Lately, I've been really interested in Magnificent Bastard. I linked to it in my "Neck for Green" post on 12/8. I like their blog for fashion advice, certainly, but also as a good diversion when work gets slow. Aside from direction on sartorial splendor, MB has an entire lifestyle, Artful Dishevelment, in mind. This certainly manifests in alcohol consumption.
(If you're looking for another great blog, one strictly devoted to fashion, I'll suggest The Sartorialist. Special thanks to Kathy for opening my eyes to it.)
I'm not exactly a party animal, but as any twenty something might, I enjoy an adult beverage now and then. During the summer, I'll pay homage to my British blood (Welsh, specifically) and defeat the stifling heat through a powerful concoction of gin mixed with tonic, topped with fresh lime. As the weather has turned, though, I've been less assured. I could always turn to my old friends Stout and Porter, but what is an aspiring Bastard to do when he feels the need for a proper cocktail as the snow comes down? The advice, it turns out, is to call for a Manhattan.
My friend Dan keeps the bar at a great Italian trattoria called Radda here in Boulder, and we've been comparing notes recently on how to prepare a most Magnificent winter drink. Dan suggests mixing your favorite Kentucky whiskey with Carpano Antica sweet vermouth, select bitters, and bourbon soaked cherries. I, in turn, suggest you follow Dan's suggestion. My only addition? Keep your barware and booze safe from harm. I've recently paid a hefty price for my ignorance of this pressing issue.
Forget Copenhagen, health care, or a soaring deficit that will eventually cripple the financial viability of America. The real killer at the end of 2009 is an immutable notion that scientists, such as myself, call gravity. I'll spare you the technicalities and acceleration rates (and save myself countless trips to Wikipedia, er, my expensive collection of scientific texts. Perhaps you've heard of the classic treatise, "High School Biology"?)
Over the past few years, I've been accumulating supplies for a proper bar that any young gentleman could be proud of. Certainly some of these details came in the form of gifts, as was the case for my wine glasses. My father is an aficionado, and I believe took great joy from passing along glasses that would diffuse the subtle aromas of Pinot, Bordeaux, or Nebbiolo. My stepbrother has been kind enough to keep me well stocked with fine gin. I've supplemented with various bottles and other glassware, and most recently, I was given four fantastic low ball old-fashioned glasses that looked perfect with three cubes of ice, and two fingers of liquor. The combination left me one happy Bastard.
To celebrate this final touch, I had Dan to the house on Saturday night for a drink after he finished a shift at the restaurant. I'd been keeping this collection up on a shelf about 15 feet inside the front door as a welcome to any guest. Dan arrived and saw the new glasses, nodded his approval, and we took down the necessary pieces for a great Manhattan. As we sat around catching up, I felt myself almost detach from the conversation in an attitude of contentment. This is exactly the situation I'd hoped would accompany my bar; the facilitation of friendships, and their solidification over good cocktails.
I awoke the next morning having hatched a plan to go climbing with Dan up at the Industrial Wall, our second trip in as many weeks. I was in the kitchen, making breakfast and preparing for my day outside when I noticed the two glasses from the night before, now dry, on a towel near the sink. I returned them to their spot on the top shelf, reaching past the coffee beans, grinder, and tea on the shelf below. I looked at my roommate Brian and told him that I thought the bottom shelf was looking a little haggard.
"We'll be fine if that one falls off the wall, I guess, but if the top one goes, we're hosed."
Some things you can't take back, once uttered. I should have kept my mouth shut. Not more than 5 minutes later, coffee still hot and cereal still crisp against the milk, there was a crash. Not the innocuous clattering of caffeinated beans over tile, or even the shrill clank that our aluminum stove-top espresso maker would have sounded. This was the unmistakable violence of glass. And then, the incredulous silence of two roommates wondering what the hell had just happened.
Damnit. I've been picking up shards of glass for days.
Tuesday, December 22, 2009
Tuesday, December 15, 2009
A Hero's Journey
On Sunday, I slogged up the hill to The Industrial Wall with my buddies Dan and Kate. The forecast was enormously optimistic, calling for partly sunny skies and temps near 50. That sounded like a Spring Break foray to Cancun after the sub zero ice-fest we've recently had in Boulder. Dan wanted to work on a route called Vogue and I was game to get outside after being resigned to the gym ever since returning from KY. Kate didn't necessarily want to climb, but she'd been out of town for the past 10 days and was psyched to cheer her boyfriend on the super-project.
I had talked to Dan on Saturday night so we could make plans. I was optimistic, and knew that the wall only got sun from roughly 11:00 until 3:00, so we'd have to make the most of the warming daylight. I asked him, "Should I should swing by at 8:30, 9:00?" We planned for 9:30 and a full day of rock climbing. I went to sleep with my bag packed, and a building excitement for climbing at one of Boulder's premiere crags (just after Movement Climbing and Fitness). Then I woke up at 10:00 on Sunday morning.
Goddamnit. There are few things worse than waking up and already being late. There's no relaxed cup of coffee, no patient review of the headlines. There's running. There's rushing. There's poor sandwich making. And there's me, looking at my phone, volume turned to "Silent" in an attempt at restful sleep the night before, shaking my head.
I suppose the cold that I'd been fighting explains the fact that my body demanded, and ultimately received, a full 11 hours of sleep. At least I didn't require 13, because then I'd have really been late. My Subaru raced towards Dan and Kate's place in Eldo while I worked the Blackberry. I'd be there soon, I told them. Thanks for waiting, I apologized. Look, it's Blake, I exclaimed.
Blake was driving out of the canyon, away from the climbing. We waved each other down to a stop and our cars managed a full road block on the highway. No one else was driving there at the moment, so there were no fatalities, nor even honked horns. Blake was pissed and complaining, in large part due to two particular stimuli. First, he couldn't find anyone to climb with, Boulder being filled with such soft wankers. Second, that's what Blake does. It's almost endearing in its predictability. Gym ropes suck. Weather sucks. The job market sucks. I suck. Oh well.
I tried to alleviate his first source of irritation by inviting him to head up the hill with us. He figured it might be worth a try, and turned his car around. We met Dan and Kate, they seemed perfectly unfazed with my (and now our) late arrival, and we started the hour-long slog through the snow towards the train tracks high on the mountain above.
The Industrial Wall is about as remote a sport climbing destination as I'll visit. The first part of the hike is a road, and then there's some stomping through a meadow, and then you've got to head straight up the side of a mountain to some train tracks. That sounds easy, but after a couple of weeks of snowy weather, the path was anything but clear. Fortunately for me, I came armed with gaiters to ensure I looked like a jackass, and approach shoes with a tread as bald as Telly Savalas' head. These ensured I'd slip-slide my way in the general direction of "up" without much discernible progress. On the bright side, I only lost my footing and hit the ground once. Sad, thought, that this tumble ended with me in a yucca plant, blood oozing from three precise holes in my left palm. In their own sanguine language, they said three words:
Get. New. Shoes.
When I finally arrived at the train tracks, I smiled in the satisfaction that ahead was only a short train tunnel (one can just see the light coming from the other end), and then the crag. (Yes, there was the minor detail that I'd have to survive this dark walk, as trains have the unpleasant propensity to barrel through from time to time.) Dan and I waited and talked for a moment, each happy to wait for Kate as she, too, slogged up the final stretch. Blake had already come and gone, his general annoyance manifest as rabbit quick steps up the hill, his new boots allowing grip. Just as Kate was about to pop over the final steep bit and arrive for the home stretch, Blake walked back towards us, appearing like a ghost out of the tunnel.
He'd been through to the other side, looked up at the crag, and decided that it was too windy, too cold, and that the sun, in fact, had given way to snow. The weather man was a goddamn fascist prick bastard, and he was going home. Adios. On the bright side, an hour prior while we were still at the car he had seen my ski poles in my trunk, and used them to ease his ascent up the hill. I asked for their return to ease my pending descent, thereby completing my transition from Magnificent Bastard to dork. With my full regalia of backpacker nerditude, I waved Blake adieu and started through the tunnel, Dan and Kate just behind.
As we made our way up the cliff, it became apparent that in spite of the predictability of Blake's disdain, his observation was 100% correct. It was COLD! And snowing. And windy. And what-the-hell-we-shoulda-just-gone-to-Movement-this-really-does-suck. Watching the snow flakes come down with ever increasing ferocity, the three remaining rock pioneers resigned to finish our tea and call it a day. Dan held out some hope that the clouds were breaking, but Kate and I looked at each other and shook off his optimism. Our psyche was gone, and we were ready to throw in the towel. We headed back through the tunnel, risking literal train-wreck a third time. As soon as we popped out into the light, though, Dan looked up towards the hill and saw sun instead of snowflakes. "Guys!" Vogue looked like it might, in fact, be viable if only we'd believe, only give a little more. What was in it for Kate and Me? An allusion to JFK and McNamara, we'd come this far...why not throw a few more bodies at the problem. Once more unto the breach, dear friends.
Dan and I both tried to do the warm up pitch with wooden toes and numb fingers, and Kate just slumped into a heap. An artist, her original plan was to sketch, but her fingers were too cold to even grip the pencil. Remember the light that was in such short supply? Well, it was fading. Nonetheless, Dan booted up and went to work on his project. He was in full Rifle mode; working the moves and taking an understandably-yet-painfully long burn. I was bundled in goose down, but even still, as he lowered to the ground after his climb, I was finished. Dan was roundly thankful for the team's sacrifice, and for that I'm appreciative. I don't mind giving up a day to a buddy, but it's nice when he notices.
With that, we slid back down the hill into the growing dusk. We threw a few snowballs and shared some stories of mountain lion attacks as we walked through the woods, eventually arriving back at my trusty steed, Abby the Subaru. Dan and Kate then had friends to their house, and any sacrifice I might have made during the climbing day was repaid in bourbon, ginger bread, and roasted chicken. The scales were fully made equal, and I smiled at the interesting friends I've made.
I had talked to Dan on Saturday night so we could make plans. I was optimistic, and knew that the wall only got sun from roughly 11:00 until 3:00, so we'd have to make the most of the warming daylight. I asked him, "Should I should swing by at 8:30, 9:00?" We planned for 9:30 and a full day of rock climbing. I went to sleep with my bag packed, and a building excitement for climbing at one of Boulder's premiere crags (just after Movement Climbing and Fitness). Then I woke up at 10:00 on Sunday morning.
Goddamnit. There are few things worse than waking up and already being late. There's no relaxed cup of coffee, no patient review of the headlines. There's running. There's rushing. There's poor sandwich making. And there's me, looking at my phone, volume turned to "Silent" in an attempt at restful sleep the night before, shaking my head.
I suppose the cold that I'd been fighting explains the fact that my body demanded, and ultimately received, a full 11 hours of sleep. At least I didn't require 13, because then I'd have really been late. My Subaru raced towards Dan and Kate's place in Eldo while I worked the Blackberry. I'd be there soon, I told them. Thanks for waiting, I apologized. Look, it's Blake, I exclaimed.
Blake was driving out of the canyon, away from the climbing. We waved each other down to a stop and our cars managed a full road block on the highway. No one else was driving there at the moment, so there were no fatalities, nor even honked horns. Blake was pissed and complaining, in large part due to two particular stimuli. First, he couldn't find anyone to climb with, Boulder being filled with such soft wankers. Second, that's what Blake does. It's almost endearing in its predictability. Gym ropes suck. Weather sucks. The job market sucks. I suck. Oh well.
I tried to alleviate his first source of irritation by inviting him to head up the hill with us. He figured it might be worth a try, and turned his car around. We met Dan and Kate, they seemed perfectly unfazed with my (and now our) late arrival, and we started the hour-long slog through the snow towards the train tracks high on the mountain above.
The Industrial Wall is about as remote a sport climbing destination as I'll visit. The first part of the hike is a road, and then there's some stomping through a meadow, and then you've got to head straight up the side of a mountain to some train tracks. That sounds easy, but after a couple of weeks of snowy weather, the path was anything but clear. Fortunately for me, I came armed with gaiters to ensure I looked like a jackass, and approach shoes with a tread as bald as Telly Savalas' head. These ensured I'd slip-slide my way in the general direction of "up" without much discernible progress. On the bright side, I only lost my footing and hit the ground once. Sad, thought, that this tumble ended with me in a yucca plant, blood oozing from three precise holes in my left palm. In their own sanguine language, they said three words:
Get. New. Shoes.
When I finally arrived at the train tracks, I smiled in the satisfaction that ahead was only a short train tunnel (one can just see the light coming from the other end), and then the crag. (Yes, there was the minor detail that I'd have to survive this dark walk, as trains have the unpleasant propensity to barrel through from time to time.) Dan and I waited and talked for a moment, each happy to wait for Kate as she, too, slogged up the final stretch. Blake had already come and gone, his general annoyance manifest as rabbit quick steps up the hill, his new boots allowing grip. Just as Kate was about to pop over the final steep bit and arrive for the home stretch, Blake walked back towards us, appearing like a ghost out of the tunnel.
He'd been through to the other side, looked up at the crag, and decided that it was too windy, too cold, and that the sun, in fact, had given way to snow. The weather man was a goddamn fascist prick bastard, and he was going home. Adios. On the bright side, an hour prior while we were still at the car he had seen my ski poles in my trunk, and used them to ease his ascent up the hill. I asked for their return to ease my pending descent, thereby completing my transition from Magnificent Bastard to dork. With my full regalia of backpacker nerditude, I waved Blake adieu and started through the tunnel, Dan and Kate just behind.
As we made our way up the cliff, it became apparent that in spite of the predictability of Blake's disdain, his observation was 100% correct. It was COLD! And snowing. And windy. And what-the-hell-we-shoulda-just-gone-to-Movement-this-really-does-suck. Watching the snow flakes come down with ever increasing ferocity, the three remaining rock pioneers resigned to finish our tea and call it a day. Dan held out some hope that the clouds were breaking, but Kate and I looked at each other and shook off his optimism. Our psyche was gone, and we were ready to throw in the towel. We headed back through the tunnel, risking literal train-wreck a third time. As soon as we popped out into the light, though, Dan looked up towards the hill and saw sun instead of snowflakes. "Guys!" Vogue looked like it might, in fact, be viable if only we'd believe, only give a little more. What was in it for Kate and Me? An allusion to JFK and McNamara, we'd come this far...why not throw a few more bodies at the problem. Once more unto the breach, dear friends.
Dan and I both tried to do the warm up pitch with wooden toes and numb fingers, and Kate just slumped into a heap. An artist, her original plan was to sketch, but her fingers were too cold to even grip the pencil. Remember the light that was in such short supply? Well, it was fading. Nonetheless, Dan booted up and went to work on his project. He was in full Rifle mode; working the moves and taking an understandably-yet-painfully long burn. I was bundled in goose down, but even still, as he lowered to the ground after his climb, I was finished. Dan was roundly thankful for the team's sacrifice, and for that I'm appreciative. I don't mind giving up a day to a buddy, but it's nice when he notices.
With that, we slid back down the hill into the growing dusk. We threw a few snowballs and shared some stories of mountain lion attacks as we walked through the woods, eventually arriving back at my trusty steed, Abby the Subaru. Dan and Kate then had friends to their house, and any sacrifice I might have made during the climbing day was repaid in bourbon, ginger bread, and roasted chicken. The scales were fully made equal, and I smiled at the interesting friends I've made.
Tuesday, December 8, 2009
Risking My Magnificent Neck in Search of Green
Greetings, Voyeurs. Abaluba hasn't been very well connected to the home base in Boulder lately, with something like 90% of the recent posts coming from Kentucky. We're going to keep the peripatetic propensity alive with my first ever correspondence from the bustling metropolis of Alamosa. I'm holed up in the shadow of Colorado's southern behemoths, the Peaks Blanca and Little Bear. The San Luis Valley is typically bathed in sun, making it alternatively an agricultural breadbasket in the fields, and a replica of the Sahara along the shimmering sands of the Great Sand Dunes National Park.
That sun power is why I've driven down here, ironically through the teeth of a blizzard. A client has proposed a solar field just out of town, and I've come down to do some research in the courthouse. I'm psyched to help them get those electrons to market, especially since my Berkeley application referenced the work I've done in the realm of solar energy.
Legitimizing my resume wasn't the only reason to make the trek down from the home base. I've got bills to pay! Yesterday, I was out on Pearl Street grabbing a bite with my friend Dan when I walked past a great menswear store, Kinsley & Co. They are, or I should say were, right on Broadway at Pearl, and are (were) attached to the only Orvis retailer in Boulder. This shared retail space was practically the only reason I'd previously set foot in the place, though not for lack of desire for Kinsley's fine threads. In fact, I would lust. Sportcoats that boast tags with commas and cashmere wool from Italy are spendy, to say the obvious, and beautiful, to say the least. They are also just a bit beyond me. At least they were, until the economy went to hell and people quit buying things.
I'd been in the market for a number of wardrobe pieces for a long while. For the last couple of years, I've been looking for a dress coat, something in the overcoat or pea coat family. A blazer of sportcoat was also high on my list, and I recently realized the urgency even more pointedly when I got to the office sporting a tie (in homage to my Mad Men fetish) but only able to bundle in a ratty puffy coat still reeking of campfire. As Christmas lists are being put together this time of year, I figured I'd ask my folks, er...Santa, for some dough to offset the cost.
I had been consulting various sources to narrow down the search. First, my two gay uncles have provided plentiful insight. One talked me through some of his favorite styles, but then shed some light on a fashion blog called Magnificent Bastard. It's nice to get some unadulterated fashion advice that also happens to be pretty entertaining. During slow minutes at work, I'll check this website out and hope my picture doesn't make an appearance under the ultimate pejorative tag: Toolbag. So far, that space has been reserved for that bozo Jon, ex-husband to Kate, and father of eight.
Back at Kinsley, I had Dan the Man Mirsky with me. Dan's got plenty of style and swagger, so I was happy to have him as a source of confirmation for the stuff I was trying on. The owner and I began to talk about what I was looking for, and he took me to the rack of jackets. There were only two sportcoats in my size: 40 Long. The first one didn't exactly jump out at me, but he pulled the other off the rack and said, almost wistfully, "This is one of the nicest pieces I've ever had in the store." All the sales pitch I needed. He walked away, and I held a 100% cashmere sportcoat in my hands, its price tag reduced over a grand.
I pulled it on, looked in the mirror, and was instantly glad I'd waited to find the perfect jacket. It felt made specifically for my skinny torso, and the colors in the thread make it well suited for pants that run anywhere from jeans to gray, wool dress slacks. Thank you very much, Great Recession.
As I was walking towards the register, a rack of pea coats caught my eye, and I slipped on a beautiful import from Italy. I sure wasn't planning on filling the closet with the fur of pampered continental sheep, but someone had to do it, I suppose.
I may die a sad, painful death at the hands of a warmed planet and under the banner of a neutered ex-superpower, but at least I'll do so looking like one Magnificent Bastard.
That sun power is why I've driven down here, ironically through the teeth of a blizzard. A client has proposed a solar field just out of town, and I've come down to do some research in the courthouse. I'm psyched to help them get those electrons to market, especially since my Berkeley application referenced the work I've done in the realm of solar energy.
Legitimizing my resume wasn't the only reason to make the trek down from the home base. I've got bills to pay! Yesterday, I was out on Pearl Street grabbing a bite with my friend Dan when I walked past a great menswear store, Kinsley & Co. They are, or I should say were, right on Broadway at Pearl, and are (were) attached to the only Orvis retailer in Boulder. This shared retail space was practically the only reason I'd previously set foot in the place, though not for lack of desire for Kinsley's fine threads. In fact, I would lust. Sportcoats that boast tags with commas and cashmere wool from Italy are spendy, to say the obvious, and beautiful, to say the least. They are also just a bit beyond me. At least they were, until the economy went to hell and people quit buying things.
I'd been in the market for a number of wardrobe pieces for a long while. For the last couple of years, I've been looking for a dress coat, something in the overcoat or pea coat family. A blazer of sportcoat was also high on my list, and I recently realized the urgency even more pointedly when I got to the office sporting a tie (in homage to my Mad Men fetish) but only able to bundle in a ratty puffy coat still reeking of campfire. As Christmas lists are being put together this time of year, I figured I'd ask my folks, er...Santa, for some dough to offset the cost.
I had been consulting various sources to narrow down the search. First, my two gay uncles have provided plentiful insight. One talked me through some of his favorite styles, but then shed some light on a fashion blog called Magnificent Bastard. It's nice to get some unadulterated fashion advice that also happens to be pretty entertaining. During slow minutes at work, I'll check this website out and hope my picture doesn't make an appearance under the ultimate pejorative tag: Toolbag. So far, that space has been reserved for that bozo Jon, ex-husband to Kate, and father of eight.
Back at Kinsley, I had Dan the Man Mirsky with me. Dan's got plenty of style and swagger, so I was happy to have him as a source of confirmation for the stuff I was trying on. The owner and I began to talk about what I was looking for, and he took me to the rack of jackets. There were only two sportcoats in my size: 40 Long. The first one didn't exactly jump out at me, but he pulled the other off the rack and said, almost wistfully, "This is one of the nicest pieces I've ever had in the store." All the sales pitch I needed. He walked away, and I held a 100% cashmere sportcoat in my hands, its price tag reduced over a grand.
I pulled it on, looked in the mirror, and was instantly glad I'd waited to find the perfect jacket. It felt made specifically for my skinny torso, and the colors in the thread make it well suited for pants that run anywhere from jeans to gray, wool dress slacks. Thank you very much, Great Recession.
As I was walking towards the register, a rack of pea coats caught my eye, and I slipped on a beautiful import from Italy. I sure wasn't planning on filling the closet with the fur of pampered continental sheep, but someone had to do it, I suppose.
I may die a sad, painful death at the hands of a warmed planet and under the banner of a neutered ex-superpower, but at least I'll do so looking like one Magnificent Bastard.
Sunday, November 29, 2009
Return to Mountain Time
I drove back to Colorado after spending the Thanksgiving holiday at the family farm in central Missouri. Drinking Miller Lite and stuffing myself with turkey and, appropriately, stuffing, was a fine way to draw an end to the time in Kentucky. I'd spent a month climbing my ass off, concerned almost exclusively with the weather (perfect), climbs (sublime), food (plentiful, simple, flavorful) and sleep (as many hours as I wanted). Over the holiday, I had the chance to turn my attention to family and a gradual reintegration to the responsibilities of home.
Hanging out inside with my large extended family was fun, but the expansive farm allowed me plenty of time to reflect on what had just passed as I hiked around the woods. The month at The Highlander was, in all honesty, one of the best times of my life. I like to think of myself as fair and balanced, much like Fox News, though without the right-wing demagoguery and implied racist vitriol. As such, it's hard for me to think I'm being entirely fair, totally balanced, when I say that the whole month was basically picture perfect. If I have to nitpick, I suppose I could be bummed that I never was able to send Table of Colors. Sure, it would have been cool to do a 13a on the trip, and I put enough burns into that climb to have reasonably been expecting such an outcome. Getting grumpy about it feels too petulant and ridiculous, though. Besides, I've got one hell of a reason to get back.
If you're wondering, I wrote down the beta move by move and hold by hold. Hopefully I won't have too much remembering to do when I get back on it. Here's a couple of pics that demonstrate how I like to visualize myself climbing it, and what I actually looked like each and every time I was at the crux on point.
My climbing trip really broke down into two distinct sections. I spent the first two and a half weeks trying to do as many awesome 5.12's as possible, the intent being that I'd do them in three goes or less. I managed to climb plenty of really classic routes of the grade. In addition to the ones mentioned in "Best Day Yet," I did Twinkie, Belly of the Beast, Abiyoyo, Far From God, and Mercy the Huff.
The last week or so, I largely turned my attention to Table, and even though I never managed to do it without falling, it was still fun to juxtapose the "carpet bombing, send as much as possible" strategy with the "Roman siege mode" I have to implement when trying something that's really hard for me.
I had insanely good weather, and couldn't have expected temps to occasionally be too hot. The rains never really came, and I was climbing in shorts as much as pants. My friends who came to The Highlander were phenomenal - smart and interesting people who are hugely passionate about climbing but have interests outside of the sport. We'd have a great time climbing during the day, and have plenty of thought provoking conversations once we were back at the cabin. And The Highlander will remain THE standard for plush living. After a day of trying as hard as possible and wrecking myself on the rocks, the act of coming home to a kitchen, plumbing, a bed, and beers in the fridge made the cabin the perfect place to spend evenings. The internet kept me connected to work, and able to post for all you Voyeurs.
Just look how psyched the team was...
Hey Dan, could you look any creepier? Solid gold.
Thinking about the cabin a little more, I am pretty amazed at the contrast to the article I just read in the New York Times. The Highlander was located in the heart of Wolfe County, and was the home to a whole crew of Subaru driving out-of-towners, dining on organic produce and hoping for Sarah Palin to get the GOP nomination in a few years, thereby ensuring another term for our man Obama.
Wolfe County, on the other hand, is largely home to poor men and women on food stamps, hoping Sarah Palin gets the nod because she carries their hopes of a White House ruled by a rifle toting Christian mother. I just found it kind of interesting.
Anyway, it's back to work for me. I've got the Berkeley application due this week, as well as a pile of work to tidy up after my month away. Even so, I went to the gym yesterday to climb and catch up with some of the people who didn't make it out to The Red. Even though I seriously miss the climbing out in Kentucky, it's good to be home.
Hanging out inside with my large extended family was fun, but the expansive farm allowed me plenty of time to reflect on what had just passed as I hiked around the woods. The month at The Highlander was, in all honesty, one of the best times of my life. I like to think of myself as fair and balanced, much like Fox News, though without the right-wing demagoguery and implied racist vitriol. As such, it's hard for me to think I'm being entirely fair, totally balanced, when I say that the whole month was basically picture perfect. If I have to nitpick, I suppose I could be bummed that I never was able to send Table of Colors. Sure, it would have been cool to do a 13a on the trip, and I put enough burns into that climb to have reasonably been expecting such an outcome. Getting grumpy about it feels too petulant and ridiculous, though. Besides, I've got one hell of a reason to get back.If you're wondering, I wrote down the beta move by move and hold by hold. Hopefully I won't have too much remembering to do when I get back on it. Here's a couple of pics that demonstrate how I like to visualize myself climbing it, and what I actually looked like each and every time I was at the crux on point.
My climbing trip really broke down into two distinct sections. I spent the first two and a half weeks trying to do as many awesome 5.12's as possible, the intent being that I'd do them in three goes or less. I managed to climb plenty of really classic routes of the grade. In addition to the ones mentioned in "Best Day Yet," I did Twinkie, Belly of the Beast, Abiyoyo, Far From God, and Mercy the Huff.
The last week or so, I largely turned my attention to Table, and even though I never managed to do it without falling, it was still fun to juxtapose the "carpet bombing, send as much as possible" strategy with the "Roman siege mode" I have to implement when trying something that's really hard for me.
I had insanely good weather, and couldn't have expected temps to occasionally be too hot. The rains never really came, and I was climbing in shorts as much as pants. My friends who came to The Highlander were phenomenal - smart and interesting people who are hugely passionate about climbing but have interests outside of the sport. We'd have a great time climbing during the day, and have plenty of thought provoking conversations once we were back at the cabin. And The Highlander will remain THE standard for plush living. After a day of trying as hard as possible and wrecking myself on the rocks, the act of coming home to a kitchen, plumbing, a bed, and beers in the fridge made the cabin the perfect place to spend evenings. The internet kept me connected to work, and able to post for all you Voyeurs.
Just look how psyched the team was...
Hey Dan, could you look any creepier? Solid gold.
Thinking about the cabin a little more, I am pretty amazed at the contrast to the article I just read in the New York Times. The Highlander was located in the heart of Wolfe County, and was the home to a whole crew of Subaru driving out-of-towners, dining on organic produce and hoping for Sarah Palin to get the GOP nomination in a few years, thereby ensuring another term for our man Obama.
Wolfe County, on the other hand, is largely home to poor men and women on food stamps, hoping Sarah Palin gets the nod because she carries their hopes of a White House ruled by a rifle toting Christian mother. I just found it kind of interesting.
Anyway, it's back to work for me. I've got the Berkeley application due this week, as well as a pile of work to tidy up after my month away. Even so, I went to the gym yesterday to climb and catch up with some of the people who didn't make it out to The Red. Even though I seriously miss the climbing out in Kentucky, it's good to be home.
Saturday, November 21, 2009
Perhaps the Best Day Yet
Friday was, perhaps, my best day yet here in Kentucky. Dan and I headed down to Drive By crag and had our sights set on the dozen or so 5 star routes at the wall. Doing each and every one of them was probably out of the picture, but we'd at least give our best to put a dent into the dozen. I'd been there before, one day last fall with my buddy Derek Lyle, and remembered a fantastic 12a called Check Your Grip that had bouted me at the crux. I fell off, not from being unable to do the hardest moves, but instead from a pump in my forearms that left my motor skills so inebriated that to hold any jug, regardless of size, would have been impossible, even to save my own life were it in danger.
My hope was that I'd be able to get back on CYG and feel more accustomed to the steep, unrelenting climbing. After Dan and I warmed up on two great 5.11's, we moved our rope bag under that first objective. Dan went first, and with whatever hazy beta I could provide, tied into the cord and sauntered skyward. He's only been in the gorge for 36 hours, but after a summer of crushing, he is apparently in fine shape. There was minimal thrutching, and he flashed the route in fine style. Now the pressure was on me.
I lowered him back down to the ground, psyched for my buddy, but nervous that, even armed with nearly three weeks of climbing here, I wouldn't be able to do the route. My main goal was to repeat the 4x4 mantra, keep breathing, and give myself a good shot at sending. Dan gave me a few tips on how to go at the holds he'd just grabbed, and I pulled onto the wall.
The good news is that after dedicating a large portion of this otherwise meager life to climbing, I'm getting stronger. As we laughed at the dinner table after we'd driven home and found our friends Nick and Robin now occupying The Highlander, "I should freaking hope so!" It's really fun to get onto a climb you'd been on just a year earlier, one that felt impossible for one reason or another, and pretty well waltz to the chains.
After doing Check Your Grip, Dan and I got on Hakuna Matata. This is another 12a, one that wanders up a vertical wall painted in striking orange and gray streaks. Hakuna offers incipient cracks and little chalk for the 90 feet between the ground and anchors. Fortunately, it had the draws hanging on the bolts, which made for a slightly easier time on the climb. I managed the onsight, and for the entire 25 minutes or so that I was climbing, my mind was nowhere else.
Everyone's got an onsight limit, a grade they feel they've got a chance to do first try, without beta or preemptive know-how, whether it's 5.9 or 5.14. I love the test of slowly working through unfamiliar sequences, managing my body's fatigue and mind's wanderings. Only once, while I was resting on a jug at about mid height, did I emerge from my trance, yelling down to the ground to say hello to a friend who'd arrived. Beyond this quick conversation, I only saw the holds in front of me, only worried about the next few feet of rock instead of the coming days/months/years of life. I love the meditation that this type of climbing gives. Doing Hakuna Matata first try, onsight was exactly that moment of focus that makes climbing so magnetic for me.
After Hakuna, Dan and I went over to a climb called Primus Noctum, a route I'd heard about and watched another climber attempt. The crux, a defined bouldery section after a long run of easy but slightly pumpy climbing, was the main worry. Again, I tied in and tried to do another 5.12 route first try. Quickly, I found myself at the rest just before the boulder problem, and I felt so relaxed, so confident in my ability to do the coming hard moves. I rested as long as I felt I needed, and then calmly, smoothly pulled through the small crimps to the large horns above, clipping the chains and claiming another send. Beyond just a few minutes of focus when I was on an individual route, I realized that nearly the entire day was spent in that zone. I happily lowered down as the sun began its slow melt into the Earth, but was hoping for one last climb before darkness.
I rested a few minutes, and then hopped onto an 11D that I'd never done, nor heard anything about. I was relaxed for the climb, talking to people on the ground while at a rest and enjoying the perfect knee bars and sinker hand jams that I found along the way. I've spent enough days at the Creek and at Rifle that when I'm lucky enough to find myself fused to the rock in either of those two positions, it's like cheating. I clipped the chains and lowered back as the dark set in, really happy that my day ended with so many good sends. For me, that's a banner day.
When I got back to the cabin, the good luck continued. Nick had done Table of Colors, and when we started talking about my progress (or lack thereof) on the route, he gave me a crucial suggestion of where to put my right foot when I'm embroiled in the crux's hardest moves. I'm really excited to go back, armed with the new sequence, to try to send the route before I have to take off.
Today, Dan and I are resting at The Highlander while the rest of the crew, now swollen with good friends Dave, Brie, Nick and Robin, are out climbing. Two more friends get here tonight, and the homey needlepoint on the wall will ring true: "May our house always be too small to hold all of our friends." I'm excited to kick back with a beer this evening after they return home, listening to stories about their day at The Red. I hope they find a tranquility and presence of mind like I managed upon yesterday.
Abaluba! Life is good!
My hope was that I'd be able to get back on CYG and feel more accustomed to the steep, unrelenting climbing. After Dan and I warmed up on two great 5.11's, we moved our rope bag under that first objective. Dan went first, and with whatever hazy beta I could provide, tied into the cord and sauntered skyward. He's only been in the gorge for 36 hours, but after a summer of crushing, he is apparently in fine shape. There was minimal thrutching, and he flashed the route in fine style. Now the pressure was on me.
I lowered him back down to the ground, psyched for my buddy, but nervous that, even armed with nearly three weeks of climbing here, I wouldn't be able to do the route. My main goal was to repeat the 4x4 mantra, keep breathing, and give myself a good shot at sending. Dan gave me a few tips on how to go at the holds he'd just grabbed, and I pulled onto the wall.
The good news is that after dedicating a large portion of this otherwise meager life to climbing, I'm getting stronger. As we laughed at the dinner table after we'd driven home and found our friends Nick and Robin now occupying The Highlander, "I should freaking hope so!" It's really fun to get onto a climb you'd been on just a year earlier, one that felt impossible for one reason or another, and pretty well waltz to the chains.
After doing Check Your Grip, Dan and I got on Hakuna Matata. This is another 12a, one that wanders up a vertical wall painted in striking orange and gray streaks. Hakuna offers incipient cracks and little chalk for the 90 feet between the ground and anchors. Fortunately, it had the draws hanging on the bolts, which made for a slightly easier time on the climb. I managed the onsight, and for the entire 25 minutes or so that I was climbing, my mind was nowhere else.
Everyone's got an onsight limit, a grade they feel they've got a chance to do first try, without beta or preemptive know-how, whether it's 5.9 or 5.14. I love the test of slowly working through unfamiliar sequences, managing my body's fatigue and mind's wanderings. Only once, while I was resting on a jug at about mid height, did I emerge from my trance, yelling down to the ground to say hello to a friend who'd arrived. Beyond this quick conversation, I only saw the holds in front of me, only worried about the next few feet of rock instead of the coming days/months/years of life. I love the meditation that this type of climbing gives. Doing Hakuna Matata first try, onsight was exactly that moment of focus that makes climbing so magnetic for me.
After Hakuna, Dan and I went over to a climb called Primus Noctum, a route I'd heard about and watched another climber attempt. The crux, a defined bouldery section after a long run of easy but slightly pumpy climbing, was the main worry. Again, I tied in and tried to do another 5.12 route first try. Quickly, I found myself at the rest just before the boulder problem, and I felt so relaxed, so confident in my ability to do the coming hard moves. I rested as long as I felt I needed, and then calmly, smoothly pulled through the small crimps to the large horns above, clipping the chains and claiming another send. Beyond just a few minutes of focus when I was on an individual route, I realized that nearly the entire day was spent in that zone. I happily lowered down as the sun began its slow melt into the Earth, but was hoping for one last climb before darkness.
I rested a few minutes, and then hopped onto an 11D that I'd never done, nor heard anything about. I was relaxed for the climb, talking to people on the ground while at a rest and enjoying the perfect knee bars and sinker hand jams that I found along the way. I've spent enough days at the Creek and at Rifle that when I'm lucky enough to find myself fused to the rock in either of those two positions, it's like cheating. I clipped the chains and lowered back as the dark set in, really happy that my day ended with so many good sends. For me, that's a banner day.
When I got back to the cabin, the good luck continued. Nick had done Table of Colors, and when we started talking about my progress (or lack thereof) on the route, he gave me a crucial suggestion of where to put my right foot when I'm embroiled in the crux's hardest moves. I'm really excited to go back, armed with the new sequence, to try to send the route before I have to take off.
Today, Dan and I are resting at The Highlander while the rest of the crew, now swollen with good friends Dave, Brie, Nick and Robin, are out climbing. Two more friends get here tonight, and the homey needlepoint on the wall will ring true: "May our house always be too small to hold all of our friends." I'm excited to kick back with a beer this evening after they return home, listening to stories about their day at The Red. I hope they find a tranquility and presence of mind like I managed upon yesterday.
Abaluba! Life is good!
Thursday, November 19, 2009
Slight Doubts (Warning: Lingo Bombs)
Dan arrived safely yesterday, and we've been having a blast ever since. Sadly, he's not an avid follower of Abaluba. You remember that scene from Indiana Jones where the freaky Indian King rips the dude's heart out and shows it to him as he's dying? Well, that's basically what I felt like when Dan told me that he had every episode of Mad Men at home on his computer back in Boulder. I should have called him/worn a metal vest instead of relying on blog power.
Right after we met at the airport, we headed to the store and loaded up on food/booze supplies, The beer/wine/bourbon should come in handy. Besides the two of us, there are another 6 people slated to arrive at various points over the next 48 hours, and every one of them is fun. I figure that even with our recent stock-up, we'll need to make at least one more obligatory run to the beer trailer, the local, well, trailer, that sells booze. Yeah, it's about as bad as it sounds. You walk in through a cloud of smoke, and survey the scene. The sign outside advertises "Budweiser, Bud Light, Busch, Natural Light and other beers".
The good news is that as likely as you are to find a fine American pilsner, you have an equal chance of seeing some nOOb in his harness, quickdraws dangling, excitedly picking up a case of PBR to take back to the fire. "BroBrah, I crushed it today. I got the top rope onsight flash of Defy the Laws, third try!"
Sounds like some lame-ass 8a card. For the record, you can't repeat-flash something. This needs to be its own constitutional amendment.
____________
So Dan and I climbed today, and we went back to Left Flank. I wanted to get him on Mercy, as it's the best climb of the grade in the country. And, not so secretly, I wanted to give Table another few tries. Sadly, I didn't manage the onsight flash, top rope or otherwise. That crux is, bluntly, fucking hard. I didn't want to believe that I really had to use the nasty little crimps I kept pulling on, so much so that I called my buddy Rick from Knoxville, a guy who'd been working on the climb as well. Hoping for local knowledge, I asked about the crux sequence, and in his gentle southern accent, he assured me that, "yeaaah, dos hols just ain't vury guud." Reality reaffirmed, courtesy of Rick Bost. I guess I'll just have to go back there and try the super secret beta: bear down and try. HARD. I'm worried that even armed with that insider knowledge, I might not have enough days left on the trip to get things done. We'll see.
I've heard a little flak about not posting any updates with Miguel's pizza or Mountain Mark's BBQ as the background. First off, Mark's went out of business, so as much as I'd love a pile of pulled pork, it ain't an option. And Miguel's? That's largely due to the fact that I've avoided the place as best I could, only sneaking in to say hello to friends who were staying there on two occasions. On this trip, I've consumed exactly zero pieces of his famed pizza, and it's not for a lack of quality amongst the pies. I've just been much more content to finish the climbing day and head back to The Highlander, crack a beer, slump down on the couch, and wonder at the difference between this month's trip and the two weeks I spent here in the Spring.
I don't really want to go back to Miguel's because, frankly, it was the backdrop for two of the worst weeks in recent memory. When I was there in the Spring, I spent nearly every day huddled in a tent as the rain pelted the roof and eventually began to inundate the rain fly. Droplets would rain down on my head as I held my cell phone to my ear and alternately talked to Kate, my mom, and Neil. I knew things were code red between Kate and me, but instead of being able to fix it, I had run off to climb. Instead of being able to climb, I was huddled in a suffocating nylon hut. I talked to Kate daily, and the best I can describe it is like being on the phone while the ER doctor narrates the death of your close friend. We weren't going to get things figured out and we were making each other crazy, but we loved each other and didn't know what the hell to do. It might be better to have loved and lost, but the losing part, again, is the Indian King ripping your heart out.
Thank God that I've got such a good buddy in Neil, because he finally snapped and just told me that he was going to drive up from his house in Tennessee, pick me up, and do his best to nurse me back to health. We went back to his place and ate food, drank beer, talked about life, and got things back on track for me to the point that I was no longer despondent. When my three day vacation from my "vacation" ended and I had to return to The Red, the last thing I wanted to see was that big rainbow painting on Miguel's front door. It wasn't that poor Portuguese man's fault, our timing was just bad. And now that things are going better, that I've got a cabin, a clearer head, and better weather, I just want to indulge in that. I've got little interest in picking open scabs that are threatening to heal.
I'll get a pizza before I'm done, and even kick back with an Ale 81 for old times sake. I just want to be putting The Farm and my family in my sights before I do. I've got, at most, four climbing days remaining. If I think it will give me a better chance on Table, only three. I'm trying to make the final memories of this trip entirely positive, and I'm on the right track.
Right after we met at the airport, we headed to the store and loaded up on food/booze supplies, The beer/wine/bourbon should come in handy. Besides the two of us, there are another 6 people slated to arrive at various points over the next 48 hours, and every one of them is fun. I figure that even with our recent stock-up, we'll need to make at least one more obligatory run to the beer trailer, the local, well, trailer, that sells booze. Yeah, it's about as bad as it sounds. You walk in through a cloud of smoke, and survey the scene. The sign outside advertises "Budweiser, Bud Light, Busch, Natural Light and other beers".
The good news is that as likely as you are to find a fine American pilsner, you have an equal chance of seeing some nOOb in his harness, quickdraws dangling, excitedly picking up a case of PBR to take back to the fire. "BroBrah, I crushed it today. I got the top rope onsight flash of Defy the Laws, third try!"
Sounds like some lame-ass 8a card. For the record, you can't repeat-flash something. This needs to be its own constitutional amendment.
____________
So Dan and I climbed today, and we went back to Left Flank. I wanted to get him on Mercy, as it's the best climb of the grade in the country. And, not so secretly, I wanted to give Table another few tries. Sadly, I didn't manage the onsight flash, top rope or otherwise. That crux is, bluntly, fucking hard. I didn't want to believe that I really had to use the nasty little crimps I kept pulling on, so much so that I called my buddy Rick from Knoxville, a guy who'd been working on the climb as well. Hoping for local knowledge, I asked about the crux sequence, and in his gentle southern accent, he assured me that, "yeaaah, dos hols just ain't vury guud." Reality reaffirmed, courtesy of Rick Bost. I guess I'll just have to go back there and try the super secret beta: bear down and try. HARD. I'm worried that even armed with that insider knowledge, I might not have enough days left on the trip to get things done. We'll see.
I've heard a little flak about not posting any updates with Miguel's pizza or Mountain Mark's BBQ as the background. First off, Mark's went out of business, so as much as I'd love a pile of pulled pork, it ain't an option. And Miguel's? That's largely due to the fact that I've avoided the place as best I could, only sneaking in to say hello to friends who were staying there on two occasions. On this trip, I've consumed exactly zero pieces of his famed pizza, and it's not for a lack of quality amongst the pies. I've just been much more content to finish the climbing day and head back to The Highlander, crack a beer, slump down on the couch, and wonder at the difference between this month's trip and the two weeks I spent here in the Spring.
I don't really want to go back to Miguel's because, frankly, it was the backdrop for two of the worst weeks in recent memory. When I was there in the Spring, I spent nearly every day huddled in a tent as the rain pelted the roof and eventually began to inundate the rain fly. Droplets would rain down on my head as I held my cell phone to my ear and alternately talked to Kate, my mom, and Neil. I knew things were code red between Kate and me, but instead of being able to fix it, I had run off to climb. Instead of being able to climb, I was huddled in a suffocating nylon hut. I talked to Kate daily, and the best I can describe it is like being on the phone while the ER doctor narrates the death of your close friend. We weren't going to get things figured out and we were making each other crazy, but we loved each other and didn't know what the hell to do. It might be better to have loved and lost, but the losing part, again, is the Indian King ripping your heart out.
Thank God that I've got such a good buddy in Neil, because he finally snapped and just told me that he was going to drive up from his house in Tennessee, pick me up, and do his best to nurse me back to health. We went back to his place and ate food, drank beer, talked about life, and got things back on track for me to the point that I was no longer despondent. When my three day vacation from my "vacation" ended and I had to return to The Red, the last thing I wanted to see was that big rainbow painting on Miguel's front door. It wasn't that poor Portuguese man's fault, our timing was just bad. And now that things are going better, that I've got a cabin, a clearer head, and better weather, I just want to indulge in that. I've got little interest in picking open scabs that are threatening to heal.
I'll get a pizza before I'm done, and even kick back with an Ale 81 for old times sake. I just want to be putting The Farm and my family in my sights before I do. I've got, at most, four climbing days remaining. If I think it will give me a better chance on Table, only three. I'm trying to make the final memories of this trip entirely positive, and I'm on the right track.
Tuesday, November 17, 2009
Rest Through the Rain
The weather finally soured, but at the perfect time. I spent yesterday and today resting in Louisville, comfortably sleeping, writing, and relaxing at the Parrish household while the rain came down in buckets. I've been stalking climbingweather.com like any possessed sport wanker, hoping for the timely return of low humidity and prime sending temps. It looks like after today, we'll be back to just that, my planned two day hiatus coming at the perfect time.
The partner swap continues, as well. Dan is flying into Lexington in a few hours, and I'll be there to greet him at Blue Grass Airport. I'm really looking forward to riding around rural Kentucky with him as we search out some dream climbs. The partner situation has worked out really well over the entire course of the trip. First, I got to climb with Mike, and just as he was leaving town, Brian showed up. I had one climbing day between his departure and my rest days, but had a blast climbing with the cabin-mates, Anne and Reed. Reed was generous enough to get up early and head back to Left Flank with me so I could give another recon burn on Table. I think I got the beta fully figured out, and am feeling pretty confident that I can get it finished before I have to head out in a week.
It seems like Anne and Reed are going to start their massive drive back to Utah on Friday. This will leave another bedroom open at The Highlander, which is a good thing given the crowd that seems set to arrive. It's been great to have the cabin, and I boasted about it sufficiently that another half dozen friends have threatened to come in for the Thanksgiving week and crash for a while. It's going to be a party. I'm sure it will be a blast, but as I told Kathy last night, I might need a little bit of a break after that much commotion. Nothing a solo drive back to the farm can't fix. Let's not get ahead of ourselves, though. I'm ready to get the posse settled into The Red and start showing off some of my favorite cliffs.
The partner swap continues, as well. Dan is flying into Lexington in a few hours, and I'll be there to greet him at Blue Grass Airport. I'm really looking forward to riding around rural Kentucky with him as we search out some dream climbs. The partner situation has worked out really well over the entire course of the trip. First, I got to climb with Mike, and just as he was leaving town, Brian showed up. I had one climbing day between his departure and my rest days, but had a blast climbing with the cabin-mates, Anne and Reed. Reed was generous enough to get up early and head back to Left Flank with me so I could give another recon burn on Table. I think I got the beta fully figured out, and am feeling pretty confident that I can get it finished before I have to head out in a week.
It seems like Anne and Reed are going to start their massive drive back to Utah on Friday. This will leave another bedroom open at The Highlander, which is a good thing given the crowd that seems set to arrive. It's been great to have the cabin, and I boasted about it sufficiently that another half dozen friends have threatened to come in for the Thanksgiving week and crash for a while. It's going to be a party. I'm sure it will be a blast, but as I told Kathy last night, I might need a little bit of a break after that much commotion. Nothing a solo drive back to the farm can't fix. Let's not get ahead of ourselves, though. I'm ready to get the posse settled into The Red and start showing off some of my favorite cliffs.
Sunday, November 15, 2009
Happy Mother's Day
Wait. Isn't Mother's Day in May? I believe, in fact, that this year it was the 10th. Ironically, I was in The Red then, too. But today happens to be Mama Sus' BDay, and given that she's been one of the most loyal, supportive readers of Abaluba, I believe she deserves special acknowledgment. Plus, she's my mom, for goodness sake. As many of you out there can attest, she's basically THE reigning badass mother, fully capable of thoughtfulness-sans-mawkishness. I've never met a more conscious, caring person. Thanks, and I love you, Ma. Left to my own devices and without your guidance, patience, and influence, I'd probably end up like one of these meth-heads living in rural Kentucky.
I was bummed, for sure, that I couldn't be there to celebrate when she and my sisters went out to dinner on Friday night. I did my best by having flowers delivered to the restaurant, but otherwise failed on the gift responsibility. I'll have to come through with my own party as soon as I see the Matriarch again.
While we're on the subject of gifts, new music is one of the very best things I can think to give anyone with similar tastes. I'm assuming, of course, that many of you Voyeurs have similar taste. If I'm correct, you're in for a serious treat. This trip has certainly been centered around climbing, but there's been plenty of down time to sit with friends and exchange tunes. (And, of course, to watch Mad Men and grow a fierce conquistador).
Dan, my good buddy who arrives on Wednesday, made sure I left CO with a large portion of his library. As I've plowed through the thousands of songs he passed along, I've been blown away. Our exchange started poorly when we connected our computers and his Mac immediately made a weird noise, short circuited, and then refused to boot up. Fortunately for me, he had an external hard drive already loaded with all of his music. Fortunately for him, Apple replaced his machine. Win-win. If I had to narrow it down to my favorite two new bands that he turned me onto, I'd have to say Ratatat and French Dub Connection.
Making her first appearance on Abaluba, allow me to introduce Kathy Wise. This sweetheart climbing minx also gave me some great music for my road trip and ipod listening pleasure. For the last couple of days, I've only been listening to a mix CD she made me, and to songs by a bad called The Antlers. These guys were one of her absolute best suggestions. Holy Christ.
Kettering is one beautiful, haunting song that I've been playing largely on repeat, and another one of The Antlers' greats is a song called Two. This song is not only a little more upbeat, but also really attention grabbing. I love the video, as well. While I was checking it out for about the 15th time yesterday, I noticed that it was directed by a guy named Albert Thrower. Oddly, I happen to know a guy named Al Thrower, and when I went on Facebook to sleuth things for a bit, I found someone by the name. Facebook allows you to send messages to pretty much anyone, and I asked him if he was either a friend of Will Swayne (and subsequently the guy I know), or if not, was he the Albert Thrower who directed this fantastic music video. I wager $100 that I never hear back from him, but if I do, that it's in the form of a restraining order.
The musical copy write infringement wasn't limited to people in my home state. Mikey P, the master of Johnny Utah and rock climbs requiring 4 wheel drive, also happens to have an all-star command of iTunes. On a rest day recently, he and I managed a similar music swap, though without the computer fatalities. I came away with some absolutely clutch bands. From the number of views that this youtube video has received, I imagine everyone has already heard of Boards of Canada. I hadn't, but thankfully Mike hooked me up with four of their cd's. Additionally, he turned me onto a band called The Dodos. More incredible stuff.
A lot of Mike's music overlaps with suggestions that Nuno has given me. It seems like I'll always get a great song suggestion here or there from Nuno, but we haven't been hanging out in the same place about a year. He and I haven't managed to get our felonious libraries synchronized. That may change, however.
Nuno just got accepted into Teach For America, and this should give him a lifeline out of DC. His first choice of venues was the San Fran area, and he'll be somewhere in the vicinity. Given that he's one of my best buddies and he'll already be there, I've got extra motivation to get accepted into Berkeley's grad program. The Energy and Resources Group application deadline is December 3, and it looks like I'll have no problem getting my essays finished before then. He and I could be back to our old mischief, initiated in Boulder when he was a grad student and I was a lowly undergrad.
I imagine the program, centered on sustainable energy and resource conservation, to be the most interesting thing I could possibly study. I'm not sure I really want to leave Boulder, but I think having this particular option, one that will allow me to open a lot of doors, is a great idea.
Getting in is no guarantee. Berkeley prides themselves on being remarkably exclusive. The recommendation forms asks, assuming a teacher/student relationship, whether the prospective California Bear was the "best student of: the semester, the year, the decade, the history of the institution". Well, all right, then. What if I'm the best student named Patrick Pharo, a funny climber who generally wishes well to his friends and family? Where's that box to check? I'm the best one of those in the history of modern fuckin' man.
Speaking of rock climbing, let's not forget I'm on a climbing trip, here. And with climbing trips come climbs. I'm struck by one in particular: Table of Colors. It was the first 13 to go up in The Red, and this stunning line ascends a painted, sculpted wall at an area called Left Flank. Sending this route is my primary goal for the remainder of the trip. I'm going to get someone to hang from the chains of Mercy, The Huff, the next climb over, and take pictures. Mercy happens to be the best 12b in the country, and I was lucky enough to do it a few days ago. Aside from climbing at Left Flank, I'm going to cruise around and explore some more areas with the next batch of people who arrive in the coming days.
My immediate plans include a climbing day tomorrow, and then I'm going to give myself a quick break on Tuesday and Wednesday. The weather for these two days looks a little dodgy, and I'm going back to Louisville to finalize Cal essays, and bill some hours. The rest should do me good, and hopefully I'll be fresh for a Table ascent quickly thereafter.
I'll try to get a good post up from Louisville. Have a great weekend. Stay warm, CO.
I was bummed, for sure, that I couldn't be there to celebrate when she and my sisters went out to dinner on Friday night. I did my best by having flowers delivered to the restaurant, but otherwise failed on the gift responsibility. I'll have to come through with my own party as soon as I see the Matriarch again.
While we're on the subject of gifts, new music is one of the very best things I can think to give anyone with similar tastes. I'm assuming, of course, that many of you Voyeurs have similar taste. If I'm correct, you're in for a serious treat. This trip has certainly been centered around climbing, but there's been plenty of down time to sit with friends and exchange tunes. (And, of course, to watch Mad Men and grow a fierce conquistador).
Dan, my good buddy who arrives on Wednesday, made sure I left CO with a large portion of his library. As I've plowed through the thousands of songs he passed along, I've been blown away. Our exchange started poorly when we connected our computers and his Mac immediately made a weird noise, short circuited, and then refused to boot up. Fortunately for me, he had an external hard drive already loaded with all of his music. Fortunately for him, Apple replaced his machine. Win-win. If I had to narrow it down to my favorite two new bands that he turned me onto, I'd have to say Ratatat and French Dub Connection.
Making her first appearance on Abaluba, allow me to introduce Kathy Wise. This sweetheart climbing minx also gave me some great music for my road trip and ipod listening pleasure. For the last couple of days, I've only been listening to a mix CD she made me, and to songs by a bad called The Antlers. These guys were one of her absolute best suggestions. Holy Christ.
Kettering is one beautiful, haunting song that I've been playing largely on repeat, and another one of The Antlers' greats is a song called Two. This song is not only a little more upbeat, but also really attention grabbing. I love the video, as well. While I was checking it out for about the 15th time yesterday, I noticed that it was directed by a guy named Albert Thrower. Oddly, I happen to know a guy named Al Thrower, and when I went on Facebook to sleuth things for a bit, I found someone by the name. Facebook allows you to send messages to pretty much anyone, and I asked him if he was either a friend of Will Swayne (and subsequently the guy I know), or if not, was he the Albert Thrower who directed this fantastic music video. I wager $100 that I never hear back from him, but if I do, that it's in the form of a restraining order.
The musical copy write infringement wasn't limited to people in my home state. Mikey P, the master of Johnny Utah and rock climbs requiring 4 wheel drive, also happens to have an all-star command of iTunes. On a rest day recently, he and I managed a similar music swap, though without the computer fatalities. I came away with some absolutely clutch bands. From the number of views that this youtube video has received, I imagine everyone has already heard of Boards of Canada. I hadn't, but thankfully Mike hooked me up with four of their cd's. Additionally, he turned me onto a band called The Dodos. More incredible stuff.
A lot of Mike's music overlaps with suggestions that Nuno has given me. It seems like I'll always get a great song suggestion here or there from Nuno, but we haven't been hanging out in the same place about a year. He and I haven't managed to get our felonious libraries synchronized. That may change, however.
Nuno just got accepted into Teach For America, and this should give him a lifeline out of DC. His first choice of venues was the San Fran area, and he'll be somewhere in the vicinity. Given that he's one of my best buddies and he'll already be there, I've got extra motivation to get accepted into Berkeley's grad program. The Energy and Resources Group application deadline is December 3, and it looks like I'll have no problem getting my essays finished before then. He and I could be back to our old mischief, initiated in Boulder when he was a grad student and I was a lowly undergrad.
I imagine the program, centered on sustainable energy and resource conservation, to be the most interesting thing I could possibly study. I'm not sure I really want to leave Boulder, but I think having this particular option, one that will allow me to open a lot of doors, is a great idea.
Getting in is no guarantee. Berkeley prides themselves on being remarkably exclusive. The recommendation forms asks, assuming a teacher/student relationship, whether the prospective California Bear was the "best student of: the semester, the year, the decade, the history of the institution". Well, all right, then. What if I'm the best student named Patrick Pharo, a funny climber who generally wishes well to his friends and family? Where's that box to check? I'm the best one of those in the history of modern fuckin' man.
Speaking of rock climbing, let's not forget I'm on a climbing trip, here. And with climbing trips come climbs. I'm struck by one in particular: Table of Colors. It was the first 13 to go up in The Red, and this stunning line ascends a painted, sculpted wall at an area called Left Flank. Sending this route is my primary goal for the remainder of the trip. I'm going to get someone to hang from the chains of Mercy, The Huff, the next climb over, and take pictures. Mercy happens to be the best 12b in the country, and I was lucky enough to do it a few days ago. Aside from climbing at Left Flank, I'm going to cruise around and explore some more areas with the next batch of people who arrive in the coming days.
My immediate plans include a climbing day tomorrow, and then I'm going to give myself a quick break on Tuesday and Wednesday. The weather for these two days looks a little dodgy, and I'm going back to Louisville to finalize Cal essays, and bill some hours. The rest should do me good, and hopefully I'll be fresh for a Table ascent quickly thereafter.
I'll try to get a good post up from Louisville. Have a great weekend. Stay warm, CO.
Friday, November 13, 2009
Friday the 13th
I can't believe I've already been here two weeks. I've had some insanely good weather, I'm nervous to talk about it for fear of nature's repercussion. If the sun keeps shining, I'll take it.First and foremost, my mom's birthday is this weekend. I'm bummed I'll miss the dinner she is going to have this evening with my sisters, but Mama Sus is headed down to Phoenix this weekend and she'll have plenty of fun without me.
Today, I was out with my buddy Brian while he climbed. I needed a day of rest after thrashing myself over the previous few days at the crag. I got to hang out and just chill while Brian pulled down. Out at the wall, we ended up running into Erin and her boyfriend Keenan. Erin and Brian were peas in a pod while she was living out in Boulder over the past few years, and the reunion was great. She decided that the pull of the eternal climbing road trip was too much to resist, and left CO for Kentucky. The timing was fortuitous for me, as it was just then that I was looking for a room and moved in with Brian.
While we were all climbing together, we managed to get some pretty good pics of her climbing. There's been a clamor for more photos, so here are a bunch that should suffice for a bit.
I'll try to get a more in depth post in the next day or two, but I'm pretty ready to demolish the brownies that are about to pop out of the over here at Highlander. I hope everyone has a great start to the weekend.
Tuesday, November 10, 2009
A Mad (and furry) Man
The biggest development of the last few days has been my fast and furious (and now, sadly, finished) love affair with Mad Men. I could tell you about the climbing I've been doing, but I'll be realistic. After a certain point, the general public can only stand so much banality regarding crimps, high-steps, off-the-chart pump factor, and Metro Mark managing to epic while literally seated inside of a hueco. If anyone's truly interested in the climbing tales at this point, let me know. I'll do a post exclusively dedicated to tales from the crag. We'll call it "As The Cliff Turns".
Mikey "4x4" Personick had season 1 of Mad Men on DVD, but I realized it all too late. I managed to get through three of the four disks, but this left four full episodes from season 1 still to be viewed. That speaks nothing for season 2, and from amctv.com, it looks like they just finished season 3. I'm perpetually behind the curve of anything popular, so it shouldn't come as a shock that I've discovered hipness far too late in the game.
The very fact that I managed to get so far into season 1 is a testament to God's will and the power of caffeine. With the aid of several cups of coffee, I plowed through nine 48 minute episodes in two days. That's a shameful way to spend a life. It's like one of those benders where the last thing you remember was the Del Taco drive through, and then you wake up in a dumpster in San Juan, Puerto Rico. Ever have one of those? You just get up, dust yourself off, and hope no one saw you at your lowest. That's too much time to spend in front of a TV (or in the bottom of a trashcan, for that matter).
I'm hoping I can manage the remaining 30 0dd episodes at a more reasonable pace. Perhaps anyone coming out to The Red (ahem, DAN RICHELSON!!!) can manage to track down some of those missing shows.
From watching those episodes, I can't help but come to several conclusions. The first is that I should continue to wear a tie to work. Playing the suit card wouldn't go over particularly well, given that many of the folks I work with typically wear jeans. That said, I really should rock the slacks/tie/sweater combo, and wouldn't look entirely out of place. It doesn't necessarily replicate the "Camelot" look from 1960 corporate New York, but it's my best Western Cow Town impersonation of a fetching Don Draper.
The second realization: I've been enormously lucky to have had the opportunity to do exactly what I want for the month of November. Instead of being forced by society into an unrewarding role, as many of the characters of the show appear to have been, I'm actively pursuing one of my great passions. There are times, certainly, where it get's a bit strained. That's just the opportunity cost of life. At the end of it, though, this month is a chance to delve deeply into an activity that typically only comes in the short bursts of a weekend or afternoon. I'm breathing deeply the autumn air, trying to enjoy each present moment for what it is. The looming worry that sits intertwined with my insecurities for the future (love, career, health) are put aside as I focus only on the day at hand. What a beautiful way to live.
And less beautiful? My face. Sure, rest days out here are spent recovering from the climbing while working on my laptop. There's no dress code here at The Highlander Cabin, so I've taken the
opportunity to sit in on conference calls while wearing a bathrobe, and write emails to the BLM from my bed. Since there's no face to face contact (though we're in a high tech world, my clients don't use video conferencing at this point, thank god), I'm taking the opportunity to put off the Colorado version of the Camelot appearance, and look effectively homeless.
To get the full effect, I had to increase the megapixel allowance and focus the light overhead precisely so, but now the question has been answered: What do I look like with a two week old crappy mustache/goatee combo?
As of now, I'm planning on running straight through until Thanksgiving before scraping it off. That should give the whole family a laugh when we gather at the farm to feast. I'll let it grow for another week or so, and then update the pic again. If it doesn't fill in, maybe I'll grab some Touch of Gray
and fill in the wispy peach fuzz.
I'm off to write some more emails to hapless government employees back in CO, and work on my graduate school application.
A quick Happy Birthday to Tom Hare, my old roommate from Madrid. It was back then, while marauding around the Spanish streets, that we coined the term Abaluba. Life certainly is good, my friend.
Mikey "4x4" Personick had season 1 of Mad Men on DVD, but I realized it all too late. I managed to get through three of the four disks, but this left four full episodes from season 1 still to be viewed. That speaks nothing for season 2, and from amctv.com, it looks like they just finished season 3. I'm perpetually behind the curve of anything popular, so it shouldn't come as a shock that I've discovered hipness far too late in the game.
The very fact that I managed to get so far into season 1 is a testament to God's will and the power of caffeine. With the aid of several cups of coffee, I plowed through nine 48 minute episodes in two days. That's a shameful way to spend a life. It's like one of those benders where the last thing you remember was the Del Taco drive through, and then you wake up in a dumpster in San Juan, Puerto Rico. Ever have one of those? You just get up, dust yourself off, and hope no one saw you at your lowest. That's too much time to spend in front of a TV (or in the bottom of a trashcan, for that matter).
I'm hoping I can manage the remaining 30 0dd episodes at a more reasonable pace. Perhaps anyone coming out to The Red (ahem, DAN RICHELSON!!!) can manage to track down some of those missing shows.
From watching those episodes, I can't help but come to several conclusions. The first is that I should continue to wear a tie to work. Playing the suit card wouldn't go over particularly well, given that many of the folks I work with typically wear jeans. That said, I really should rock the slacks/tie/sweater combo, and wouldn't look entirely out of place. It doesn't necessarily replicate the "Camelot" look from 1960 corporate New York, but it's my best Western Cow Town impersonation of a fetching Don Draper.
The second realization: I've been enormously lucky to have had the opportunity to do exactly what I want for the month of November. Instead of being forced by society into an unrewarding role, as many of the characters of the show appear to have been, I'm actively pursuing one of my great passions. There are times, certainly, where it get's a bit strained. That's just the opportunity cost of life. At the end of it, though, this month is a chance to delve deeply into an activity that typically only comes in the short bursts of a weekend or afternoon. I'm breathing deeply the autumn air, trying to enjoy each present moment for what it is. The looming worry that sits intertwined with my insecurities for the future (love, career, health) are put aside as I focus only on the day at hand. What a beautiful way to live.
And less beautiful? My face. Sure, rest days out here are spent recovering from the climbing while working on my laptop. There's no dress code here at The Highlander Cabin, so I've taken the
opportunity to sit in on conference calls while wearing a bathrobe, and write emails to the BLM from my bed. Since there's no face to face contact (though we're in a high tech world, my clients don't use video conferencing at this point, thank god), I'm taking the opportunity to put off the Colorado version of the Camelot appearance, and look effectively homeless.To get the full effect, I had to increase the megapixel allowance and focus the light overhead precisely so, but now the question has been answered: What do I look like with a two week old crappy mustache/goatee combo?
As of now, I'm planning on running straight through until Thanksgiving before scraping it off. That should give the whole family a laugh when we gather at the farm to feast. I'll let it grow for another week or so, and then update the pic again. If it doesn't fill in, maybe I'll grab some Touch of Gray
and fill in the wispy peach fuzz.I'm off to write some more emails to hapless government employees back in CO, and work on my graduate school application.
A quick Happy Birthday to Tom Hare, my old roommate from Madrid. It was back then, while marauding around the Spanish streets, that we coined the term Abaluba. Life certainly is good, my friend.
Sunday, November 8, 2009
A Quick Sunday Night Post Announcing the Arrival of a New Team Member
Hi, Voyeurs. I'm going to have to make this pretty quick, because I'm pretty tired after another great day of climbing here in Kentucky. Brian flew in on Saturday, and after a quick errand run in Lexington, I grabbed him from the airport and we headed down to the crags.As you can imagine, he hopped off the plane and was really excited to get out and climb. We headed to Left Flank, a wall that is quickly off the Bert T. Combs Mountain Parkway and has a short approach. I got on basically the best 12b in the world, a long, stunningly pretty route called Mercy, The Huff. Brian worked on a 12d called Stunning the Hog, and stunningly didn't do it. I'm blaming the fact that it was late in the afternoon, he'd been on a plane all day, and he was trying to finish the route in the dark. He's still pissed about it, though, so I bet we'll be back there.
Today, he and I climbed down at the Solar Collector/Dark Side, two crags that couldn't be more different in terms of sun/shade aspect. I'll let you make the distinction. I'm still working to get miles on easier routes, but am getting a little frustrated that 12a here is still feeling down right hard. Oh well, I'll have to be patient.
Mike left this morning, which was a bit of a drag. It's always easier to climb with two people instead of three, so from that standpoint things are perhaps a bit more convenient for Brian and me, but I will admit that I enjoyed Mike's company. He was a fresh perspective, and I'm hoping we'll cross paths again soon. Blaming him for departing would be far from fair, though. He's climbed here, he said, 21 of the previous 28 days, and has some people he needs to get back to in DC. Family and a lady-friend are powerful magnets.
I'm off to Midnight Surf tomorrow for some more climbing. The forecast continues to look great, and I'm hoping that those weathermen are spot on. I'm planning a big rest day on Tuesday, and I'll try to get a better post then.
The one other thing of note is that I'm growing what can unarguably be considered the worst beard in the world. I like the idea of not shaving for a couple of weeks just to see what things would look like. After about 14 days, I'll honestly report that they are, in fact, bad. Whatever, though. I don't have to see clients, I'm not trying to impress any girls out here, and I like the fact that any time I look in a mirror, I laugh. (You guys probably thought that was already the case.)
Ok, I'm going to bed. Hope you all had a nice weekend.
Thursday, November 5, 2009
Four Wheel Drive
After two more consecutive days of climbing, I've earned another rest day. On Friday, I'm going to sleep in, drink plenty of coffee, stretch and work. But first, I'm reporting on ass kicking. I kicked a few, but not to worry. I got mine whipped, too.
Wednesday morning's weather was the worst we've seen so far on my trip. Mike and I walked out to the car, his whippet Johnny Utah in tow, and all three of us looked up at the sky in disgust. The clouds, threatening rain, and chilly breeze gave us all pause. Mike wrapped Johnny in his faux-giraffe-pelt puppy snuggly (when's the last time you read those words in unison?) just as the hail started coming down.
(I guess it's called a Sunggy, not snuggly. How the hell am I supposed to know?)
We drove to the cliff, nervously sipping coffee and hoping for a change to come in the 20 or so minutes between "The Highlander" cabin and our destination climbing area, Sore Heel. When we parked the car and all hopped out to pee, the clouds shifted a bit and the sun broke through. But just as we started walking, the precip returned, along with some profanity.
The warmups at Bronaugh wall are good, steep, juggy 5.11's, but Mike and I both suffered from hand freeze at about mid height. We broke out the hand warmers and excuses, and I took things to an extreme when I stole the snuggly. I'll be damned if some mutt is gonna stay warm while my paws go numb.
But then, as though God were a feline and pleased with my treachery, a miracle occurred. The winds changed, the air temperature got much more comfortable, and the sun hit the wall. Mike and I both got excited, and figured we'd crush our projects. I wanted to do a 12c called Belly of the Beast, and he was still trying to polish off Dracula, a super stout 13b, at a cliff just around the corner.
We might have let the weather psyche us up a little too much, because each of our next two burns produced only punting. A foot slip here, a missed hold there, and we each spent our attempts dangling from the end of the rope, wondering just how Felix the CatGod could have forsaken us. After we had a little powwow and made a pact to "just finish these routes, already!", we sent on successive burns. It had taken the whole day, but at least we could check off the routes we wanted to do. We called it a little early and headed back to the car. There was talk of doing a couple of burns at Shady Grove, but we decided to save some juice for today.
When I woke up this morning, my left hamstring was throbbing. There was a rest on Belly that involved me cranking my leg up near my head and hooking my heel and toe behind some flakes. Though it took the weight off my hands, I felt like it also succeeded in nearly pulling my yoga-starved hammy. I stretched for a while, and it finally began to loosen up. After a leisurely morning, Mike and I loaded up and headed out to Shady Grove.
The air was much warmer, the sun was out, and it seemed like we were back on track for great weather all day. I warmed up on a cool route called Girls Gone Wild...Whoooo!, and then tried to do an 11c. Instead of waltzing right up to the chains, I fell a couple of times and assumed that my day would suck. No bother, as Mike wanted to do the second ascent of a brand new route at the crag. We walked down to this towering behemoth, a route Mike had been on once before. He figured that it checked in at around 13a/b. Mike had warmed up by hanging the draws on a steep, long 12b called Far From God, which doubled as my objective for the day.
Mike used this warm up to prep for his pending vision quest, and managed to pull off the send of the new route. It was only his third route of the day, but he decided to call it and conserve a little juice for the weekend. Watching Mike do the route, I couldn't help but think that he climbs in four wheel drive. He uses his feet perfectly; hooking and pulling his way up the wall with all four appendages instead of using his arms to excess. He looks so comfortable using his feet like hands, and it's a great lesson. I took it to heart, and after lowering him off after his send, booted up under Far From God.
I really wanted to flash this route. It looked like I could get plenty of rests along the way, and Mike had done it several times before. This let him guide me through the difficult sections while we were still on the ground, giving me all the beta (essentially step-by-step advice for how to do the moves) that I could ask for. All I had to do was climb the thing. I threw on the knee pads, assuming I'd find places to jam my knees and take the weight off my hands. Also, I told myself to "be like Mike" and use my feet. With that, I started climbing.
I managed to finagle two double knee bar, no hands rests, along with several other knee scums. The beta was perfect, and I found myself a bolt from the top, still on redpoint, listening to Mike yell up that if I could make it through the final crux, just above me, then there was no way I'd fall on the final run to the anchors. I was camped out at a ridiculously good rest, and when I felt 100% recovered and at full strength, I danced to the chains and claimed my first flash of a 12b. Thanks for all the help, Mikey P!
Getting a little big for my britches, I moved the rope under the next route over. False Idol is a 12c that Mike assured me was not much harder than Far From God. After I rested for a while, I loaded my harness with quickdraws and pulled onto the wall. Mike had only done this one once (hence, could provide only minimal beta), and since he was done for the day, I'd have to hang the draws on the bolts myself. I figured that I'd just crushed its neighbor...why worry?
I'll spare you many of the details, because this post is getting pretty long. False Idol is widely considered an inferior route, and sees much less traffic than the slightly easier model to the left. As such, there is way less chalk, and way more dirt, on all the holds. By bolt three, I had wandered only about 3 feet from the grips I was supposed to be pulling on, and quickly managed to rain gravel down into my gaping mouth. Shit. The plan was out the window. I shifted out of 4-high, and started straining on my arms. My heart started racing, my breathing fell apart. Hypoxia, my old friend, had returned. As had gravity's strong call. Airborn. Ass kicked. I yarded up the rope and then wallowed to the chains, seemingly 1,000 feet away. Tail between my legs, I lowered off and cleaned my draws off the route.
How about we just focus on the positive and move on? All in all, it was a great day and a lesson learned. You gotta keep rock climbing, and just 'cause you did one thing doesn't mean they're giving anything else away. By the way, Mike sent an email to the guy who bolted the route he did today. We're trying to get it called 4 wheel drive. And, from here on out, that's how I'm trying to climb.
Wednesday morning's weather was the worst we've seen so far on my trip. Mike and I walked out to the car, his whippet Johnny Utah in tow, and all three of us looked up at the sky in disgust. The clouds, threatening rain, and chilly breeze gave us all pause. Mike wrapped Johnny in his faux-giraffe-pelt puppy snuggly (when's the last time you read those words in unison?) just as the hail started coming down.
(I guess it's called a Sunggy, not snuggly. How the hell am I supposed to know?)We drove to the cliff, nervously sipping coffee and hoping for a change to come in the 20 or so minutes between "The Highlander" cabin and our destination climbing area, Sore Heel. When we parked the car and all hopped out to pee, the clouds shifted a bit and the sun broke through. But just as we started walking, the precip returned, along with some profanity.
The warmups at Bronaugh wall are good, steep, juggy 5.11's, but Mike and I both suffered from hand freeze at about mid height. We broke out the hand warmers and excuses, and I took things to an extreme when I stole the snuggly. I'll be damned if some mutt is gonna stay warm while my paws go numb.
But then, as though God were a feline and pleased with my treachery, a miracle occurred. The winds changed, the air temperature got much more comfortable, and the sun hit the wall. Mike and I both got excited, and figured we'd crush our projects. I wanted to do a 12c called Belly of the Beast, and he was still trying to polish off Dracula, a super stout 13b, at a cliff just around the corner.
We might have let the weather psyche us up a little too much, because each of our next two burns produced only punting. A foot slip here, a missed hold there, and we each spent our attempts dangling from the end of the rope, wondering just how Felix the CatGod could have forsaken us. After we had a little powwow and made a pact to "just finish these routes, already!", we sent on successive burns. It had taken the whole day, but at least we could check off the routes we wanted to do. We called it a little early and headed back to the car. There was talk of doing a couple of burns at Shady Grove, but we decided to save some juice for today.
When I woke up this morning, my left hamstring was throbbing. There was a rest on Belly that involved me cranking my leg up near my head and hooking my heel and toe behind some flakes. Though it took the weight off my hands, I felt like it also succeeded in nearly pulling my yoga-starved hammy. I stretched for a while, and it finally began to loosen up. After a leisurely morning, Mike and I loaded up and headed out to Shady Grove.
The air was much warmer, the sun was out, and it seemed like we were back on track for great weather all day. I warmed up on a cool route called Girls Gone Wild...Whoooo!, and then tried to do an 11c. Instead of waltzing right up to the chains, I fell a couple of times and assumed that my day would suck. No bother, as Mike wanted to do the second ascent of a brand new route at the crag. We walked down to this towering behemoth, a route Mike had been on once before. He figured that it checked in at around 13a/b. Mike had warmed up by hanging the draws on a steep, long 12b called Far From God, which doubled as my objective for the day.
Mike used this warm up to prep for his pending vision quest, and managed to pull off the send of the new route. It was only his third route of the day, but he decided to call it and conserve a little juice for the weekend. Watching Mike do the route, I couldn't help but think that he climbs in four wheel drive. He uses his feet perfectly; hooking and pulling his way up the wall with all four appendages instead of using his arms to excess. He looks so comfortable using his feet like hands, and it's a great lesson. I took it to heart, and after lowering him off after his send, booted up under Far From God.
I really wanted to flash this route. It looked like I could get plenty of rests along the way, and Mike had done it several times before. This let him guide me through the difficult sections while we were still on the ground, giving me all the beta (essentially step-by-step advice for how to do the moves) that I could ask for. All I had to do was climb the thing. I threw on the knee pads, assuming I'd find places to jam my knees and take the weight off my hands. Also, I told myself to "be like Mike" and use my feet. With that, I started climbing.
I managed to finagle two double knee bar, no hands rests, along with several other knee scums. The beta was perfect, and I found myself a bolt from the top, still on redpoint, listening to Mike yell up that if I could make it through the final crux, just above me, then there was no way I'd fall on the final run to the anchors. I was camped out at a ridiculously good rest, and when I felt 100% recovered and at full strength, I danced to the chains and claimed my first flash of a 12b. Thanks for all the help, Mikey P!
Getting a little big for my britches, I moved the rope under the next route over. False Idol is a 12c that Mike assured me was not much harder than Far From God. After I rested for a while, I loaded my harness with quickdraws and pulled onto the wall. Mike had only done this one once (hence, could provide only minimal beta), and since he was done for the day, I'd have to hang the draws on the bolts myself. I figured that I'd just crushed its neighbor...why worry?
I'll spare you many of the details, because this post is getting pretty long. False Idol is widely considered an inferior route, and sees much less traffic than the slightly easier model to the left. As such, there is way less chalk, and way more dirt, on all the holds. By bolt three, I had wandered only about 3 feet from the grips I was supposed to be pulling on, and quickly managed to rain gravel down into my gaping mouth. Shit. The plan was out the window. I shifted out of 4-high, and started straining on my arms. My heart started racing, my breathing fell apart. Hypoxia, my old friend, had returned. As had gravity's strong call. Airborn. Ass kicked. I yarded up the rope and then wallowed to the chains, seemingly 1,000 feet away. Tail between my legs, I lowered off and cleaned my draws off the route.
How about we just focus on the positive and move on? All in all, it was a great day and a lesson learned. You gotta keep rock climbing, and just 'cause you did one thing doesn't mean they're giving anything else away. By the way, Mike sent an email to the guy who bolted the route he did today. We're trying to get it called 4 wheel drive. And, from here on out, that's how I'm trying to climb.
Tuesday, November 3, 2009
Recharging the Batteries
In homage, unintentional I'm sure, to the homes along the Pacific in Carmel, CA, the cabins in this part of Kentucky all seem to have names. While in California, the monikers elude to whispering pines or ocean breezes. The rustic buildings here in the East are a bit more colloquial. Just up from "City Slickers" and "The Barn," our cabin is known as "The Highlander Loft." Because, you know, there can be only one.
And it's from The Highlander that I'm reporting to you on my rest day. I'm taking a very necessary respite from the rigors of climbing. After two days on the rock, the skin on my fingers felt like it had been caressing the business end of a cheese grater. My back felt like it had seen one too many kicks from steel toed boots, and my forearms were Popeye sized; not from muscle, but lactic acid buildup.
Aside from working on Abaluba, I was working for a large part of the day to catch up with clients back in Denver. What better activity, since I've got to sit idle anyway, than to make a little money? Let's all take a minute to thank the benefactors that gave us cell phones, the internet, and Adobe Acrobat. Without their hard work and tireless pursuit of Rupees, I'd be stranded out here in the wilds of Kentucky with only the sale of my plasma, organs and semen as viable means of income. As it stands, I've kept all of them to myself, thank you very much, all the while scratching up some billable hours from the comfort of the cabin and my pajama pants.
Tomorrow, though, and there will be no such relaxation. Mike and I are headed back to our nemeses; each of us with renewed energy and fresh skin on our fingers. I'm hoping to see some of the work from the first two days pay quick returns in the form of boosted endurance. If I can manage to get all of 4 bolts off the ground on any 5.12 without my eyes crossing, I'll consider it a success. I'm going to try to send Belly of the Beast over at Bronaugh, and Mike is going to hike Dracula at a crag called Purgatory.
(A stranger on Belly of the Beast)
I'm hoping to meet up with another friend, Christopher Lawrence, tomorrow out at the crag. He and I met basically a year ago to the day out here in The Red. He's a pro photographer who is looking to take a few shots, and with some luck, I'll have something other than the hand held images from my small point and shoot camera.
Here is a shot from the back deck of The Highlander. Not a bad view. I've charged my camera battery, so even if Christopher doesn't take pics, I'll have some photos to upload on the next blog. Until then, this will have to suffice.
And it's from The Highlander that I'm reporting to you on my rest day. I'm taking a very necessary respite from the rigors of climbing. After two days on the rock, the skin on my fingers felt like it had been caressing the business end of a cheese grater. My back felt like it had seen one too many kicks from steel toed boots, and my forearms were Popeye sized; not from muscle, but lactic acid buildup.
Aside from working on Abaluba, I was working for a large part of the day to catch up with clients back in Denver. What better activity, since I've got to sit idle anyway, than to make a little money? Let's all take a minute to thank the benefactors that gave us cell phones, the internet, and Adobe Acrobat. Without their hard work and tireless pursuit of Rupees, I'd be stranded out here in the wilds of Kentucky with only the sale of my plasma, organs and semen as viable means of income. As it stands, I've kept all of them to myself, thank you very much, all the while scratching up some billable hours from the comfort of the cabin and my pajama pants.
Tomorrow, though, and there will be no such relaxation. Mike and I are headed back to our nemeses; each of us with renewed energy and fresh skin on our fingers. I'm hoping to see some of the work from the first two days pay quick returns in the form of boosted endurance. If I can manage to get all of 4 bolts off the ground on any 5.12 without my eyes crossing, I'll consider it a success. I'm going to try to send Belly of the Beast over at Bronaugh, and Mike is going to hike Dracula at a crag called Purgatory.(A stranger on Belly of the Beast)
I'm hoping to meet up with another friend, Christopher Lawrence, tomorrow out at the crag. He and I met basically a year ago to the day out here in The Red. He's a pro photographer who is looking to take a few shots, and with some luck, I'll have something other than the hand held images from my small point and shoot camera.
Here is a shot from the back deck of The Highlander. Not a bad view. I've charged my camera battery, so even if Christopher doesn't take pics, I'll have some photos to upload on the next blog. Until then, this will have to suffice.
Sunday, November 1, 2009
Day 1
If my first day in The Red was any indication, this trip is going to be amazing. God, I hope I don't jinx it, but the weather was perfect today for climbing. Upper 50's with great sun, no clouds, and minimal wind. I wound up at Purgatory and Bronaugh (however the hell you spell it,) and had a great day with my buddy Mike.
My fitness was pretty good, considering that I'd been unable to climb or train much over the past two weeks because of a really sore shoulder and back. Physically, all is well after the time off, and I think the respite renewed my excitement. I got on an incredible 12C called Belly of the Beast, as well as put some mileage in on an easier 12 called Little Teapot, and a couple of really fun, juggy 5.11's.
The cabin setup is really comfortable, especially given the juxtaposition against my spring trip. Back then, my tent was getting soaked in daily rainstorms, I was crippled from a really sore finger, and was in the middle of the angst with Kate. I'm feeling a lot better all around, and if it stays sunny, I'll have absolutely nothing to complain about.
The Man, The Myth, The Legend, the roommate, Brian Lichtenheld, is coming next weekend, so the plan is to continue the positive vibes right through the week until he gets here and brings more Colorado psyche to replenish the coffers.
Highlight of the day? Cupcakes that Kitsy Parrish sent with me as I was leaving Louisville this morning. There's not much as good as pulling down all day with a smile on your face, and then getting home to a chocolate bomb. Yes!
My fitness was pretty good, considering that I'd been unable to climb or train much over the past two weeks because of a really sore shoulder and back. Physically, all is well after the time off, and I think the respite renewed my excitement. I got on an incredible 12C called Belly of the Beast, as well as put some mileage in on an easier 12 called Little Teapot, and a couple of really fun, juggy 5.11's.
The cabin setup is really comfortable, especially given the juxtaposition against my spring trip. Back then, my tent was getting soaked in daily rainstorms, I was crippled from a really sore finger, and was in the middle of the angst with Kate. I'm feeling a lot better all around, and if it stays sunny, I'll have absolutely nothing to complain about.
The Man, The Myth, The Legend, the roommate, Brian Lichtenheld, is coming next weekend, so the plan is to continue the positive vibes right through the week until he gets here and brings more Colorado psyche to replenish the coffers.
Highlight of the day? Cupcakes that Kitsy Parrish sent with me as I was leaving Louisville this morning. There's not much as good as pulling down all day with a smile on your face, and then getting home to a chocolate bomb. Yes!
Friday, October 30, 2009
Lift off! We have lift off...
I blasted out of Boulder right as, ironically, Boulder was getting blasted. The snow was national news, I'm told. I'm just happy I wasn't involved in any multicar pileups, thereby becoming state and local news of my own.
I rolled out along US 36 at the ungodly hour of 5:30 AM, one of the relatively few cars to brave the conditions so early in the morning. That was precisely my plan, and I was happy to find myself in that more secure isolation as I fishtailed Eastward, throwing a blinding spray of slop out from behind my rear tires. As the sun rose, confirming Eastern Colorado as the gray, desolate pall we'd all suspected, I smiled mightily. I had begun my long anticipated road trip, and it had started safely.
The first stop on the agenda was The Farm, an effort to spend time with my aging maternal grandparents. Their presence on those sacred 220 acres in central Missouri is embedded in my memory, and there it will invariably remain. The beauty of our family's rolling retreat is nuanced, as is the case with any location blessed with being central to a sense of home, but stricken of crashing waves or snow capped mountains.
I arrived at sunset, bearing witness to the pink clouds, bloated with rain, rolling over our fields and pond. That evening, vast liquid nourishment was provided to both. Perhaps my western upbringing has left me overly sensitized to precipitation, but I'm always stunned that any place can be so verdant and lush. While it poured down, my grandparents shared stories of their own memories on the place, and then of raising a family in the peripatetic ethos (chaos) of America's Air Force. The three of us came together with The Farm as the literal and imagined backdrop for our shared histories. The Farm, though also baseball and shuffleboard. Let's not forget that we're in 2009. I didn't milk any cows or anything.
After 36 hours with Grandma and PawPaw, the urge to revisit the interstate returned, and I hugged and kissed them farewell. They'll be the terminal bookend of my road trip, as well, when I turn Abigale the Subaru Westward and head for home. I'll stop for Thanksgiving on my return leg to Colorado, meeting with many more folks (aunts, uncles, and cousins, oh my) who remember their own youth occasionally played out on the same background.
I rolled up Rural Route N, then J, and headed further East on I-70, this time to St Louis. Though the city is the Gateway to the West, for me it's actually the gateway to East. From here, I can begin to smell the Red, can feel my fingertips begin their sweaty longing for sandstone. I'll be climbing in only a few days, though I'm still patiently meandering, still renewing acquaintance with old familiar sites and faces.
The first place I saw upon my arrival in STL was the university where I spent my first year of college. At 18, I ran to St Louis University in a snap, lazy decision to flee the anger I felt towards my father in particular, and boredom with Colorado in general. The first year was largely spent in halfhearted academic pursuit in the classroom, and in earnest attempted violence on the lacrosse fields. I marked time until I would flee, this time as a sophomore, for Spain.
To portray the year in St Louis as stolid would be an unfair assessment. My freshman year was spent in between many things, though firmly committed to none. I was uncomfortable with myself and unsure of where I was going, though not yet ready to forswear my origins. I remember with great clarity saying goodbye to my parents as they dropped me off for the academic year, wondering where I'd go now that I was no longer under my parents' thumb. The tears that this goodbye produced in my angry eyes were hastily pushed back into their ducts, though that sadness of leaving my youth hasn't been forgotten.
Today, from the very paving stone where I last remember my mother standing as she and my father left me for college, I called Mom in Colorado. I told her I loved her, and shared a reminiscent moment with her. Each of us remembered the day in 2000 with clarity, though it was subtly different to this autumn afternoon over nine years later. Today, the air was thick with the smell of french fries. Perhaps they weren't on the menu back then.
Tonight, this city will again act as a gateway, this time to my past as I'll see two friends I've kept from my days at school in the SLU system. Soon, though, I'll grow anxious, again, and aim the wheels, again, to the East. My plan is to stop in Louisville to greet one of my closest friends, Neil, and his parents in their home city. Their family is coping with the loss of Neil's grandmother. The news was all the more poignant given that my phone rang with the sad acknowledgment of her passing just yesterday while I was in the new farmhouse with my own elders. I'm glad to have seen them then, and will honor my friendship with Neil before I drive the final two hours and arrive in the Red.
Climbing can wait, at least for a few days. This drive is, certainly, a mode of transit to that outstanding recreational destination. Equally important, though, it's a way to reconnect with my friends and family, and my own past. I hope to honor all of them with some precious time. It's been a pleasure so far. I'll keep you up to date as the miles pass.
Love from Abaluba.
I rolled out along US 36 at the ungodly hour of 5:30 AM, one of the relatively few cars to brave the conditions so early in the morning. That was precisely my plan, and I was happy to find myself in that more secure isolation as I fishtailed Eastward, throwing a blinding spray of slop out from behind my rear tires. As the sun rose, confirming Eastern Colorado as the gray, desolate pall we'd all suspected, I smiled mightily. I had begun my long anticipated road trip, and it had started safely.
The first stop on the agenda was The Farm, an effort to spend time with my aging maternal grandparents. Their presence on those sacred 220 acres in central Missouri is embedded in my memory, and there it will invariably remain. The beauty of our family's rolling retreat is nuanced, as is the case with any location blessed with being central to a sense of home, but stricken of crashing waves or snow capped mountains.
I arrived at sunset, bearing witness to the pink clouds, bloated with rain, rolling over our fields and pond. That evening, vast liquid nourishment was provided to both. Perhaps my western upbringing has left me overly sensitized to precipitation, but I'm always stunned that any place can be so verdant and lush. While it poured down, my grandparents shared stories of their own memories on the place, and then of raising a family in the peripatetic ethos (chaos) of America's Air Force. The three of us came together with The Farm as the literal and imagined backdrop for our shared histories. The Farm, though also baseball and shuffleboard. Let's not forget that we're in 2009. I didn't milk any cows or anything.
After 36 hours with Grandma and PawPaw, the urge to revisit the interstate returned, and I hugged and kissed them farewell. They'll be the terminal bookend of my road trip, as well, when I turn Abigale the Subaru Westward and head for home. I'll stop for Thanksgiving on my return leg to Colorado, meeting with many more folks (aunts, uncles, and cousins, oh my) who remember their own youth occasionally played out on the same background.
I rolled up Rural Route N, then J, and headed further East on I-70, this time to St Louis. Though the city is the Gateway to the West, for me it's actually the gateway to East. From here, I can begin to smell the Red, can feel my fingertips begin their sweaty longing for sandstone. I'll be climbing in only a few days, though I'm still patiently meandering, still renewing acquaintance with old familiar sites and faces.
The first place I saw upon my arrival in STL was the university where I spent my first year of college. At 18, I ran to St Louis University in a snap, lazy decision to flee the anger I felt towards my father in particular, and boredom with Colorado in general. The first year was largely spent in halfhearted academic pursuit in the classroom, and in earnest attempted violence on the lacrosse fields. I marked time until I would flee, this time as a sophomore, for Spain.
To portray the year in St Louis as stolid would be an unfair assessment. My freshman year was spent in between many things, though firmly committed to none. I was uncomfortable with myself and unsure of where I was going, though not yet ready to forswear my origins. I remember with great clarity saying goodbye to my parents as they dropped me off for the academic year, wondering where I'd go now that I was no longer under my parents' thumb. The tears that this goodbye produced in my angry eyes were hastily pushed back into their ducts, though that sadness of leaving my youth hasn't been forgotten.
Today, from the very paving stone where I last remember my mother standing as she and my father left me for college, I called Mom in Colorado. I told her I loved her, and shared a reminiscent moment with her. Each of us remembered the day in 2000 with clarity, though it was subtly different to this autumn afternoon over nine years later. Today, the air was thick with the smell of french fries. Perhaps they weren't on the menu back then.
Tonight, this city will again act as a gateway, this time to my past as I'll see two friends I've kept from my days at school in the SLU system. Soon, though, I'll grow anxious, again, and aim the wheels, again, to the East. My plan is to stop in Louisville to greet one of my closest friends, Neil, and his parents in their home city. Their family is coping with the loss of Neil's grandmother. The news was all the more poignant given that my phone rang with the sad acknowledgment of her passing just yesterday while I was in the new farmhouse with my own elders. I'm glad to have seen them then, and will honor my friendship with Neil before I drive the final two hours and arrive in the Red.
Climbing can wait, at least for a few days. This drive is, certainly, a mode of transit to that outstanding recreational destination. Equally important, though, it's a way to reconnect with my friends and family, and my own past. I hope to honor all of them with some precious time. It's been a pleasure so far. I'll keep you up to date as the miles pass.
Love from Abaluba.
Sunday, October 25, 2009
Sunday Morning Observations
Not the religious type, as I'm a skeptical man who prefers sleep to sacraments. But I have a few things I've noticed this morning, Sunday, October 25, 2009.
I'm getting ready to leave for the Red on Wednesday. I'm alternatively enormously excited and a bit nervous. My first climbing day won't be for a week from today because I'll stop for a day at the farm to visit Grandma and Grandpa, and then again in St. Louis to see Vino and Nicole. In Louisville, I'm going to swing in for at least a "hello" with Neil's parents. That will break up the cross country drive well, but keep my pace slow.
I'm excited for the reason most obvious to any rock climber. The Red offers limitless climbing opportunities. The rock is beautiful, the routes number in the thousands, and the steep walls ensure a nasty fitness after enough time.
But behind the carefree optimism that could come to someone else, I'm nervous. My back has been hurting, and I want it to get better before I get there. Today I'm at around 75%, which is a marked improvement from three days ago. On Thursday, I couldn't even climb, but in a testament to the sole focus that personifies my life, I went to the gym, anyway. I figured I'd stretch and hang out with friends. Instead, my friends climbed, many of them with their sig-oh's, and I, coincidentally, saw my old college girlfriend and caught up with her. And then, I watched them climb and felt a twinge of jealousy. I just wanted to train. I want to be fit. I want to justify the fact that climbing is enormously important to me. You can't do that climbing 5.11.
I hope the weather will be good, and the cabin will let me relax. I wonder about driving across the country by myself. I still need to apply to grad school, and will have to do it while I'm in KY. I still need to finish my work for the Access Fund, but it's increasingly looking like I'll have to do it there, as well.
__________________________________________________________________
Back here in CO, I noticed that the coffee beans smell amazing. If I had to choose between smelling coffee and drinking it, and could only have one, the smell would win in a landslide.
Yesterday, my friend Dan did a route called Anarchitect down in Clear Creek. If you remember, I wrote about it around the time of my Greece trip last summer. I think that route has to be one of the best in CCC. Way to go, Danny!
Thinking about Anarchitect, it's interesting to see where my life has gone since I did that route. If, as I was lowering to the ground right after I finished the route, you'd have told me that on the horizon were a bust up with a lot of my family, a painfully slow and cautious reentry, and a break up with Kate, I would have told you to piss off. That's exactly what happened though, and I'm still trying to make sense of it. Maybe the Red will help with some clarity.
I'm getting ready to leave for the Red on Wednesday. I'm alternatively enormously excited and a bit nervous. My first climbing day won't be for a week from today because I'll stop for a day at the farm to visit Grandma and Grandpa, and then again in St. Louis to see Vino and Nicole. In Louisville, I'm going to swing in for at least a "hello" with Neil's parents. That will break up the cross country drive well, but keep my pace slow.
I'm excited for the reason most obvious to any rock climber. The Red offers limitless climbing opportunities. The rock is beautiful, the routes number in the thousands, and the steep walls ensure a nasty fitness after enough time.
But behind the carefree optimism that could come to someone else, I'm nervous. My back has been hurting, and I want it to get better before I get there. Today I'm at around 75%, which is a marked improvement from three days ago. On Thursday, I couldn't even climb, but in a testament to the sole focus that personifies my life, I went to the gym, anyway. I figured I'd stretch and hang out with friends. Instead, my friends climbed, many of them with their sig-oh's, and I, coincidentally, saw my old college girlfriend and caught up with her. And then, I watched them climb and felt a twinge of jealousy. I just wanted to train. I want to be fit. I want to justify the fact that climbing is enormously important to me. You can't do that climbing 5.11.
I hope the weather will be good, and the cabin will let me relax. I wonder about driving across the country by myself. I still need to apply to grad school, and will have to do it while I'm in KY. I still need to finish my work for the Access Fund, but it's increasingly looking like I'll have to do it there, as well.
__________________________________________________________________
Back here in CO, I noticed that the coffee beans smell amazing. If I had to choose between smelling coffee and drinking it, and could only have one, the smell would win in a landslide.
Yesterday, my friend Dan did a route called Anarchitect down in Clear Creek. If you remember, I wrote about it around the time of my Greece trip last summer. I think that route has to be one of the best in CCC. Way to go, Danny!
Thinking about Anarchitect, it's interesting to see where my life has gone since I did that route. If, as I was lowering to the ground right after I finished the route, you'd have told me that on the horizon were a bust up with a lot of my family, a painfully slow and cautious reentry, and a break up with Kate, I would have told you to piss off. That's exactly what happened though, and I'm still trying to make sense of it. Maybe the Red will help with some clarity.
Tuesday, October 20, 2009
Ride A Bike, Save the World
Well, maybe that's getting a little bit over the top. But I still say, "Ride a bike, enjoy your day a little bit more." Especially if it involves riding your bike to do errands, and pedaling with a buddy on bad ass single track around Grand Junction. Allow me to fill in the details.
My city bike is a converted cyclocross bike. I should actually be a bit more precise and say my only bike is a city bike, and it happens to be a converted 'cross bike. I've sold my other bike, a road racing machine, and happily neutered my 'cross bike in order to ensure that I'd never again have to race that heinous sport, either. Racing 'cross is a mix between sprinting as fast as you can for 45 minutes, interrupted only by occasional interludes best described as a midget kicking you in the groin. Yeah, it's that fun. For some unknown reason, I did it for nearly two full seasons. Further proof that I'm an abject moron.
And as for racing the road? Well, that's a bit more enjoyable, but I still found myself terrified at the prospect of losing all the skin on my ass, legs and face from a high speed dismount. This reality is pressing, given the nature of Category 4 racing, which basically pits balance-challenged, wanna-be Lance Armstrongs against one another in a war of attrition. Come to think of it, the best parts of road racing are the training and fitness, and the vanity of a team kit that allows you to pretend you're a pro. So, without too much regret, I sold that bike to a man in Florida.
What's left is a blue Cannondale Cyclocross bike that I originally bought to ride during the winter on filthy roadsm and race 'cross during the fall. For clarification, cyclocross is an activity invented in Belgium where road bikes are outfitted with knobby tires and slightly different gearing, and the racers do laps around muddy, sandy, slick tracks with the occasional barrier that forces a running dismount to clear. It might sound like grown up gym class, but to actually excel requires great bike handling skill, superhuman endurance, and a hatred of peace and quiet. I posses none of these qualities, and subsequently sucked.
So instead of subjecting myself to more races and humiliation/crippling pain, I took the bike to my favorite shop, University Bicycles, and had them change things over from 'cross to commuter. U Bikes is owned and run by Doug Emerson, a generous and warm Boulderite with a love of bikes. He also has the propensity to grow the wildest white-man afro you've ever seen. His hair is calmed down at this point, but he still gets out and rides a ton, and owns a shop on the corner of 9th and Pearl that is as spectacular in its memorabilia on the walls as in its customer service.
Doug's mechanics got me set up with a full tune up, more comfortable gear ration, easy riding flat bars, a killer chain guard, lights, and tires built for cruising, not racing. The bike is now way more comfortable to ride, and gets me around Boulder nearly as much as my blue Subaru, Abby (so named after Abaluba). The one thing I was missing, though, were fenders. Even though Doug provides me quite a bro deal, I still had to spend a few hundred dollars for all the work. At that point, I was drained, and it was the summer, anyway. Now that fall has hit, so has more predictable precip, and I need to keep the rain, sleet, and slush off my pants. Hence, the need for fenders.
With the shopping spree at U Bikes, I also came away with some cool brown leather grips. I wanted something to match the color and style. It was just my luck that, while walking on the 16th street mall after my date with a hideous sea creature, I saw a guy chaining his bike to a rail, and something special caught my eye. He had beautiful wooden fenders and I immediately asked him where he found them. He gave me the name of Woody's Fenders, a shop out of Bend, OR, and as soon as I got home from work that day, I called them up and got the skinny. Cody Davis makes fenders, racks and chainguards to anyone's specs, but also has some inventory that is sitting around for immediate delivery. I wanted my fenders ASAP, and wasn't overly particular, so long as they looked cool and kept things dry. We discussed the size I'd need, and then I ordered a set from his site.
The fenders recently came, and last week I had a chance to run to the hardware store and get everything I'd need for installation. My only two complaints from the fender experience were that hardware wasn't included, and the geriatrics working at McGuckin's nearly all had simultaneous coronaries when I brought my bike into the store. I explained that, though I understood it wasn't preferred that my bike be indoors, I needed to get the right screws, nuts, bolts, etc., and this was the only way it was happening. It all worked out, but my other complaint centers on grumpy old men giving me the hairy eye ball.
When I'm not running around the city on the blue bike, I'm usually rock climbing. That took a backseat last week when my buddy Ethan came to town. He has certainly climbed before, and he graciously placated my obsession with a few days in the gym. We had even planned to take a trip to Indian Creek, but my foot still isn't 100%, and that style of crack climbing would have left me battered worse than any 'cross race ever had.
Instead, we planned a few days of mountain biking out around Grand Junction and Fruita. Another friend, Mike Brumbaugh, runs Avon Venture Sports, a great shop around Vail that does skis in the winter and bikes in the warmer months. Mike is a great guy who always leaves me feeling like I should swear a little less, drink a little less, and do a little more for my friends. But in a good way, if that makes sense. He and I climb together out at Rifle during the summer, and in the Creek during the winter, as Mike rarely skis anymore. Instead, he rents the sticks out to Texans, and bikes out to buddies like myself. I got a full suspension Giant and Ethan grabbed one for himself, and we headed west to ride.
I'd never been on a full suspension bike before, and was amazed that I could basically point the front wheel downhill and easily float over any obstacle. That was, at least, until I got a little big for my britches and sent the front end over a boulder. At the time, Ethan was behind me, and said he saw the back of my jersey, and then one second later, the bottom bracket of the bike. Rapid crash and burn. That happened the first day, and I still had two days left on the trails. Needless to say, I slowed down considerably after that.
Ethan and I had originally planned on going to Moab so that we could ride and climb in the desert, but with my foot uncooperative, we changed plans and stayed within Colorado's border. I had a blast, and though Ethan had originally been excited to see Moab's famed slick rock biking, he seemed to really enjoy the riding we did. We rode along the Colorado river on the first day, scooted along the speedy and immaculate single track north of town the second, and ended with an ass kicking at the hands of Grand Junction's Tabaguach trail system.
The river rides were hugely scenic, and were reasonably mellow, save for the occasional terror through the rock hops. Fruita's single track was really well maintained and offered plenty of fun as we rode along the ridges and banked corners of the downhill slalom course. Tabaguach was like riding in Mordor, with rocks everywhere. This was by far the most technical and difficult riding we did. Fatigue finally settled in after three days of riding, making Tabaguach even more maddening. Of all the different venues, I think I liked the Fruita single track the best. For a neophyte mountain biker, the terrain was the most forgiving (read: least rocks to buck me off the bike) and the riding on spines of ridges, looking into the valley below while cruising along at high speed, was a blast.
So, the moral of the story: go ride a bike. It's a fine way to see the world. As an Abaluba first, we've got some video. Check it out!
My city bike is a converted cyclocross bike. I should actually be a bit more precise and say my only bike is a city bike, and it happens to be a converted 'cross bike. I've sold my other bike, a road racing machine, and happily neutered my 'cross bike in order to ensure that I'd never again have to race that heinous sport, either. Racing 'cross is a mix between sprinting as fast as you can for 45 minutes, interrupted only by occasional interludes best described as a midget kicking you in the groin. Yeah, it's that fun. For some unknown reason, I did it for nearly two full seasons. Further proof that I'm an abject moron.
And as for racing the road? Well, that's a bit more enjoyable, but I still found myself terrified at the prospect of losing all the skin on my ass, legs and face from a high speed dismount. This reality is pressing, given the nature of Category 4 racing, which basically pits balance-challenged, wanna-be Lance Armstrongs against one another in a war of attrition. Come to think of it, the best parts of road racing are the training and fitness, and the vanity of a team kit that allows you to pretend you're a pro. So, without too much regret, I sold that bike to a man in Florida.
What's left is a blue Cannondale Cyclocross bike that I originally bought to ride during the winter on filthy roadsm and race 'cross during the fall. For clarification, cyclocross is an activity invented in Belgium where road bikes are outfitted with knobby tires and slightly different gearing, and the racers do laps around muddy, sandy, slick tracks with the occasional barrier that forces a running dismount to clear. It might sound like grown up gym class, but to actually excel requires great bike handling skill, superhuman endurance, and a hatred of peace and quiet. I posses none of these qualities, and subsequently sucked.
So instead of subjecting myself to more races and humiliation/crippling pain, I took the bike to my favorite shop, University Bicycles, and had them change things over from 'cross to commuter. U Bikes is owned and run by Doug Emerson, a generous and warm Boulderite with a love of bikes. He also has the propensity to grow the wildest white-man afro you've ever seen. His hair is calmed down at this point, but he still gets out and rides a ton, and owns a shop on the corner of 9th and Pearl that is as spectacular in its memorabilia on the walls as in its customer service.
Doug's mechanics got me set up with a full tune up, more comfortable gear ration, easy riding flat bars, a killer chain guard, lights, and tires built for cruising, not racing. The bike is now way more comfortable to ride, and gets me around Boulder nearly as much as my blue Subaru, Abby (so named after Abaluba). The one thing I was missing, though, were fenders. Even though Doug provides me quite a bro deal, I still had to spend a few hundred dollars for all the work. At that point, I was drained, and it was the summer, anyway. Now that fall has hit, so has more predictable precip, and I need to keep the rain, sleet, and slush off my pants. Hence, the need for fenders.
With the shopping spree at U Bikes, I also came away with some cool brown leather grips. I wanted something to match the color and style. It was just my luck that, while walking on the 16th street mall after my date with a hideous sea creature, I saw a guy chaining his bike to a rail, and something special caught my eye. He had beautiful wooden fenders and I immediately asked him where he found them. He gave me the name of Woody's Fenders, a shop out of Bend, OR, and as soon as I got home from work that day, I called them up and got the skinny. Cody Davis makes fenders, racks and chainguards to anyone's specs, but also has some inventory that is sitting around for immediate delivery. I wanted my fenders ASAP, and wasn't overly particular, so long as they looked cool and kept things dry. We discussed the size I'd need, and then I ordered a set from his site.
The fenders recently came, and last week I had a chance to run to the hardware store and get everything I'd need for installation. My only two complaints from the fender experience were that hardware wasn't included, and the geriatrics working at McGuckin's nearly all had simultaneous coronaries when I brought my bike into the store. I explained that, though I understood it wasn't preferred that my bike be indoors, I needed to get the right screws, nuts, bolts, etc., and this was the only way it was happening. It all worked out, but my other complaint centers on grumpy old men giving me the hairy eye ball.
When I'm not running around the city on the blue bike, I'm usually rock climbing. That took a backseat last week when my buddy Ethan came to town. He has certainly climbed before, and he graciously placated my obsession with a few days in the gym. We had even planned to take a trip to Indian Creek, but my foot still isn't 100%, and that style of crack climbing would have left me battered worse than any 'cross race ever had.
Instead, we planned a few days of mountain biking out around Grand Junction and Fruita. Another friend, Mike Brumbaugh, runs Avon Venture Sports, a great shop around Vail that does skis in the winter and bikes in the warmer months. Mike is a great guy who always leaves me feeling like I should swear a little less, drink a little less, and do a little more for my friends. But in a good way, if that makes sense. He and I climb together out at Rifle during the summer, and in the Creek during the winter, as Mike rarely skis anymore. Instead, he rents the sticks out to Texans, and bikes out to buddies like myself. I got a full suspension Giant and Ethan grabbed one for himself, and we headed west to ride.
I'd never been on a full suspension bike before, and was amazed that I could basically point the front wheel downhill and easily float over any obstacle. That was, at least, until I got a little big for my britches and sent the front end over a boulder. At the time, Ethan was behind me, and said he saw the back of my jersey, and then one second later, the bottom bracket of the bike. Rapid crash and burn. That happened the first day, and I still had two days left on the trails. Needless to say, I slowed down considerably after that.
Ethan and I had originally planned on going to Moab so that we could ride and climb in the desert, but with my foot uncooperative, we changed plans and stayed within Colorado's border. I had a blast, and though Ethan had originally been excited to see Moab's famed slick rock biking, he seemed to really enjoy the riding we did. We rode along the Colorado river on the first day, scooted along the speedy and immaculate single track north of town the second, and ended with an ass kicking at the hands of Grand Junction's Tabaguach trail system.
The river rides were hugely scenic, and were reasonably mellow, save for the occasional terror through the rock hops. Fruita's single track was really well maintained and offered plenty of fun as we rode along the ridges and banked corners of the downhill slalom course. Tabaguach was like riding in Mordor, with rocks everywhere. This was by far the most technical and difficult riding we did. Fatigue finally settled in after three days of riding, making Tabaguach even more maddening. Of all the different venues, I think I liked the Fruita single track the best. For a neophyte mountain biker, the terrain was the most forgiving (read: least rocks to buck me off the bike) and the riding on spines of ridges, looking into the valley below while cruising along at high speed, was a blast.
So, the moral of the story: go ride a bike. It's a fine way to see the world. As an Abaluba first, we've got some video. Check it out!
Friday, October 9, 2009
The End of The Season
Loveland and A-Basin are both open for skiing. It seems a little odd, given that it's only October 9th, but the fact that chair lifts are running makes the end of the Rifle season seem a little more appropriate. I've been climbing there for what seems like about 15 straight weekends, with plenty of weekday sessions thrown in for good measure, and, to be entirely honest, I welcome the break. That's not to say that I won't want to be back projecting the choss in a few weeks, but taking a breather from the three hour drive and the exhausted Sunday night/Monday morning combo should do me some good.
To be fair, I've had an INSANELY fun season. I spent a lion's share of the time climbing with All-Stars. Teaming up to climb with friends seems like it's a no-brainer, but Rifle lends itself to plenty of time spent scumming belays from anyone you can find. I was pretty lucky this year, because I seemingly always had a supportive, fun crew around who were psyched to climb during the days and then cook great food, and talk about interesting subjects around the campfire. I know what crimps feel like. Heel-hooks? Yeah, sick, brah. But getting to know the details of teaching a room full of third graders, some basics about computer programming, and the pitfalls of managing multimillion dollar portfolios is a lot more compelling. Thanks, Team A+.
Recent developments at home have left me feeling happy for some local time, too. My mom got pretty sick last week and ended up in and out of the hospital, first in Paris while she was on vacation with my sister Megan, and then back at St. Joseph's in Denver when they got home. It's a strange feeling to watch a parent fade into a shell of themselves and wonder if they might be dying. Fortunately, the health woes seem to have been caused by dehydration a reaction to several medications. For the first half a day or so, we weren't sure what was going on, and as one of her physician coworkers said, "it's either something like a drug reaction or a brain tumor." Brain tumor? That's not exactly how I was spending my autumn with my mom. That it turned out to be a pretty casual health issue is fortunate, but certainly acts as a warning not to take for granted those who you love. And for me, it was a good reminder to spend a few days with them now and then.
When she was still in the ER at St. Joe's, my sisters and I took turns sitting by her bed and watching the hysteria that can typify the ward. There were nurses and doctors everywhere, and at this point we weren't entirely sure of what was going on with our mom. Trying to stay calm and not grab anyone in scrubs and scream into their face, "What the fuck is going on with Mama Sus?" was a chore.
Besides the employees, there are plenty of patients with their own dramatic issues. A priest walked somberly into the adjacent room to deliver an elderly woman her last rites as the dying woman's daughter sobbed in the hall. It's hard not to get at least marginally attached to a stranger's plight when a man in a collar is involved. With walls made of fabric, it's easy to eavesdrop. You can imagine my relief, two fold, when I asked my mom what happened to her neighbor.
"Oh hell, she was just having nicotine withdrawal. She forgot her patch."
"Estelle" would live to fight another day, and that my mom's sense of humor was coming back showed that she was getting better, too. Thank god she could laugh about it, because the scene was pretty grim. After a few days on an I.V. and some positively atrocious hospital food, she's back on the mend. She was stuck on the renal diet because the dehydration threatened her kidneys, and the look on my mom's face when they denied her even fruit and cottage cheese, instead providing plain green beans, was maybe the saddest thing I saw the entire time she was in the ER. I felt like a criminal, but I covertly provided a few medjool dates so she had something sweet to gnaw on. Now that she's out, the food has improved dramatically, and so has her energy.
So as the summer winds down, take some time to share with people you care about. I'm glad I'll get another chance to do so.
To be fair, I've had an INSANELY fun season. I spent a lion's share of the time climbing with All-Stars. Teaming up to climb with friends seems like it's a no-brainer, but Rifle lends itself to plenty of time spent scumming belays from anyone you can find. I was pretty lucky this year, because I seemingly always had a supportive, fun crew around who were psyched to climb during the days and then cook great food, and talk about interesting subjects around the campfire. I know what crimps feel like. Heel-hooks? Yeah, sick, brah. But getting to know the details of teaching a room full of third graders, some basics about computer programming, and the pitfalls of managing multimillion dollar portfolios is a lot more compelling. Thanks, Team A+.
Recent developments at home have left me feeling happy for some local time, too. My mom got pretty sick last week and ended up in and out of the hospital, first in Paris while she was on vacation with my sister Megan, and then back at St. Joseph's in Denver when they got home. It's a strange feeling to watch a parent fade into a shell of themselves and wonder if they might be dying. Fortunately, the health woes seem to have been caused by dehydration a reaction to several medications. For the first half a day or so, we weren't sure what was going on, and as one of her physician coworkers said, "it's either something like a drug reaction or a brain tumor." Brain tumor? That's not exactly how I was spending my autumn with my mom. That it turned out to be a pretty casual health issue is fortunate, but certainly acts as a warning not to take for granted those who you love. And for me, it was a good reminder to spend a few days with them now and then.
When she was still in the ER at St. Joe's, my sisters and I took turns sitting by her bed and watching the hysteria that can typify the ward. There were nurses and doctors everywhere, and at this point we weren't entirely sure of what was going on with our mom. Trying to stay calm and not grab anyone in scrubs and scream into their face, "What the fuck is going on with Mama Sus?" was a chore.
Besides the employees, there are plenty of patients with their own dramatic issues. A priest walked somberly into the adjacent room to deliver an elderly woman her last rites as the dying woman's daughter sobbed in the hall. It's hard not to get at least marginally attached to a stranger's plight when a man in a collar is involved. With walls made of fabric, it's easy to eavesdrop. You can imagine my relief, two fold, when I asked my mom what happened to her neighbor.
"Oh hell, she was just having nicotine withdrawal. She forgot her patch."
"Estelle" would live to fight another day, and that my mom's sense of humor was coming back showed that she was getting better, too. Thank god she could laugh about it, because the scene was pretty grim. After a few days on an I.V. and some positively atrocious hospital food, she's back on the mend. She was stuck on the renal diet because the dehydration threatened her kidneys, and the look on my mom's face when they denied her even fruit and cottage cheese, instead providing plain green beans, was maybe the saddest thing I saw the entire time she was in the ER. I felt like a criminal, but I covertly provided a few medjool dates so she had something sweet to gnaw on. Now that she's out, the food has improved dramatically, and so has her energy.
So as the summer winds down, take some time to share with people you care about. I'm glad I'll get another chance to do so.
Wednesday, October 7, 2009
Urph and Merika Part ways
In Startling news, oft-photographed model Giselle Urph has ended her long standing romance with business mogul Jonathan Merika. Urph has long been associated with the ethos of the entire world, while Merika is a paragon of his home country, The USA. Dwarfing the likes of other movers and shakers Brad and Angelina (Brangelina), Tom Cruise and Katie Holmes (TomKat) and Pam Anderson and Kid Rock (Sluttrash), Urph and Merika reigned supreme as the preeminent power couple. The two had been romantically involved for years; ostensibly a model of monogamous synergy ever since the well publicized three way tryst involving the Russian oligarch Dmitri Petrovski came to an end in the late 1980’s.
(Urph and Merika in happier times)
Urph says of her previous flirtation with the two rival suitors, “Once I realized that the stress and tension was going to kill us all, it became obvious that I’d have to pick one of them. For a long time, Johnny was a good choice.” Multiple small fights and petty arguments over seemingly innocuous subjects, such as workers’ rights in Asian factories, put everyone on their toes. Mercifully, Urph chose to go steady with Merika, leaving the dejected Petrovski dumped and single. Since that falling out, the Russian has only sparingly seen the limelight, most recently in a business deal with a group in Georgia that fell flat with investors.
Indeed, the Urph-Merika courtship started out with fantastic promise. In their early years, the two were often spotted engaged in excited flirtation. Merika would arrive unannounced, flowers in hand, and whisk the model off her feet. Pleasure cruises in his convertible Corvette were the name of the game, and he’d often take Urph out to dinner at upscale restaurants. Without fail, Merika would always pick up the bill. His nonchalance with expenditures initially made Urph uneasy, as though the businessman expect something in return, but during their nascent courtship, he always maintained a gentlemanly attitude.
These lavish attentions gave the entertainer and model a feeling she hadn’t felt in the years prior to her fling with Merika. She’d suffered through multiple broken relationships with a string of B-listers. Congressman Anatoli Griego, Admiral Julius Rome, and rapper Widespread Islam (or We-I, as he’s best known in the hip hop world) had all led Urph by the arm to various film screenings and short-term dating scenarios prior to Merika’s arrival.
When asked to reminisce about those old flings, Giselle was hesitant to drag too many skeletons from her closet. However, she would offer the following: “Anatoli was fine, but he was kind of old fashioned. The thing that really stands out is that all he wanted to do was fuck me in the ass. Jules was fine, and to be honest, I thought we had some long-term promise. He got pretty caught up with his image, and then ran off with some Egyptian broad. That was that. Although, thinking about it, Jules sometimes reminded me of Anatoli. And We-I, well…”
Of course, Urph is referring to We-I’s well-publicized rise and decline. He’d come from a prominent recording family, and his debut album, The Stars of Love, The Mathematics of Desire, had gone triple platinum. Soon after, however, he’d tried to expand into genres that were too experimental for his core audience, and with the release of his first Spanish language record Te Adoro, Te Odio failing to achieve any lasting commercial success, We-I left Giselle for a life of ascetic cave dwelling where he’d renounced all reason and logic. (Below, We-I after his decline)
“Yeah, that one really went weird there at the end,” recalls the model. “I knew he was pissed because his whole Spanish experiment ended so poorly, but when I refused to give up vodka tonics and sunbathing in my bikini, he flipped. I was young, and fiercely hot. I was just coming into my own, and partying was such a big deal for me. Besides, my rock hard tah-tahs got me so much attention, there was no way I was wearing a burka for him.”
After We-I, Urph took a long hiatus from dating. She’d focused on career in the subsequent years, though with limited success. She’d begun to feel distressed about her few magazine covers, and perhaps was slightly vulnerable to Merika’s advances when he’d first arrived on the scene. Petrovski, too, saw the chance for love with the still stunning model. Though the Russian and Urph saw each other on several occasions, the two never really hit it off.
“When he asked me to split all the dinner bills in the name of Universal Brotherhood, or some such bullshit, I knew I’d have to end it. Besides, Johnny was calling me all the time then, anyway. It was actually a pretty easy transition, especially with him willing to pick up all the tabs. At least that’s what he wanted me to think.”
Here, Giselle refers to Merika’s propensity, after several years together, to forget his wallet from time to time, forcing the model to dip into her own funds. These money woes were in fact one of the initial signs of stress between the former power couple. While Merika had initially offered to buy dinners and fancy clothes for his “Special Lady,” as he’d often referred to her, eventually the strain began to show. The businessman had hoped for some sort of “return on investment,” as he was often fond of saying. Merika has been quoted as saying, “Look. If you’re gonna blow all that hard earned dough on some chick, at some point, she better pay it back. I’m not going to get into too many gory details, but I really could have gone for something more exciting in the sack. After a while, I got tired of paying for all her fun.”
Asked if he’d had something in mind along the likes of the Anatoli Griego rumors, Merika offers only a terse “No comment!”
Again, Urph: “It got pretty annoying when he was trying to play it cool like he had all this cash in the bank, but he was always judging my decisions with my own money. We were out at Macy’s one day, and I wanted to get a dozen new pairs of Seven jeans. I know they’re expensive, but they make my ass look great. Christ, it’s my money, but when we were checking out, he kept sarcastically saying they were a bad choice and so unnecessary. Who the hell is he to judge me?”
For all of his criticism of Giselle’s private expenditures, Merika’s business ventures were beginning to fall upon hard times. He’d recently filed for Chapter 11 bankruptcy protection, and had been humiliated at a recent casual dinner at Appleby’s after his credit card had been declined. Witnesses say that Urph had emptied her purse of cash, but the bill remained unresolved. Rumors abound that Merika joined in the dishwashing duties, and his recent quips about an “American Reinvestment Plan” do little to quell the disquiet.
Recently, Merika had begun to show the signs of his age. Perhaps most tellingly, his once rock had abs had given way to an unsightly paunch. His golden, flowing mane has been embarrassingly reduced by male pattern baldness. Though Merika remains that it’s perfectly natural for an aging superpower such as himself to begin to lose some of his old shine, the hefty amounts of McDonalds he’s recently taken to eating (no doubt partly due to his strapped budget) have left him worse for wear.
Another sign that the relationship was under strain was the constant disagreement on sports and leisure. Says Giselle, “(I)t got to the point where all he wanted to do was sit around and watch football with his awful buddy all weekend. I hate football. It’s despicably violent. I tried to get him interested in other stuff that we could do together, but he really wasn’t interested. My cricket suggestion went down in flames, and the one time I thought we’d have a chance with the soccer game I set up, it was more of the same childish tantrum crap.”
(Tex)
Here, Urph points out two signs of trouble. The first is Merika’s friendship with his insufferable friend, Tex. Tex had been a fraternity brother to Merika back in college, but had failed to ever move on from his drunken, abusive persona developed back at school. His trust fund (old family money from the oil business) has allowed for rampant temerity, and though the funds appear to be dwindling, his actions show little promise of forethought.
The second, of course, is the infamous soccer game Urph tried to stage in 1994. Jonathan was feeling experimental at the time, and agreed to play against Giselle in her favorite sport. “She kept calling it ‘football’ to try to trick me, and that’s the only reason I agreed to play. Every time I’d take the ball from her, she’d fall to the ground crying and scream ‘foul!’” Says Merika. “That’s a game for total puss bags. She’ll never forget when I scored my goal, though. God, I’m a natural at that inferior game.”
He refers, of course, to his celebration after his only goal of the game, a 13-1 demolition. He’s seen below, in the days where his blonde locks still reigned supreme. (There’s no word as to why he was wearing a sports bra)
“Around the time of the soccer game, I could see then that things were coming to an end,” says Urph. “And it just so happened that after the game, I was introduced to one of Johnny’s business partners. We hit it off then, and now that John and I have decided to break, we’ve been on a few dates. I don’t know if it’s serious, but the change of pace is really nice. We take long walks in the middle of the afternoon, and my God can he hit the clubs!”
Urph is, of course, speaking of her budding fling with new beau EUgene Schroder.
Merika was recently found in Tex’s basement, both of them blind drunk and playing a game they were calling “Tummy Sticks.” When asked for his romantic strategy following his break with Giselle, he simply muttered, “She’ll be back, she can’t resist this,” and pointed to his bulging belly, pink and distended from their game.
Despite his optimism, the two appear to have split for good. Giselle was last seen riding horses on an exclusive beach resort in Malta, EUgene laughing as he dismounted to spread a blanket for their picnic.
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