Volume I

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

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

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

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

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

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

Now, on to the emails!

J.K. from Princeton NJ writes:

Dear Pat,

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

(Abridged)

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

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

One final email from H.S. in Denver.

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

A) a match of wits

B) a match of strength

C) a good ole American eating contest?

Yours truly Shaquille Orangutan

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

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

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

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

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

Mailbag Precursor

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

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

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

Fall Classic

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

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

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

* * * *

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

* * * *

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

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

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

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

Ups and Downs

I'm feeling like The Dude.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Eastward Ho!

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

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

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

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

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

Del Taco's unique deivery

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

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

Meat Hose?

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

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

Back on the Farm

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

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

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

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

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

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

Rosie layin' down the law.

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

VP Debate running diary

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Handiman

Boli, my landlady, is eccentric. A squat, authoritative Indian woman, she has a blunt style of negotiation. She brushed me off as I questioned the wording in our lease, and directly told me to mow the lawn regularly. (Oops.) That's not to say she has lost her good British sensibilities. She gave me a great cup of tea while we signed the lease.
Boli uses a handyman named Henry for anything that goes wrong in the house. Henry, she told me, is dependable and she trusts his work, so call him for anything that needs attention. Within the first few days, we were calling Henry. Not that the house was dilapidated, merely that some work had been done just before we moved in, and there were a few things that needed screwdriver attention. Namely, the drain in Kate's bath wouldn't work, the shades needed to be hanged (hung?) and the garbage disposal was broken.
Henry arrived while I was at the house. My reaction was that of stunned elation. This man looked exactly like my cinematic hero, The Big Lebowski. "Dude, welcome!" I said with a rather awkward high five. They're like hugs. Both people need to be psyched, or things are going to get weird.
Henry and I went into the house, and I was so fixated on the disposal and the blinds, and the fact that The Dude was in my kitchen, that I totally forgot about the drain. Sorry Kate. It eventually got fixed, and she only had to endure one extra week of what can best be described as a "shower-bath" before Henry made a return appearance. Turns out, the previous tenant was growing plants in the tub, and there was a dirt plug keeping the water at bay. What kind of plants would you grow in a room with no windows? I'll go out on a limb here and guess weed.
So Henry fixed the disposal in about 5 seconds, and turned to leave. I asked him to wait, as there were some new window shades that needed attention. He told me that it was really easy, all you needed was a power screwdriver. Maybe someone would get me one for Christmas, I told him, because I didn't have one. There had to be something in his truck, right?
I could tell his wheels were still spinning in an attempt to make me do it.
My wheels were spinning, too, and I figured that there might need to be a sweetening of the deal.
"Want a beer?"
We were hanging the shades in seconds.
The window in quesiton is right behind the head of our bed. Instead of moving such a bulky, burdensome piece of furniture, Henry just climbed on up and started drilling, boots on the bedspread. You can't have everything, I guess, and he was doing the work. I shut my mouth, drank my beer, and held my end of the shade. We'll deal with the blanket later.

September

I woke up on Wednesday and looked at my phone. Technology continues to rule the roost, because apparently I was incapable of realizing that September had passed by without Verizon's help. Immediately, two things jumped to mind.
First, that it was time to send my boss my monthly invoice. Getting a paycheck doesn't suck. It's a bit dicey, though, getting paid just once a month. For about 24 hours, you feel like Bill Gates, but twelve times a year, the realization hits. That money has to last twice as long.
The second thing I realized was that I was halfway through the best two climbing months of the year. September and October bless the northern hemisphere with cool temps, but its rarely too cold. Most of us have spent the summer climbing and enduring the heat, so now we might be strong enough to do the routes we've been dreaming about. These two months still have reasonably long days, there isn't the rain associated with the spring, and there is a bit of urgency knowing those skis are in the garage, waiting for weight. Time to get it done.
September was the time, and Rifle has been the backdrop. I've been trying to climb out there as much as possible, and I feel like I did a great job of it this year. My sister Reilly made it out for a trip, and Kate and I were there for several weekends. My work left me on the west slope fairly often, so I was already in the neighborhood. This worked to my advantage. There are the usual road warrior stalwarts basically living out there, so even when I made it out there solo, I could find partners.
Sometimes, pickin's are slim and the mind starts churning: "This sucks. I'm out here alone, the canyon is almost deserted even though its prime time, and the only guy I can find to climb with is some bozo dirtbag who talks tons of smack about how he's gonna get sponsored. Then you see him climb and it's just hanging from bolt to bolt. Christ, I wanna go home."
Fortunately, I met a guy named Derek recently who has been out in the canyon for the past month. He's been a steady partner the last couple of days I've been out, and I like to climb with him for a couple of reasons. Most importantly, he seems safe. I sure don't like hitting the ground. But also, he really reminds me of my buddy Ethan. Derek is a doctor, as is Ethan. They have similar mannerisms, are well spoken, and can talk about topics that go beyond climbing. It should be said, though, that the one first time I met Ethan's dad, I understood about 13% of the words that came out of his mouth. That's what a West Virginian accent does to my ears. Or, more precisely, doesn't do.
Derek and I get along because it's more interesting than just climbing. Don't get me wrong, it's the matrix we can work around. But I like to be able to carry on a conversation about topics outside crimps, slopers, and dynos. Lingo bombs, damaging their unintended audeince. Collateral damage.
After Rifle, I think Derek is headed to the Red. Ironically, where I climbed with Ethan for an extended period in college. Hey, it's October. I might fly into Lexington and meet him. Afterall, we only have one really good month left.