These are a few of my favorite things...

Hank dropped the request on me this afternoon. Rock, paper, scissors; bacon and avocado; and the Masters. Write it up, PattyP! His favorite things, immortalized on the EWeb.

First off, I talk about climbing too much, to the point that it strains relationships, alienates my family, and annoys readers who grow weary of the lingo bombs. One thing I've tried to avoid for patrickpharo.blogspot.com is ending up with a blog exclusively devoted to climbing. More than likely, I've failed. For this reason, I'm psyched when people send in suggestions for topics. I need some kind of push in a new direction. Otherwise, I end up rehashing tales of gravity defying crimps, high steps, and hunchbackedness.

So without further ado, I present my thoughts on Henry Swayne's chart toppers.

Francophobes call it Rochambeau. Homeless men ask, when invited into a friendly game, "what about crack rock?" Uber-nerds have come up with an entirely-too-complex mutation involving the standard rock, paper, and scissors, but also including a lizard, spock fingers, water, and the once in a lifetime use of fire. Once in a lifetime? I prefer the standard game play that allows for unlimited rocks, papers, or scissors thrown. Although...the next time I battle a random hobo when walking down 42nd Street, I'm tossing Spock just for fun.

I'm going to toss my outstretched hand firmly into the Pro-RPS camp. It's one of those perfect games. Zero set up required (although someone will inevitably "shoot" too early. For Christ's sake, it's one, two, three, SHOOT!). It isn't some Monopoly marathon that goes on well into the night, long after you've had it with your sister extorting your last nickle from his hotel on Marvin Gardens, gleefully taunting you until you have a nervous meltdown and chase her into the kitchen with balled fists, ironically called "rocks". RPS is, at most, a best of five scenario that can be shelved before things get tedious. Strangers know what's up, even men with nappy beards and 14 teeth. It's international, or at least beloved amongst the Parisians. Only mancala comes close to RPS' appeal.

Ricky Schrichabok taught me how to play mancala when we were sitting on the back porch of his family's house. Ricky grew up just down the street from me in Wheat Ridge, but as opposed to my very suburban American upbringing, Ricky shared a modest split level ranch with an uncle, aunt, a multitude of cousins, a grandmother, and the stifling smell of boiling octopus. The whole Schrichabok family made their way from Laos sometime in the early 80's, landing in Colorado. Even as a 10 year old, I'd tower over his entire family while Ricky and I would play video games or soccer at his house.

When we'd get tired of NBA '91 on the Nintendo, Ricky would always have a new distraction. Sometimes, we'd read the Laotian comics that meant nothing to me, but would send him into convuslions of laughter. I never knew talking ducks and green lobsters could be so funny. Other times, we'd head upstairs to the kitchen, and his doting grandmother would feed us snacks. I tried to be polite, but would always leave feeling like I'd just been fed a tire bathed in napalm. One of the other diversions Ricky came up with was a game he'd learned as a little kid in Asia. We'd draw the board on the cement with chalk, and move piles of rocks around in accordance with a very few set of rules. Voila, mancala.

When we were in Grandma Schrichabok's kitchen, we never, ever ate bacon and avocado. That, my friendly voeyuers, is an international tragedy. I think that if Laos was the land of animal and plant fat, the Ricky's family would have stayed put. Instead, they never developed a taste for it. Growing up in America, I was actually fed bacon as an infant at Rose Medical Center, mostly in preparation for a lifetime of hydrogenated oil, high fructose corn syrup, and McDonalds. Growing up in the American West, I was actually fed avocado in the form of guacamole by the Hispanic nurses at Rose Medical Center, mostly in preparation for a lifetime of tacos al carbon, huevos rancheros, and enchiladas patzcuaros at the insanely good eateries around Denver and Boulder. All I can say is, dig in!

Eat until you're crushed, and then come back for one more piece of cremated pork or tostada covered in green paste that tastes like gold. Because, if photos of John Daly are to be trusted, you don't have to be particularly fit to be a good hack.

Here appears a man who has won two of the four most prestigious tournaments in the world, The British Open and PGA Championship. But you know what he hasn't won? The Masters, and it's on next week. This tournament is always in April, always at Augusta, and always signals that Spring has sprung. If I'm on the course comparing myself to Tiger, it will also remind me that my swing has been stung by lack of practice and a dearth of natural talent, but I've always got my Mantoloking Open Open trophy to fall back on. It's no green jacket, butI did get to drink Dunkin Donut coffee on the 9th and final hole. Gotta start somewhere.

While we're here, I really should take the chance to tell you my one and only personal, albeit second hand, John Daly story. As always, anything ridiculous in my life involves my buddy Hans. He's my only friend who has starred in a movie, lived the 17 year old boy's dream by sleeping with a 30 year old on a Mexican beach, and given a strange child "the heeby jeebies." The only sad thing is that these were three separate incidents.

Hans was a wild man in high school. I credit this largely to the fact that his parents, upon Hans' graduation from WRHS, up and retired in Chang Mai, Thailand. They basically left him a house and assumed he was responsible enough to care for it. If a measure of success is not burning it to the the ground, then it is, in fact, possible to judge him so. If, on the other hand, a man is judged a failure when they get blind drunk and, while trying to sneak into the community pool that's been closed for the night, fall onto a wrought iron fence and leave a gaping slice in their calf, Hans catastrophically lost that battle.

Sadly, his health insurance had yet to kick in, so Hans needed a way to pay for the 24 staples that went into his leg during his field trip to the ER. He and I worked at a local country club as caddies, and we set the summer alight carrying bags for wealthy men, none of whom would ever win the Mantoloking Open Open. I swallowed my pride and allowed them to plod around their local course, unknowingly in the presence of golfing greatness.

Colorado used to host a PGA tournament called The International, and aside from the modified Stableford scoring system that turned the game nearly on its head, the most exciting aspect for us was the Pro-Am. Hans and I would, as local caddies, be invited to carry for some of the local businessmen who'd paid a king's ransom to, again, walk in the presence of golfing royalty. This time, though, they at least recognized the majesty, as the PGA professionals, the very men who would compete for the hundreds of thousands of dollars in prize money, would play as a member of the group.

Hans and I drove down to the course and waited for our group assignments. As you'd expect, I was so lucky as to have drawn a group that would play with Brandt Snedeker. I know, baller, right!!! Oh wait, you've never heard of him. I hadn't either. Hans, however was chosen to carry in the group that would feature two time major winner John Daly. Some guys have all the luck! I would include Daly in that group of lucky ones, except at the time, he was coming off a divorce and a stint in rehab for some serious alcoholism. Hey, he didn win at St. Andrews, though.

During the round, Hans managed two great feats. He's an overly gregarious sort, and while he was headed to one of the refreshment tents dotting the course, managed to ask John if he'd like a beer. Fresh from Betty Ford, John's will was still strong, and he managed to shake off the offer. But funnier and more awkward still, Hans was later bent down on a green, reading a putt for his golfer, when Daly walked behind our favorite caddie and asked "what the hell happened to you leg?" Hans, teeming with embarrassment from his last drinking faux pas, didn't want to divulge the truth. Instead, he replied that he'd, "Ummm....got it in a knife fight with a midget."

"You're a weird fucking kid, Hans."

Daly might have been an alcoholic accused of beating his wife, but he nailed that call on the 15th green.

So that, my friends, is my reaction to Hank's list of things he's excited about, either for the moment or for all time. I beg you, what are your favorite things? Shoot me an email at patrick.pharo@gmail.com, leave a comment, or write me a letter. I don't care how you do it, just give me something to write about that isn't rock climbing. Left to my own devices, I'd bore you to tears.

The 25 pound wrecking ball

Dacks, the black lab now occupying the house (seemingly every inch of it) can only be described as a wrecking ball. There are certainly times where he is idle; happy to snuggle into any waiting lap and bask in the attention. Out of nowhere, though, he'll rev to life and take to sprinting. This leaves anyone tabbed to watch him with little choice but to hunt around for the one Kate and I have come to affectionately nick name "The Monkey." Letting him run free, unsupervised, would be a bad decision. Dacks already proved this with his surprise fecal land mine he left in Kate's closet last week. We thought we'd done a great job house training him, and hadn't suffered an accident in some time, when we were caught off guard. You can't leave him on his own, lest you feel the wrath of the wrecking ball.

While most of these destruction devices are merely weighted orbs of iron, ours has teeth. He does enjoy the sensation of crashing into an unsuspecting leg or, if your seated, chest. His added gear comes when he bares the fangs and decides to investigate a foreign object with his jaws. Shoes are fun for him, especially Kate's crocs. But he'll gladly chomp down on sticks, bike pedals, table legs, or the baseboard heater. He's not too discriminating at this point.

I should know that labs love water, having grown up with three of them. The Monkey managed to shock me in spite of this understanding when he crashed through the shower curtain and splashed around with me this morning. Admittedly, we weren't dealing with any scene from Psycho or anything, but it did take me off guard when, with closed eyes and shampoo lather stuffed ears, my feet were attacked with an inquisitive tongue.

Blizzard Watch

Thursday brought nearly a foot of heavy, wet snow to Denver and Boulder. Thursday was also the day I was scheduled to go to the office, 45 miles away, to meet with Dan, one of the guys I work with. He and I were supposed to finish a project we've been doing for a while. When I got up this morning to dig my car out of its icy tomb, my fingers dug through the snow on the windshield and my mind thought about the fun I'd have driving to the office. It might have been more efficient to just stay in bed with coffee and Raisin Bran.

It took me over an hour to drive south on Highway 93 into Golden, a trip that usually runs about 25 minutes. I swung by my dad and stepmom's place to drop off a present for her birthday, and then wished them luck as they pulled out for the airport. They are headed to Vancouver today, and I'm planning on meeting them there tomorrow for a weekend to celebrate her 60th. We'll see if any of us even get out of DIA. From their house in Golden, I hopped into the car to continue the southbound journey, and got to C470 before things turned too bad to proceed.

I was on the entrance ramp when I looked forward and saw a line of cars that had completely stopped. Luckily, there was an "emergency only" turn around just off the shoulder, and I decided that if I sat in my car for another 2 hours just to go to the office to meet with Dan, there would surely be an emergency on the roads. I spun the car around and headed for Wheat Ridge. Calling my boss as I headed away from the office, I told him I'd just meet Dan somewhere else, and he agreed that it'd be for the best. He offered that if I did in fact come all the way down, there'd be a good chance I'd just spend the night, anyway. That was the final motivation I needed to completely turn on the notion of going in.

I slowly made my way to Wheat Ridge, only about 5 miles from the "emergency" turn around, in about a half an hour. When I got to the house, mom had already left, so I pulled my car into the garage, a rarity for me as I usually leave Abby on the street back in Boulder, and headed in to the warm house. The tea was still warm in the teapot, and the house smelled like syrup. Ahhhh, good to be back home! I realized that I'd only eaten about a half a bowl of cereal for breakfast before I left Boulder, so before doing anything else, I fried up a couple of eggs, made a bagel and an english muffin, and poured a cup of tea.

Maybe coming down this way wasn't such a bad idea, after all. This was underscored when Dan agreed to drive over to Ma's house so we could finish our reports. I also offered to get Dan a sandwich from Hickory, the insanely good deli at the end of the street here in Sweet Ridge. The only better sandwich I've ever found is the "sloppy joe" from the Milburn Deli in New Jersey. Not like hamburger helper, but a sort of club sandwich that I know will be waiting for me in heaven. Today is turning out really well in the food department.

Now I just have to see how the flights are faring with the weather, and maybe I can get to Canada for the weekend. If I make it, great. If not, I'm going to the store for a weekend's worth of bagels and cream cheese. I forgot how much I like cream cheese. It goes great with snow.

The Man in the Van. Question Mark. Pt. 2

I called the mechanic to check on Abby. She's getting a little work done, nothing major, but it still going to be $500. I mentioned my scenario, though I left out the college kids, and was asked what van I was interested in.
"VW Eurovan," I answered.
"Oh god no." said Shawna from Mancinelli's.
"'98 to '09 was a really bad year for Volkswagon."
That sounds more like a bad decade.
Hummm.

The Man in the Van. Question Mark.

The wheels are turning. Abbey, my long serving Subaru, is getting long in the tooth with her 211,000 miles. I've been shopping around for her replacement, and though I know it would pain her to know, some newer, sexier ladies are looking good.

I've been postponing this action for quite some time. Tens of thousands of miles, actually. I just kept telling myself that she'd change, that the rust would diminish and the fire would burn in those 4 small cylinders forever. Who am I fooling, though? We're both getting older, and maybe it's time to promote honesty to shotgun. As I get deeper and deeper into this relationship with Abbey, it just gets more expensive, and at some point, the costs have to outweigh the benefits. When you can't be sure you can go a week without some kind of emotional blowup, it might be time to part ways.

I've started kicking the tire on a new lass, a big body girl with a popped top. Yeah, I know fake hooters are vain and silly, but I can see myself kicking back with her on road trips, climbing rocks during the day and playing cards on her fold out table or sleeping in her beds at night. I don't know her name yet, but as my friend Pepe from Spain once yelled in a crowded bar one night, "Estoy enamorado. Do you know what that means? I'm in love, man!" He happened to scream this epithet over the pulsing of bad techno, and was talking about an ugly Pakistani who could best be compared to an abject mule, but whatever.

I'm talking about my lady, a burgundy 2001 VW Eurovan, and she's no donkey. I can't yet answer the question my secretary posed yesterday as to if it came with a free bag of weed, but I'm excited at the prospect even if Ms. Burgundy doesn't. You can always find an eighth in Boulder, ya know? After all, estoy enamorado.

I've been haggling with the dealer who's pimping her on his lot. He and I are negotiating some kind of trade for Abbey, and even though we've had our spats, I want to get an unreasonably high trade in value for her. We'll see if I can work out some kind of deal, and I'm hoping that Hans' experiences with the Drunken Fan Van, the gold painted Dodge conversion van with CU Football decals on the side, wasn't indicitave of all van owners' experiences. If owning a mini RV means I've got to drive through the ghetto of Junction City, Kansas with a horn that won't stop honking, regardless of the fact that no one is pushing on the steering wheel, I just might pass.

Am I the kind of guy who should be owning a van? I thought about that yesterday, St. Paddy's day, as I was walking through downtown Denver. There was a horde of green clad drunken college kids, the executives exiting the office towers, and me. I wasn't sure I wanted to be one of the drunk kids, and I didn't even have a green shirt on. Nor was I wearing a green thong, though a very inebriated DG on 16th street was trying to show the free mall ride her equivalent. Oops.

I thought that maybe I should be one of those guys in an executive business suit and driving an Audi. He was rushing from his luxurious office and its cush leather chair try to make it to the Nuggets game where he undoubtedly had box seats and some bimbo bombshell waiting for his arrival. Just one such sportscar tore out of an underground lot and narrowly avoided killing me, but I was too enamored with the thought that I'd just seen myself pass by behind the wheel to angerly shake a fist. Thinking, "there I go," I watched his car head west but noticed a McCain / Palin bumper sticker, and settled my little dilema, right then and there. I'm no business exec. I don't need an Audi. And then a van drove past, honking.

The half dozen 20 somethings in the auto laughed and yelled, wishing me a happy St. Patrick's day and told me that the luck of the Irish was with me, given my name and all. They drove past, and pulled over just ahead. I looked up to see an Access Fund sticker on the rear windshield, and heard Groundation pouring from their speakers.

One of them then slid open the door and puked on the curb, only a few feet from my shoes. "My people!" I exclaimed, and hopped in. And off we went for car bombs. I voted for Obama, anyway.

Friday

I've been spending the morning trying to figure out what to blog about. I tried to do some work, but could only get so into mineral ownership chains before my head exploded. Seriously, there's brain goo everywhere. I watched a little of Tom Hanks, the plucky, down on his luck Krakhosian from The Terminal, but Kate got sleepy and a little woozy from the pain meds. We had to turn it off. I tried to explain that we hadn't even seen CZJ's red hot tah tahs yet, but she was generally disinterested in everything, red hot or not. I made a little breakfast, and started thinking maybe I could do a post on eggs or granola or something, but it only took me about 15 seconds to come to the realization that the Voyeurs ain't having that shit. They want good, quality literature. The difference is blogability. Think of me as the Bud Light of Blogger.com. Thank god for Facebook, 'cause I found the motivation I needed. Her name is Sheena Messer.

Some backstory:
Sheena and I went to high school together, I think. I don't really remember her, but I do know we've got a bunch of friends in common on Facebook, and they're people I do remember from Wheat Ridge. The laws of deduction mean we were fellow Farmers. We obviously weren't too close, but when I've got a friend request on that site, I usually just say no sweat, and hit confirm. As soon as I get done with this, I'm headed back to Facebook to hit "unconfirm."

Q: Why?
A:" Sheena took What Kind of Bride Will You Be? quiz and the result is Lovely Lady.
You are lovely and caring. You help others and spread out a lot of sympathy. Your life aim maybe is to serve the people. But your weakness is that you forget about yourself, your own needs. All your time is hold back for your friends and family. You are always there for people in trouble. Ready for any emergency. You make a lot of sacrifices just to be a good human. But every woman has her needs, her longings and a destiny. Don't loose yourself in work or curing other people's souls. You will have your own problems in your life. Another problem is that you don't say your opinion when it's right and important to say it. People trample onto your soul if you are always so kind and lovely and helpful. They will play on you. Though you should try to relax more and enjoy your life, you should not loose the gift that was given to you to help others . Not everyone is created this way... You are uniqe and rare!"

GODDAMNIT!!!!!

I took a quiz today, too. It said I'm beautiful. It said the peasants in China all chant my name in hopes that their sons will grow strong, caring for them in their old age, and that their daughters will wither and die quickly, allowing for more sons. The quiz said I will be rich some day, that I'm well hung. But I kept the results of my quiz to myself (mostly.)

I'm making a new rule for my life. I'm not associating with anybody who could even be capable of such idiotic behavior. If I see that kind of dumb status on your Facebook page, you're getting excommunicated.

I'm going to implement another rule, too. I'd love to get paid to write, but if I ever have to do the synopsis for some self serving bride quiz, I'll stick with oil and gas. And seriously, who on Earth wrote that "lovely lady" junk? Read it again. I think it must have been penned by some immigrant, likely from Krakhosia.

Thinking about it makes me sad. Someone sat down to write down their disjointed thoughts about what it was to be a lady, and a lovely one at that. They've motivated me to do some better writing. If it's good enough, maybe I can get published...on the internet...on Facebook even. Lesser men from war torn nations have achieved as much.

Thursday

Posted....um....Friday morning. Whatever.

I'm going out on a limb here and letting you all know that there is absolutely NOTHING wrong with wearing a woman's bathrobe. Especially when it's luxurious fleece with your girlfriend's initials embroidered on the left collar. Ahhhh. I've been getting up lately to make eggs, change the ice in the ice machine, or track down the percocet, and doing so in nothing but underwear is a little revealing.
This whole lifestyle change started when the dog showed up. Actually, it started when the dog got diarrhea, and had to be carried outside a few times a night to avoid depositing an Iranian dirty bomb on the carpet. Thanks, Dacks. And who played the role of the IAEA, monitoring rogue states' bomb making capabilities? Me. And this International Atomic Energy Agent wore a fleecy garment from Restoration Hardware's ladies dept.

As an offering of penitance, I'll post again today. Double dip.

Wednesday

Hump day. Hopefully, Kate's getting over the hump. She's still battling the side effects from all the narcotics after the surgery, and today was a foggy mess, complete with rumbling tummy. We're hoping Thursday is the day she turns the corner.

I ended up getting on the call this morning for the budget meeting with the west slope client. Good news. Nobody got fired, and it looks like I'll be busy during the spring and summer. I like knowing that I'm not out in the cold. Also this spring is a potential trip back to the Red. After my trip out to Kentucky over Halloween, I am PSYCHED at the prospect of a return voyage. Steep sport climbing at its best, and keep in mind, insane pizza after sending.

Otherwise, Kate's mom came into town for some assistance with the patient. In addition to being a huge help with bandage changing, medication administration, and errand running, Susie is an insane cook. She hooked us up with two dinners over the past two days which I'd have gladly ordered at a restaurant, and tomorrow, we're headed to Frasca. I think that's hands down the best restaurant in Denver/Boulder, and I am salivating at the prospect of their menu.

This weekend is already on the agenda, and its looking like the weather is gonna be dodgy at best. I've started working on a new route down in Clear Creek, a squeeze job at the Primo Wall called, ironically, Squeeze Play. My friend Erin just got it done, and I got sold on the idea of trying it myself. There's no way it lives up to the grade that some people give it, but I am excited to have a new project down there. My friend Jesse started working on a great climb called Flying Cowboys, and hopefully we'll have the chance to get down to CCC together and send some routes in the next few trips.

The only thing I've started worrying about is this damn cyst on my left middle finger. I've had a ball of cells between the first and middle knuckle for over a year, and it's come back recently. Over the last few months, it had started to receed to the extent that I was hoping it would be gone for good. Too many days at the BRC, I guess.


That's the end of the ramblings for the night, and I'll

Tuesday

Call me a slacker, you won't be a liar. I waited until 10:55 to start this post, mostly because today was a full plate. I'm not sure if I mentioned it or not, but Kate just had knee surgery, so I've been on serious nurse detail for the past 36 hrs. The alarm clock has rudely spouted NPR at 2:30 AM and again at 6:30 to ensure proper medicinal ingestion, and the rest of my foggy day was spent working on a project for a client.
My old man is an oil and gas guru, so at one point during the day, I called him up to ask a question I had for this particular project. Specifically, I needed to know about a public oil company's responsibility to the SEC for filing on their reserves. One thing led to another, and then we just started chatting. He asked me if I've still been saving money for a rainy day. I replied that I had, but it was nerve racking to hear it from an old hand that bad times are still ahead. I know that television and print are basically story after story of economic ruin, but hearing it from you own father hits closer to home than if, say, Anderson Cooper was delivering the notion.

So, long story short, I was happy to be working today. I can't really tell what I'd do if I suddenly lost my job. I think there's a part of me that would do a subtle fist pump and start planning climbing trips, but another voice would rear up in total panic and force me into a grownup gear. Hopefully it doesn't come to that. This week will be an interesting indicator as to where I stand on that continuum, because we just rewrote a contract for a client, and are going to have a call about it tomorrow. I'm hoping I don't pick up the phone to a voice telling me, politely or otherwise, that the bid was rejected and my goose was cooked. (Especially because this particular client is responsible for getting me to the west slope, with all of its associated climbing, and I'd HATE to lose that perk.)

So it's off to bed, at least for a couple of hours, to rest up and hopefully rise tomorrow sufficiently coherent and rested so as to fool them once again with a thin veneer of professionalism.

And welcome back, Nuno. My buddy just went off to Thailand for sightseeing, climbing, and a reunion with a long time buddy who'd moved over there. It sounds like he had a great trip, and his email made me get a little thirsty for an adventure. I think I could do without the gut destruction he picked up from dodgy food, but anytime someone talks about beach side climbing with overhanging limestone and belays that depend upon the tide, I'm intrigued, to say the least.

Monday

Sorry to miss a day, but I always held that I'd likely miss one of the scheduled episodes from the week. I take my defense based upon two forms of jurisprudence. First, it was the Sabbath. I sure as shit don't roll on Shabbas. And second, Katie was getting revved up for having her knee fixed up today, and I decided to spend the day climbing and getting her prepped for the knife. Sorry to let you down.

But today, I think I'll write about beards. Harry Potter is on the tele, and I think it's Hagrid's big dog beard that has me thinking about the finer aspects of facial hair. You all remember Hagrid, right?

Anyone familiar with me will likely recall the abject dearth of facial hair I'm capable of growing. That said, I have noticed a subtle creep in facial shrubbery on my grill. I'm feeling pretty solid on the upper lip, and, frankly, a substantial mustache is the sign of a true male. I've also got some of the chin business, but that looks more like the middle schooler who is desperate to show the ladies he's a 14 year old baller. As for sideburns and anything on the cheeks, it's slim pickins at best. The slim pickins are gettin a little less slim, and every now and then, I'll catch one of those stray straws that stand stiffly against the schick. Our little boy is gettin' all growns up!

A different type of beard is the special friend who's really covering up for a rippin' case of homosexuality. Megan is always talking about a certain friend of her's that is dating a guy who has a job that sends him to Europe for a big chunk of the year. He heads off to Spain or France, leaving his lass in Boulder. She takes his departure with none of the expected difficulty, instead just going about her business, and apparently with ease.

I'm not convinced that Meg's buddy is actually gay. She's far too cute of a girl for me to entertain such a disasterous outcome. Cute girls have to love the boys! I am, however, swayed by the idea of adjacent duplexes. I'll explain.

Megan, in addition to her little beard theory, likes the idea that couples should not necessarily live together, but instead just live next door to each other. Why deal with the hassle of your special buddy's dirty dishes and moldy shower curtain when you can just head back home, a mere stone's throw down the sidewalk. It's like the adjoining hotel rooms with a doorway, with locks on both ends, that connect the two spaces. Growing up, my family would pack into one room, one sibling on the floor or perhaps three squirming grommets kicking each other in one bed while mom and dad snored away on the other bed. But that's neither here nor there.

I kind of like Megan's idea for happy relationship accomodations. I don't want to be too far away, but a little of my own space would be nice. Given my bum's reaction to cheese, I bet Katie wouldn't mind it either.

And for my third beard segment, I'll leave you with this little nugget. (Bad for work, but click the link when you're back home, for the love of God. Highest of high comedy.) I must have somehow been on the moon when this happened in February. How on Earth does Joaquin make it to the stage? I love the fact that Letterman plays along and does just enough shit talking to Phoenix to make an ass out of him, but not enough to get into a fistfight. Obviously, Ben Stiller tried to give an ode to the interview of the year during the Academy Awards, but it wasn't nearly as good as the original.

One day, I'd like to be famous to the extent that I can get hammered on Xanax and roll out to a national television program. Until then, I'll just rock the blog.

Saturday

Saturday Night's All Right for fighting, Saturday Night's all right.....

Saturday afternoon, though, with the cloudy skies, chilly air, and occasional snowflake, is all right for laying on the couch, drinking tea, and resting up for tomorrow. I think I'm headed to Clear Creek and maybe the Quarry Wall to do a little climbing. A rarity, I know, but I'm willing to give this endeavor a shot.

Hopefully, I'll get out with the same crew that I hung with last night. My buddy Jesse, owner of the proud and imminently badass outdoor brand Totem Industries, and his wife Erin came over for dinner. Also in the fold were Brian and Erin (different Erin), basically the nicest climbers in Boulder. Along with those four, Kate and I went to the BRC to check the finale to the BRC winter competition series. We made it for the invitational round featuring a our friends Taylor, John, Dan, and Robin, along with the occassionally strong TC, guidebook cover girl Emily, and others. JStar had the stones to compete in a full Batman costume, so a big salute to him for that little nugget.

I don't know who ended up winning the mens (although I think it was Paul Robinson), but Paige Claussen just destroyed the women's field. It's a sad day when one of the competitors makes the finals routes look like 5.11 while everyone else is falling off at mid height, but as Jesse said, it does make him feel a bit better when she is lapping his projects.

The nadir of the night came when I was driving back from the comp with the whole crew packed into Abby, my valiant Subaru. We decided that the night was young, and we'd like to keep goofing around, eventually driving down Pearl Street hoping to go to the Mountain Sun to grab a beer. To the delight of everyone in the auto, a spot opened up right in front of the bar, and I swooped to ease the wagon home. Unfortunately, it was one of those times when the parallel park gods just smite the unsuspecting driver, and my back right tire found the curb. I tried to reset, hoping no one had noticed, but on the second attempt, again cut too sharply and couldn't fit. A third try produced similar failure, and only on the fourth effort, to the cheers and salutes of the windowside bar patrons and friends in my car did I find success. "Success" at that point, though, was more an embrace of my own embarrassment and admission that I wasn't nearly so skilled as I'd hope the world to believe.

Worst of all, the Mountain Sun was packed, and we weren't going to get a table. After all of 30 seconds inside, we decided to just head back to the ranch and have a beer straight from our fridge. The humiliation was all for naught! So off to the house we rolled, and I left the car a solid 36 inches from the curb upon trying to park in my normal spot.

I'm ready for summer, when I spend much more time commuting on my bike than driving the auto.

Friday

Double! I got in a bouldering session, and some yoga. A solid Friday, if I might be so bold.
Also in the double category is Hans' suggestion about some sort of hugely unhealthy bacon wrapped sausage concoction that consists of about 5 million times the recommended daily allowance of saturated fat and cholesterol. It's a double, because he's already mentioned that I write about it, and I'm basically denying it for the second time.

A quick update on the mutt: He's so goddamn adorable that it's impossible to get mad at him for anything. I feel like one of those dipshit, hovering parents who fawn all over their kids and assumes that the little snotface can do no wrong. He bites my pants, and absconds with my favorite footwear, and I can hardly muster the stones to reprimand the little guy. We're moving towards sleeping through the night, but with a bladder that is still roughly the size of a marble, he's got limited time available for holding it.

The weekend is looking like Saturday's weather is headed south, so I think we're going to clean things up around here and do some work that got pushed back in order to enjoy the double session Friday. Breakfast with the couple we used to live with is also on the menu, and long overdue since we left their place in SoBo. We're hoping to meet Jen and Simone at the SouthSide Cafe and throw down on a huge plate of eggs before we have to get back to the chores. Thankfully, I don't think Kate or I have reached the point in Old School where Will Farrell is explaining how he's got a big day planned: "headed to Home Depot, maybe Bed Bath & Beyond, but who knows if they'll have time."

And I'll wrap it with this...
I've got some Crystal Method playing in the background. Rob C. gave me this CD, and in lauding it's techno content, gave me only one piece of advice: don't ski with it on the iPod, 'cause I'll hurt myself.
Megs and Kate and I were at Vail two weeks ago, and I defied the music gods and threw it on. I love skiing to music, but unfortunately, Rob proved to be pretty close to clairvoyant. I was skiing really well all day, racing around the back bowl and plowing through some shin deep new snow on my new big sticks. After lunch, we returned to the front to end the day on some groomers, and that's when the Crystal Method started urging me on. I was raging around and pushing big GS turns on mellow groomers, but aparently forgot how much clutch I'd used up during the morning's big push.
I was coming off of Chair 4 and rolling down Christmas towards Mid Vail when I saw a group of about 6 people stopped in the middle of the run. Four of them made up one little cluster, and about 10 feet away, the other two were chatting and catching their collective breath. I, like an unforgivable jackass, thought I'd be cool and ski between the groups at about 120 miles per hour, "Get busy time!" bouncing around my helmeted skull.

Thank god I was wearing a helmet. Just after I passed the groups, one of my skis hooked an edge on a mogul, and I ATE SHIT. I needed to capitalize that just for effect, but what I really wish I had the ability to do was show video. Sadly, none exists. But after I caught my edge, I spun basically around and then did a full Herman Maier. The music was still raging, so instead of standing around and listening to their taunts and angry shouts to slow down and get it under control, I just shook the cobwebs out from behind my eyes and saw their mouths open and shut with nothing but drum and base coming out.

Day one of Blogcast week is in the books!

Podcast Week

Kate will regularly catch me looking intently at my computer, assuming, I'm sure, that her boyfriend is watching porn. Most of the time, she's wrong. When I've got the game face on, and the MacBook is radiating cancer waves towards my brain and groin, the screen is usually showing Bill Simmons, the Sports Guy - a regular columnist for ESPN. He, along with European Style Rice Pudding, are my go-to vices. Try to give me Rick Reilly or regular style pudding, and I'm not interested. The BS report and proper Kozy Shack? I'm in. Hooked.

Simmons is a total homer, living and dying with the Boston sports scene. He was writing for Kimmel for a while, and is a huge fan of movies, pop culture, and Chuck Klosterman. If you can lump all of that into an insightful column about basketball, I'm in. He does a fair share of written stuff for ESPN, and I obviously highly recommend keeping up, but the winners are his podcasts. I throw a few of those on my iPod and have killer entertainment for my bus/train rides to and from Denver. I'm not going to try to sell you on it with too many specifics, but I'll recount one recent show where his buddy Joe House was a guest on the podcast. Joe was praising Subway, the sponsor of the podcasts, and was quoted, albeit highly out of context, as saying "12 inch double meat is my thing." I like that he and his guest have a sense of humor of that. Also, I like anyone who has figured out how to make a living by writing about what they really like, calling their friends, and broadcasting the conversations to a nationwide audience. Oh, and getting paid like crazy.

His podcasts typically get released a few times a week, but a while ago he did a podcast week where everyday saw a new...um...."episode" was released. What do you call an individual podcast? Installment? Show? Whatever. Another interesting twist about podcast week was that Thursday came and went without a podcast. Instead, he wrote an article for ESPN the Magazine about the trading deadline and Baron Davis. The principle of the effort inspired me, and the inability to stick to it struck a chord of resonance. I like to think that I write a lot, but usually I get busy and forget to do much, only coming up with new material when my mom writes me an email asking me how my ringworm is doing, if I've washed my hair, and why I haven't written anything on the blog in a while. This one's for mom.

I am announcing PattyP's Blogcast week. Starting tomorrow, I'm going to post every day for a week. I can't guarantee that the installments will be very long, or that the episodes will be interesting (although how much of a departure from everyday reality would that be?), but I can promise that there will be something new up with regularity.

Of course, I reserve the ability to skip one day, principally in homage to my writing hero.

If anyone has anything they'd like me to expound upon, just let me know. Post a comment, send and email, call me up...whatever. If I get ideas, I can nearly guarantee that they'll find their way into e-print. Hell, Hans just had basically an entire post that revolved around him, and even mentioned him by name. If you wanna blow up like Mr. Swolfs, you gotta call hit me up.

Lastly, I'm going on record as saying I sincerely dislike Chris Paul. He seems like one of those guys who you'd play against back in high school who was good, but who's main goal was to be a nuisance and general burr under your saddle. That's all. See ya tomorrow.

Place your bets

I checked the lottery section on Denverpost.com today, and it confirmed my fear: I didn't win Powerball. I didn't even match one digit. I guess that's to be expected with the astronomical odds and all, but it's still disappointing. After all, who picks up their potentially winning ticket before a $173 million drawing and thinks about not winning? Everyone kicks back and thinks about what it's going to be like to be rich. With that silly sum and all those big red zeros posted on billboards around the country, people are thinking about being FILTHY rich.

Buying a Powerball ticket gives me exactly the opposite feeling as being in Vegas. The nominal investment of one dollar makes me feel like I don't have much to lose. In fact, I bought my most recent non-winning ticket with ten dimes. I like to imagine that I'll take the ticket from the gas station attendant, shove it in my wallet and forget about it until it's time to collect my winnings. There's no stress involved, no oxygen pumped into a room full of crazed geriatrics slapping their wadded singles and fives onto the roulette table. All I need to do is be patient and wait for my lazy investment to grow. Exponentially.

In Vegas, I have to deal with too much distraction and abject panic. I've heard craps referred to as "wallet lightening," and I'd love that moniker if it wasn't my billfold being zapped. There's the above referred to aging zombies, but the pace is just too much. Especially for an investment minded gambler like myself. I want time to think about how great things are going to be when I get rich, not have to make split second decisions that will ultimately prove to undo that very goal. Don't yell at me and ask if I want to buy a six, of if the boxcar hard way is for me. Take my spare change and return it, along with one hundred sixty five tons of matching coin. Or, have Ed McMahon deliver a novelty check to my front door and yell "peaked in the 80's" while I gleefully cash out.

Now don't get me wrong, trips to Vegas are a blast. Take, for instance, one of my more successful trips out there:
God knows why my boss temporarily lost his mind and sent Hans and me out on a project in Southwest Utah that left us both flying through Vegas. If facing down a jury and questioned about his decisionmaking, I'm sure he'd plead insanity. He must have seen the benefit of sending an old hand such as myself (at the time I think I'd been researching county records for all of a year) out with the new guy to show him the ropes. Hans, the new guy for this little junket to Sin City, was glad to accept the tutelage.
Hans and I were friends from high school, and he'd recently taken a job with us after his previous employer was booked for two DUI's in one week. Getting busted that often for playing bumper cars in your Land Rover aparently makes it tough to run a business. Ironically, he was an advertising guy for Budweiser before he came to Denver.
So Hans and I flew out to Vegas for work, and spent a few days touring the desert wastes of Southwestern Utah. (I say wastes, but for climbing's sake, it's actually a goldmine. Hans and I didn't get to climb, so for purposes of this story, the countryside was a waste.) Come that Thursday, we needed to head back to Vegas to meet with a guy we were trying to buy an oil and gas lease from. This particular individual turned out to be one of the crazier people I've ever met, complete with the bumper sticker on his beater Volvo that read, "911 was an inside job!"

Needless to say, we spent about 20 very uncomfortable minutes in his livingroom before Hans and I were finally able to ascertain that we weren't getting any business done that afternoon, and that the Strip was a better option. Sorry, Mr. Loco, we gotsta go.

We had a room booked at Caesar's for that Thursday night, and a flight scheduled to leave at the very civilized hour of noon on Friday. That would allow us centralized accomodations and plenty of daylight to shake off any hangover. We checked in, thinking that the conspicuous name that would headline the receipt could be forgiven, considering our budget allowed for two separate hotel room. After grabbing a bite of dinner, we headed off to try the tables.
Before I get to that, though, a quick word. The best Thai restaurant in America is in a strip mall off of Sahara. 953 E. Sahara, to be exact. The Lotus of Siam is so good, that last summer on a different trip, my friend Rob and I seriously considered driving down from Reno, a full 6 hrs, just for dinner.

Back to Vegas, and after dinner: Hans and I had been to the Strip together before, and had a blast at the super budget Harrah's. Knowing that we'd had luck there before, and knowing that the time at the tables is always extended with the lower minimum bets that come with older, dingier casinos, we headed back.

The main point of the post is this: There is nothing in life like a hot craps table. I don't care what else I wrote, that's the only thing that matter. Especially after a ton of awesome Rad Na and pork larb.

Hans and I had a run of dice that was outstanding. It got to the point where we were throwing chips around to the dealers in a prayer to keep the good rolls coming. Hi fives, drinks, shouts, and some grumpy Pit Boss rumbings. Playing a $5 minimum bet, we came away with a combined $1,400 for just a few hours "work", nearly what we earned for an entire week of hasseling freak shows for their oil and gas. That sounds pretty good.

Hey H- How bout a return?