I was in midair again. Falling off the top moves of a route called "Mousetrap," my friend had, only two seconds before, been shouting up from the ground, telling me where to grab. I'd come up short of the hold in question. Not terribly so, but short enough to keep the purchase to a minimum and the airtime to a maximum. The rope came taught, and I reacted in the only way that seemed natural. With venom. Anger. Accusation. "Mike Brumbaugh is a liar and a fraud!" Mike, you see, was the friend on the ground. He hadn't failed to grab the hold, I had. In my feeble literal grasping, I needed someone to blame. Eventually, I figured out exactly where he was telling me to go. Mike patiently told me to do something subtly different, and i finally quit falling off. Not before I'd (mostly) jokingly blamed someone else for another failure.
And that's how it's felt lately. I can't seem to grab that last hold. Hell, the real problem is that I don't know where it is on the wall. I've made it high enough to count myself amongst the respectable, though not the actually successful. What's the problem here? I think the answer is that I don't know where I'm headed.
Taking the GMAT was supposed to be the first step in the line of figuring that business school was my destiny, and that I could at least count the next three years as settled. When I got my scores, though, Wheat Ridge High School called and told me I'd need to return my diploma, as it was obvious I'd never learned simple addition or subtraction. "Fine, fine," they reasoned "I could read and write, but no one goes to business school to scribe. They go there to crunch numbers, and learn how to produce the next piece of plastic that will drive American's wild with lust." Shitteroo. Maybe I'm not meant to be a business graduate, let alone finish high school.
So where now? I was hoping that school would be the saving grace, but it may not happen. (Hell, maybe it will. Maybe I'll get really psyched to study more and retake the exam. I'll be the comeback player of the year.) I was hoping that the answer would be right there, attainable with the help from my friends shouting directions from the ground. I even recruited the Princeton Review to go up the route before me, tick all the holds, and brush off the dust. Then, they'd stand there and yell encouragement. They gave their directions for six hours a week in a dank, sweaty basement. All for naught, it seems. I want to cry.
Once again, So Where Now? I know I like to climb rocks. That much is easy enough to tell. I know I like to write. I like to drink tea and talk shit about Wal Mart and that I fear spiders and public toilet seats. I don't much like office culture, high culture, or, as discussed, mathematical culture. You know anyone who is hiring along those lines?
If nothing comes along, I can keep blaming Mike Brumbaugh. Or my boss, or lack of education, or general lack of opportunity for the upper middle class white man. But sooner or later, someone (my girlfriend, perhaps) is gonna get tired of this liar, this fraud. Or maybe I'll (BroGnar alert!!!) match the crimp, bump my foot up and left, and really try hard to grab the slot. That might beat falling off again. Take!
Thursday, August 28, 2008
Tuesday, August 26, 2008
California Recap
I just spent a week in California climbing in the Sierra and in Yosemite. I'd tell you all about how great it was, how sick the climbing was, how splitter the weather was.....blah blah blah, but then I'd be a bro-gnar killing you with lingo bombs. I don't want to do that. So what the hell am I going to say about it? Here's what:
I just went from being frazzled and busy and stressed out to living entirely in the moment for a week. The trip in CA was almost more of a retreat from the hubbub and hoodoo of day to day life than an excuse to get out and climb. Don;t get me wrong, though. It was still a fantastic excuse to climb. But I'll keep those stories confined to the exchanges between other climbers and myself.
Before I left, my brain was going seven different ways, and I was having a hard time keeping it all straight. Kate and I were trying to figure out where we were going to live in Boulder. I was studying for the GMAT's while debating if I even wanted to go to business school, let alone the most efficient way to add and multiply fractions of the circumference of a circle in a graph. My boss was frantically trying to get work finished because he would be out of town for the last two weeks of August, so projects were flying at me left and right. And finally, another job I've been doing for another client was exploding just before he left for a big trade show. I sound like one of those idiot squawk boxes who talks trash about how many TPS reports have to go out the door, but I'm trying to tell you I was too busy to eat. Honestly, have you met my skinny ass?
So while I had this whole array of work/study/life issues coming my way, my mind was never really centered on one task at hand. If I was studying for the test, I was worried about how I'd finish the map work for my job. If I was driving to some rural podunk hellhole to run title on a project, I'd be pissed I wasn't studying. If I was worrying about work or studying, I sure wasn't thinking about where Kate and I would move to, and this relationship insouciance left some troops sharpening their bayonets. When the week finally wrapped up, I had done a mediocre job on everything. Passable, but not extraordinary. Then, it was off to Reno.
As soon as I landed, my mind began to focus on what I'd be doing for the next week. Climbing. Traveling. Moving. And that was it. Purity of thought, and a victory for the uncluttered mind. I could finally afford to concentrate on what I was doing at that moment. And that alone is really the reason I like to climb. I've never found anything else that forced me to concentrate and forget distractions. When I was climbing on the Incredible Hulk, I wasn't thinking about anything except the rock at my toes and fingers, the crack I'd stuffed my knuckles into, and the next ledge where I could stop and bring Rob up to the belay. It was perfect.
I spent an entire day on the wall, 7AM to 6PM, followed by a descent via rappel, gully, and scree field. When we finally got back to the bivy site after 14 hours, I was totally wasted. I realized as I crawled into my sleeping bag after dinner that I hadn't thought of anything outside of the valley where we were climbing for a day. My mind was perfectly focused, and I realized that if I could have had that kind of ability to concentrate before I'd have left for California, maybe I'd have scored better on the GMAT, been more helpful to Kate as we looked for a house, and done a better job at work. And now that I'm back, all I can think about is going climbing again. Maybe I didn't learn a lesson after all.
OK, I am going to post this before any editing because Nuno wants something to read at work, so if there are typos, lazy sentences, or shit that just doesn't make sense, blame the Portuguese.
I just went from being frazzled and busy and stressed out to living entirely in the moment for a week. The trip in CA was almost more of a retreat from the hubbub and hoodoo of day to day life than an excuse to get out and climb. Don;t get me wrong, though. It was still a fantastic excuse to climb. But I'll keep those stories confined to the exchanges between other climbers and myself.
Before I left, my brain was going seven different ways, and I was having a hard time keeping it all straight. Kate and I were trying to figure out where we were going to live in Boulder. I was studying for the GMAT's while debating if I even wanted to go to business school, let alone the most efficient way to add and multiply fractions of the circumference of a circle in a graph. My boss was frantically trying to get work finished because he would be out of town for the last two weeks of August, so projects were flying at me left and right. And finally, another job I've been doing for another client was exploding just before he left for a big trade show. I sound like one of those idiot squawk boxes who talks trash about how many TPS reports have to go out the door, but I'm trying to tell you I was too busy to eat. Honestly, have you met my skinny ass?
So while I had this whole array of work/study/life issues coming my way, my mind was never really centered on one task at hand. If I was studying for the test, I was worried about how I'd finish the map work for my job. If I was driving to some rural podunk hellhole to run title on a project, I'd be pissed I wasn't studying. If I was worrying about work or studying, I sure wasn't thinking about where Kate and I would move to, and this relationship insouciance left some troops sharpening their bayonets. When the week finally wrapped up, I had done a mediocre job on everything. Passable, but not extraordinary. Then, it was off to Reno.
As soon as I landed, my mind began to focus on what I'd be doing for the next week. Climbing. Traveling. Moving. And that was it. Purity of thought, and a victory for the uncluttered mind. I could finally afford to concentrate on what I was doing at that moment. And that alone is really the reason I like to climb. I've never found anything else that forced me to concentrate and forget distractions. When I was climbing on the Incredible Hulk, I wasn't thinking about anything except the rock at my toes and fingers, the crack I'd stuffed my knuckles into, and the next ledge where I could stop and bring Rob up to the belay. It was perfect.
I spent an entire day on the wall, 7AM to 6PM, followed by a descent via rappel, gully, and scree field. When we finally got back to the bivy site after 14 hours, I was totally wasted. I realized as I crawled into my sleeping bag after dinner that I hadn't thought of anything outside of the valley where we were climbing for a day. My mind was perfectly focused, and I realized that if I could have had that kind of ability to concentrate before I'd have left for California, maybe I'd have scored better on the GMAT, been more helpful to Kate as we looked for a house, and done a better job at work. And now that I'm back, all I can think about is going climbing again. Maybe I didn't learn a lesson after all.
OK, I am going to post this before any editing because Nuno wants something to read at work, so if there are typos, lazy sentences, or shit that just doesn't make sense, blame the Portuguese.
Friday, August 15, 2008
Swamped
Egads! I am proper busy. This last week I've had a furious workload, a need to study, and one quick session on a route called the Flying Beast. Whoa!
The work is pretty un-blogworthy. Basically, it breaks down like this:
-I tried to figure out who owns a ranch.....Guess what, the owner is a rancher.
-Then, I had to drive to Trinidad, CO (sex change capital of the world!) I successfully avoided THAT, but I spent a day in an abstractor's office where the whole gaggle of broads were literally glued to the TV watching One Life to Live. When TimmyO called and asked if I wanted to go climbing, I was nearly inconsolable. "Sorry bud, can't go. Surrounded by eunuch white trash."
-My boss got mad at me because I told a client I had time for their project. I like their work, but John thinks they're a pain in the ass. Look, jefe, I'd rather do work for a client that keeps me in Rifle than drive to within spitting distance of New Mexico for the day.
GMAT's are tomorrow, and then I am off to the Sierra for a week to climb with Rob. Psyched! Let's just say that this week has been dragging, given that I am off to one of the best alpine climbing places in the country.
I'll hopefully have a better report when I get back. Maybe with photos.
Gotta pack. Silverman is talking about porn. This is a disaster.
The work is pretty un-blogworthy. Basically, it breaks down like this:
-I tried to figure out who owns a ranch.....Guess what, the owner is a rancher.
-Then, I had to drive to Trinidad, CO (sex change capital of the world!) I successfully avoided THAT, but I spent a day in an abstractor's office where the whole gaggle of broads were literally glued to the TV watching One Life to Live. When TimmyO called and asked if I wanted to go climbing, I was nearly inconsolable. "Sorry bud, can't go. Surrounded by eunuch white trash."
-My boss got mad at me because I told a client I had time for their project. I like their work, but John thinks they're a pain in the ass. Look, jefe, I'd rather do work for a client that keeps me in Rifle than drive to within spitting distance of New Mexico for the day.
GMAT's are tomorrow, and then I am off to the Sierra for a week to climb with Rob. Psyched! Let's just say that this week has been dragging, given that I am off to one of the best alpine climbing places in the country.
I'll hopefully have a better report when I get back. Maybe with photos.
Gotta pack. Silverman is talking about porn. This is a disaster.
Monday, August 4, 2008
King Bro Gnar
Ever heard of a "Bro Gnar"? Even if you haven't heard the term, you probably know one. Mr. Bro Gnar (BG) is cooler than you, and certainly cooler than your lame ass friends. BG can be a skate rat, a climber punk, or, and this is probably preferred terrain, a ski douche. BG's name is derived from his mode of speech, in which indecipherable slang is tossed around with reckless abandon. These lingo bombs hit their targets and leave little for the CSI team to go on.
"Bro, that pow was SICK!"
"Yo man, dope!"
And so on. Even typing these fake quotes makes me hate English. You get the point. A BG sucks, and everyone knows it but him and his BG friends. Alas.
The trouble starts when BG's words and/or actions begin to affect me.
Kate and I headed up to Independence Pass after she did a triathlon on Saturday. It was going to be a reasonably mellow camping/climbing trip, and we were hoping to stay along Lincoln Creek just above Aspen. There is a string of about 25 free sites that the Forest Service has staked out, all of which overlook a picturesque creek and snowcapped mountains. I'd say go for yourself to see, but you may run into the King Bro Gnar, a bastard from Crested Butte.
After some afternoon climbing, Kate and I headed up the creek to search for a site. We weren't surprised to find the first several taken, although we commented that it looked like a terrible WalMart convention given all the cut off T-shirts, Bud Light cans, and heavy metal mellifluously flowing from souped up Bronco II's. We drove past site after site, and were discouraged by all of the traffic that seemed to be inundating our quiet back road. Sure, it wasn't our road, but we were there to enjoy nature. All these other jack wieners just wanted to get bombed and tear it up in 4 low. When Kate and I finally found an open site, we had driven for close to an hour, and were just happy that the ordeal had ended. Premature tent unrolling.
We were pulling out various camping implements; tent, stove, sleeping bag, when a VW campervan drove up with a Dodge 2500 Diesel just behind. For some reason, they saw our site and decided to park exactly where our tent was destined. When BG emerged from his van, I heard something remarkably stupid come out of his mouth. "You guys mind if we share your site?" His friend stood by his Dodge nodding in quiet agreement. After all, they had each arrived in their individual vehicles. Their dog pissed near Kate's front wheel.
Well, yes, I did mind. As a show of courtesy (to BG? to Kate? to Fido?) I walked back to the car and asked Kate if she wanted to share the site. I might as well have asked if she'd like to eat dirt for dinner.
When I returned to BG, I calmly explained that we weren't keen on sharing, and I was sorry, but they'd have to go.
"Nah Brah. This is Forest Service camping. You didn't even pay for it. We're sticking around."
I'll admit, this possibility never crossed my mind. I figured that any decent human would realize that they were being an ass, and kindly drive along. Add interpersonal insouciance to the BG's qualifications.
Every man likes to think of the bad ass shit they'd say, do, or roundhouse kick when some dipshit does something like steal a campsite from under their Therm-a-rest. I just stood there, chuckling at the nerve and shaking my head in disbelief. Kate and I met back at the car under the banner of her stare that read: "Are these morons serious?" and quickly decided on the only reasonable conclusion: pack up and find a new site. We sure weren't going to share a campfire with these guys.
"So, I wanna make another S'more. Oh, by the way, since I have no choice but to rescind my objection to your existence, could you pass the marshmallows? Sick!"
Kate and I found a new site further along the Pass, only a few minutes after seeing two hulking SUV's smash mirrors when both drivers misjudged the width of their Goliaths. What the hell is happening to that place?
"Bro, that pow was SICK!"
"Yo man, dope!"
And so on. Even typing these fake quotes makes me hate English. You get the point. A BG sucks, and everyone knows it but him and his BG friends. Alas.
The trouble starts when BG's words and/or actions begin to affect me.
Kate and I headed up to Independence Pass after she did a triathlon on Saturday. It was going to be a reasonably mellow camping/climbing trip, and we were hoping to stay along Lincoln Creek just above Aspen. There is a string of about 25 free sites that the Forest Service has staked out, all of which overlook a picturesque creek and snowcapped mountains. I'd say go for yourself to see, but you may run into the King Bro Gnar, a bastard from Crested Butte.
After some afternoon climbing, Kate and I headed up the creek to search for a site. We weren't surprised to find the first several taken, although we commented that it looked like a terrible WalMart convention given all the cut off T-shirts, Bud Light cans, and heavy metal mellifluously flowing from souped up Bronco II's. We drove past site after site, and were discouraged by all of the traffic that seemed to be inundating our quiet back road. Sure, it wasn't our road, but we were there to enjoy nature. All these other jack wieners just wanted to get bombed and tear it up in 4 low. When Kate and I finally found an open site, we had driven for close to an hour, and were just happy that the ordeal had ended. Premature tent unrolling.
We were pulling out various camping implements; tent, stove, sleeping bag, when a VW campervan drove up with a Dodge 2500 Diesel just behind. For some reason, they saw our site and decided to park exactly where our tent was destined. When BG emerged from his van, I heard something remarkably stupid come out of his mouth. "You guys mind if we share your site?" His friend stood by his Dodge nodding in quiet agreement. After all, they had each arrived in their individual vehicles. Their dog pissed near Kate's front wheel.
Well, yes, I did mind. As a show of courtesy (to BG? to Kate? to Fido?) I walked back to the car and asked Kate if she wanted to share the site. I might as well have asked if she'd like to eat dirt for dinner.
When I returned to BG, I calmly explained that we weren't keen on sharing, and I was sorry, but they'd have to go.
"Nah Brah. This is Forest Service camping. You didn't even pay for it. We're sticking around."
I'll admit, this possibility never crossed my mind. I figured that any decent human would realize that they were being an ass, and kindly drive along. Add interpersonal insouciance to the BG's qualifications.
Every man likes to think of the bad ass shit they'd say, do, or roundhouse kick when some dipshit does something like steal a campsite from under their Therm-a-rest. I just stood there, chuckling at the nerve and shaking my head in disbelief. Kate and I met back at the car under the banner of her stare that read: "Are these morons serious?" and quickly decided on the only reasonable conclusion: pack up and find a new site. We sure weren't going to share a campfire with these guys.
"So, I wanna make another S'more. Oh, by the way, since I have no choice but to rescind my objection to your existence, could you pass the marshmallows? Sick!"
Kate and I found a new site further along the Pass, only a few minutes after seeing two hulking SUV's smash mirrors when both drivers misjudged the width of their Goliaths. What the hell is happening to that place?
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