Farewell to a Legend

This may be the toughest obituary I'll ever write. La Gonzales has shuttered, and taken the cheapest, best tacos in Boulder back to Guadalajara. This is not a good day.

I found the place through a recommendation from my buddy Rob, who in turn heard about it from another friend, Andy. Rob and Andy are good cycling buddies, and would routinely spend hours in the saddle on the roads around Boulder. The two would spin up north to Lyons, or west, up the winding mountain roads to Jamestown. After enough miles and suffering, they'd head back to town with food on their minds. Somehow, Andy had heard about this little taqueria behind the Fascinations porn outlet, and after a ride one day, the two of them snuck in for some post ride snacks.

Once Rob had been introduced, he realized that he and I would need to expend far less energy in order to reap the rewards of carne asada, tacos al carbon, or, my eventual favorite, tacos al pastor. La Gonzales was in a small strip mall that not only abutted the adult superstore, but also the Boulder Rock Club. Rob is one of my most consistent climbing partners, and I'd say that on any given year, we go to the BRC together about 80 times. That would give us plenty of opportunity to get in a workout on greasy plastic holds, talk shit about the anorexic guys in tanktops, and then stroll across the alley to our favorite Mexican eatery.

Rob had always maintained that the true test with a girl would be the "La Gonzales sink or swim". See, La Gonzales made no attempt at assimilation. If you've ever been to an "Abarrote", or corner market, in El Salvador or rural Mexico, you've got an idea. The interior could best be described as drab. There were soccer jerseys and the occasional pinata hanging as decoration, but generally the walls were white, the produce slightly below Whole Foods vanity standard. He reasoned that, given the bare-bones interior complete with cheap, chicken wire shelving, the flourescent lighting buzzing overhead, and the general dearth of English being spoken, if you could take a date to La Gonzales, you could find out pretty quickly if she could hang. It's not necessarily a scientifically recommended way to determine partnership suitability, but for whatever reason, I gravitated towards the logic of his proposed test.

Soon after Rob and I began making semi regular trips to La Gonzales, I started dating Kate. I'll admit, I didn't trust in the sink or swim test with all my heart, so I waited for a few weeks before I took her out for the fine dining experience. Admittedly, it gave me a good chance to show off my Spanish skills gleaned from two semesters spent drunk in Spain. But likewise, I had begun to grow a real affinity for the folks who worked there. Like I said, they were more comfortable speaking Spanish to the patrons, and I had a bonding moment when my stepmom came up to Boulder for some ethnic food.

Joey was writing a book about places in Denver and Boulder that served distinct food from around the world. Given the sizable Hispanic population of the vicinity, Joey was hesitant to focus too heavily on Mexican food. I tried to convince her that this wouldn't be typical Tex-Mex, but something totally unique, and when she first set foot into the grocery-turned-taco stand, I think she became a believer.

For her book, she would take a crew out to whichever restaurant she'd review, and basically beg us to order the weirdest dishes we could pronounce. For other reviews, I'd eaten cactus, alligator, and a stew that actually put hair on my feet. At La Gonzales, I scarfed down some menudo and buche. For the uninitiated, that's beef tripe and pork cheek (face not butt).

Kate hit the deep end in a perfect swan dive, and got full marks from all the judges, even the grumpy French one. It wasn't long that the two of us were making our own routine trips to the BRC, following them up with a regal stuffing of tacos. I like to think that we were the strange white couple who kept stumbling in, happy to eat whatever was served on our tortillas, so long as the salsa and lime juice was plentiful, and the onions and cilantro fresh. We even gave a stern attempt to decipher the soap opera that seemed to be running in constant loop on the TV in the background. I guess, though, we didn't stumble in enough.

Katie and I mentioned to each other more than once our nervousness that the place would go under. Most times when we would be there to eat, there would be one or two other diners, but never more. The friendly faces behind the counter would fill us up for $10, and we reasoned that there was no way they could afford to remain open when they were charging such a paltry amount. Tonight, we confirmed our worst fears. The Mediterranean Market stood where before, we'd happily yelled "hola!" when we walked in the door. "Opa!" just isn't the same.

After the two of us shook off the shock of the new marquee and window dressings, we made sad eye contact and came to understand that our fears had been realized. We kept the car parked on the street for just long enough to nearly get sideswiped, and rolled along at a sad, idle speed. We finally decided on Illegal Pete's, another local Boulder place, though this one a chain and serving college students pesto burritos to a soundtrack of Weezer. Different feel, and even if it's still good, it just ain't the same.

La Gonzales, you'll be seriously missed.

Bundle of Joy

Life is about to change. If I think hard about it, life is always about to change...we're getting older, the economy is collapsing all around us, the odometer keeps rolling upwards, but those subtle realities aren't the point right now. This guy's the point.

And he's headed this way, E.T.A. is Friday at 6 PM or so. Climbing shoes and ropes have been placed on higher shelves, the Homeland Security Alert Level has been set to Red (terrorist attack imminent) and hatches have been battened. Hopefully, our boy Dacks here is as good as he is cute, with shoes on feet and out of his jaws.

I'll admit, if Kate was going to be getting a dog, I was pushing for a yellow lab instead of black, but given the "hey, I'm lovable, too" face that this guy appears to be capable of making, I'll survive. My family's first dog was a sauntering yellow lab named Ben, and nostalgia had me pining for a redo. I'm gearing up for an entirely new adventure, though, starting in just a few days.

The initial plan is to make sure Dacks isn't cramping any outdoor style, and to get him initiated to climbing areas. We're hoping for a great crag dog who is fully capable of lying down and chilling out when either Kate or I are climbing. I think we both know, deep down in the murky brain plaque, that we might get a foaming-at-the-mouth, barking, snarling monster, but we've both got enough faith in the Dog Whisperer and his ability to train trainers so as to shine a ray of hope.

Voeyuers, meet a new character.

Beauty Regiment

There's been a big development back on the ranch. On a recent trip to Target, Kate and I were looking for a vacuum and assorted other household goods when shampoo and conditioner jumped into our cart. They weren't for her, these were American Crew men's grooming products, capable of turning even the most foul beast into a walking batch of sexy. Here I am.

My mom said that the whole "not washing your hair thing" was going to turn out like the whole "sagging your pants thing," and basically amount to a public disgrace attributable to youthful stupidity. I don't know if its sad that I'm making analogous mistakes to when I was in eighth grade, but I do know that its not my fault that society at large failed to recognize genius when it was upon them. In an effort to find my next batch of, ahem, unique behavior, I'm moving on with pants at my waist and curly hair that doesn't smell like a campfire from November.

So with clean locks, I headed out to Indian Creek again last weekend. We didn't have a photographer in tow, so I guess I'll just have to rely on words to get things across. In perhaps the most startling action of the trip, I was awakened at about 2:30 one evening/morning/whatever, 'cause I was sound asleep by a curious pony. I was pulling the old "under the stars" routine again, because the sky was beautiful and there were no calls for precip, but a remuda swung by after I'd drifted off and nosed around my carcass. I was hunkered down against the cold air, but when I felt my legs pushed softly and a sort of snort, I snapped awake and jolted in my sleeping bag. Gladly, the 12 hooves that went clattering didn't land on me as the horses went in all directions.

The rest of the night was spent lightly turning about, keeping a lookout for marauding beasts, domesticated or otherwise. Needless to say, I felt less than fully rested the following morning.
No matter, because the climbing was, once again, out of this world. We had great weather, met up with a whole crew of guys I know from Rifle, and released enough carbon into the air via our bonfire so as to irreversibly speed global warming. Good times! I'm trying to plan our next trip as we speak, hopefully with Kate and Dacks along for the ride.

Dacks? I didn't tell you? Kate is getting a puppy. I really should post some pics of the little guy. Maybe I'll get that done this afternoon.

Parasite Dynamite and Putting It Into Words

I've been diagnosed with ringworm. Now before the voeuyers disparage me with vitriolic barbs and hasty namecalling, I request they keep the following in mind. The woman who initiated the diagnosis isn't a doctor. In fact, she's my sister. I would say that this whole thing is just her imagination and hardly worth believing, except for the power of my new Blackberry. How, you might ask, does my new cell phone confirm the existence of a potentially deadly fungal infection on my left arm? Between the power of 3.2 megapixels and instant email, we were able to confirm her suspicion with an actual doctor, in this case our mother. Let the name calling begin.

While my two siblings and I were out at dinner on Pearl Street, Reilly shrieked in horror and pointed at my arm, immediately convinced that the dime sized lesion was tantamount to leprosy. She has other second hand experience with this insidious illness because of a sorority sister that is now a nurse. Her buddy constantly comes down with weird coughs or rashes. Besides that, Reilly has worked at Head Start and seen her share of lice, boogers, and general gnarliness. I guess that makes her an expert.

I handed over my cell phone with the camera feature ready for action. We snapped a shot of my arm and sent the image as an email attachment destined for doctor mom's inbox. Within a few minutes, she replied that, "yup, looks like ringworm," and after dinner I was headed to the pharmacy for some antifungal cream.

After my run to the store, I took off for the west slope. I'm headed out for some meetings with the BLM, and we all know what that means. Yup, I'm headed back to the Creek this weekend for another crack at winter cragging. The weather for the next few days looks even better than when I was out in early January. I think, knock on wood, that we'll have sun and temps in the low 50's; perfect for our ambitions. I don't think we'll face any precip on this trip, so I don't think I'll repeat my alarm clock from the last trip. On one of the mornings in January, I woke up to a blanket of snow on my sleeping bag (no tent, just the stars above my head).

Sadly, I don't think Ben Horton is coming along for this trip, so I won't have nearly the quality of photos from this one. I did, however, talk to my stepmom before I headed west and we hatched a plan for turning these winter trips into a story that I'm going to try to sell to one of the magazines. Joey is a freelance writer, and is way more versed in the process of submitting article queries. With her help, I'll start the process and work on the article. One of my goals for 2009 was to get a set of essays polished, so even if this one doesn't find a home in print, I'll chip away at that goal.

Bahama Mama

I have no idea why I titled this post Bahama Mama. Actually, I do. I could just erase those last two sentences, but then again....this all leads to my point about how I know.
Virginia Wolfe.
I've never read anything by Virginia Wolfe, but I know she was a fan of "Stream of Consciousness" writing. I don't know the educational definition of "Stream of Consciousness," but it doesn't matter. Life is full of prejudice and ill formed opinions (just look at the Republican party) so why can't I be guilty of the same crime?
My belief is that "Stream of Consciousness" is when a woman, or in this case, a male blogger, sits down, drunk at his MacBook, and starts slamming the keys in whatever random pattern comes to mind. I don't mean individual keys. That would be illegible, and just look like this: wjeusdkgh adjhada dklajieuad dd a akdyfa dndalk a! Ha, outrageous!

Instead, I mean that I have some random craneo-synapse spasms, and then, bang, a la John Madden, they appear on your screen. The world is altered, and I've subscribed to a philosophy that made Ms. Wolfe a millionairess, or at least famous as shit. Boom!

What I'd really like to ramble about is the sorry state of the Bachelor. For some unholy reason, my girlfriend has an obsession with this choss. I try to be cuddly and romantic, but every time I snuggle in to watch next to her, I can endure only 10 seconds before I jump up and have to run to the kitchen and pour myself a stiff drink. What in the name of Christ makes these women sob on national television about how much they love some perfect stranger? It makes me want to puke in a glass, take a big gulp, and swig it down for posterities' sake (Stream of Consciousness, I'd never drink my own puke.)
But regardless of the intellectual school of thought, I hate this goddamn TV show.

In new news, (is that why they named "news" "news"?) my buddy Nuno is headed off to Thailand for three weeks. He tells me it is to visit a buddy and spend some time on the beach, but we all know the allure of 10 year old boy prostitutes is just a little much for a Portugese computer programmer.

And speaking of "They," aren't "They" making quite an impact on stories these days? Just do a little scientific experiment for me. Hell, do it even if you aren't scientifically inclined. Make a note of every time "They" do a study, disprove climate change, or keep the man down over the next few weeks. Listen to your friends, your enemies, and your blowhard parents and just etch a little check mark into a notebook anytime some unfounded reference to "They" comes up as proof that some such fact is happening at this very moment. If you listen to my sister, your notebook might have 600,000 checks by next Wednesday.

Checks look a lot like tick marks. Tick marks, my friends, are what you would leave, if you were an obsessive, anorexic rock climber, in your tattered, thumbed through guide book. Next to climbs you'd done, they'd all have a check mark. I just spent the last hour looking through my book collection and thinking about the routes I'd like to do this spring/summer. I'll admit, I've adjusted my ceiling to an artificially high 13b, and have been thinking pretty hard aboout what routes I could to to justify such a bombastic position. When you're wasting nearly 2 hours looking at rocks you'd like to climb months from today, it's time to reevaluate. Or, as my amiga Virginia Wolfe did, it's time to publish a book and become famous. Either way, now is the time for change.

I'd like to wish all my loyal voyeurs a fine weekend, or, if you're reading this on Monday morning, a fine start to their week.

Don't call it a comeback

I've been here for years!
(LL Cool J, mama said knock you out!)

Actually, I've been back just a few days. As with any time away, there is a pile of shit waiting for my return. Hooray! I love shoveling piles of shit.

First off was work. It isn't that there was anything out of the ordinary waiting for me back at the office, but when you don't go in for 14 days, stuff starts to add up. For me, it's been mail. Lots of it. Mostly, I've got letters from the Federal government demanding money for all the natural gas pipelines I've been permitting on behalf of clients. Instead of "Pulling an H-Dog," as I like to call it, and just writing them a personal check with insufficient funds in the attached checking account, thereby bouncing the check, I just forward the letters on to the appropriate party. In this case, about a half dozen letters went downtown to various offices asking for checks to be cut.

Ideally, this should be a reasonably simple matter. The Feds, ahem, "ask" for money, and one is obliged to open the coin purse. In the case of one particular client, they've gotten my letters and politely thrown them away, thereby enacting the corporate version of "Pulling an H-Dog." All's fine and well until Uncle Sam, or in this case, Auntie Stacey from the BLM, calls me up and wonders where the hell her thousands of dollars might have made off to.
"I'll have to call you right back."

I guess that, technically, I'm not going to jail for defaulting on payments owed the USA. That would be my poor boss, the guy who signed all the applications. Boss man might as well have FOX NEWS tattooed on his ass, and with that kind of patriotism clearly (or discreetly) exhibited, I doubt the homeland will throw the man who cuts my check into the slammer. If they did, though, I bet his new roommate would ask in wonder, "So, I hear you have some ink. Can I take a peek?"

Oh boy.

Other than dodging Johnny Law, I've been trying to figure out what the hell happened to my climbing. I feel like a fish out of water up there right now. It's a sad feeling to grab a hold and remember what it used to feel like to bear down on it and think, "this is a jug," but now feel like screaming "take" and weeping like a small child who missed the magic trick. Was that just a childhood memory of mine? Probably. Lots of weeping buried back there.

The good news is that my yoga isn't sucking quite so bad right now. Today, I even learned how to float to the top of my mat after a down dog. That might sound lame, and it very well could be. But I'm here to tell you, I define myself by my lameness, and right now, my definition is "Big Time!" Basically, I look only incrementally less awkward in class where the rest of the students are calmly wrapping their legs behind their heads like scarves.

And now, I'd like to change subjects entirely.

My shrink made an offhand comment the other day that I should write screenplays. It's a sign form Jesus Christ himself! I should get paid to do this!
(Editor's note: It may have actually been a sign from a clinically trained professional that acutely pointed to the disconnect between reality and the thoughts swirling in my head like putrid, urine stained snow flakes.)

I was lamenting the fact that life is a slippery slope. You say yes to one project at work, and the next thing you know, you're wearing a polo shirt with Proctor & Gamble embroidered across your sagging man tit, schlepping your giveaway brief case, proudly earned at last years employee convention in Phoenix, across the airport en route to another meeting. Once there, you roll your eyes back into your aging skull, and wonder how many days are left until God takes your life via a well earned stroke.
You think about the lack of dignity that comes from shitting your pants just as you hit the floor, face half frozen in the content knowledge that peace has finally come. You'll never hear your wife bitch about the rusting Corolla again, and your daughter has, for all you're concerned, blown her last middle linebacker in the gymnasium. Boy, it's a slippery slope.

So, like I say, I've been thinking about buying a van and dodging that bullet.

Just think of the possibilities. I could ghetto rig a bed in the back, and drive from Rifle to the Red to the Creek, slowly eating my way through my savings in a vain attempt to stay young until my fingers finally calcify into beastly claws from too many years of climbing. Hooray! Take that, Mr. P&G. You loser! I may have died alone and disfigured, but at the end of the day, so did you.

What the hell am I even talking about? Dueling realities, that's what. At some point, we all have to make a choice. Maybe we make enough choices stacked end upon sorry end to eventually see ourselves as mediocre middle managers. Maybe we try to shrug it off until nobody loves us anymore. Maybe we can find some kind of balance that feels rewarding. And maybe, I'll go to yoga tomorrow morning, the climbing gym tomorrow evening, and work on a blog or screenplay in between. If the good doctor is correct, it might just be my life calling.

Think about what you're doing with you lives. They're pathetically short.

Stumbling around on an empty stomach

I was hanging at the apartment this afternoon wondering how I was so damn hungry. After all, I'd just been to the grocery store and spent $65. I guess that's what happens when you go to Whole Foods...or more precisely, when you go to a local grocery store owned by Whole Foods. I got the friendly neighborhood markup, and I always do. At the end of the day, though, Ideal Market makes me feel like a free spirited, dirt bag, Subaru driving local, which I fancy myself to begin with, so I always come back. Tattoos are rampant with the staff, and most of the greens were grown in the county. They've got local goat cheese, and they bake their own bread. Going there is somewhere between farmer's market and upscale deli.
Plus, they now carry European Style Rice Pudding by Kozy Shack. I'm no Jew, but this stuff is Kosher, literally and otherwise. It's right up there with dark chocolate as my favorite after dinner (0r lunch, or breakfast for that matter) course.

I spent last week in CA skiing with friends, but when Kate and I got home, the cupboards were free of everything, even old mother Hubbard. That led me to spend so much scratch on a few pieces of fruit, rice mixed with milk (and annatto for color), and bread. And while I was on the far left end of Americana, a few choice incidents left me giggling and thinking about relaying them to my faithful Voeuyers.

I was having a picnic in Pacific Grove, right on the Monterrey Peninsula, when two things hit me.
The first was an aggressive sea gull, highly habituated to the human species and their generosity with crumbs. This winged rat made a dive bomb for my chicken salad sandwich, and followed this war crime up with an attack on an unsuspecting lesbian trying to enjoy her afternoon with her kids and special lady.
The second was the distinct urge to pee. I finished off my scraps of people food, careful to leave nothing for the greedy interlopers (birds, my picnic companions, or victims of Prop. 8) and headed off to find the facilities. Once found, I made note that I was likely pissing into a pipe that led directly into the sea I'd seen just moments before, and that there was a small child behind me filling his water bottle in the sink. After I noticed the kid, I made a mental note to keep any gas well inhumed within my guts, and giggled at the fact that this young chap would have quite the story to tell his family if I failed in my attempt to keep in the air that otherwise would have gone out.
I know he'd have had a good story because I was in Yellowstone one time, an unsuspecting young chap attempting to tangle with a urinal at chest level, when some old codger let fly with his ass trumpet right as I passed by behind him. History may well repeat, but I held firm, knowing I'd not let it do so on my watch.

The trip was otherwise filled with skiing in balmy temps with bony snow, a few nostalgic runs at beer pong and Asshole, and plenty of time kicking it around Pebble Beach. I could think of worse places to relax, that's for sure.
The skiing was a little tough, mostly because the snow pack was grim and the ambient air temp was hovering right around 60. I scoured the suitcase, but the lightest thing I could find was a hooded sweatshirt that left me, ironically, sweating through my shirt. More specifically, it left me sweating through my pants, and utterly destroyed the screen capabilities of my cell phone. I just had to get a new one upon arrival back home, and here's a choice little nugget....Verizon has a deal going on where its buy one, get one free for Blackberries. Kate just got a new, super state of the art Storm, and with minimal cajoling, I got one today for free. I've gotten a few dirty looks back home on the reservation.
Now that I'm back, I'm just trying to get back into the swing of yoga and climbing, and did both today. Everything felt out of wack, with wobbly postures and weak forearms. Oh well. I'll get back on track by the end of the week, just in time for a possible Creek trip for Valentine's Day. Kate and I have to just do the sunshine dance, 'cause the weather is looking dodgy. What gives? I just spent all the time I wanted in the searing sunshine, why can't I get some more of that, and in the desert, no less?
I've missed you all. It's good to be back.

-Sent from a Verizon Blackberry Device-