney, and Rice with the caption "GOODBYE, FUCKERS!" below. Do not for one moment believe you have your finger on Kansas' pulse when your digits trace the Lawrence Artery. The blood that flows here is young, idealistic, and dreadlocked. "Make Tea, Not War" they announce at a parade.
The biggest night of the weekend was a Saturday feast at Pacemamma's, one of the town's nicer establishments. 50 or so arrived to hear the jazz quartet and eat. When things finally wrapped up around 1:30, my uncle Mark was searching for me under planes, trains, and more likely, automobiles. To no avail, because I was happily asleep back at the hotel.
A quick word about Mark. My dad's brother is a fantastically entertaining ringmaster from the Big D. Ironically, he is about 5'6. He perpetually speaks with that irrepressible Texas twang that only comes out of my father when speaking of the glory of horse punching, and tells stories about anything and everything that would make his wife blush, if she weren't so used to the shenanigans. Due to the fact that "you fuck one midget," "grab the scrotum and TWIST," and an incredible Sling Blade impression came out of his mouth on this trip, I'll forever refer to him as Jethro.
Monday, and I'm finally back in Boulder, re hydrating, and praying for a nap that the shakes keep at bay. I have to go to Greece for 10 days in June with much of the same cast? I don't know what scares me worse...more than a week in the Aegean with the pirates from this weekend, or the fact that I was at times so incapacitated on graduation weekend that I alerted people to my impending trip to Greek. This could be a long spring.
To be fair, vodka is more the serf's drink of choice, and most of us pick gin. The gentleman's rotgut. Reilly seems the one most prone to Russia's poison, despite our efforts to right her.
The Pharo/Porcelli/Kimball clan came in from Denver, and my uncle and aunt came up from Dallas. Another uncle came in from Portland, and my grandparents are just up the road in KC. This adult show of force complimented the dozens of friends and family that arrived in support of the other 13 girls my sister Reilly lives with. In some states, that kind of living arrangement has been outlawed as a brothel. Best I could tell, 1334 Ohio Street in Lawrence masquerades as a saloon. Music pours out of the windows, and beer comes right out of the faucet. A cowboy's horse may have even been tied to the fence. The wild west lives on!
We spent time at a few other locales around the college town. Namely: the Chi-Oh fountain, a sweltering football stadium wreathed in round Midwesterners, The Wheel, The Hawk, Yokohama's, and countless shops. The best t-shirt of the week featured the faces of Bush, Cheney, and Rice with the caption "GOODBYE, FUCKERS!" below. Do not for one moment believe you have your finger on Kansas' pulse when your digits trace the Lawrence Artery. The blood that flows here is young, idealistic, and dreadlocked. "Make Tea, Not War" they announce at a parade.
The biggest night of the weekend was a Saturday feast at Pacemamma's, one of the town's nicer establishments. 50 or so arrived to hear the jazz quartet and eat. When things finally wrapped up around 1:30, my uncle Mark was searching for me under planes, trains, and more likely, automobiles. To no avail, because I was happily asleep back at the hotel.
A quick word about Mark. My dad's brother is a fantastically entertaining ringmaster from the Big D. Ironically, he is about 5'6. He perpetually speaks with that irrepressible Texas twang that only comes out of my father when speaking of the glory of horse punching, and tells stories about anything and everything that would make his wife blush, if she weren't so used to the shenanigans. Due to the fact that "you fuck one midget," "grab the scrotum and TWIST," and an incredible Sling Blade impression came out of his mouth on this trip, I'll forever refer to him as Jethro.
Monday, and I'm finally back in Boulder, re hydrating, and praying for a nap that the shakes keep at bay. I have to go to Greece for 10 days in June with much of the same cast? I don't know what scares me worse...more than a week in the Aegean with the pirates from this weekend, or the fact that I was at times so incapacitated on graduation weekend that I alerted people to my impending trip to Greek. This could be a long spring.
Wednesday, May 14, 2008
countdown
I need to make this short, because it's late and I'm tired.
Reilly graduates this weekend, and we are headed to Lawrence for a weekend of celebration, family time, booze, and outrageous behavior by Pharos young and old.
Just know, there's a storm coming. Given that my youngest sister is going to finish college, and we are all heading out to see it, we could be talking a replica of Pearl Harbor. Just with less Kamikaze Asians. Same amount of fire, though.
Reilly graduates this weekend, and we are headed to Lawrence for a weekend of celebration, family time, booze, and outrageous behavior by Pharos young and old.
Just know, there's a storm coming. Given that my youngest sister is going to finish college, and we are all heading out to see it, we could be talking a replica of Pearl Harbor. Just with less Kamikaze Asians. Same amount of fire, though.
Tuesday, May 13, 2008
Young Mr. Lee wears a rat tail
Brian asks me if I remember middle school with fondness, suggesting that it might even be possible to do so. We are driving down Boulder Canyon after climbing; I'm exhausted, my fingers pulse, and my soul is full from being outside in perfect vertical meditation.
"Not at all."
"Oh, I did."
And that seems strange to me. I remember middle school in the form of Jessee Lee. Young Mr. Lee wears a rat-tail, the Mullet's love child, both badges of depraved upbringing. Jessee is my age, but takes a distinct abhorrence at my existence. Demographic elitism prods me to think it's my good bloodlines. He swears to the class that he'll kick the shit out of me, and I swear to myself to avoid him at all costs.
My main memory is a public threat, humiliation from a bully in a Metallica shirt with the sleeves cut off.
"No, I was ready to move along. I didn't like it too much."
"Not at all."
"Oh, I did."
And that seems strange to me. I remember middle school in the form of Jessee Lee. Young Mr. Lee wears a rat-tail, the Mullet's love child, both badges of depraved upbringing. Jessee is my age, but takes a distinct abhorrence at my existence. Demographic elitism prods me to think it's my good bloodlines. He swears to the class that he'll kick the shit out of me, and I swear to myself to avoid him at all costs.
My main memory is a public threat, humiliation from a bully in a Metallica shirt with the sleeves cut off.
"No, I was ready to move along. I didn't like it too much."
Brewery Bar, go to hell!
I woke up this morning with some sore guts.
When Eli suggested that's where we meet for dinner last night, I should have listened to my instincts and found an alternative rendezvous spot. Instead, I followed his lead and headed to the Brewery Bar for the most gut wrenching Tex-Mex this side of a Mazatlan water faucet. He was ultimately persuaded by $1 Margarita Monday. I arrived a few minutes late to find a table of 4 already seated to a chips, salsa, and glasses rimmed with salt. A millisecond scene survey announced that I'd be playing fifth wheel while destroying my insides. Great.
A quick bit of background...
Eli is a good friend from WAY back. I mean 'kindergarten' way back. 'T-ball' way back. 'Pre-pubescent, neon clothes, AIDS-ain't-even-on-the-radar, email-yet-to-be-invented' way back. You get the idea. He's getting married to his longtime girlfriend this summer, and I'm the best man. They just bought a house down on the south side of town, near my office. Oddly, we don't see each other that often despite the proximity, probably because I try to spend as little time down there as possible. But last night saw me at the office working late, and I was able to sneak out and meet everyone for dinner.
Eli and Bri's pending wedding led to a natural theme in the conversation. This was augmented by the presence of the other couple, married for two years. The planning and processing of Eli and Bri's rehearsal dinner, hotel arrangements, parties and guest lists wasn't in and of itself a negative. It just made me realize that Eli and I were in VERY different stages of our lives. I love my girlfriend, but am terrified of the traditional choices Eli seems to be making. I don't want to spend 70% of my day in a cube. I don't want to have a mortgage. I don't want to own a treadmill. When the inevitable cake disaster story came out of the other couple, I buried my head in my menu and swore to myself that I'd die before I ever reached the point in life where I would require the services of a wedding planner.
Bri, a total sweetheart, could tell that I wasn't much for the wedding conversation. She put an end to it in an authoritative manner befitting a woman who would eventually run a house. We were free to slurp our food in relative peace. At least until our bellies churned in painful digestion. I unearthed the Combination #8, a taco plate I hoped would be somewhat gentle as it masqueraded as "health Mex." False. Our dinners arrived under individual mountain ranges of shredded cheese, and smothered in a boiling lard masquerading as green chile.
As plates were being cleared, the waiter told us about the Dessert Nachos. Given that I was already catatonic, a pile of sopapillas, ice cream, high fructose corn syrup and diabetes seemed like a bad idea. We paid the bill instead, and said our goodbyes before exiting to a pouring rain. I walked out to the car, and headed back to the office, happy to be working quietly. Eli and I are good friends, and share plenty of history, but right now we have two very different lives. I spent one night working late and consider it Blog worthy. He's a normal, everyday, American adult.
When Eli suggested that's where we meet for dinner last night, I should have listened to my instincts and found an alternative rendezvous spot. Instead, I followed his lead and headed to the Brewery Bar for the most gut wrenching Tex-Mex this side of a Mazatlan water faucet. He was ultimately persuaded by $1 Margarita Monday. I arrived a few minutes late to find a table of 4 already seated to a chips, salsa, and glasses rimmed with salt. A millisecond scene survey announced that I'd be playing fifth wheel while destroying my insides. Great.
A quick bit of background...
Eli is a good friend from WAY back. I mean 'kindergarten' way back. 'T-ball' way back. 'Pre-pubescent, neon clothes, AIDS-ain't-even-on-the-radar, email-yet-to-be-invented' way back. You get the idea. He's getting married to his longtime girlfriend this summer, and I'm the best man. They just bought a house down on the south side of town, near my office. Oddly, we don't see each other that often despite the proximity, probably because I try to spend as little time down there as possible. But last night saw me at the office working late, and I was able to sneak out and meet everyone for dinner.
Eli and Bri's pending wedding led to a natural theme in the conversation. This was augmented by the presence of the other couple, married for two years. The planning and processing of Eli and Bri's rehearsal dinner, hotel arrangements, parties and guest lists wasn't in and of itself a negative. It just made me realize that Eli and I were in VERY different stages of our lives. I love my girlfriend, but am terrified of the traditional choices Eli seems to be making. I don't want to spend 70% of my day in a cube. I don't want to have a mortgage. I don't want to own a treadmill. When the inevitable cake disaster story came out of the other couple, I buried my head in my menu and swore to myself that I'd die before I ever reached the point in life where I would require the services of a wedding planner.
Bri, a total sweetheart, could tell that I wasn't much for the wedding conversation. She put an end to it in an authoritative manner befitting a woman who would eventually run a house. We were free to slurp our food in relative peace. At least until our bellies churned in painful digestion. I unearthed the Combination #8, a taco plate I hoped would be somewhat gentle as it masqueraded as "health Mex." False. Our dinners arrived under individual mountain ranges of shredded cheese, and smothered in a boiling lard masquerading as green chile.
As plates were being cleared, the waiter told us about the Dessert Nachos. Given that I was already catatonic, a pile of sopapillas, ice cream, high fructose corn syrup and diabetes seemed like a bad idea. We paid the bill instead, and said our goodbyes before exiting to a pouring rain. I walked out to the car, and headed back to the office, happy to be working quietly. Eli and I are good friends, and share plenty of history, but right now we have two very different lives. I spent one night working late and consider it Blog worthy. He's a normal, everyday, American adult.
Thursday, May 8, 2008
haaamana five, now ten haaamannna hammmmannna sold!
Hans and I got blown out of the water in a live auction bid. It was great.
The day was supposed to have started at a leisurely pace, and eventually move into a lunch reunion with my father and Hans (coincidentally). Hopefully, dad would weave tales of horse assault and energy policy into my brain., and Hans and I could catch up as good friends who see too little of each other. Instead, my boss called, and I answered the phone in my underwear. He was "assuming" I was on my way to the BLM office where they were having a federal oil and gas lease sale in 45 minutes. I told him I was on my way, and tucked my shirt in on the way out the door only a few hurried minutes later. Drive fast.
I was a little frustrated that I didn't have more time to steel myself for my first time sitting in on a real life, funny-as-you-might-assume auction with a man in a ten gallon hat, boots, and a belt buckle.
The sale started at 9:00 AM, and I walked in at 8:59 to find Hans already there. The boss sent backup. Given how the morning started, I'd say that was a reasonable proposition. Plus, have you met me?
Hans and I had a few moments to discuss strategy. Our top bid was $60, but we were under strict orders not to let anyone buy the lease for that amount. If the auctioneer got to $60 and it looked like it was going to get sold, we needed to make sure the price was bumped. This way, if the client looked at the eventual sale price, he would see that the lease sold for more than he was willing to pay. We decided that I'd bid on the first of the two parcels, and Hans would bid on the second. That way, we both got part of the auction action.
Jim and Bob were the auctioneers. Of course they were. Their names couldn't have been anything else. Jim explained that they were professionals from Brush County, Colorado. (Read: B.F.E.) Judging by their matching embroidered maroon oxfords, blue jeans and hats, they looked the part. The rules were explained, and off we went.
My parcel was about tenth out of the forty or so up for sale. When we got there, the bidding started at $2. Within a matter of seconds, it was up to $50. My heart started to pound. When Jim got to $60, I had yet to enter a bid, and someone else held their number aloft. Jim then asked for $70. I was a man with a conflict. I wasn't supposed to go that high, but I wasn't supposed to let it get bought for our top price, either. I meekly waved my number.
"Hammmmbannnna hemmmmennaa sixty dollars up front-ah! Sixty! Do I have seventy? Seventy? (At this point I gave the half wave) Sir in the back! Hammmannna bahhhhammmmaaannaa Seventy? Yes? (I shake my head no, like the child who broke the window with his baseball, and is avoiding the eyes of an angry father who knows full well the weighty truth) Seventy??? In the front I have seventy. Seventy five? Hammmmaannna heeednemmmma oooooohhhhmannnna......"
The parcel eventually sold for $175, but you couldn't really argue that I even landed a punch.
Hans' parcel was next, and after witnessing my mini fiasco, he knew which way the wind was blowing. Hans never even raised his number card for a parcel that was sold for $110. Like I said, we got blown out of the water. But we walked out feeling like we had at least seen something memorable, even if it was two poorly dressed men do their best impression of the micro machine man. And what the hell? Hans and I still had a lunch to attend with my dad as the main source of entertainment. Today was full of it.
The day was supposed to have started at a leisurely pace, and eventually move into a lunch reunion with my father and Hans (coincidentally). Hopefully, dad would weave tales of horse assault and energy policy into my brain., and Hans and I could catch up as good friends who see too little of each other. Instead, my boss called, and I answered the phone in my underwear. He was "assuming" I was on my way to the BLM office where they were having a federal oil and gas lease sale in 45 minutes. I told him I was on my way, and tucked my shirt in on the way out the door only a few hurried minutes later. Drive fast.
I was a little frustrated that I didn't have more time to steel myself for my first time sitting in on a real life, funny-as-you-might-assume auction with a man in a ten gallon hat, boots, and a belt buckle.
The sale started at 9:00 AM, and I walked in at 8:59 to find Hans already there. The boss sent backup. Given how the morning started, I'd say that was a reasonable proposition. Plus, have you met me?
Hans and I had a few moments to discuss strategy. Our top bid was $60, but we were under strict orders not to let anyone buy the lease for that amount. If the auctioneer got to $60 and it looked like it was going to get sold, we needed to make sure the price was bumped. This way, if the client looked at the eventual sale price, he would see that the lease sold for more than he was willing to pay. We decided that I'd bid on the first of the two parcels, and Hans would bid on the second. That way, we both got part of the auction action.
Jim and Bob were the auctioneers. Of course they were. Their names couldn't have been anything else. Jim explained that they were professionals from Brush County, Colorado. (Read: B.F.E.) Judging by their matching embroidered maroon oxfords, blue jeans and hats, they looked the part. The rules were explained, and off we went.
My parcel was about tenth out of the forty or so up for sale. When we got there, the bidding started at $2. Within a matter of seconds, it was up to $50. My heart started to pound. When Jim got to $60, I had yet to enter a bid, and someone else held their number aloft. Jim then asked for $70. I was a man with a conflict. I wasn't supposed to go that high, but I wasn't supposed to let it get bought for our top price, either. I meekly waved my number.
"Hammmmbannnna hemmmmennaa sixty dollars up front-ah! Sixty! Do I have seventy? Seventy? (At this point I gave the half wave) Sir in the back! Hammmannna bahhhhammmmaaannaa Seventy? Yes? (I shake my head no, like the child who broke the window with his baseball, and is avoiding the eyes of an angry father who knows full well the weighty truth) Seventy??? In the front I have seventy. Seventy five? Hammmmaannna heeednemmmma oooooohhhhmannnna......"
The parcel eventually sold for $175, but you couldn't really argue that I even landed a punch.
Hans' parcel was next, and after witnessing my mini fiasco, he knew which way the wind was blowing. Hans never even raised his number card for a parcel that was sold for $110. Like I said, we got blown out of the water. But we walked out feeling like we had at least seen something memorable, even if it was two poorly dressed men do their best impression of the micro machine man. And what the hell? Hans and I still had a lunch to attend with my dad as the main source of entertainment. Today was full of it.
Wednesday, May 7, 2008
call the man
I had a really interesting chat with Barack Obama last night. It was either last night or really early this morning, I'll have to check the transcripts and get back to you. Either way, it went something like this:
Pat Contreras knows Barack. There is even photo proof of it on Pat's facebook profile. Really, it's not even a big surprise, because Pat just oozes political-legal smarmyness. He and I met in Madrid when we were both studying abroad there in 2001, and Pat has since gone on to law school at Columbia. All I could think when we met was that he had a certain ambition that was beyond my comprehension. While I wanted to climb and travel and write, Pat wanted to do something huge; truly Earth shattering. He is incredibly well spoken and thoughful, and he uses his charm to move through social and academic circles like a legendary ghost. Meeting Pat leaves you with a sense that you've just witnessed something unique and untenable. Pat is a movie that's got great actors, none of whom are too famous yet, and a screenwriter who has done one critically acclaimed script, and another that was brilliant though under appreciated. He is the raw potential that quiets any other expectation. He is a younger Barack Obama. I can only assume that Pat met Barack while studying law in NYC. Though we've never discussed their meeting, I assume they were in the same room at a large cocktail party, and Pat sensed his chance to grab the fate that was his to begin with. While everyone else milled around, nervously sipping their vodka-tonic and waiting for the speeches, Pat decided that his moment to begin integration with the American Political Elite was at his fingertips.
Pat and I got back together to talk about the election last night, and it happened that he had Barack's cell number. I was feeling especially frustrated given the plight of America, and have come to the conclusion that it is a mathematical impossibility for either Clinton or McCain to right this sinking ship. In my mind, there is no guarantee that Barack will succeed, but his background, intellect, and charisma give him at least a puncher's chance. I had to tell him. I called the number.
North Carolina had just overwhelmingly voted in his favor, and he had just finished his speech in Raleigh when I called. His campaign manager picked up, and I introduced myself.
"This is Patrick Pharo. Barack knows me from Denver. I have some news about the convention."
True enough, I am from Denver. I do not, however, have anything to do with the Democratic National Convention that will grace our city in August. What the hell? It was a good way to get Barack on the phone. Given that it was his personal cell number, held only by his personal confidantes, all I needed was to sound sufficiently sure of myself.
"Ok, here he is."
"Oh, and by the way, we send our congratulations about North Carolina. A really decisive victory!"
"Thanks. Here's Barack."
"Barack, this is Patrick Pharo from Denver. I've got to say, congratulations on tonight. Great work. Look, I need you to know, you are the candidate. There isn't another option. Hillary cannot lead this country in a way that will be in anyway productive. We need you, and most importantly, we need you to spur Americans towards a more thoughtful energy policy, and we have to figure out personal transportation. You know the models our cities are planned upon. We are going to cease to be as a flourishing society unless you can achieve drastic results. I hate to throw all of this on your plate, but please, PLEASE, save our country from its current trajectory."
"Yes. Thanks. I'll do my best. Who is this again?"
"Patrick Pharo, I'll see you in Denver."
And on Pat Contreras' coattails, I brushed alongside the only hope we have for real change.
I don't know if anyone can salvage America starting in 2009. It seems like there are so many coincidental problems that beset our country at present, we may not make it through. We'll likely be at war with the Chinese over the last barrel of oil in 60 years, so it might not matter unless we can figure out how to disentangle ourselves from hydrocarbons. We might be inundated by the sea if climate change takes it's worst predicted form. The American Dollar might be more useful as toilet paper, bringing back memories from the Weimar Republic's citizenry walking to buy eggs with a wheelbarrow full of currency. Our middle class is nearly non-existent, and the haves are so far from the have-nots that we might need an armed revolution to return to a palatable equilibrium. The religious right has lost touch with science and will willingly kill us all so that they can get to their heaven faster. Capitalism rules our minds, and many of us seem gladly willing to trade a handsome profit in the next quarter for our long term health and happiness.
We'll see. I'll try to embrace the Audacity of Hope, and believe in the change one man purports to embody.
Pat Contreras knows Barack. There is even photo proof of it on Pat's facebook profile. Really, it's not even a big surprise, because Pat just oozes political-legal smarmyness. He and I met in Madrid when we were both studying abroad there in 2001, and Pat has since gone on to law school at Columbia. All I could think when we met was that he had a certain ambition that was beyond my comprehension. While I wanted to climb and travel and write, Pat wanted to do something huge; truly Earth shattering. He is incredibly well spoken and thoughful, and he uses his charm to move through social and academic circles like a legendary ghost. Meeting Pat leaves you with a sense that you've just witnessed something unique and untenable. Pat is a movie that's got great actors, none of whom are too famous yet, and a screenwriter who has done one critically acclaimed script, and another that was brilliant though under appreciated. He is the raw potential that quiets any other expectation. He is a younger Barack Obama. I can only assume that Pat met Barack while studying law in NYC. Though we've never discussed their meeting, I assume they were in the same room at a large cocktail party, and Pat sensed his chance to grab the fate that was his to begin with. While everyone else milled around, nervously sipping their vodka-tonic and waiting for the speeches, Pat decided that his moment to begin integration with the American Political Elite was at his fingertips.
Pat and I got back together to talk about the election last night, and it happened that he had Barack's cell number. I was feeling especially frustrated given the plight of America, and have come to the conclusion that it is a mathematical impossibility for either Clinton or McCain to right this sinking ship. In my mind, there is no guarantee that Barack will succeed, but his background, intellect, and charisma give him at least a puncher's chance. I had to tell him. I called the number.
North Carolina had just overwhelmingly voted in his favor, and he had just finished his speech in Raleigh when I called. His campaign manager picked up, and I introduced myself.
"This is Patrick Pharo. Barack knows me from Denver. I have some news about the convention."
True enough, I am from Denver. I do not, however, have anything to do with the Democratic National Convention that will grace our city in August. What the hell? It was a good way to get Barack on the phone. Given that it was his personal cell number, held only by his personal confidantes, all I needed was to sound sufficiently sure of myself.
"Ok, here he is."
"Oh, and by the way, we send our congratulations about North Carolina. A really decisive victory!"
"Thanks. Here's Barack."
"Barack, this is Patrick Pharo from Denver. I've got to say, congratulations on tonight. Great work. Look, I need you to know, you are the candidate. There isn't another option. Hillary cannot lead this country in a way that will be in anyway productive. We need you, and most importantly, we need you to spur Americans towards a more thoughtful energy policy, and we have to figure out personal transportation. You know the models our cities are planned upon. We are going to cease to be as a flourishing society unless you can achieve drastic results. I hate to throw all of this on your plate, but please, PLEASE, save our country from its current trajectory."
"Yes. Thanks. I'll do my best. Who is this again?"
"Patrick Pharo, I'll see you in Denver."
And on Pat Contreras' coattails, I brushed alongside the only hope we have for real change.
I don't know if anyone can salvage America starting in 2009. It seems like there are so many coincidental problems that beset our country at present, we may not make it through. We'll likely be at war with the Chinese over the last barrel of oil in 60 years, so it might not matter unless we can figure out how to disentangle ourselves from hydrocarbons. We might be inundated by the sea if climate change takes it's worst predicted form. The American Dollar might be more useful as toilet paper, bringing back memories from the Weimar Republic's citizenry walking to buy eggs with a wheelbarrow full of currency. Our middle class is nearly non-existent, and the haves are so far from the have-nots that we might need an armed revolution to return to a palatable equilibrium. The religious right has lost touch with science and will willingly kill us all so that they can get to their heaven faster. Capitalism rules our minds, and many of us seem gladly willing to trade a handsome profit in the next quarter for our long term health and happiness.
We'll see. I'll try to embrace the Audacity of Hope, and believe in the change one man purports to embody.
Tuesday, May 6, 2008
too late
"Dude, you'll never believe what I just saw!"
I typically call my buddy Hans with unusual scenes from the road, like hilarious bumper stickers: "Circumcised? Lucky Stiff!" or license plates: "LUVBEER".
When I saw the most incredible skullet I'd ever seen, he was most intrigued.
A rather obese man was waddling down the sidewalk outside the Coors brewery in Golden, and at first glance, I was convinced he was wearing some sort of wig. At the very least, he must have been an extra in a movie, still in full makeup. The top of his head was glistening in the sunlight, with nary one follicle to reduce the glare. And along the sides and back was a frizzy, three foot long pseudo-afro glowing a fiery red. I'm not exactly sure what went through this guy's mind when he undertook the year-plus commitment to grow such a 'do, but judging from the denim shirt/jean combo, vanity wasn't his fatal flaw, anyway.
After I described the scene to Hans, he demanded I take a picture. Being the last man in America without a digital camera, I wasn't in a great position to capture the moment, and I chalked it up to a lost cause. We continued to talk as I drove for several more blocks until I realized that I had an old point and shoot film camera in the back of my car. With screeching tires, I pulled a U turn and headed back to the brewery.
I found a spot on the street and started a desperate search for my target. Christ, he shouldn't be that hard to find! With my camera in hand, I began to run up and down the streets where he was last seen, hoping to catch a glimpse of my own personal Loch Ness Monster.
I circled the streets, and asked a security guard if he'd seen the most outlandish character this side of Pixar. Nada.
He was gone. I didn't ever find him, and obviously never got a photo. I have since purchased not only a digital camera (how would I have even posted his pic if I'd have gotten it on 35mm?), but also a windshield mounted cradle, expressly devised to capture all those moments that previously required a phone call to describe.
Look for pics soon on patrickpharo.blogspot.com!
I typically call my buddy Hans with unusual scenes from the road, like hilarious bumper stickers: "Circumcised? Lucky Stiff!" or license plates: "LUVBEER".
When I saw the most incredible skullet I'd ever seen, he was most intrigued.
A rather obese man was waddling down the sidewalk outside the Coors brewery in Golden, and at first glance, I was convinced he was wearing some sort of wig. At the very least, he must have been an extra in a movie, still in full makeup. The top of his head was glistening in the sunlight, with nary one follicle to reduce the glare. And along the sides and back was a frizzy, three foot long pseudo-afro glowing a fiery red. I'm not exactly sure what went through this guy's mind when he undertook the year-plus commitment to grow such a 'do, but judging from the denim shirt/jean combo, vanity wasn't his fatal flaw, anyway.
After I described the scene to Hans, he demanded I take a picture. Being the last man in America without a digital camera, I wasn't in a great position to capture the moment, and I chalked it up to a lost cause. We continued to talk as I drove for several more blocks until I realized that I had an old point and shoot film camera in the back of my car. With screeching tires, I pulled a U turn and headed back to the brewery.
I found a spot on the street and started a desperate search for my target. Christ, he shouldn't be that hard to find! With my camera in hand, I began to run up and down the streets where he was last seen, hoping to catch a glimpse of my own personal Loch Ness Monster.
I circled the streets, and asked a security guard if he'd seen the most outlandish character this side of Pixar. Nada.
He was gone. I didn't ever find him, and obviously never got a photo. I have since purchased not only a digital camera (how would I have even posted his pic if I'd have gotten it on 35mm?), but also a windshield mounted cradle, expressly devised to capture all those moments that previously required a phone call to describe.
Look for pics soon on patrickpharo.blogspot.com!
God loves Wii
Video games aren't my forte. I have a friend who spends plenty a Friday telecommuting, i.e. playing Halo, and another buddy from high school who beat us at James Bond on Nintendo 64 using just his feet on the controller. They, obviously, are more of the target market. I haven't picked up a controller since an epic round of PacMan with my buddy at a movie theater a few years ago.
When my 10 year old cousin asked if I'd "ever seen a priest play Wii," I laughed and said I hadn't. I hadn't even seen a priest in years, other than the photos in the NY Times of the Pope's recent trip to the East Coast. Church isn't my regular hangout. The most constant interaction I have with Catholics is a running joke about sex scandals, and although the words Priest and Wii in the same sentence made for easy fodder, I refrained.
The question of if I'd ever seen a servant of God play a video game hailed as an exercise revolution for the sedentary, diabetic gamers got me to thinking. Would the Holy Trinity approve of such activity? Obviously, I have to do a little role playing to get some answers, and as such, I'll play the role of an omnipotent and malevolent deity.
"Human beings! The world you inhabit is not the one I created. You have used your ample intelligence, a gift from yours truly, by the way, to promote a relatively care free existence. Many of you have ample food supplies and proper shelter. You have killed off many of the fanged beasts which could kill you. You live in an insular world, free from much of the grief I happily send your direction. As a society, you have decided to exchange my divine gifts, destructive as they may be, for a life of leisure and plenty. Only occasionally does my wrath still find its way to your door. I gave you pestilence for a reason! Expect more, suckers."
And there you have it. Better get it now while the gettin's good.
When my 10 year old cousin asked if I'd "ever seen a priest play Wii," I laughed and said I hadn't. I hadn't even seen a priest in years, other than the photos in the NY Times of the Pope's recent trip to the East Coast. Church isn't my regular hangout. The most constant interaction I have with Catholics is a running joke about sex scandals, and although the words Priest and Wii in the same sentence made for easy fodder, I refrained.
The question of if I'd ever seen a servant of God play a video game hailed as an exercise revolution for the sedentary, diabetic gamers got me to thinking. Would the Holy Trinity approve of such activity? Obviously, I have to do a little role playing to get some answers, and as such, I'll play the role of an omnipotent and malevolent deity.
"Human beings! The world you inhabit is not the one I created. You have used your ample intelligence, a gift from yours truly, by the way, to promote a relatively care free existence. Many of you have ample food supplies and proper shelter. You have killed off many of the fanged beasts which could kill you. You live in an insular world, free from much of the grief I happily send your direction. As a society, you have decided to exchange my divine gifts, destructive as they may be, for a life of leisure and plenty. Only occasionally does my wrath still find its way to your door. I gave you pestilence for a reason! Expect more, suckers."
And there you have it. Better get it now while the gettin's good.
Thursday, May 1, 2008
close call
My buddy Chris had a bad accident in Eldo this past weekend. I've been trying to look on the bright side, because if he had been hit with the falling rock a few feet higher on his body, he likely would have died. As it were, he has a broken ankle, both lower tib/fibs, a femur fracture, and a broken pelvis. Bright side or not, Chris has quite the challenge ahead in '08.
I spoke with his mom on the phone just a bit ago, and she was remarkably upbeat. I was the one quivering and nearly on the brink of tears. She explained about his most recent surgery, and the doctor's plans for the next several days.
Objective hazard is part of rock climbing. What's difficult to comprehend is the random nature of bad luck. People have climbed for years on the block that broke off the wall and crushed my friend's legs, but for some unknown reason, he has to pay gravity's price. Chris wasn't a particularly risky climber, and had years of experience to help shield him from danger. In the end, though, climbers' souls are energized in a realm which presents inexorable danger. These risks come up snake-eyes infrequently enough to forget their existence, but when they arrive, they break life's hard earned peace.
I wish my friend a full and speedy recovery, and take solace in the strength of Chris' will to overcome what nearly killed him.
I spoke with his mom on the phone just a bit ago, and she was remarkably upbeat. I was the one quivering and nearly on the brink of tears. She explained about his most recent surgery, and the doctor's plans for the next several days.
Objective hazard is part of rock climbing. What's difficult to comprehend is the random nature of bad luck. People have climbed for years on the block that broke off the wall and crushed my friend's legs, but for some unknown reason, he has to pay gravity's price. Chris wasn't a particularly risky climber, and had years of experience to help shield him from danger. In the end, though, climbers' souls are energized in a realm which presents inexorable danger. These risks come up snake-eyes infrequently enough to forget their existence, but when they arrive, they break life's hard earned peace.
I wish my friend a full and speedy recovery, and take solace in the strength of Chris' will to overcome what nearly killed him.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)