I am watching the Nuggets play New Orleans at the moment, but it's halftime and I realized that I hadn't posted in a while. Let's see how much I can pack in before the third quarter starts.
Sometimes, when I am trying to quickly write an email, I'll accidentally type Oat instead of Pat. I'm nervous that one of these times, I'll miss the mistake and send off the email. I don't really want people from work giving me the nickname of Oat.
Mountain Dew has this goofy commercial with some kids sitting around a park, drinking the heinous concoction of high fructose corn syrup and Yellow #5. Each time they take a drink, they somehow become electrified, and take on an unhealthy glow. I actually think that you do start to have a radioactive sheen when you drink that shit, but regardless, I don't think this is the point. There are swarms of mosquitoes around the kids, and as they fly in to drink the poisoned blood, they get zapped. Problem is, the kids are wearing sweatshirts or jackets. If it's cold enough to need to bundle up when you're hanging in the park after dark, its too cold for mosquitoes. Seriously, who do they think we are?
I'm exhausted. I managed to get in a gym session with Nick over at the BRC, and then went back home to do some more work. After that, I went to a yoga class with my sister Megan. That's a good 5 hours of burning off steam, but I'm zonked. Need a vacation, and fortunately, I'm headed to Squaw on Friday for a week of skiing.
Caller ID is a great feature. The phone rang, but I didn't have to talk to the telemarketer who was on the other end. So I got that going for me. Which is nice.
I got a new ski helmet for Christmas. "New" is a bit of a misnomer. It was probably made back in 1988. But anytime you get the chance to sport a Boeri hot pink racing helmet that was the preferred brain bucket of your girlfriend's baby brother, you gotta do it. Also, I got some new skis recently. The topsheet's graphics feature a flaming skull. It really goes well with the new lid.
I've been talking a bunch recently about how my buddy Hans needs to make a full transition to what I call "The Chris Anderson Zone". Chris Anderson plays for the Nugs, and is by far the goofiest 7 foot honkey to ever play in the NBA. His nickname is the Birdman. Although not nearly as intimidating as "Oat", or even "The Oatman", he is covered in tatooes, has a gross soul patch, and wears a sweat band over his ears. Hans is also a tall, goofy whitey, and I'm trying my best to get him to cover himself in Sharpy tatooes and say dumb stuff like "it's time for the H-man to fly" when he races to the copier to get his freshly minted Assignment of Oil and Gas Lease.
Game's back on. More from Squaw. Maybe pics, too.
Wednesday, January 28, 2009
Sunday, January 18, 2009
Coffee is for closers
Do yourself a favor and go rent Glengarry Glen Ross. This film came out in the early 90's, and other than having an Earth shatteringly good cast, was all about finishing Real Estate deals. My main memory from that film, other than a fantastic speech delivered by Alec Baldwin, is a high school club soccer trip to California. Our coach wanted us to learn what it meant to close out games, and he showed us the tape while we were in all in a hotel one night before a game. Besides the obvious irresponsibilty of showing a bunch of 17 year old boys a movie filled with dramatic swearing, it was a great show. Click on the link above, and then read the next paragraph. If you're at work, "put that coffee down," and turn the sound down low.
What did you get from that? Other than that Baldwin is a dick? I imagine you're struck by the ideal that men are meant to close. Today, I was Ed Harris. I was not a closer. I drove in my Hyundai, played with my kids, and generally hit the bricks. Drat.
What did I fail to close? Did I secretly get my real estate license, antithetical to this current economic climate, and unannounced to my loyal voyeurs? No. I failed to clip the chains, and in my world, that's tantamount to letting the sale walk out the door. I had them. They were ready, pen in hand, and I couldn't secure a signature on the line that is dotted. Why not? What was I thinking?
Coach Fullerton was a great coach for my club soccer team back in 1999. He was a smart guy, with a law degree after a college career playing ball at a Division 1 school. I'd spontaneously run into him at the library, and he'd be returning a stack of books that he was reading purely out of intellectual curiosity. We'd talk about upcoming games, and what I was doing in school, away from his tutelage. I would have my one book, my "research" for junior year English, and he'd need a cart to bring back his borrowed literature. Coach Fullerton would look at me and ask why I wasn't doing more. Why I wasn't pushing a bit harder. And I only had a meek answer that wouldn't meet any reasonably strict standard. After all, I went to public school. Basically, I was being lazy, and we both knew it.
Fullerton knew that my mentality wasn't unique, and in fact, extended well into our entire soccer team. He didn't have much recourse to change us academically, but could whoop our asses on the field. He didn't like that we were letting things slip during one particular season, and thought that Glengarry would do the trick and fire us up. While I'd like to announce otherwise, the message has yet to entirely sink in.
Today, I was trying to finish a route called Sucking My Will To Live. It is a 12c down in Clear Creek, and has two distinct hard parts. I don't know if it is my yoga, or the fact that I've been climbing a bunch lately, but this whole route doesn't feel so hard for me. I've easily figured out how do place my hands and feet on the bad holds, and felt like I'd do it after only a few tries. Not much of a project, in the grand scheme of sport climbing. So after two tries yesterday, I thought I'd go back today and clean things up.
I went down to Clear Creek with my buddy Dan, and it's important to note that Dan is, in terms of climbing, a closer. He crushes routes. When I watch him work on routes, I feel like I'm back at the library, looking face to face with Coach Fullerton. Dan's trying harder than I am. And so when I was at the last bolt of Sucking My Will To Live, looking up at three more moves before I could consider the route completed and myself a success, I should have taken the suggestion of Coach, Alec Baldwin, and Dan Mirsky, and just closed the deal. Instead, I tamely pulled with an important heel hook, didn't get nearly enough lift our of my core, and came up short of the hold I was going for. And then, I fell off. Try finished; route incompleted; hit the bricks. Why the hell did I do that?
Over the past year, I've been aiming for routes that have been much harder than stuff I've done before. Subsequently, sending the routes has taken a bunch more time and effort, with days upon days or practice before I'd even considered the send within reach. I worry that this has habituated my mind and body into waiting too long before I can reasonably expect success. All of the hard routes I've sent in the past year have felt easy once I've eventually done them, but at the expense of dozens of practice tries. (For the sake of rock climbing parlence and common diction, I'm letting you know that these are called "burns," and referring to them as such from now on.)
So today, I gave up on sending Sucking My Will To Live even though I felt strong and knew what to do at the crux, the hardest part of the route. I didn't close, and lowered down to the ground to find Dan scratching his head. Me, I'm just banging mine against a wall, wondering why simple lessons take years to sink in. I need to take a minute before I get ready to climb, and visualize good ole Mr. Baldwin yelling at me and calling me names. And then, I need to sack it up and finish routes, even if I haven't practiced them into submission. If I can do that, I might be a closer. Until then, I'm going to continue to be belayed by guys whose watches are worth more than my car.
What did you get from that? Other than that Baldwin is a dick? I imagine you're struck by the ideal that men are meant to close. Today, I was Ed Harris. I was not a closer. I drove in my Hyundai, played with my kids, and generally hit the bricks. Drat.
What did I fail to close? Did I secretly get my real estate license, antithetical to this current economic climate, and unannounced to my loyal voyeurs? No. I failed to clip the chains, and in my world, that's tantamount to letting the sale walk out the door. I had them. They were ready, pen in hand, and I couldn't secure a signature on the line that is dotted. Why not? What was I thinking?
Coach Fullerton was a great coach for my club soccer team back in 1999. He was a smart guy, with a law degree after a college career playing ball at a Division 1 school. I'd spontaneously run into him at the library, and he'd be returning a stack of books that he was reading purely out of intellectual curiosity. We'd talk about upcoming games, and what I was doing in school, away from his tutelage. I would have my one book, my "research" for junior year English, and he'd need a cart to bring back his borrowed literature. Coach Fullerton would look at me and ask why I wasn't doing more. Why I wasn't pushing a bit harder. And I only had a meek answer that wouldn't meet any reasonably strict standard. After all, I went to public school. Basically, I was being lazy, and we both knew it.
Fullerton knew that my mentality wasn't unique, and in fact, extended well into our entire soccer team. He didn't have much recourse to change us academically, but could whoop our asses on the field. He didn't like that we were letting things slip during one particular season, and thought that Glengarry would do the trick and fire us up. While I'd like to announce otherwise, the message has yet to entirely sink in.
Today, I was trying to finish a route called Sucking My Will To Live. It is a 12c down in Clear Creek, and has two distinct hard parts. I don't know if it is my yoga, or the fact that I've been climbing a bunch lately, but this whole route doesn't feel so hard for me. I've easily figured out how do place my hands and feet on the bad holds, and felt like I'd do it after only a few tries. Not much of a project, in the grand scheme of sport climbing. So after two tries yesterday, I thought I'd go back today and clean things up.
I went down to Clear Creek with my buddy Dan, and it's important to note that Dan is, in terms of climbing, a closer. He crushes routes. When I watch him work on routes, I feel like I'm back at the library, looking face to face with Coach Fullerton. Dan's trying harder than I am. And so when I was at the last bolt of Sucking My Will To Live, looking up at three more moves before I could consider the route completed and myself a success, I should have taken the suggestion of Coach, Alec Baldwin, and Dan Mirsky, and just closed the deal. Instead, I tamely pulled with an important heel hook, didn't get nearly enough lift our of my core, and came up short of the hold I was going for. And then, I fell off. Try finished; route incompleted; hit the bricks. Why the hell did I do that?
Over the past year, I've been aiming for routes that have been much harder than stuff I've done before. Subsequently, sending the routes has taken a bunch more time and effort, with days upon days or practice before I'd even considered the send within reach. I worry that this has habituated my mind and body into waiting too long before I can reasonably expect success. All of the hard routes I've sent in the past year have felt easy once I've eventually done them, but at the expense of dozens of practice tries. (For the sake of rock climbing parlence and common diction, I'm letting you know that these are called "burns," and referring to them as such from now on.)
So today, I gave up on sending Sucking My Will To Live even though I felt strong and knew what to do at the crux, the hardest part of the route. I didn't close, and lowered down to the ground to find Dan scratching his head. Me, I'm just banging mine against a wall, wondering why simple lessons take years to sink in. I need to take a minute before I get ready to climb, and visualize good ole Mr. Baldwin yelling at me and calling me names. And then, I need to sack it up and finish routes, even if I haven't practiced them into submission. If I can do that, I might be a closer. Until then, I'm going to continue to be belayed by guys whose watches are worth more than my car.
Saturday, January 17, 2009
Hyde Park, Table for Two
How did I find myself in this situation again? All I wanted to do was have a nice dinner at Burnt Toast with my sister, catch up and talk about life, but there I was, enduring another open mic night. The first time, Megan and I sat through a spoken word session which featured some very public therapy by a man who had recently broken up with his girlfriend. The second time, “Bombay Gin,” Naropa’s poetry publication, was on parade, flying high the flagging talent of students of an unaccredited University.
Megan and I have long since been dining at the restaurant on the Hill. The owner, Buddy, is a great chef, and quite a character. An MBA grad from Yale, he learned how to cook during a decade spent in Parisian kitchens. Along the way, he was married, had a brood of three children, divorced (the wife, not the kids), and was remarried to a woman with a clan of her own. His three children and three step kids have, at some point, all provided their share of the shaky service, with any number of other ruffians from the neighborhood filling in on bus duty. Thanks to his culinary expertise gleaned in France, Buddy routinely throws together a dinner menu of flavorful risotto, buffalo steak, and handmade tagliatelle. It seems, though, that Buddy’s MBA also rears its head, and he finds other means to drum up the money.
The main room at Burnt Toast can fit about 30 diners, but Buddy has figured out that the tables can be rearranged and a microphone can be placed in a corner, allowing local miscreants a forum for reading their grievances or interpretations of “the beauty of the Earth Goddess.” What Buddy does with his dining room is mostly his prerogative, but Megan and I have been witness to two occasions that didn’t exactly go with our Arborio rice. When my dinner is disturbed by the ranting of a local buffoon, I have no choice but to blog about it.
Therapy has a rightful place in the lives of all over privileged anglo-saxon suburbanites. I just tend to think that it should be done under the careful watch of a man named Epstein. Or Schwartz, maybe. But not Buddy, and certainly not at The Toast. Imagine the impropriety when, months ago, Megan and I went for dinner but were interrupted by a spoken word slam. Person after person would approach the soapbox and proclaim their sins and desires to the room. Sadly, though, no renowned orators were present that evening, instead leaving a man, presumably a sophomore at the University of Colorado, to lament his recent romantic failings. I have a hard time swallowing my pasta, no matter how delicious, with the following monologue:
“That bitch had to go. I detest her. I hate her blood. I tasted her blood. But now that she’s gone, I taste the alcohol. It runs to my blood, and brings her back to me, in a memory.”
Check, please.
With the deranged lover boy as our previous backdrop, Megs and I went back for another shot at Buddy’s dinner. Things were looking similarly epicurean with a menu of pear and gorgonzola salad and salmon gnocchi, but, to our horror, in the corner was the dreaded megaphone. How did we get here again? And what stupidity could come from the mouth of an uneducated rambler? The answers, in order, are we walked, and shoddy poetry.
Bombay Gin is a fantastic beverage. Bombay Gin, however, is a publication by Naropa University’s Jack Kerouac School. Don’t let the On The Road reference fool you. The talent pool drawn therein doesn’t come from Columbia, and won’t be publishing any seminal works of American prose any time soon, either. I learned a lesson from my first encounter with these forums, and quickly grabbed a pen and scribbled notes. I looked like any number of the other beatniks breaking up my meal, save that my shitty beard gets shaved a few times a week. Most of the audience keeps theirs a scraggly fur.
The editor introduced nearly half of the packed room as contributing editors, featured artists, or production assistants, each name followed by uproarious applause. I’ll grant that this group was much better supported than the previous session. One table in the back, however, appeared to be much in the same boat as my sister and me. While Megan and I tried to show a perfunctory level of respect for a band of students at an unaccredited educational institution, a group of four men held no such illusion of deference. The first reader spoke in such a soft voice that the dialogue from the other uninvited table supplanted the man with the mic as the dominant noise, making the situation even more uncomfortable. Megs and I alternated between eavesdropping between a man baring his soul and a quartet of gentlemen who appeared to be in the throngs of a midlife crisis.
“I kneel on the ceiling in a broken fetus….”
“She’s moving out, and taking the kids….”
“Grandpa threw the snakes out the window…”
“Mama’s not coming back…”
Finally, the table seemed to settle down just in time for the second reader. Maybe it was the daggers flying from the eyes of many a poet in attendance. Whatever their motivation, the men made room for a woman to proclaim her “obsession with the dream world, and also water,” and to tell us she was “a kick ass poet. Rock on.”
Our waitress, a new girl and not one of the progeny, whispered if we’d like dessert. “No thanks, we were good,” but would happily take the bill.
Next time I go to Burnt Toast after dark, I’m sending a scout.
Megan and I have long since been dining at the restaurant on the Hill. The owner, Buddy, is a great chef, and quite a character. An MBA grad from Yale, he learned how to cook during a decade spent in Parisian kitchens. Along the way, he was married, had a brood of three children, divorced (the wife, not the kids), and was remarried to a woman with a clan of her own. His three children and three step kids have, at some point, all provided their share of the shaky service, with any number of other ruffians from the neighborhood filling in on bus duty. Thanks to his culinary expertise gleaned in France, Buddy routinely throws together a dinner menu of flavorful risotto, buffalo steak, and handmade tagliatelle. It seems, though, that Buddy’s MBA also rears its head, and he finds other means to drum up the money.
The main room at Burnt Toast can fit about 30 diners, but Buddy has figured out that the tables can be rearranged and a microphone can be placed in a corner, allowing local miscreants a forum for reading their grievances or interpretations of “the beauty of the Earth Goddess.” What Buddy does with his dining room is mostly his prerogative, but Megan and I have been witness to two occasions that didn’t exactly go with our Arborio rice. When my dinner is disturbed by the ranting of a local buffoon, I have no choice but to blog about it.
Therapy has a rightful place in the lives of all over privileged anglo-saxon suburbanites. I just tend to think that it should be done under the careful watch of a man named Epstein. Or Schwartz, maybe. But not Buddy, and certainly not at The Toast. Imagine the impropriety when, months ago, Megan and I went for dinner but were interrupted by a spoken word slam. Person after person would approach the soapbox and proclaim their sins and desires to the room. Sadly, though, no renowned orators were present that evening, instead leaving a man, presumably a sophomore at the University of Colorado, to lament his recent romantic failings. I have a hard time swallowing my pasta, no matter how delicious, with the following monologue:
“That bitch had to go. I detest her. I hate her blood. I tasted her blood. But now that she’s gone, I taste the alcohol. It runs to my blood, and brings her back to me, in a memory.”
Check, please.
With the deranged lover boy as our previous backdrop, Megs and I went back for another shot at Buddy’s dinner. Things were looking similarly epicurean with a menu of pear and gorgonzola salad and salmon gnocchi, but, to our horror, in the corner was the dreaded megaphone. How did we get here again? And what stupidity could come from the mouth of an uneducated rambler? The answers, in order, are we walked, and shoddy poetry.
Bombay Gin is a fantastic beverage. Bombay Gin, however, is a publication by Naropa University’s Jack Kerouac School. Don’t let the On The Road reference fool you. The talent pool drawn therein doesn’t come from Columbia, and won’t be publishing any seminal works of American prose any time soon, either. I learned a lesson from my first encounter with these forums, and quickly grabbed a pen and scribbled notes. I looked like any number of the other beatniks breaking up my meal, save that my shitty beard gets shaved a few times a week. Most of the audience keeps theirs a scraggly fur.
The editor introduced nearly half of the packed room as contributing editors, featured artists, or production assistants, each name followed by uproarious applause. I’ll grant that this group was much better supported than the previous session. One table in the back, however, appeared to be much in the same boat as my sister and me. While Megan and I tried to show a perfunctory level of respect for a band of students at an unaccredited educational institution, a group of four men held no such illusion of deference. The first reader spoke in such a soft voice that the dialogue from the other uninvited table supplanted the man with the mic as the dominant noise, making the situation even more uncomfortable. Megs and I alternated between eavesdropping between a man baring his soul and a quartet of gentlemen who appeared to be in the throngs of a midlife crisis.
“I kneel on the ceiling in a broken fetus….”
“She’s moving out, and taking the kids….”
“Grandpa threw the snakes out the window…”
“Mama’s not coming back…”
Finally, the table seemed to settle down just in time for the second reader. Maybe it was the daggers flying from the eyes of many a poet in attendance. Whatever their motivation, the men made room for a woman to proclaim her “obsession with the dream world, and also water,” and to tell us she was “a kick ass poet. Rock on.”
Our waitress, a new girl and not one of the progeny, whispered if we’d like dessert. “No thanks, we were good,” but would happily take the bill.
Next time I go to Burnt Toast after dark, I’m sending a scout.
Tuesday, January 13, 2009
Back from Class
"Where's my sacrum?"
There are plenty of funny, self conscious questions that can happen in an intro level yoga class. In my case, they happen after the yoga class. Only once I've returned home and found my girlfriend am I fully content to appear as I really am - a neophyte. She's been going to yoga for years, she'll know. I have been going to yoga only recently in an effort to balance myself out and, in truth, to help my climbing. Maybe this way my mind will calm down a little. Maybe by going to yoga a bunch during the winter, I'll get enough strength and flexibility to make 5.12 feel easier and 5.13 feel much more attainable. Maybe, I'll just enjoy going to yoga.
The interesting part of this experiment in stretching is that I don't really know where it will take me. During the first few minutes of the Mysore class I did a few days ago, the teacher led the 15 or so students in a chant. I had no idea what was going on or what was coming next, but I joined in on the two occasions that I was pretty sure we were saying "Om." We sounded great, I assume. Of course, my experience of sounding really nice comes while I was standing in the room, my hands at heart center and eyes pressed tightly together. To anyone passing by on the street who would happen to look in the window, it must have looked like this small cult was calling their spaceship. Maybe, this interesting experiment in stretching will turn me into a total flake. Most of my friends and colleagues already count me as 2/3 of the way there.
The whole ambiguity of where everyone's lives are headed has been on my mind a lot lately. On one hand, I feel like I'm surrounded by people who are making choices to be and do one thing or another. I keep waiting for that same moment of clarity which has apparently motivated everyone else. Where is my moment of inspiration? Where is my decision point? I might as well be waiting on my spaceship.
The only thing that seems to be coming into focus is the realization that we are all just winging it. Even if you went to law school, or med school, or you're on the management track at Domino's Pizza, every one of us is just getting up each morning and deciding to take another hack. Maybe none of us ever has one moment in time that an entire life is measured against. "Before this moment, I had no clue, but from 4:24 PM on Tuesday the 7th of May onward, I had it all dialed." Unless, I guess, you're a Blues Brother, and on a mission from God.
Since I'm beginning to believe that it's all just winging it anyway, maybe climbing and skiing and yoga and chanting like a kook isn't so bad, after all. I guess the only other thing I'd add into the mix is writing more, but that's just a blog post away.
There are plenty of funny, self conscious questions that can happen in an intro level yoga class. In my case, they happen after the yoga class. Only once I've returned home and found my girlfriend am I fully content to appear as I really am - a neophyte. She's been going to yoga for years, she'll know. I have been going to yoga only recently in an effort to balance myself out and, in truth, to help my climbing. Maybe this way my mind will calm down a little. Maybe by going to yoga a bunch during the winter, I'll get enough strength and flexibility to make 5.12 feel easier and 5.13 feel much more attainable. Maybe, I'll just enjoy going to yoga.
The interesting part of this experiment in stretching is that I don't really know where it will take me. During the first few minutes of the Mysore class I did a few days ago, the teacher led the 15 or so students in a chant. I had no idea what was going on or what was coming next, but I joined in on the two occasions that I was pretty sure we were saying "Om." We sounded great, I assume. Of course, my experience of sounding really nice comes while I was standing in the room, my hands at heart center and eyes pressed tightly together. To anyone passing by on the street who would happen to look in the window, it must have looked like this small cult was calling their spaceship. Maybe, this interesting experiment in stretching will turn me into a total flake. Most of my friends and colleagues already count me as 2/3 of the way there.
The whole ambiguity of where everyone's lives are headed has been on my mind a lot lately. On one hand, I feel like I'm surrounded by people who are making choices to be and do one thing or another. I keep waiting for that same moment of clarity which has apparently motivated everyone else. Where is my moment of inspiration? Where is my decision point? I might as well be waiting on my spaceship.
The only thing that seems to be coming into focus is the realization that we are all just winging it. Even if you went to law school, or med school, or you're on the management track at Domino's Pizza, every one of us is just getting up each morning and deciding to take another hack. Maybe none of us ever has one moment in time that an entire life is measured against. "Before this moment, I had no clue, but from 4:24 PM on Tuesday the 7th of May onward, I had it all dialed." Unless, I guess, you're a Blues Brother, and on a mission from God.
Since I'm beginning to believe that it's all just winging it anyway, maybe climbing and skiing and yoga and chanting like a kook isn't so bad, after all. I guess the only other thing I'd add into the mix is writing more, but that's just a blog post away.
Monday, January 12, 2009
Mysore
For Christmas, my mom came through with a bunch of passes to a local yoga studio. One of my goals for the winter was to find a bit more balance to my physical routine, and try to fix the unhealthy hunchback thing I have going. Plus, my hands are turning into claws that won't fully open from all the climbing, so I felt that yoga would hopefully give me some opposition to the movements that were deforming my body.
Today, I used the first session on a class I'd never been to before, something called Mysore. I had no clue other than a brief website description, but the classes I'd taken at this studio before Christmas had been really rewarding, so I decided to jump into the deep end. Mysore turned out to be a class, fortunately for varied ability levels, that let's the students entirely do their own thing. An instructor is there to make subtle changes in posture, but essentially, the class is left to stretch itself. Think of it as Montessori Yoga for adults.
There is a general pattern that is the norm for the class, but really, anything goes. The teacher, Asha, was super friendly and helpful, and didn't laugh too hard at me when I asked some questions that immediately revealed me as a neophyte. I had done enough yoga to know basic postures, but when I saw the woman next to me bend completely in half, I knew I was surrounded by some serious yogis and yoginis. She was there with a guy who appeared to be her partner, because they were doing some couples yoga, and I don't think the guy was too psyched with me watching his lady friend in awe. Platonic voyeurism, just like you guys.
At first, I was a little nervous that I'd be making a fool out of myself, but I quickly came to the realization that if anyone was wasting their session looking at me and making judgements, they were badly missing the point of yoga, and could kiss my ass anyway. After I was free from that worry, I could really engage into the session, and ask for help with various poses. As a bonus, there was a cheat sheet that outlined the poses that are typically done in Mysore, so I had a guide from which to glean.
Not having someone verbally directing traffic took some getting used to, but after just a bit, I was totally inside of my own practice, and even got a bit more adventurous. I was able to call Asha over a bunch of times, and even though I was trying to keep things to a whisper to maintain a thin veil of respectability in front of the other students, I could ask for specifics and learned a ton of new poses. By the end of things, I was even doing a headstand.
The lesson: push those boundaries. If someone doesn't like it, bend in half (or at least try to) and let them pucker up. More than likely, you'll just find that everyone is in their own world, anyway.
Today, I used the first session on a class I'd never been to before, something called Mysore. I had no clue other than a brief website description, but the classes I'd taken at this studio before Christmas had been really rewarding, so I decided to jump into the deep end. Mysore turned out to be a class, fortunately for varied ability levels, that let's the students entirely do their own thing. An instructor is there to make subtle changes in posture, but essentially, the class is left to stretch itself. Think of it as Montessori Yoga for adults.
There is a general pattern that is the norm for the class, but really, anything goes. The teacher, Asha, was super friendly and helpful, and didn't laugh too hard at me when I asked some questions that immediately revealed me as a neophyte. I had done enough yoga to know basic postures, but when I saw the woman next to me bend completely in half, I knew I was surrounded by some serious yogis and yoginis. She was there with a guy who appeared to be her partner, because they were doing some couples yoga, and I don't think the guy was too psyched with me watching his lady friend in awe. Platonic voyeurism, just like you guys.
At first, I was a little nervous that I'd be making a fool out of myself, but I quickly came to the realization that if anyone was wasting their session looking at me and making judgements, they were badly missing the point of yoga, and could kiss my ass anyway. After I was free from that worry, I could really engage into the session, and ask for help with various poses. As a bonus, there was a cheat sheet that outlined the poses that are typically done in Mysore, so I had a guide from which to glean.
Not having someone verbally directing traffic took some getting used to, but after just a bit, I was totally inside of my own practice, and even got a bit more adventurous. I was able to call Asha over a bunch of times, and even though I was trying to keep things to a whisper to maintain a thin veil of respectability in front of the other students, I could ask for specifics and learned a ton of new poses. By the end of things, I was even doing a headstand.
The lesson: push those boundaries. If someone doesn't like it, bend in half (or at least try to) and let them pucker up. More than likely, you'll just find that everyone is in their own world, anyway.
Sunday, January 11, 2009
Start '09 out right
January in the Creek can be a dicey proposition, but on my most recent trip out there, everything came together 
for a fantastic start to 2009. I've got those unmistakable scabs on the backs of my hands to prove it.
Before I left, my buddy Nuno demanded that I take a few pictures of the excursion. I brought my camera with me, but Mike, the guy I was heading out to climb with, did me one better. He brought an actual photographer. Mike knew Ben, the cameraman, from a few years ago, and the three of us headed out to the Creek to get in some winter climbing. The photos are up, and we're heading towards a post with images included. New ground for Abaluba and its devoted Voeuyers. That's right, we have a winner, and the readers have decided on their name. Welcome to a new era.
Before I get too far into the story of the trip, I should give a quick nod to Benhorton.biz for some good photos. He has been all over the world snapping pics, and has plenty of cool material.
Even with the good weather, the three of us had a bit of a cloud hanging over us as we drove south on Utah State Highway 191. We passed a cop with his lights flashing behind a car, when I commented about the perils of the Utah State Patrol. Mike, driving his truck, let out a gasp and we slowed way down. He had been stopped by Johnny Law about a month ago, and given a ticket. That's nothing remarkable, but the fact that he failed to pay his fine before the time period had elapsed was a trip changing nugget of info. We were being chauffeured by a man with a bench warrant for his arrest. This expedition would be driving the speed limit for the remainder of the trip.
The first day of climbing was perfect. We were the only climbers for miles, and had the entire Cat Wall to ourselves. I hadn't climbed on the far left side of this particular wall, and got on 8 new routes that were all spectacular. The highlight was probably "9 lives," a full 35 meter pitch with a perfect tight hands splitter crack that narrowed down to big fingers, finishing with a fun crack switch to an ever widening big hands crack that overhung to the chains. Check it out:
We walked down from the wall at sunset, cooked up a dinner, and sat around a blazing campfire. I was exhausted, and was looking forward to crashing on my new ultra-cushy Therma-Rest. I laid down on a blue tarp right by the truck, looking up at a blinding moon and stars that were completely unsullied by light pollution. I could have read a book with all of the ambient light, but was content to pull the sleeping bag over my head and wait until the morning.
A light dusting of snow covered me and my stuff when I woke up, but that didn't keep us from another beautiful day for round two. We snuck down to the Battle of the Bulge Wall for more great climbing, and while it was a bit cooler, we could still climb in t-shirts, in early January, no less. I don't know why more people don't go to the Creek during winter. Sure, the days are shorter, but with no crowds, you can climb to exhaustion with plenty of time for a bonfire.
Here are some more pics:
I've got some more pics up on Facebook, as well.
This trip has got me really excited for 2009. The year has started off on the right foot, and I hope I can keep getting chances to see remarkable areas, and climb in places that make me feel lucky to be alive. I'm already looking forward to a Rifle season that I'm hoping will be my best yet. With any luck, I'll get to see some new places, and one of the places high on the list is the Elephant's Perch up in Idaho. That's not to mention the skiing coming, including a highly anticipated trip to Squaw in February.
Life is good.
for a fantastic start to 2009. I've got those unmistakable scabs on the backs of my hands to prove it.Before I left, my buddy Nuno demanded that I take a few pictures of the excursion. I brought my camera with me, but Mike, the guy I was heading out to climb with, did me one better. He brought an actual photographer. Mike knew Ben, the cameraman, from a few years ago, and the three of us headed out to the Creek to get in some winter climbing. The photos are up, and we're heading towards a post with images included. New ground for Abaluba and its devoted Voeuyers. That's right, we have a winner, and the readers have decided on their name. Welcome to a new era.
Before I get too far into the story of the trip, I should give a quick nod to Benhorton.biz for some good photos. He has been all over the world snapping pics, and has plenty of cool material.
Even with the good weather, the three of us had a bit of a cloud hanging over us as we drove south on Utah State Highway 191. We passed a cop with his lights flashing behind a car, when I commented about the perils of the Utah State Patrol. Mike, driving his truck, let out a gasp and we slowed way down. He had been stopped by Johnny Law about a month ago, and given a ticket. That's nothing remarkable, but the fact that he failed to pay his fine before the time period had elapsed was a trip changing nugget of info. We were being chauffeured by a man with a bench warrant for his arrest. This expedition would be driving the speed limit for the remainder of the trip.
The first day of climbing was perfect. We were the only climbers for miles, and had the entire Cat Wall to ourselves. I hadn't climbed on the far left side of this particular wall, and got on 8 new routes that were all spectacular. The highlight was probably "9 lives," a full 35 meter pitch with a perfect tight hands splitter crack that narrowed down to big fingers, finishing with a fun crack switch to an ever widening big hands crack that overhung to the chains. Check it out:
We walked down from the wall at sunset, cooked up a dinner, and sat around a blazing campfire. I was exhausted, and was looking forward to crashing on my new ultra-cushy Therma-Rest. I laid down on a blue tarp right by the truck, looking up at a blinding moon and stars that were completely unsullied by light pollution. I could have read a book with all of the ambient light, but was content to pull the sleeping bag over my head and wait until the morning.
A light dusting of snow covered me and my stuff when I woke up, but that didn't keep us from another beautiful day for round two. We snuck down to the Battle of the Bulge Wall for more great climbing, and while it was a bit cooler, we could still climb in t-shirts, in early January, no less. I don't know why more people don't go to the Creek during winter. Sure, the days are shorter, but with no crowds, you can climb to exhaustion with plenty of time for a bonfire.
Here are some more pics:
I've got some more pics up on Facebook, as well.
This trip has got me really excited for 2009. The year has started off on the right foot, and I hope I can keep getting chances to see remarkable areas, and climb in places that make me feel lucky to be alive. I'm already looking forward to a Rifle season that I'm hoping will be my best yet. With any luck, I'll get to see some new places, and one of the places high on the list is the Elephant's Perch up in Idaho. That's not to mention the skiing coming, including a highly anticipated trip to Squaw in February.
Life is good.
Tuesday, January 6, 2009
Action on the Table
We got action, action on the table! We've got a few votes in, and so far, it's a four way tie between Tenderloins, HeMen, She-Ra, and the Voyeurs. At this point, it's anybody's game, with only four days left to play. Oh, the tension!
I haven't yet voted, and I'm not sure I'm going to. On one hand, I feel like it is the responsibility of the readership to come up with their own moniker. And on the other, I spent the morning at the dentist, and I'm going to spend the next four days with ice packed on my face, rendering me incapable of voting even for the channel on the television. It had been nearly a decade, no joke, since I had last had the plaque chiseled from my gumline. The years of buildup forced Christina, the dental hygienist, to do something called, if I recall correctly, "debraiding". Given the violence, proper recollection is no gimme. Debraiding, or whatever it is called, is dentist speak for "hammer the shit out of the patient's face and make it feel like hot razor blades are massaging his gums" .
FUN!
Now I have to go back in two weeks for another cleaning, although we are presuming that this one will be a bit kinder. This first torture cost an exorbitant extortion fee of $304 American dollars, but on the bright side, I recently opened an HSA, so the entire ransom was tax deductible. Given that I work for John Obourn, Fox News Groupie and Fiscal NeoCon, I've come to be told that this is more important in life than just about any other detail. If the choice had to be made between saving one of his children from being mauled to death by a rabid mongoose, and paying the Feds $3 extra dollars on a 1040ES payment, John might speak at length in deliberation.
My mouth is also saying something. It is saying, ironically through the use of my fingers, that all of you good little boys and girls out there should see your dentist often, or never at all. It's really one or the other.
And speaking of choices between two extreme opposites, I give you the following tale of dichotomy:
I drove to Glenwood this evening through a howling snowstorm. Vail Pass was an abject nightmare, with wind blowing the flakes sideways and my pathetic headlights providing little illumination. What token amount they did provide was reflected directly back into my eyes, as I have to turn the brights on to even see the pavement in front of the bumper. Of all the sad features on my 13 year old automobile with 207K miles on it, the beams are leading the charge. When I pulled into Glenwood, it had snowed the entire 200 mile drive, and I was happy to check into the Hampton Inn, pull up my MacBook, and get to blogging. Tomorrow, I have a meeting for work out in the middle of nowhere, and I need to talk about a road and a fence with a guy from Rock Springs. Then I have got to cruise on to another meeting, and ultimately finish two applications for underground pipelines in order to prepare them for submittal to the U.S. Department of the Interior, Bureau of Land Management. That is the yin.
The weather for Indian Creek is looking like high 40's and sun for the end of the week. I talked to my friend Steven who had just spent a couple of weeks climbing in the desert paradise, and he told me that they were climbing in t-shirts and basking in the radiant heat of the sandstone walls. I am going to thrash myself climbing for a few days with Mike Brumbaugh, Mr. 20-pitches-in-a-day-0r-bust, and watch the sun set over the Bridger Jack Towers. My hands are going to be bloody, and my feet exhausted from wearing climbing shoes all day. When I get back to camp, I'll drink cold beer and sit around a campfire telling stories. I am going to sleep on a brand new, ultra plush sleeping pad, and wake up with red sand in my hair. The coffee is going to have grinds in it when I start the morning, and it is going to taste better than any $6 Starbucks ever could, because I am going climbing, and I am going to feel alive. That is the yang.
Nuno says I should post pictures, and I just might. Good night, future nicknames.
I haven't yet voted, and I'm not sure I'm going to. On one hand, I feel like it is the responsibility of the readership to come up with their own moniker. And on the other, I spent the morning at the dentist, and I'm going to spend the next four days with ice packed on my face, rendering me incapable of voting even for the channel on the television. It had been nearly a decade, no joke, since I had last had the plaque chiseled from my gumline. The years of buildup forced Christina, the dental hygienist, to do something called, if I recall correctly, "debraiding". Given the violence, proper recollection is no gimme. Debraiding, or whatever it is called, is dentist speak for "hammer the shit out of the patient's face and make it feel like hot razor blades are massaging his gums" .
FUN!
Now I have to go back in two weeks for another cleaning, although we are presuming that this one will be a bit kinder. This first torture cost an exorbitant extortion fee of $304 American dollars, but on the bright side, I recently opened an HSA, so the entire ransom was tax deductible. Given that I work for John Obourn, Fox News Groupie and Fiscal NeoCon, I've come to be told that this is more important in life than just about any other detail. If the choice had to be made between saving one of his children from being mauled to death by a rabid mongoose, and paying the Feds $3 extra dollars on a 1040ES payment, John might speak at length in deliberation.
My mouth is also saying something. It is saying, ironically through the use of my fingers, that all of you good little boys and girls out there should see your dentist often, or never at all. It's really one or the other.
And speaking of choices between two extreme opposites, I give you the following tale of dichotomy:
I drove to Glenwood this evening through a howling snowstorm. Vail Pass was an abject nightmare, with wind blowing the flakes sideways and my pathetic headlights providing little illumination. What token amount they did provide was reflected directly back into my eyes, as I have to turn the brights on to even see the pavement in front of the bumper. Of all the sad features on my 13 year old automobile with 207K miles on it, the beams are leading the charge. When I pulled into Glenwood, it had snowed the entire 200 mile drive, and I was happy to check into the Hampton Inn, pull up my MacBook, and get to blogging. Tomorrow, I have a meeting for work out in the middle of nowhere, and I need to talk about a road and a fence with a guy from Rock Springs. Then I have got to cruise on to another meeting, and ultimately finish two applications for underground pipelines in order to prepare them for submittal to the U.S. Department of the Interior, Bureau of Land Management. That is the yin.
The weather for Indian Creek is looking like high 40's and sun for the end of the week. I talked to my friend Steven who had just spent a couple of weeks climbing in the desert paradise, and he told me that they were climbing in t-shirts and basking in the radiant heat of the sandstone walls. I am going to thrash myself climbing for a few days with Mike Brumbaugh, Mr. 20-pitches-in-a-day-0r-bust, and watch the sun set over the Bridger Jack Towers. My hands are going to be bloody, and my feet exhausted from wearing climbing shoes all day. When I get back to camp, I'll drink cold beer and sit around a campfire telling stories. I am going to sleep on a brand new, ultra plush sleeping pad, and wake up with red sand in my hair. The coffee is going to have grinds in it when I start the morning, and it is going to taste better than any $6 Starbucks ever could, because I am going climbing, and I am going to feel alive. That is the yang.
Nuno says I should post pictures, and I just might. Good night, future nicknames.
Monday, January 5, 2009
The Return of the Gangsta
I am going to guarantee that Mama Sus would have better odds of beating world champion Dan Knights in a Rubik Cube cube-off than getting the reference to either Andre 3000 or Big Boi. But either way, I fancy myself a gangsta, and I'm back.
Now that I'm here, where do I go?
First place I go is to Sorryville. It's the capital of my local province, and I'm the mayor. An official, legally elected gangsta? Hell, it worked for the state of Illinois. I'm the mayor of Sorryville because I left my loyal blog-followers and went derelict in my posting responsibilities. I needed a recharge, I needed a drunken midnight countdown, I needed a rest, and I needed $300,000 from any candidate who wanted to ask me to do my duty. I got 3 out of 4, but at least I didn't get impeached. "Enough with the bullshit metaphor" the loyal readership screamed.
And as for the loyal readership, I think you all need a nickname. How about we hold a contest. Scroll to the bottom of the blog, and there will be a poll. Winning nickname reigns supreme, and will live in cyber-infamy until this blog is taken down by the good folks at Google (they own blogspot, don't ya know) out of common decency and good taste. Fuckers.
So to recap, and just the facts, man. I am going to start the recap with an apology to my friend Kate Klonick from New York. I may or may not have been on the East Coast for a few days over the New Year, and I may or may not have gotten in touch with her. I guess that means that if I was, in fact, out East, I either apologize for making her hear my nasal, self-centered voice while we caught up, or I apologize for not calling her with my nasal, self-centered voice to catch up. Either way, it's lose lose.
New Years in Burlington, VT was a riotious good time spent with my girlfriend, my two great friends, and each of their respective wives. We were at Ethan's place, and were witness to a great feat of modern science. Vermont nearly fell prey to the theoretical reality of 0 degrees Kelvin. Kate and I tried to take a walk in homage to feeling overstuffed during the holiday season, but could only make it one block before we turned around and went back for more food and wine. Mercifully, inside of Dr. Blackburn's house were enough supplies to keep us from freezing to death. To put it lightly, it was Arse-Cold up there.
Now I'm back, Colorado is beautiful, and I was at the climbing gym with the lady friend today. Work has fired back up, the fingers are finding their rightful place on the keyboard, and I'm salivating at the thought of a ski or climbing trip in the next few days. Good to be home.
Now go vote! I'll talk to you again soon (I promise).....'cause I have a few things I need to talk about.
First: The 2009 Resolution to write some more serious essays, and what that means to you.
Second: The tale of Maria Victoria and her glass eye, missing teeth, and how I recommended to my sister Reilly that she board with this old witch in Madrid.
Third: A little blog post called "What in the holy name of Baby Jesus am I doing with my life"
Fourth: Are we going to get another mailbag going?
Now that I'm here, where do I go?
First place I go is to Sorryville. It's the capital of my local province, and I'm the mayor. An official, legally elected gangsta? Hell, it worked for the state of Illinois. I'm the mayor of Sorryville because I left my loyal blog-followers and went derelict in my posting responsibilities. I needed a recharge, I needed a drunken midnight countdown, I needed a rest, and I needed $300,000 from any candidate who wanted to ask me to do my duty. I got 3 out of 4, but at least I didn't get impeached. "Enough with the bullshit metaphor" the loyal readership screamed.
And as for the loyal readership, I think you all need a nickname. How about we hold a contest. Scroll to the bottom of the blog, and there will be a poll. Winning nickname reigns supreme, and will live in cyber-infamy until this blog is taken down by the good folks at Google (they own blogspot, don't ya know) out of common decency and good taste. Fuckers.
So to recap, and just the facts, man. I am going to start the recap with an apology to my friend Kate Klonick from New York. I may or may not have been on the East Coast for a few days over the New Year, and I may or may not have gotten in touch with her. I guess that means that if I was, in fact, out East, I either apologize for making her hear my nasal, self-centered voice while we caught up, or I apologize for not calling her with my nasal, self-centered voice to catch up. Either way, it's lose lose.
New Years in Burlington, VT was a riotious good time spent with my girlfriend, my two great friends, and each of their respective wives. We were at Ethan's place, and were witness to a great feat of modern science. Vermont nearly fell prey to the theoretical reality of 0 degrees Kelvin. Kate and I tried to take a walk in homage to feeling overstuffed during the holiday season, but could only make it one block before we turned around and went back for more food and wine. Mercifully, inside of Dr. Blackburn's house were enough supplies to keep us from freezing to death. To put it lightly, it was Arse-Cold up there.
Now I'm back, Colorado is beautiful, and I was at the climbing gym with the lady friend today. Work has fired back up, the fingers are finding their rightful place on the keyboard, and I'm salivating at the thought of a ski or climbing trip in the next few days. Good to be home.
Now go vote! I'll talk to you again soon (I promise).....'cause I have a few things I need to talk about.
First: The 2009 Resolution to write some more serious essays, and what that means to you.
Second: The tale of Maria Victoria and her glass eye, missing teeth, and how I recommended to my sister Reilly that she board with this old witch in Madrid.
Third: A little blog post called "What in the holy name of Baby Jesus am I doing with my life"
Fourth: Are we going to get another mailbag going?
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