When I was about 15, my mom and I were out running errands in her forest green Ford Windstar minivan. On our way between Target and dinner, she pulled into a gas station to refuel. With the car next to the pump, she asked if I would do it, stating plainly that I'd be driving soon. If I was out on a date with a girl and needed to get gas, I should know what I was doing. "Get some practice," and she urged me out with her credit card. I had a flash of realization: my mom trusted me with extremely flammable liquids, and considered it at least a possibility that I'd ever go out on a date with a girl.
My folks had a dinner party when I was about 11. A bunch of friends and neighbors showed up, many of whom I'd never seen before. The adults generally went their own way, and the half dozen or so kids naturally gravitated towards each other. Around the table, we were eating our food and laughing about celebrity names we knew. Dick Butkus. That brought the house down. A woman who I'd never seen before came into the kitchen and asked what we were all so hysterical about. "Dick BUTT Kiss!" I screamed in delight. "Do you know how great that is?" She, in fact, did not know how great it was, and scoweled at me. "Grow up." I was at the fucking kids table. That was the point.
Each summer between 7th and 10th grade, I went to Regis University's soccer camp. Most of the mens team would coach, and I remember being enthralled by this Danish guy named Malta. He was definitely not a Maltese guy named Dan or Mark. Malta was playing in a scrimmage against us, and I was defending him. Taking the ball away was an impossibilty, so I figured I'd show him my developing defensive skills by instead kicking him in the ankles. Not hard, just enough to let him know that I was quick on my feet. "Quit kicking my goddamn ankles." I realized that my message didn't quite get through like I'd hoped.
Wednesday, June 24, 2009
Knifing out the Copyright Violations
My uncle John usually throws down with good music suggestions. Between him and my buddy Bodie who works over at E-Town, I feel pretty hip and in the know.
John sent me a link to a band called The Knife recently....you may have heard Jose Gonzalez cover their song Heartbeats. The Knife version is a little crazier, but in a way...cooler. Of course, the video was on youtube, too, but the sound was taken off for fear of litigation. The American way, I guess. Shame, cause I could really enjoy sitting there with the song/video on repeat while the kids skated down that hill....with each figure eight, I'd shudder, convinced that they were going to smash into each other. So far, they've made it each and every time.
John called me the other day to catch up and see about meeting in Santa Fe for his brother's (and my uncle, Jim) birthday shin dig. The last time I was in Santa Fe with most of my mom's extended family, it was her 50th birthday. Two major achievements stuck with me from that trip, to the extent that I'm going to meet up with Jim, John, and the rest of the crew in hopes of recreation:
My sister went into a church and found a gift store. In it, she found a plastic noise maker, molded into the shape of two hands clapping, with the text "Clap for Jesus" printed boldly in hot pink.
I wound up at a fantastic little club downtown with John, Jim, and three of Jim's buddies. Two of the guys were Latin, full blooded. I devoted the evening to equal parts speaking Spanish (a favorite past time of mine), drinking, and dancing with a black drag queen up on the go go box stage. Good times!
Round 2: The weekend of August 3rd.
John sent me a link to a band called The Knife recently....you may have heard Jose Gonzalez cover their song Heartbeats. The Knife version is a little crazier, but in a way...cooler. Of course, the video was on youtube, too, but the sound was taken off for fear of litigation. The American way, I guess. Shame, cause I could really enjoy sitting there with the song/video on repeat while the kids skated down that hill....with each figure eight, I'd shudder, convinced that they were going to smash into each other. So far, they've made it each and every time.
John called me the other day to catch up and see about meeting in Santa Fe for his brother's (and my uncle, Jim) birthday shin dig. The last time I was in Santa Fe with most of my mom's extended family, it was her 50th birthday. Two major achievements stuck with me from that trip, to the extent that I'm going to meet up with Jim, John, and the rest of the crew in hopes of recreation:
My sister went into a church and found a gift store. In it, she found a plastic noise maker, molded into the shape of two hands clapping, with the text "Clap for Jesus" printed boldly in hot pink.
I wound up at a fantastic little club downtown with John, Jim, and three of Jim's buddies. Two of the guys were Latin, full blooded. I devoted the evening to equal parts speaking Spanish (a favorite past time of mine), drinking, and dancing with a black drag queen up on the go go box stage. Good times!
Round 2: The weekend of August 3rd.
Sunday, June 14, 2009
Zen and the Art of the Temper Tantrum
I've got no one to blame but myself, but that didn't stop me from shouting. I fell off the route I've been trying, Pump a Rama (as it's boringly named). Instead of chalking it up to training mileage, or blaming tired fingers, I yelled at no one in particular, but then at my belayer, Brian. Then, I yelled at Ander, my buddy who was chatting it up with Brian while I was climbing. "It's so distracting! All I could think about was your conversation...Jesus!"
It would have been completely acceptable for them to laugh in my face, punch me in the jaw, or tell me to take up golf and fuck off. They could have reminded me that If I wanted total silence while I was climbing, I had better start soloing....far away from them. Instead, though, both were way more understanding than necessary. I think this is because each of them could relate to what it's like to want to send a route and feel like it's almost in the bag, only to have things fail to come together.
That's where I am with "Pump," and things haven't come together yet. I'm getting to the point where I want to be free from the spell of needing to send it. Free from the idea that I can't move on to anything else until I've clipped the anchors and crossed it off the list. I even gave it another try after my little meltdown this afternoon, and fell off from essentially the last hold before the difficulty eases to a point that I shouldn't fall. I emphasize "shouldn't," but there are another 15 feet of climbing and the snake is always in the grass.
I think there are a couple of reasons that I'm putting more pressure on this route than on some others that I've done. I managed to do a different route, this one a hard 5.12 called Block Horror Show, really quickly to start the season. There are even some people who hint that "Blocky" might be closer to 5.13a. For me, though, it really fit my strengths as a climber, and I managed to do it pretty quickly for my standards on the hard 12 grade. I was really excited, and was hoping that my next project, "Pump," would go well. Not the case. I've been working on this one long enough to feel like I should be done by now, and measuring success against the "Blocky" timeline is frustrating.
I'm also really hoping to finish "Pump" from a standpoint of pure vanity. "Pump" is 13a by nearly everyone's measure, and I consider this the benchmark grade for hard, hard sport climbing. I've done a couple of other routes that have been called 13, but I'd take a fair amount of vindication from doing my first one in Rifle. The more I think about it, I'm basically waiting for an external actor, in this case an impersonal hunk of stone, to pad my ego. And I'm fine with it.
The third reason that I'm so ready to send this route weighs heaviest on my mind. Especially when the other two reasons start to muddle my thoughts and add to the pressure. I'm single, a bachelor, dumped...and it's largely due to the fact that I put climbing on such a pedestal. Kate couldn't stay with me because I wouldn't unilaterally put her first. I can't blame her for the stance, but if that's going to be the case; if I'm going to let relationships lay fallow and eventually fall apart, I better have a good goddamn reason for doing so. I better be sending routes.
Not sending, then, is frustration on a double front. If I don't finish a project, it's worse than simply falling before the anchors. The bitterness of knowing I'm still under the spell of a climb, or worse, my own ego, is nothing compared to the feeling that I've given up love so that I could fall off of a rock instead of stand on its summit.
Maybe that's the lesson, then. Maybe I need to be OK with the falling, and find a little Zen in the movement. Whatever the lesson, I hope I can learn to eliminate the temper tantrums, lest I lose all my friends and belay partners, too.
It would have been completely acceptable for them to laugh in my face, punch me in the jaw, or tell me to take up golf and fuck off. They could have reminded me that If I wanted total silence while I was climbing, I had better start soloing....far away from them. Instead, though, both were way more understanding than necessary. I think this is because each of them could relate to what it's like to want to send a route and feel like it's almost in the bag, only to have things fail to come together.
That's where I am with "Pump," and things haven't come together yet. I'm getting to the point where I want to be free from the spell of needing to send it. Free from the idea that I can't move on to anything else until I've clipped the anchors and crossed it off the list. I even gave it another try after my little meltdown this afternoon, and fell off from essentially the last hold before the difficulty eases to a point that I shouldn't fall. I emphasize "shouldn't," but there are another 15 feet of climbing and the snake is always in the grass.
I think there are a couple of reasons that I'm putting more pressure on this route than on some others that I've done. I managed to do a different route, this one a hard 5.12 called Block Horror Show, really quickly to start the season. There are even some people who hint that "Blocky" might be closer to 5.13a. For me, though, it really fit my strengths as a climber, and I managed to do it pretty quickly for my standards on the hard 12 grade. I was really excited, and was hoping that my next project, "Pump," would go well. Not the case. I've been working on this one long enough to feel like I should be done by now, and measuring success against the "Blocky" timeline is frustrating.
I'm also really hoping to finish "Pump" from a standpoint of pure vanity. "Pump" is 13a by nearly everyone's measure, and I consider this the benchmark grade for hard, hard sport climbing. I've done a couple of other routes that have been called 13, but I'd take a fair amount of vindication from doing my first one in Rifle. The more I think about it, I'm basically waiting for an external actor, in this case an impersonal hunk of stone, to pad my ego. And I'm fine with it.
The third reason that I'm so ready to send this route weighs heaviest on my mind. Especially when the other two reasons start to muddle my thoughts and add to the pressure. I'm single, a bachelor, dumped...and it's largely due to the fact that I put climbing on such a pedestal. Kate couldn't stay with me because I wouldn't unilaterally put her first. I can't blame her for the stance, but if that's going to be the case; if I'm going to let relationships lay fallow and eventually fall apart, I better have a good goddamn reason for doing so. I better be sending routes.
Not sending, then, is frustration on a double front. If I don't finish a project, it's worse than simply falling before the anchors. The bitterness of knowing I'm still under the spell of a climb, or worse, my own ego, is nothing compared to the feeling that I've given up love so that I could fall off of a rock instead of stand on its summit.
Maybe that's the lesson, then. Maybe I need to be OK with the falling, and find a little Zen in the movement. Whatever the lesson, I hope I can learn to eliminate the temper tantrums, lest I lose all my friends and belay partners, too.
Wednesday, June 10, 2009
Montrose
Most of the hotel rooms are booked for the next few days down here in Montrose. There is a sheriff's conference in town, and Johnny Law has taken all the beds in the Hampton Inn and the Holiday Inn Express. Drat. Those are my two hotel chains that I try to stay with to hook up the rewards points. When the girl at the front desk of the Holiday Inn shook her head and told me about the conference, my heart sank a bit. In most of the small towns where I work, there aren't any really nice hotels, and when the national chains are booked up, it's usually a sign that the night is going to get roachy. I've started taking a sleeping bag with me on most of my overnight work trips, especially since I was nearly shut out of all the hotels in Meeker last summer. On that trip, I was pretty close to bedding down in my car at City Park, but fortunately found a little bed and breakfast about 20 miles up the river.
And tonight, I was pretty close to resigning myself to the same "in a van down by there river" fate. Fortunately, Little Miss Holiday Inn called around and found a room at the Black Canyon Motel. I got the directions, and headed down the road toward the place, hoping for the best.
I actually couldn't find the hotel at first, but saw a Best Western. Firmly placing my trust in comfortable recognition, I walked in and hoped that maybe the officer's had overlooked this one. They hadn't. The older, huskier, furrier manager informed me that they were out of space, too. I expressed my dismay about the sheer quantity of cops in town, and jokingly told her I was bummed cause I wouldn't be able to get all wasted and raise hell on Main Street. She looked like the kind of woman who could honestly call from her memory the sensation of getting too drunk, raising too much hell, and finding herself in handcuffs in the back of a cruiser. With sadness in her eyes, she gave me a look like, "Sheeeet. I might find a place for ya. Got little Jethro Junior back at the trailer...maybe we could go halfers on another one..." while the smell of her tobacco spit wafted into my nose.
I politely asked for directions to the original destination, the Black Canyon Motel, and excused myself from the office. Quickly. It turns out that I was just a few blocks short of my intended domicile, but found a nugget along the way. Turns out, Montrose has a four screen movie theatre. Bringing the blog full circle, I went and saw The Hangover.
I wrote up the anticipation of the trailer a few posts ago, and was pretty psyched to get some distraction. Figuring I'd grab a bite to eat and then catch the film, I checked in to the Black Canyon and found a perfectly servicable room waiting. It was as good as I could have hoped for, given the massive police presence. I got cleaned up and started walking the 6 blocks or so to the theatre, making a fe calls and scouting a place to eat. I passed the ubiquitous Great Wall Chinese buffet, but had a lot more faith in the steak house up the road. When I got to the front door, though, it was locked shut and I realized I was in a similar spot with dinner as I had been with the hotels. In depressing slow motion, I looked all around and saw the only "dining establishment" within walking distance: Pizza Hut. Looking at my watch and realizing I didn't have enough time to go anywhere else before the movie started, I walked across the street and prayed for a salad bar.
I did, in fact, find a salad bar. It was as weak as you'd imagine such at a podunk Pizza Hut. I wolfed down a little of their highly hyped pasta, which was oddly reminiscent of a sausage pizza poured over spiral pasta, and then raced to the movie across the street.
The reviews I'd heard were sufficiently glowing to provide me with some serious optimism going in. I'll save you the trouble, and just tell you that this is one of those films that gives it up all on the movie equivalent of the first date...the trailer. There's not much in there that you didn't already know, and the "surprises" are mostly just weird. For example, there's a very gay Asian pseudo crime boss antagonist, who mostly just acts weird and annoying. You see some really gross fat guy asses here and there, and that's about it. And, oh yeah, (spoiler alert) their buddy Doug? He got locked out on the roof. Tah Dah!!! Lame.
Lame. There you have it. The life of a travelling landman ain't so glamorous. But then again, I'm headed to Telluride tomorrow, and maybe things are going to get super exciting down there. I'll keep you posted.
And tonight, I was pretty close to resigning myself to the same "in a van down by there river" fate. Fortunately, Little Miss Holiday Inn called around and found a room at the Black Canyon Motel. I got the directions, and headed down the road toward the place, hoping for the best.
I actually couldn't find the hotel at first, but saw a Best Western. Firmly placing my trust in comfortable recognition, I walked in and hoped that maybe the officer's had overlooked this one. They hadn't. The older, huskier, furrier manager informed me that they were out of space, too. I expressed my dismay about the sheer quantity of cops in town, and jokingly told her I was bummed cause I wouldn't be able to get all wasted and raise hell on Main Street. She looked like the kind of woman who could honestly call from her memory the sensation of getting too drunk, raising too much hell, and finding herself in handcuffs in the back of a cruiser. With sadness in her eyes, she gave me a look like, "Sheeeet. I might find a place for ya. Got little Jethro Junior back at the trailer...maybe we could go halfers on another one..." while the smell of her tobacco spit wafted into my nose.
I politely asked for directions to the original destination, the Black Canyon Motel, and excused myself from the office. Quickly. It turns out that I was just a few blocks short of my intended domicile, but found a nugget along the way. Turns out, Montrose has a four screen movie theatre. Bringing the blog full circle, I went and saw The Hangover.
I wrote up the anticipation of the trailer a few posts ago, and was pretty psyched to get some distraction. Figuring I'd grab a bite to eat and then catch the film, I checked in to the Black Canyon and found a perfectly servicable room waiting. It was as good as I could have hoped for, given the massive police presence. I got cleaned up and started walking the 6 blocks or so to the theatre, making a fe calls and scouting a place to eat. I passed the ubiquitous Great Wall Chinese buffet, but had a lot more faith in the steak house up the road. When I got to the front door, though, it was locked shut and I realized I was in a similar spot with dinner as I had been with the hotels. In depressing slow motion, I looked all around and saw the only "dining establishment" within walking distance: Pizza Hut. Looking at my watch and realizing I didn't have enough time to go anywhere else before the movie started, I walked across the street and prayed for a salad bar.
I did, in fact, find a salad bar. It was as weak as you'd imagine such at a podunk Pizza Hut. I wolfed down a little of their highly hyped pasta, which was oddly reminiscent of a sausage pizza poured over spiral pasta, and then raced to the movie across the street.
The reviews I'd heard were sufficiently glowing to provide me with some serious optimism going in. I'll save you the trouble, and just tell you that this is one of those films that gives it up all on the movie equivalent of the first date...the trailer. There's not much in there that you didn't already know, and the "surprises" are mostly just weird. For example, there's a very gay Asian pseudo crime boss antagonist, who mostly just acts weird and annoying. You see some really gross fat guy asses here and there, and that's about it. And, oh yeah, (spoiler alert) their buddy Doug? He got locked out on the roof. Tah Dah!!! Lame.
Lame. There you have it. The life of a travelling landman ain't so glamorous. But then again, I'm headed to Telluride tomorrow, and maybe things are going to get super exciting down there. I'll keep you posted.
Tuesday, June 9, 2009
Stylish
When I was packing all of my stuff in the recent move, a couple of undeniable realities hit me. First, the situation sucked.
But second, I realized that my wardrobe is pretty shabby. Subsequently, I've augmented my regular session with the shrink with a little retail therapy. Lots of work going on here at Abaluba.
So when I talk about clothes existing in a state of general outdated disrepair, I'll start with running shoes. I like to think I'm a reasonably fit young gentleman. Why, then, do I continue to run in shoes that have served me since my freshman year in college? I hate to date myself (though I'm not dating anyone else) but I started college nearly a decade ago. Dignity nearly made me erase that last sentence, but I'm keeping it in there. Those kicks are starting to wear pretty thin. It might be cool to use things until they have holes in them, but if my poor IT band keeps crying after runs, maybe its a sign that self imposed indigence is for the birds.
I'd been wearing the same dress shirts to work for the past four years, and I'm thinking that my coworkers are starting to catch on. It's a pretty set rotation, and I always find myself washing the same collared shirts...so maybe its time to look for some reinforcements. Luckily, I've recently found some JCrew shirts that are more or less tailored for the tall, skinny WASP look that I'm going for. The hangers are gradually being rotated out, finding a few new oxfords every couple of months.
And as for pants, I've realized that the worn out Carhartt look isn't going to do it for anyone. I've recently thrown away two pairs that have served me really well from Indian Creek to the office, and have begun the search for something a little more stylish. Fortunately, again, I found one particular cut of Calvin Klein pant called the Dylan that is suited to the fashionable "no ass" look I'm rocking.
Reilly has accepted a preliminary offer to head out and look for a blazer with me. I feel like a versatile sport coat is really lacking, and I'd like to be able to go out for a beer or glass of wine and not have to choose between hoodie and puffy. Previously, I've only had two choices: A plain blue blazer that didn't do much except get me into the odd regatta, and it fit without any kind of style. I got it when I was still playing lacrosse and drinking tons of beer, thereby weighing in at about 20 more pounds. The other option was a camel hair coat with big shoulder pads. Don't tell my dad, as he was a big proponent of that coat, but ole Joe Camel currently resides at the thrift store or some other poor bastard's closet.
So now I've got to get our with my super hip little sis and see what she says. I trust her abilities here, as I was recently hanging with my mom and made a comment that she was looking super cool. Her explaination? Reilly had taken her shopping. On mom's bill, of course. But I'm prepared for the same.
Look out, world. You might not even recognize me next time I go running past you with shiny new shoes and a fancy blazer. I'm trying to take a cue from another climbing buddy of mine, Dan Mirsky. He puts a fair amount of thought into how he dresses, even on climbing trips. I was at the Red with him last fall and remember being taken aback that he'd spend his rest days in slacks and a button down, V-neck cardigan. Hell, if it keeps him climbing 5.14 and dating his super cute lady friend, I'll emulate to the best of my abilites. Just today, for example, I picked up a new V-neck tee shirt.
It's not a sweater, but it's a start.
But second, I realized that my wardrobe is pretty shabby. Subsequently, I've augmented my regular session with the shrink with a little retail therapy. Lots of work going on here at Abaluba.
So when I talk about clothes existing in a state of general outdated disrepair, I'll start with running shoes. I like to think I'm a reasonably fit young gentleman. Why, then, do I continue to run in shoes that have served me since my freshman year in college? I hate to date myself (though I'm not dating anyone else) but I started college nearly a decade ago. Dignity nearly made me erase that last sentence, but I'm keeping it in there. Those kicks are starting to wear pretty thin. It might be cool to use things until they have holes in them, but if my poor IT band keeps crying after runs, maybe its a sign that self imposed indigence is for the birds.
I'd been wearing the same dress shirts to work for the past four years, and I'm thinking that my coworkers are starting to catch on. It's a pretty set rotation, and I always find myself washing the same collared shirts...so maybe its time to look for some reinforcements. Luckily, I've recently found some JCrew shirts that are more or less tailored for the tall, skinny WASP look that I'm going for. The hangers are gradually being rotated out, finding a few new oxfords every couple of months.
And as for pants, I've realized that the worn out Carhartt look isn't going to do it for anyone. I've recently thrown away two pairs that have served me really well from Indian Creek to the office, and have begun the search for something a little more stylish. Fortunately, again, I found one particular cut of Calvin Klein pant called the Dylan that is suited to the fashionable "no ass" look I'm rocking.
Reilly has accepted a preliminary offer to head out and look for a blazer with me. I feel like a versatile sport coat is really lacking, and I'd like to be able to go out for a beer or glass of wine and not have to choose between hoodie and puffy. Previously, I've only had two choices: A plain blue blazer that didn't do much except get me into the odd regatta, and it fit without any kind of style. I got it when I was still playing lacrosse and drinking tons of beer, thereby weighing in at about 20 more pounds. The other option was a camel hair coat with big shoulder pads. Don't tell my dad, as he was a big proponent of that coat, but ole Joe Camel currently resides at the thrift store or some other poor bastard's closet.
So now I've got to get our with my super hip little sis and see what she says. I trust her abilities here, as I was recently hanging with my mom and made a comment that she was looking super cool. Her explaination? Reilly had taken her shopping. On mom's bill, of course. But I'm prepared for the same.
Look out, world. You might not even recognize me next time I go running past you with shiny new shoes and a fancy blazer. I'm trying to take a cue from another climbing buddy of mine, Dan Mirsky. He puts a fair amount of thought into how he dresses, even on climbing trips. I was at the Red with him last fall and remember being taken aback that he'd spend his rest days in slacks and a button down, V-neck cardigan. Hell, if it keeps him climbing 5.14 and dating his super cute lady friend, I'll emulate to the best of my abilites. Just today, for example, I picked up a new V-neck tee shirt.
It's not a sweater, but it's a start.
Sunday, June 7, 2009
Long Live...
Jonny Copp. Micah Dash. Wade Johnson.
I didn't know Wade, so his passing doesn't hit quite as close to home. The loss of the other two, though, leaves me pawing at the hole left in the Boulder climbing community and wondering at the stillness. We've just lost some enormous sources of inspiration; bright souls who, in life and now in death, push their friends to new heights. This is the stunner that the climbing community braces for, but rarely feels. These three would smile at us from unthinkable locations, sending us amazing footage and pictures that would leave "Base Camp Boulder" abuzz and entranced. Without them, life is a little darker.
When I got the news, I was driving back from Rifle with a friend. Just before the news broke, we happened to be talking about Chris Klinga and Chris Lee. Specifically, the accident they were involved in just over a year ago. When I spoke with Chris Klinga about his rescue while he was still in traction in the E.R., he talked about how Jonny appeared from nowhere, and saved his life.
Micah's last post on his blog talks about getting back into shape after breaking his heel last fall. Ominously, he regarded the hard training he'd been doing as a way to make him "hard to kill in the alpine." I only wish it would have been a little harder to get him.
Hearing that terrible news on the phone yesterday, and today having the worst confirmed on the internet, I couldn't help but feel a little less safe. There are two fewer heroes in the world. Their departure is a blow to anyone who's ever tied into a rope and dreamed of big mountains, big routes, or big laughs with climbing buddies.
Be safe out there. Remember, though, that this loss is so difficult because these guys packed so much life into so few years. Their flames burned with such an intensity so as to make the darkness of their departure all the more vivid. Voeuyers, I ask of you: Live the biggest lives you can. Find your passion and live it. Find your friends and love them. And try, with me, to pick up the slack that we're left with. Long Live Jonny, Micah and Wade!
I didn't know Wade, so his passing doesn't hit quite as close to home. The loss of the other two, though, leaves me pawing at the hole left in the Boulder climbing community and wondering at the stillness. We've just lost some enormous sources of inspiration; bright souls who, in life and now in death, push their friends to new heights. This is the stunner that the climbing community braces for, but rarely feels. These three would smile at us from unthinkable locations, sending us amazing footage and pictures that would leave "Base Camp Boulder" abuzz and entranced. Without them, life is a little darker.
When I got the news, I was driving back from Rifle with a friend. Just before the news broke, we happened to be talking about Chris Klinga and Chris Lee. Specifically, the accident they were involved in just over a year ago. When I spoke with Chris Klinga about his rescue while he was still in traction in the E.R., he talked about how Jonny appeared from nowhere, and saved his life.
Micah's last post on his blog talks about getting back into shape after breaking his heel last fall. Ominously, he regarded the hard training he'd been doing as a way to make him "hard to kill in the alpine." I only wish it would have been a little harder to get him.
Hearing that terrible news on the phone yesterday, and today having the worst confirmed on the internet, I couldn't help but feel a little less safe. There are two fewer heroes in the world. Their departure is a blow to anyone who's ever tied into a rope and dreamed of big mountains, big routes, or big laughs with climbing buddies.
Be safe out there. Remember, though, that this loss is so difficult because these guys packed so much life into so few years. Their flames burned with such an intensity so as to make the darkness of their departure all the more vivid. Voeuyers, I ask of you: Live the biggest lives you can. Find your passion and live it. Find your friends and love them. And try, with me, to pick up the slack that we're left with. Long Live Jonny, Micah and Wade!
Tuesday, June 2, 2009
Hungover
ESPN did a good job of selling their advertising space. I was checking the homepage of the worldwide leader and decided to peruse the trailer for the movie "The Hangover" that's set to come out in a few weeks. Glad I did. It's been a while since I laughed really hard, and it felt good to get in a few hardy chuckles, even if it's slapstick humor involving a baby and a car door. You'll have to forgive me, but for the love of Christ, I just need something funny and lighthearted to take my attention right now. Things have been a bit gloomy around Abaluba.
Any time Sack Lodge makes a triumphant return to the big screen, I'm a happy camper. And that dude with the beard kind of looks like Hans.
Any time Sack Lodge makes a triumphant return to the big screen, I'm a happy camper. And that dude with the beard kind of looks like Hans.
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