Payback: Its easy, fun, and everybody's doing it

Below, you'll find a post I wrote a few days ago. I took it down mere seconds after it went up, because the guys mentioned in the story were still at the house, and Kate thought there'd be a meltdown if they read it and were still here. I agreed.
But I agreed not necessarily because I feared a meltdown. More than anything, I didn't feel like it told the whole truth. Basically, I wrote it feeling a certain way at a specific period of time. I actually really enjoyed having the company, although I think it stressed Kate out to have the house taken over by climbing bums (not to mention the Japanese, which I'll probably talk about later). I'm trying to learn from the Greece mess with my family that when there is an emotion from a specific period of time, it better be put in context or there will be blood. "Drainage!"

For background, I was in Rifle the last two weekends trying to finish up "Extended Family" and just generally enjoying the abject SCENE that the place has become. At any moment, you'll see a full blown Mexican fiesta (complete with music, a bonfire, chupacabra...the works), some roughneck drive his pickup into the creek, face craned up towards the Project wall in wonder at "how'd dem get up der?," and maybe even a rock climber now and then. It's a wonderland.
During these trips to said wonderland, I've gotten to know a couple of young men aspiring to clip chains AND go to medical school. Now that, my friend, is Audacity of Hope.
These two guys are named Peter and Thomas. Peter is a scruffy, bespectacled gentleman, and Thomas is now known as "He-Man" because of his Aryan good looks, brawn, and once flowing blond hair. The three of us have gotten along well, and as I was heading home from Rifle this weekend, I offered both of them a ride back to Boulder. Their flights were leaving this week, and they were each car-less. Peter had a friend in Boulder, so I assumed I'd just be giving them a ride.

# # #

Ok, several things are going on right now.
I am in the office, and in an effort to maintain complete and total transparency with my readers, I'll strongly advise against a career as a division order analyst. "What the hell is that?" I hear the throngs croon in unison. Basically, its the worst job in the world, whereby you are stuck reading spreadsheets and computing payouts for oil wells to the eighth decimal place. If you like a world that looks like the computer screen in The Matrix, then feel free to apply for a job. Me? I think that screen sucked. But somehow, (likely because God is a heartless bastard) my boss occasionally gets some contract work auditing division orders, and the Sisyphean work of number crunching falls upon my shoulders. At least it would, if I weren't too busy writing in a blog.
Also, I am happily digesting a Vicco's Charcoalburger (everything, with pepper jack) and a chocolate shake as a reward for finally sending Extended Family. Its a long story filled with 30 foot falls within spitting distance of the chains, but I'll spare you the tears and suffice things by saying I finally started using the good holds at the crux instead of the crap. Amazing what habit and hypoxia will do to a man in mid crux.
And in a related story, on my way back from Rifle, I filled Abigale the Subaru with two scruffy southerners and their stuff. These were guys I had met the week before, and they needed to get back to the Front Range to catch their flight. Here, however, is where my interpretation of the situation diverges from fact. I had assumed that "Thing one and Thing two," as Katie dubbed them, had another place to stay. In fact, they have become my new roommates.
I have spent enough time living out of a backpack to recognize a man in need of a couch when I see one. Problems start when that same man in need, the one borrowing your couch, soap, and food, and needing to be driven around Boulder, doesn't see the world for what it is. The truth of his predicament is that he needs to be thankful, appreciative, and clean, or he risks exhausting the generosity upon which he survives. Especially when there is a girlfriend involved who REALLY didn't know she was about to have company for a week.
For the last couple of days, Thing one and Thing two have been hanging around, but wearing their welcome paper thin. I don't want to have to ask them to wash their dishes, I don't want to have to ask for gas money (again), and I sure don't want them inviting themselves on a date with Kate and me. When I left for work today, I was pulling my hair out in an effort to expedite the process of their departure.
But then my phone rang. Thing two called to ask if I needed anything from the grocery store. He asked what kind of beer I liked, as he was going to the liquor store. He asked if it would be an imposition to use the kitchen to cook dinner tonight so that Kate and I could have some alone time on a date. Wow!
My mood immediately changed. I had been dwelling on an effective strategy for fooling them into taking a drive with all their stuff in the trunk but then throwing them out at the youth hostel. Now, I was feeling like a gracious host. It reminded me of an important lesson. If you're gonna step on people's toes, offer to hook them up in return. Example: if you're gonna make your employee's eyes fall out from looking at division orders, pay them regally, and if you need weeks upon weeks to work on a rock climb, pay back those belay sessions with beer and a back rub now and then. Its only fair.

# # #

So really, I was bummed out for a bit and vented in a post. If I'd have left it up there, I think everyone would read the post and think, "man, I bet he never sees those dudes again." I really would like to catch up with them, though. Except next time, maybe on THEIR couch.

Sublime

"Summertime, and the livin's EZ.
Bradley's on the microphone with Rock MZ"

At least that's how I thought the song went. Keep in mind, I also wrongly heard Beck say "Two ton pimples and a microphone" instead of his actual "Two turntables and a microphone," so take everything with a grain of salt. And who cares what Bradley is doing with Mr. MZ? That guy is dead anyway. It's summertime, all right, but Sublime didn't need to tell me that: I am writing this post with a Kleenex folded up and jammed in my right nostril in a feeble effort to stop the bleeding. Oh yes, kiddies. Hot + dusty + dry = bloody face. Good grief.

So what else comes with summer? How about searing temps and a merciless sun when climbing at Rifle? This weekend, there was plenty of that.

Kate and I went out to the canyon this weekend, and met up with some old buddies. You'll be pleased to know that Team Grumpy was there, in full effect. Ironically, they have a 4 year old mutt that is as wild as a redneck on moonshine. I watched this beast run laps in the shade of the Ruckman Cave, happily using someone's rope as a turnaround point. Fido would race up in a cloud of dust, stomp on the rope, pivot and run towards the woods. Repeat that process about a dozen times, and you have me (annoyed as shit) leaving the Ruckman Cave. I'd rather go slip off a greasy climb on some baking wall with sweat trickling into my eyes than endure more of this mumbo jumbo.

Off to the other side of the canyon, in full sun, where at one point it was so bad that I computed a quick equation in my head. Selling family member X into slavery > Staying put. (Solve for x). Times were tough. The route I wanted to do, Extended Family, had been taken over by feral animals. The other side was too dam hot. Kate and I bailed for the only sensible option, a charcoalburger from Vicco's.

Now we're back in Boulder where GMAT study, oil and gas leases, and an unhappy mucus membrane await.

Correction: Hans says its Ras MG. Some Pharcyde rapper. So there you go.

Busted by Mom

I was on the phone with my Mom this morning when she chided me for a need to write another post. I know, I know, sorry Ma, I've been slacking. She also told me about her dream where the Mormon Church was angry at my Pagansim, and in righteous retribution, ripped my toenails out ala Syriana. Tough start.
I don't think I have a story in me this morning, so I'm just going to rant for a bit.

Things have been busy lately. Eli got married, Kate moved back to Boulder, and I started a GMAT prep course. Wow. To sum:
Eli and Brianna got married up in Lyons, and the night ended up being a blast. I was slightly nervous about the prospect of an entire clan of Philadelphians (Eli's clan) getting bombed on the sidelines while everyone else became too scared to dance, less they risk the infamous wrath of Eagle/Flyer/76'er/Phillies fans. As things turned out, there was enough young blood pulsing with just the right amount of booze to get the crowd dancing, and the reception ended up being memorably fun. The outside ceremony was a bit hot for tuxes in full sun, but we slipped back inside ASAP and avoided sun stroke. Now those two are off in St Lucia on their honeymoon.

Kate is back! Solid development for both of us, and things seem like they are going well. I am going to be as forward thinking as my Neanderthal brain will allow, and keep most of the details of our relationship out of the public realm of the internet. For now, suffice it to say, things are going great. We've been up on a fantastic hike around Fern Canyon, had a day on the bikes, a few days climbing, and are headed to Rifle this weekend. Sounds like the same old us.

And the wheels of personal and intellectual development have begun to shake free their rust and sand, prompting me to consider going back to school. Knowing that I would need a sincere hang holding to complete the required study effort for any entrance exam, I signed up for a prep course. My dad even helped me out with some of the cost, so I've got no excuse to slack. Speaking of, I better get back to it.
But one last thing: A big thanks to Jesse and Dan for the tutelage. I have just solved the Rubik cube for the second time. I really think it is going to help me on the GMAT. Maybe?

Deep Sea Fishing

I have begun soliciting my friends for one or two (and in this case, even three) word subjects for potential blog posts. I think this serves multiple purposes, but primarily it keeps some spontaneity in the blog. I'd hate to devote all the space to lingo bombs, sick climbing sends and gnar shredding. Plus, if the post sucks, I have a scapegoat.
When someone said, "Deep Sea Fishing," my mind immediately went to Mexico and the good Doctor, Darrel Gorman. Perfect!

Darrel is not normally a name I associate with white guys. (Always good to start off public blogging with racism.) There are, in this great blanched soup of American men, several Darrels, and maybe even a D'rel, though I've never met one. I have, however, met a specific Darrel. I present to you the father of my friend Will.
'Dr. D,' as we affectionately nicknamed him while covertly drinking in his basement during high school, was quite the guy. He had (and presumably still does, though I haven't been drunk in his basement for several years) a remarkable manner of speaking that involved dramatic pauses, a string of "ummmms" and "ahhhhhhhs" that took hours to intellectually navigate, and a driving style that shuttled passengers in a series of forward jerks known as bopping.
That he was a doctor, licensed to practice medicine in the honorable state of Colorado, gave him transcendent credibility. Despite the timid, herky-jerky speech, here was a man who had graduated from high school at 15, college at 17, and was a veritable Doogie Howser.

The Gorman family took their their son Will, me, and 2 other high school miscreants to Mexico for spring break of our Junior year of high school....and here's where the rubber meets the road. Actually, this is where the tequila hits the gullet after a feed bag of all you can eat taquitos, and Will projectile vomits all over a bar called "El Toro Bravo." I blame no one but Will himself, eyes watering with green sadness as the bartender politely asked if he needed the bucket while pushing it under his chin.
But AFTER the Toro incident, and AFTER some thief stole my Pawtucket Red Sox hat, and AFTER one of the other friends on the trip realized a high school boy's dream by sleeping with a 30 year old (woman, no less!) on the beach, we went fishing.
The boat left the port under gray skies and a breeze. The fishermen laughed and gave us soda on our way to the Gulf of Cortez, famed marlin waters but certainly subject to the Pacific's force. The boat began to buck with waves that were close to 10 feet. No "Perfect Storm," but on a 40 foot fishing boat, plenty big enough! The roiling continued, and after about 30 minutes of what felt like riding the mechanical bull back at "El Toro Bravo," we all began to wonder if Will, or all of us for that matter, would be debating a decision regarding a bucket.
Eventually, Dr. D was overcome. He, like his son, refused the perfectly good bile receptacle, deciding instead to sully the side of our vessel. Again. And again. And comically again. He got to the point that there was nothing left to give. Poseidon would have to be fully appeased. With the 30 year old incident, our ship was fresh out of swell quelling virgins to sacrifice. What was the boat of deep sea fishermen to do? Hold strong. Let the Doctor do the talking.
We eventually made it back to the port, content in the knowledge that if we were going to do any yuking, it would be from man made poison, and not due to Nature's rage.

Did you know that dogs and bees can smell fear?

Jonathan Lipnicki said it. Of course, he also said, "Mom's coming, I have to go to bed." Bees, though. Your firearms are useless against them.

It'll come around, just keep reading, rube.

Kate and I headed up to the Gunks for a day of climbing at one of the most famous locales in North America. She and I were in the area anyway, at her parents' house in between some relaxation in the Adirondacks, the Jersey shore, and 30 hours in the car between the East Coast and the big CO. We decided to head up to New Paltz and grab the grips on some moderate classics, so I borrowed my buddy's tri-cam collection (specialized climbing protection with an appearance that Kate likened to a spaceship) and headed North on I 87. $30 in entrance fees later (Gad Zooks! Privatized parks pack a penny punch) and she and I were walking along the Carriage Road.
Our guidebook was a meager internet printout consisting of a general description of the area, and 4 routes (out of several hundred). Needless to say, we quickly became lost. The first people we met were oddly familiar, and indeed friends with Nuno via employment at Sport Rock in Alexandria, VA. Whatdya know? That hound gets around.
These two climbers had just come down from Mrs. B's Something-or-other, and had rave reviews. The route clocked in at 5.6, a manageable moderate, so Kate and I racked up our harnesses and headed skyward.
Mrs. B's took a weaving line for 3 short pitches up the wall, and despite being advised to run them together, I decided it was in our best interests to keep the distances between belays short to aide communication, as it had been months since Kate and I did a multi-pitch route together.
The first pitch was a short section of face climbing, and I took full advantage of my borrowed gear when the ladder of horizontal slots appeared and begged for C.A.M.P.'s hardware. From a tree on a ledge, I brought Kate up, and then headed up and right to the prescribed hanging belay. The going was smooth, and I decided to put a halt to the pitch at a very small ledge with an old rusting piton looking out with it's wide eye. With my bum left hanging out over 100 feet of air, with rope coming up and Kate tight on the end, I noticed a buzzing. Not the normal flies which had whined passed my ears and licked the salt from my neck. This was a more sinister, striped sort of evil. I swung on my tether and looked around a corner just in time to see a swarming nest with a few dozen wasp bodies, and quickly rocked back to the left. Back under the pin, I noticed another nest, this time Carpenter Bees just on the other side. Give up, you're surrounded!
Kate arrived seconds later, wondering at my frantic face. Was it happiness at our reunification? Sure, but I had a more pressing need at the moment. Get the hell outta there!
She (unhappily) tied herself to the wall with stingers singing, and told me to get a move on. She made it perfectly clear that the longer she stayed in situ, the deeper in the dog house I'd be(e). Climb quick, Monkey. Before I could get going, I felt the unforgettable ZAP on my elbow, and had a quick vision that my fate, like Macaulay Culkin in My Girl, would end with the stinger. I took off with a throbbing pain in my right arm.
After 15 feet of vertical progress, and one piece of haphazardly placed protection, I heard a voice...my lovely lady: "Ummm, yeah. I hate you."
Deciding to finish the shortest pitch in climbing's long history or risk a year's worth of dish duty, I wove together a few more cams and hung again, pulling rope as fast as I could so Kate could get going. She got up to me panting, having levitated the distance in under a minute, and fortunately avoided envenomation. Our final rope length to the top of the cliff was great climbing, but tainted by our collective shudder anytime a harmless 'skeeter brushed our ears.

We laughed it off at the top of the cliff, rappelled down to our bags, and had a celebratory gulp of limeade. Survivors, we made for another objective; a climb called High Exposure. There was far less animal interaction, and the excitement consisted of climbing from a precarious ledge, out a body length horizontal roof and swinging into the air, ass 1,000 feet above Upstate NY. I'll take that over Jonathan Lipnicki's fear mongering every time.

NOTE: Posted posthumously. Kate never said "I hate you." That was added for dramatic effect. She was indeed quite calm, but given that I misquoted her, I should make a correction.