It's the little things

Yesterday, my homebro Dan Mirsky and I went on a man-date. As they say on textsfromlastnight.com, no homo. And now, I'd like to present plenty of evidence to contradict that no homo claim:
Started out with a trip to the BRC. Sunny Sunday? Check. Rocks of all shapes, sizes and types in Boulder's backyard? Check. Two dudes in tanktops in the air conditioned rock simulation station? Double check!

If there was a way to capitalize capital letters, I would, as it would be the only appropriate type style with which to portray my psych for tying back into a rope. My foot's still swollen a bit, and I used a climbing shoe on my right foot but kept the sore left foot in the tennis shoe. Even using it so lightly, monkeying around a bit and getting the feeling of weight on my hands and arms was fantastic. I went upstairs and managed an ab and upper body workout - my first in 10 days. As only an emaciated Boulder sport climbing poseur can, I was beginning to worry about putting on weight. Burning a few calories felt like blowing a line of coke. So good! And I'd sell my TV to do it again.

Totally not unrelated: Kate said I was starting to sound addicted to climbing. Think she's full of shit? Me neither. Oh well.

After the gym session, Dan and I headed down to Nordstrom Rack so he could return a pair of kicks and we could prowl for new threads. I came away with three new pairs of Smartwool socks and a new shirt. The short sleeve button down will surely make its way into the heavy rotation of my summer selection, but the new socks are really the ticket. I don't know of any other way that you can spend $10 dollars and feel this good. Rob just got back from Asia and tried to give me some suggestions, but they're neither legal nor moral. I'm sticking with footwear as the biggest bang for the buck.

Dan had heard some solid reviews for a Belgian beer hall/eatery down on Colfax, so after the shopping we headed downtown and met a few friends for Chimay and frittes. Any time you can drink a rainbow of beer and dip fries in mayo, smile with the knowledge that God loves you. I had a Monte Cristo sandwich that was deep fried and literally dusted in powdered sugar, while Mr. Mirsky opted for the mussels. Stuffed, we pushed the plates away and hopped into the car, destination: Mayan Theater and a viewing of The Hurt Locker.

This film has gotten some insane reviews, and I've been looking forward to seeing it. The release was limited, and it wasn't showing in Boulder. Fine with me, though, because The Mayan is a badass theater on Broadway that serves booze and good chocolate. We snagged tickets to the 10PM showing, and settled into the reclining seats in the sparsely populated hall with whiskey snifters.

Katheryn Bigelow, producer and director of The Hurt Locker, also gave us Point Break. (Side note: Point Break gave us a reason to holler, "Utah, Two!") With her visceral portrayal of the Iraqi War, she's now given us a fantastic look at the stress and magnetism of war. "War is a Drug," we're told at the intro, and the next two hours take us down the rabbit hole of that very intoxication. Without the pedantic, hamhanded "war is bad" dialogue that could easily worm its way into the dialogue, The Hurt Locker lets the audience sift through complex characters and their ambivalent motivations.

Whatever your take away, you can't help leaving the theater remembering that war, in fact, is an addiction. I can't see people blown to bits and think I'd trade my drug for the soldiers', but at least I can begin to relate. Dan and I rolled back to Boulder discussing the film, and then climbing. I can't wait to get back to Rifle for another tour of duty.