When my boss was telling me about the neighborhood roustabouts who must be attempting to break into his garage, I immediately zoned out. "Here we go," I thought. Another harebrained mental concoction that he'd cooked up to explain the stripped threads in the garage door motor of his condo. He reasoned that he'd purchased the thing just 18 months ago, and he only uses it a few times a week. Someone must have tried to break in. The threads must have warped when they put the pry bar under the door and pulled up so hard. They were going to rifle through the office, look at our maps, and pilfer our top secret oil info. We'd have to take action. The door into the house from the garage would remained locked at all times. All employees at JLOCO were to be armed with semiautomatic pistols capable of sending a most mortal of message. These teens must be stopped.
I had a nice chuckle, and figured that a faulty piece of plastic was driving my boss to paranoid lengths. These things happen, and sometimes shit just breaks. He sure has crazy ideas, that boss of mine. I'd never come up with those outlandish conspiracy theories, would I?
I'm going to let you in on a little secret: the cell phone companies are out to get us. More importantly, they're out to get our money. I'm not talking about the dollar after dollar they make you cough up to text your new late night hook up. Sexting, the kids call it. No problem with that here on Abaluba. I've got issue with the exorbitant overage fees they charge the user if you spend a little extra time checking up on your friends and family. Bastards. They're quietly stealing minutes and that adds up to big dollars. They take 'em, and we don't even notice.
We're all accustomed to voice mail. Miss a call, and that little yellow envelope shows up on your phone letting you know that a message awaits. In my case, no one wants to talk to me, so everyone I call avoids that green button. Straight to voice mail. What do I hear? Their message, of course...
"Hello, this is Jim. Sorry I missed your call, but please leave me a message and I'll call you back. BEEP."
At least, that's how it used to be. These days, things have gotten a little more protracted.
Jim: "Hello, this is Jim. Sorry I missed your call, but please leave me a message and I'll call you back."
Automated semi-female voice: "At the sound of the tone, please leave your message. At the end of your message, press one, or hang up."
Really? Did I need to hear that prompt? Of course not. Because, as I said earlier in this post, we're all familiar with voice mail. As far as I can tell, it's been basically the same service since it was invented. But those devious board rooms at Verizon, AT&T, T-Mobile, and all the rest have all come to the same conclusion: death by a thousand cuts. Or, more accurately, increased revenue by a collection of seconds. Allow me to explain.
As you make a call, it's tracked by the minute against your allowance for the month. Each incremental call or conversation means relatively little, at least until they are weighed as a whole. If you talk for fifty seven seconds, it counts as one minute. If you talk for one minute and four seconds, it counts as two minutes. Sure it's only one minute difference, but if it happens enough, you may end up going over in your allowance, and run into those costly overage charges. Read Jim's voice message again, preferably out loud. How long did it take for the automated voice's part? All I'm saying is that there are stolen seconds of a call that might count as minutes down the road, and that might cost you big time.
Lately, it's gotten even worse. I keep getting interrupted when I'm leaving a message. A voice will barge in and cut me off, asking if I'm satisfied with my message. I get a list of choices. I can press one if I'd like to erase and re-record, press two to listen to my message, press three for Spanish, or press four to continue. Would I like to continue? Isn't that kind of like waking someone up out of a dead sleep and asking if they'd like a nap? Jesus.
By the time all that interruption is finished, I'm usually so frazzled that I leave a longer than necessary message talking about how I hate the fact that someone just cut me off. I lose my train of thought, and hit a 10 on the fluster-meter.
All of that adds up to a good 45 seconds, and that does make a difference. I hate to mold myself into a spitting image of my boss, but I think someone has been up to no good behind the cell phone scenes. And I'm pretty sure someone has been trying to break into my apartment through the vent system in the ceiling.
Monday, August 24, 2009
Tuesday, August 18, 2009
Back from the Slope
I'm back, baby! Both online and in the flesh.
For the first time since I cracked my hoof, I headed out to Rifle for more than just a quick weekend jaunt. This particular trip had me out there for the past six days of awesomeness. Dan Richelson and I drove out in my car, the two of us stuffed into my car with all of our food, climbing gear, and his dog taking up the entirety of the backseat. We're true Americans. Two tents, two coolers, three ropes...no sharing. European families can somehow take a vacation from Belgium to Spain and only bring a backpack and a pack of smokes, but somehow Dan and I needed a full sized automobile.
If you've never met Dan, your life isn't quite as good as it could be. At the moment, he has this insane mullet/JewFro thing going on, and he can grow a full neanderthal beard over dinner. The fact that he spent a chunk of the trip talking about his physics 2 class he's taking, complete with the necessary brain power I'm sure it took for him to dumb it down for me, made it grow in all the thicker. At one point, I joked that with his shirt off and his hair caked in 3 days of climbing grease, he looked like an escapee from a life sized diorama at a history museum's spectacle on primitive man. The beard was going, his sweater vest shrouded his abdomen in secrecy, and he just laughed as he pulled on a 1980's headband to "keep the hair outta the ears." Dan doesn't take himself too seriously, but he's goddamn hilarious.
The weather was grim at the start of the trip, but we kept our climbing confined to the Ruckman cave and it's shelter from the precip. I needed to get into town to check emails for work on Friday morning, so we avoided some of the crappiest weather while I billed a few hours. With that menacing responsibility out of the way, the two of us headed back into the canyon and by that late afternoon, we were back to good, cooler temps and relative sunshine. Knowing that fall is quietly peeking from the next page of the calendar is comforting. Especially since grabbing slopers with shitty texture wrecked my skin. I need some consistently cool temps before my fingertips fall off.
Having more than just two days makes a trip out to the Slope so much more relaxing. We climbed the first two days, and then were able to fully enjoy a rest day, get cleaned up, and regrow some skin before getting back after it. Dan and I both ended up sending In Your Face, a stout little 12D with a heartbreaking finish that had spit both of us off multiple times. I was really glad to get that finished, as I felt like it marked a bit of a return to hard climbing for me after my time off, and it was Dan's first 12D at any venue...quite an accomplishment!
I also managed to do a new 12A, 12B, and nearly did a 13A called Beer Run, falling at the infamous Tombstone crux on a sneaky good burn. The previous attempt was the first time that I managed to even do all of the moves, so I was shocked when I nearly pulled off the comando send. Oh well, I'm still happy with the effort, even if it technically was a failure.
After the weekend crowd rolled back to Boulder, I kept hanging with Dan, Samson the Dog, and our buddy Josh Finkelstein. Josh was passing through the canyon on his way back from 6 weeks of climbing in CA, and as we hung out in his 1987 Toyota poptop van known as Dirtbag Fabulous, two realizations came to me. First: I need to buy a van and climb as much as possible. Second: dates are an INCREDIBLE food. (Especially when high).
Sorry mom.
I'm going to try to race back to finish Beer Run, maybe Friday and Saturday. I need to be back for a party Saturday night, and then for a friend's birthday on Sunday...so the pressure will be on to get it done.
I'll keep you posted. Adios, voyeurs!
For the first time since I cracked my hoof, I headed out to Rifle for more than just a quick weekend jaunt. This particular trip had me out there for the past six days of awesomeness. Dan Richelson and I drove out in my car, the two of us stuffed into my car with all of our food, climbing gear, and his dog taking up the entirety of the backseat. We're true Americans. Two tents, two coolers, three ropes...no sharing. European families can somehow take a vacation from Belgium to Spain and only bring a backpack and a pack of smokes, but somehow Dan and I needed a full sized automobile.
If you've never met Dan, your life isn't quite as good as it could be. At the moment, he has this insane mullet/JewFro thing going on, and he can grow a full neanderthal beard over dinner. The fact that he spent a chunk of the trip talking about his physics 2 class he's taking, complete with the necessary brain power I'm sure it took for him to dumb it down for me, made it grow in all the thicker. At one point, I joked that with his shirt off and his hair caked in 3 days of climbing grease, he looked like an escapee from a life sized diorama at a history museum's spectacle on primitive man. The beard was going, his sweater vest shrouded his abdomen in secrecy, and he just laughed as he pulled on a 1980's headband to "keep the hair outta the ears." Dan doesn't take himself too seriously, but he's goddamn hilarious.
The weather was grim at the start of the trip, but we kept our climbing confined to the Ruckman cave and it's shelter from the precip. I needed to get into town to check emails for work on Friday morning, so we avoided some of the crappiest weather while I billed a few hours. With that menacing responsibility out of the way, the two of us headed back into the canyon and by that late afternoon, we were back to good, cooler temps and relative sunshine. Knowing that fall is quietly peeking from the next page of the calendar is comforting. Especially since grabbing slopers with shitty texture wrecked my skin. I need some consistently cool temps before my fingertips fall off.
Having more than just two days makes a trip out to the Slope so much more relaxing. We climbed the first two days, and then were able to fully enjoy a rest day, get cleaned up, and regrow some skin before getting back after it. Dan and I both ended up sending In Your Face, a stout little 12D with a heartbreaking finish that had spit both of us off multiple times. I was really glad to get that finished, as I felt like it marked a bit of a return to hard climbing for me after my time off, and it was Dan's first 12D at any venue...quite an accomplishment!
I also managed to do a new 12A, 12B, and nearly did a 13A called Beer Run, falling at the infamous Tombstone crux on a sneaky good burn. The previous attempt was the first time that I managed to even do all of the moves, so I was shocked when I nearly pulled off the comando send. Oh well, I'm still happy with the effort, even if it technically was a failure.
After the weekend crowd rolled back to Boulder, I kept hanging with Dan, Samson the Dog, and our buddy Josh Finkelstein. Josh was passing through the canyon on his way back from 6 weeks of climbing in CA, and as we hung out in his 1987 Toyota poptop van known as Dirtbag Fabulous, two realizations came to me. First: I need to buy a van and climb as much as possible. Second: dates are an INCREDIBLE food. (Especially when high).
Sorry mom.
I'm going to try to race back to finish Beer Run, maybe Friday and Saturday. I need to be back for a party Saturday night, and then for a friend's birthday on Sunday...so the pressure will be on to get it done.
I'll keep you posted. Adios, voyeurs!
Saturday, August 8, 2009
Stopped on the Walk
An elderly couple, each armed with the lengthy teeth that come from eight decades or more, stopped me on my walk this evening. I had Mica and Nala on their leashes, my friends' dogs pulling at their collars and burying their noses in the leaves sprayed with other mutts' urine. Oh, to be a dog.
The woman took Nala's head in her hands, and peered into her gray eyes. She started bumbling, speaking in that silly child voice that apparently isn't sequestered to any particular generation. "What's your name, you precious-wecios wittle woofer-noofer?"
I took her nearly incomprehensible English as a question directed at me, instead of the dog. I had to whisper, "opps, sorry Ethan, hold on," and then answer the woman's question.
"That's Nala. The other one is Mica."
I happened to be on a phone call, but when a pretty canine comes your way, it must not matter. In truth, though, that's not fair to Granny. I must have looked unoccupied, as the phone wasn't held against my head by a hand. I've taken to using some Blackberry provided headphones that have a microphone built into the cord. My friend and I spoke through these, the distance between Burlington, VT and Boulder, CO reduced to a four foot cable connecting phone to head.
When Bluetooth headsets first came out, I would regularly find myself flustered. Initially, I assumed a sharp increase in well dressed schizophrenics, men in suits who heard voices and spoke, in turn, back to the imagined. I was only half wrong, as these men did in fact hear voices. They just happened to come from other executives. Now, though, hands-free devices have taken the form of ubiquitous ear phones, and I'm sure men and women in their golden years are having as much trouble adjusting as I had at the onset.
Though I was annoyed to have to put my conversation with Ethan on hold, he didn't get impatient or irritated. I think he could hear the old man begin to tell me stories of his neighbor's hyperactive border collie, and combined with the old woman's crooning, Ethan could tell what was going on. I took a cue from the quiet coming through my headphones, and let my evening cross paths with theirs. Ethan did the same. Eventually, I excused myself and went back to my phone conversation, but have been thinking about those older folks since I got home.
Looking at these two people, both happy to be strolling around a park on a lovely summer evening, got me thinking about my own impending old age. I know it's a bit ludicrous to say at only 27, but life has gone by so quickly up to this point, and I've got little reason to believe it'll slow any time soon.
An article that was forwarded to me today drove this point with some urgency. If you'd like, you can check it here. In essence, the text talks about a mindful connection with each moment in life. For me, lately, I've been wildly oscillating between the delightful aspects of my life and the painful stimuli that accompany a break up, sputtering family relationships, and an uncertain future. When I'm out climbing, or happily spending time with good friends, I welcome the warmth. Looming, though, is the hope not to lose the pleasant feelings too quickly. When I'm sadly facing the less jovial realities, those that seem to define large swaths of my existence right now, I'm wishing the moments away and hoping for somethings else. The whole time, though, my lifetime continues to whittle away. I get older, the moments pour over me like water from a river, and there's not a dam in sight.
I'll keep trying to live these moments instead of dodging the dirty ones. It's all I can do, anyway. The alternative is to grow old and speak to strange animals in a park in 2059 with nothing to show for my years. I'd like to meet that couple again, and ask them how they remember their moments. If I can't find out, I hope they've spent their time with open eyes instead of avoiding their suffering over-gripping their peace.
The woman took Nala's head in her hands, and peered into her gray eyes. She started bumbling, speaking in that silly child voice that apparently isn't sequestered to any particular generation. "What's your name, you precious-wecios wittle woofer-noofer?"
I took her nearly incomprehensible English as a question directed at me, instead of the dog. I had to whisper, "opps, sorry Ethan, hold on," and then answer the woman's question.
"That's Nala. The other one is Mica."
I happened to be on a phone call, but when a pretty canine comes your way, it must not matter. In truth, though, that's not fair to Granny. I must have looked unoccupied, as the phone wasn't held against my head by a hand. I've taken to using some Blackberry provided headphones that have a microphone built into the cord. My friend and I spoke through these, the distance between Burlington, VT and Boulder, CO reduced to a four foot cable connecting phone to head.
When Bluetooth headsets first came out, I would regularly find myself flustered. Initially, I assumed a sharp increase in well dressed schizophrenics, men in suits who heard voices and spoke, in turn, back to the imagined. I was only half wrong, as these men did in fact hear voices. They just happened to come from other executives. Now, though, hands-free devices have taken the form of ubiquitous ear phones, and I'm sure men and women in their golden years are having as much trouble adjusting as I had at the onset.
Though I was annoyed to have to put my conversation with Ethan on hold, he didn't get impatient or irritated. I think he could hear the old man begin to tell me stories of his neighbor's hyperactive border collie, and combined with the old woman's crooning, Ethan could tell what was going on. I took a cue from the quiet coming through my headphones, and let my evening cross paths with theirs. Ethan did the same. Eventually, I excused myself and went back to my phone conversation, but have been thinking about those older folks since I got home.
Looking at these two people, both happy to be strolling around a park on a lovely summer evening, got me thinking about my own impending old age. I know it's a bit ludicrous to say at only 27, but life has gone by so quickly up to this point, and I've got little reason to believe it'll slow any time soon.
An article that was forwarded to me today drove this point with some urgency. If you'd like, you can check it here. In essence, the text talks about a mindful connection with each moment in life. For me, lately, I've been wildly oscillating between the delightful aspects of my life and the painful stimuli that accompany a break up, sputtering family relationships, and an uncertain future. When I'm out climbing, or happily spending time with good friends, I welcome the warmth. Looming, though, is the hope not to lose the pleasant feelings too quickly. When I'm sadly facing the less jovial realities, those that seem to define large swaths of my existence right now, I'm wishing the moments away and hoping for somethings else. The whole time, though, my lifetime continues to whittle away. I get older, the moments pour over me like water from a river, and there's not a dam in sight.
I'll keep trying to live these moments instead of dodging the dirty ones. It's all I can do, anyway. The alternative is to grow old and speak to strange animals in a park in 2059 with nothing to show for my years. I'd like to meet that couple again, and ask them how they remember their moments. If I can't find out, I hope they've spent their time with open eyes instead of avoiding their suffering over-gripping their peace.
Tuesday, August 4, 2009
Moderated
And I thought, "what did you expect? The only way out was through that burning door. Of course you're a little scraped up, but you survived. Now run and play."
I've got the head on a swivel. Just like they told us back in high school. Be on the look out for monsters that are ready and willing to separate your body from your head with a sporting tackle out on the field. I remember vividly the few times I didn't see it coming. It never hurt as badly as I imagined it would, all that time spent living in fear. When I did find myself looking up at the clouds while parents whistled around me, and the game rushed on, there was a certain calm inside of my helmet. "What did you expect? The only way out was through that burning door. Of course you're a little scraped up, but you survived. Now run and play."
I'm back on my feet. Kanye says he's back up on his grind. I'm too white. I'm prancing in Smartwools. Listening to Pretty Lights and planning an escape to the Slope. Safety in lavish heights. Security in a thin coil of nylon, and the miles from authority. Let's let freedom ring, and the cash cow starve. We'll take all we need from the sun and the leaves and Elmer's city owned truck. I can spare the $7 for camping. A cold beer never tastes better than when it washes down chalk and blood.
Back here, I can't speak my mind. Not yet, at least. I've got too many prying eyes, it's Spy vs. Spy. No fake bombs that spit soot and little else. These inflict real injury. There's a reason to filter the smoke through riddle and obscurity. I get it out, they don't take it in. We're all winners here at this elementary school field day. Let that savage pain of attempted excellence blow away into the ethereal ether. I can walk on without the gray waste I might otherwise (and have so successfully) laid bare. I'm no grim reaper, it brings me no joy.
Two dead in Littleton today, I'm not one of them. Thank goodness. I wasn't ready for a domestic dispute to take my life. I couldn't be proud of the epilogue of going out in a Ford, let alone in khakis. There's no grand plan, but whatever strategy I've crafted, it's wildly open ended. No need to write that chapter. Because, after all, I've got that yellow ribbon to caress. Share it with a friend. Slink away into the forest.
I've got the head on a swivel. Just like they told us back in high school. Be on the look out for monsters that are ready and willing to separate your body from your head with a sporting tackle out on the field. I remember vividly the few times I didn't see it coming. It never hurt as badly as I imagined it would, all that time spent living in fear. When I did find myself looking up at the clouds while parents whistled around me, and the game rushed on, there was a certain calm inside of my helmet. "What did you expect? The only way out was through that burning door. Of course you're a little scraped up, but you survived. Now run and play."
I'm back on my feet. Kanye says he's back up on his grind. I'm too white. I'm prancing in Smartwools. Listening to Pretty Lights and planning an escape to the Slope. Safety in lavish heights. Security in a thin coil of nylon, and the miles from authority. Let's let freedom ring, and the cash cow starve. We'll take all we need from the sun and the leaves and Elmer's city owned truck. I can spare the $7 for camping. A cold beer never tastes better than when it washes down chalk and blood.
Back here, I can't speak my mind. Not yet, at least. I've got too many prying eyes, it's Spy vs. Spy. No fake bombs that spit soot and little else. These inflict real injury. There's a reason to filter the smoke through riddle and obscurity. I get it out, they don't take it in. We're all winners here at this elementary school field day. Let that savage pain of attempted excellence blow away into the ethereal ether. I can walk on without the gray waste I might otherwise (and have so successfully) laid bare. I'm no grim reaper, it brings me no joy.
Two dead in Littleton today, I'm not one of them. Thank goodness. I wasn't ready for a domestic dispute to take my life. I couldn't be proud of the epilogue of going out in a Ford, let alone in khakis. There's no grand plan, but whatever strategy I've crafted, it's wildly open ended. No need to write that chapter. Because, after all, I've got that yellow ribbon to caress. Share it with a friend. Slink away into the forest.
Saturday, August 1, 2009
Santa Fe Poetry
As many people have pointed out, I've been slacking on my blogging chores. Honestly, about 50% of my audience has been clamoring for a new post. (Well, it's really only my mom and Jesse.) Of course, statistics are a wonderful thing, and can deliver facts under some seriously false pretenses. Let's stick with the 50% threshold and just go from there.
How about a poem, for a change?
______________________________________
There's a breeze in the summer
right when you need to feel its touch.
Spring springs just as winter seems most interminable.
I hand myself banal platitudes
when the water is farthest from the bridge.
These little spells pull dew from clouds up valley.
And the live body-toss refreshes, instead of destroys.
And then the only remaining advice I must give myself:
Trust in Jesus, but excommunicate the Deities,
and drink deep from the distilled patience.
_______________________________________
Some further random introspection/retrospection/perspection-in-general:
Santa Fe is beautiful, especially for only 2 days and after consistent rain. New Mexican drivers are still the worst I've seen this side of Portugal.
Sarah Palin 2012 bumper stickers initially make me hopeless. Then I come back to my senses, and thank those Republicans for their most generous would-be gift.
Spending time with some of my family reminds me that I love them all, even if we don't see/talk/interact with each other as much as I'd like. I miss the ones I haven't seen in a while.
I'd like to congratulate Jesse Sapir, yes, that same Jesse who chides me for slacking on my published words, for sending In Your Face out in Rifle. Jesse, you kick ass. And I'd also like to congratulate my mother for saying the words "sending your route" with erudite understanding as I explained rock climbing's goal to my aunt. See what happens when you become invested in Abaluba, voyeurs? You get a personal mention.
Happy August.
How about a poem, for a change?
______________________________________
There's a breeze in the summer
right when you need to feel its touch.
Spring springs just as winter seems most interminable.
I hand myself banal platitudes
when the water is farthest from the bridge.
These little spells pull dew from clouds up valley.
And the live body-toss refreshes, instead of destroys.
And then the only remaining advice I must give myself:
Trust in Jesus, but excommunicate the Deities,
and drink deep from the distilled patience.
_______________________________________
Some further random introspection/retrospection/perspection-in-general:
Santa Fe is beautiful, especially for only 2 days and after consistent rain. New Mexican drivers are still the worst I've seen this side of Portugal.
Sarah Palin 2012 bumper stickers initially make me hopeless. Then I come back to my senses, and thank those Republicans for their most generous would-be gift.
Spending time with some of my family reminds me that I love them all, even if we don't see/talk/interact with each other as much as I'd like. I miss the ones I haven't seen in a while.
I'd like to congratulate Jesse Sapir, yes, that same Jesse who chides me for slacking on my published words, for sending In Your Face out in Rifle. Jesse, you kick ass. And I'd also like to congratulate my mother for saying the words "sending your route" with erudite understanding as I explained rock climbing's goal to my aunt. See what happens when you become invested in Abaluba, voyeurs? You get a personal mention.
Happy August.
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