I've been trying to balance my studies for the pending (at this moment, only about 4 hrs 15 minutes away) GRE test with my desire to rock climb, write a blog, make money, and listen to music while I huddle in my apartment. How about trying to combine all of them?
The vocab I've been studying has enervated (taken away my energy) me. I've been trying to race up to Rifle on the weekends for climbing junkets (pleasurable vacations,) but am typically left exhausted and ready for sleep, not study. Though the preparation is leaving me irascible (easily made angry,) it's ephemeral (lasting but a short time) and I'll soon be left to my own devices (more climbing and daydreams.)
I'm taking a little solace in the fact that I just managed to do my first 13B. I'm trying to take the same approach to success as I've initiated on climbing projects. Namely, that patience is an ally and though my initial efforts, whether in climbing, study or otherwise, may be inchoate (not fully formed) or even jejune (insignificant, uninformed, and lacking,) I'll eventually become a paragon (model of perfection) of esoteric success. Scaling rocks and performing on an inane SAT for grownups seem equally capable of leaving me feeling like a diffident (lacking self confidence,) but eventually, I'll figure it out.
Work has been going reasonably well recently, especially if you take into account my planned absence from the desk for all of November. I can't say it with enough ardor (intense, passionate feeling.) Climbing in Kentucky for a month leaves me garrulous (tending to talk a lot.) Talk a lot? Sure! Talking about routes to do, areas to visit, and the prospect of some serious time away from the familiar. Perhaps such a trip is taken with temerity (reckless boldness) and I'll be unemployed upon return, suffering a professional opprobrium (public disgrace,) but I've been obsequious (eager to please) around the office lately. Maybe if I put some dues in now, I'll be allowed to roam free.
Enough of that! And I'm not going to try to bore you with special right triangles, probability, or trains heading due north at 48 miles per hour while another leaves Chicago on Tuesday. I'll leave that to the rotten fink bastards from Educational Testing Services, and I'll be their subject.
Speaking of subject, let's change it. And turn down the volume if you're at work but still want to jam to the links. My buddy Nuno just went up to see Sufjan Stevens in PA last night. Quite a feat, as he lives in the Nation's capital. Nuno is the same guy that turned my ear towards Beirut
and has been trying to get me more psyched on some obscure Avett Brothers recordings. I still prefer some of the other studio stuff from old. Either way, it's all fun to hear.
I've got to run downtown towards the campus. I have plenty of memories from studying there during my college days, but those are quickly fading towards history. It's wild to think. I'm getting older, and I'm stuck in this halfway reality. Still here in Boulder, but bearing down on 30 while wearing the same shoes. Maybe it's time to move along, and maybe the train leaves today.
Stay in motion, Voyeurs, listen to beautiful music, and don't waste another minute of the day.
Tuesday, September 22, 2009
Thursday, September 17, 2009
Under the weight of a blanket
I'm pushed into the coils of my bed. Musical notes take my head down into the pillows. My fingers hit the keys that bring up the facebook status of ex-girlfriends. (I've heard many a man suffers from this dexterity deficiency.) The scientific name is Terminus Reflecticus.
"And you may ask yourself, 'how did I get here.'"
In fact, how did I? What chemical deficiency lies in wait in my cerebrum? Springing to life to stave off the coupledom. Is anything good enough?
Maybe it's not going to matter. If this computer stays on my lap, I'll be a guaranteed victim of testicular cancer. It can't be good to have the wireless signal traveling straight through one's genitalia. And what about the cell phones? Those waves going straight to the most important organ? This can't be good.
Breaking news: I'm going to the Red for November. I think I have a cabin rented with my buddy Mike Personick that will have wireless, so I'll be able to get work done in the evenings and on rest days. I'm going to be pretty useless over the next six weeks. My brain will be entirely devoted to fantasizing about an insane road trip.
There's a Common song with a line, "On the count of three, everybody go back to your fantasy," but while I was singing along, I exchanged the word family for fantasy. Call it a Freudian slip. Who knows? The Red will be book ended with several days spent with my grandparent on the Farm, and I'm immensely looking forward to it. I am relishing the ability to get out there and stay as long as I want. Seeing them as they get older is bittersweet. I know they're getting older and there's no guarantee on how much time I'll share with them from here on out, but seeing them makes me feel like I'm doing my part to maintain the connection while the opportunity exists.
I want to see some friends who are in St. Louis and Louisville as well, and for the same reason. Start young with the sense of urgency and life might be better spent. Start late and much of it might go to waste in that regard.
Goodnight, Abaluba lovers. Where ever you might be.
"And you may ask yourself, 'how did I get here.'"
In fact, how did I? What chemical deficiency lies in wait in my cerebrum? Springing to life to stave off the coupledom. Is anything good enough?
Maybe it's not going to matter. If this computer stays on my lap, I'll be a guaranteed victim of testicular cancer. It can't be good to have the wireless signal traveling straight through one's genitalia. And what about the cell phones? Those waves going straight to the most important organ? This can't be good.
Breaking news: I'm going to the Red for November. I think I have a cabin rented with my buddy Mike Personick that will have wireless, so I'll be able to get work done in the evenings and on rest days. I'm going to be pretty useless over the next six weeks. My brain will be entirely devoted to fantasizing about an insane road trip.
There's a Common song with a line, "On the count of three, everybody go back to your fantasy," but while I was singing along, I exchanged the word family for fantasy. Call it a Freudian slip. Who knows? The Red will be book ended with several days spent with my grandparent on the Farm, and I'm immensely looking forward to it. I am relishing the ability to get out there and stay as long as I want. Seeing them as they get older is bittersweet. I know they're getting older and there's no guarantee on how much time I'll share with them from here on out, but seeing them makes me feel like I'm doing my part to maintain the connection while the opportunity exists.
I want to see some friends who are in St. Louis and Louisville as well, and for the same reason. Start young with the sense of urgency and life might be better spent. Start late and much of it might go to waste in that regard.
Goodnight, Abaluba lovers. Where ever you might be.
Monday, September 14, 2009
Team A++
I promised Nuno I'd study for my GRE test, but frankly, I'd rather write about rock climbing. Last weekend was as fun a time in Rifle as I'd had all year. The Boulder All Stars: Brian, Jesse, Dan, Kelli, Blake, Erynn, Casey, Greg, and, minding the towels and handling the belay bitch duties; Yours Truly. We had weather reminiscent of autumn with its faint breeze and withering leaves. Everyone is starting to show the effects of climbing hard for an entire season. It seems like the whole team is progressing through grades and sending harder routes than ever, and watching my buddies have success makes me really motivated to push myself.
This weekend, Brian was getting close to doing his first 13D, Jesse has been one-hanging his first 13A, Dan DID his first 13A, Blake's trying several new solid 13's, Erynn is figuring out some new benchmark 12's, and I have gotten close to breaking into new ground, myself. I've one-hung the route I'm trying, Apocalypse, several times and feel like the next time I get on it could be the last.
Bluntly, the fall is the best time to be in Rifle, and I'm looking forward to finishing the season with a flurry and then heading to Kentucky for some climbing in the Red River Gorge. I spoke with my boss about doing some telecommuting in November, and he's friendly to the idea. This has got me going in two different directions. First, I'm thinking I should work more in September and October in order to make a little extra money, and second, I'm getting more serious about van shopping.
Aside from climbing, I keep studying for the GRE in the hopes that I'll get motivated to get my carcass to graduate school. The GRE is the required entrance exam that basically mirrors the SAT's that we all took before heading off to college, but with one crucial difference. The SAT's never told me I was an abject moron suitable for a career in plumbing and a likely candidate for deportation. The GRE's tell me that on every practice test. Why do I keep doing this to myself?
I had a moment the other day when I was talking to someone about work, and they asked me what I really wanted to do. I keep hoping that graduate school is the direction I should be going, but I've got no evidence for why I should be there other than a faint glimmer of expectation. I expect that a graduate degree will funnel me further down a career path and into a work environment that feels more personal and custom tailored. (All the adults reading this are all shaking their heads) Deep down, though, I really feel like some time climbing, traveling and writing is what I need to do before I can figure out any of this work stuff.
A buddy of mine, Dan Mirsky, keeps promoting the idea of life on the road. He took to his Toyota Tacoma for over a year on an extended climbing trip, and has pushed and prodded me in that direction since his trip ended with him moving into an apartment in Boulder. At first, I told him I wouldn't like to do it. I had shaken off the urge for long enough, and it made no sense to quit a job that lets me climb nearly full time, anyway.
But maybe it's not just about the climbing. Maybe it's the adventure of being out in the world without a plan. The ability to wander around, and the chance to write and allow fate to work itself out. The longer I stay in Boulder, the less tolerant I'll become to a change in the routine. I need to shake my life up and introduce some fresh air into the conversation as much as anything else. I might as well go climbing while I'm doing it, eh?
Maybe I'm just rambling on about some desire for a Peter Pan existence and an invincibility of the childhood ideal of play. But I did spend a weekend in a Eurovan, and I was sufficiently intrigued by the experience to test drive one this evening. You only live once, right? And hell, it would give me some INCREDIBLE fodder for Abaluba. What Say the readers? Post some comments and lemme know what you think I should do.
Back to Nuno for a second. He might well be taking some time off this fall/winter/spring to climb and travel before he starts a new job this fall. This all assumes, of course, that he gets the job. But good intentions and plans being what they are, let's all assume things pan out. He's trying to have something lined up for after he's finished traveling, and that's where the GRE's come in. I need to get a decent score so I can try to get myself a reintegration plan.
Off to the books.
This weekend, Brian was getting close to doing his first 13D, Jesse has been one-hanging his first 13A, Dan DID his first 13A, Blake's trying several new solid 13's, Erynn is figuring out some new benchmark 12's, and I have gotten close to breaking into new ground, myself. I've one-hung the route I'm trying, Apocalypse, several times and feel like the next time I get on it could be the last.
Bluntly, the fall is the best time to be in Rifle, and I'm looking forward to finishing the season with a flurry and then heading to Kentucky for some climbing in the Red River Gorge. I spoke with my boss about doing some telecommuting in November, and he's friendly to the idea. This has got me going in two different directions. First, I'm thinking I should work more in September and October in order to make a little extra money, and second, I'm getting more serious about van shopping.
Aside from climbing, I keep studying for the GRE in the hopes that I'll get motivated to get my carcass to graduate school. The GRE is the required entrance exam that basically mirrors the SAT's that we all took before heading off to college, but with one crucial difference. The SAT's never told me I was an abject moron suitable for a career in plumbing and a likely candidate for deportation. The GRE's tell me that on every practice test. Why do I keep doing this to myself?
I had a moment the other day when I was talking to someone about work, and they asked me what I really wanted to do. I keep hoping that graduate school is the direction I should be going, but I've got no evidence for why I should be there other than a faint glimmer of expectation. I expect that a graduate degree will funnel me further down a career path and into a work environment that feels more personal and custom tailored. (All the adults reading this are all shaking their heads) Deep down, though, I really feel like some time climbing, traveling and writing is what I need to do before I can figure out any of this work stuff.
A buddy of mine, Dan Mirsky, keeps promoting the idea of life on the road. He took to his Toyota Tacoma for over a year on an extended climbing trip, and has pushed and prodded me in that direction since his trip ended with him moving into an apartment in Boulder. At first, I told him I wouldn't like to do it. I had shaken off the urge for long enough, and it made no sense to quit a job that lets me climb nearly full time, anyway.
But maybe it's not just about the climbing. Maybe it's the adventure of being out in the world without a plan. The ability to wander around, and the chance to write and allow fate to work itself out. The longer I stay in Boulder, the less tolerant I'll become to a change in the routine. I need to shake my life up and introduce some fresh air into the conversation as much as anything else. I might as well go climbing while I'm doing it, eh?
Maybe I'm just rambling on about some desire for a Peter Pan existence and an invincibility of the childhood ideal of play. But I did spend a weekend in a Eurovan, and I was sufficiently intrigued by the experience to test drive one this evening. You only live once, right? And hell, it would give me some INCREDIBLE fodder for Abaluba. What Say the readers? Post some comments and lemme know what you think I should do.
Back to Nuno for a second. He might well be taking some time off this fall/winter/spring to climb and travel before he starts a new job this fall. This all assumes, of course, that he gets the job. But good intentions and plans being what they are, let's all assume things pan out. He's trying to have something lined up for after he's finished traveling, and that's where the GRE's come in. I need to get a decent score so I can try to get myself a reintegration plan. Off to the books.
Wednesday, September 9, 2009
Sea Hell
Onward to 28. It can't come fast enough. I'm ready to put 27 well into the rearview. There was enough bullshit these last 365 days to last me one thousand. I spent the last day of my year fittingly - stuck in a soulless office that hadn't been remodeled since the tenants moved in whilst Carter was the Prez. My ass plastered to an orange Naugahyde stool, I hung out with my boss and poured through file jackets stuffed with Ancient Egypt's palimpsest, trying to assess the value of dozens of Ancient America's oil and gas leases. Fucking kill me. Entomb me like the Pharos. Bury me with my best slaves and ponies, concubines and hangers-on. But drag me out of this day, and into the cool calming dark of a cursed tomb that is the Late Twenties. To speed the departure, Hans threw down with a good suggestion for how to pass some time.
The back-story he told me regarding the video goes something like this:
The audio content comes from the hallucinating mouth of a dude well into an acid trip. Hunkered down in a closet with no one but the demons in his mind for company, The Voice chatters away to himself while his buddies clandestinely roll the tape. Being creative, though perfidious, cohorts, the friends string the words behind an animated short they've put together to match the diatribe. The video sublimates a makeshift Geiko Gecko onto The Voice.
In reality, our protagonist might as well have been a guy named Vic. Squatting in his v-neck, dress shirts and slacks hanging around his Mets cap, pulled slightly to the side of his head for that Suburban Gangsta look that's all the rage these days, he's seeing stars and talking jibberish. And he definitely went to Rutgers. Put it all together, and you've got "Drinking Out of Cups." NOT GOOD FOR (your) WORK. (fine for mine, I guess.)
Yes, I went ahead and transcribed the audio in an attempt to better understand this guy's high. I'll spare you the tension, and tell you I am no closer to understanding what he was thinking than I am to understanding George Bush after reading Bob Woodward's State of Denial. The brains of others are a total mystery.
Truth be told, when I get all baked (and that's been the case for about half this post,) language becomes all the more fascinating. I wonder what everyone's back-story is. What's driving anyone to say what they do? I don't have shit to say to a world that couldn't stop to listen, so why even take the time to open my mouth?
The insecurities that peek out and bare their ugly fangs are fascinating. The connections people have with their world are beautiful. The insights people have into motivation and passion is inspiring. And the taste of dates or European Style rice pudding can bring peace to Palestine. Open wide.
Here is the transcript:
What does this guy think, he’s an Indian?
What is he, a goddamn asshole?
What the fuck is he doin’? Not ever. No way.
Now he’s Johnny Hammersticks, hammerin’ away like he’s…frickin’ Tommy Noble.
What the hell is he doin’? Thinks he’s, thinks he’s got it goin’ bossanova.
No Way…mmmhah, no way! What is this garbage? What is this?
Oh, I’m king of the trees, I’m the Treemeister. I count on them.
What sometimes I praahhg. I like to steilsts. Yeah right. Yeah, right.
This guy’s a faggot. Guy’s some sort of faggot Indian in the teepee.
Whooo, this guy thinks he’s Capitan Knots. Thinks he’s Capitan Tying Knots.
When everyone needs some knots tied, they go to him.
BULLSHIT. Bullshit dice.
This woman’s such a bitch. Thinks she’s Miss Sand. DRINKING OUTTA CUPS.
Bein’ a bitch. I bet her fist. I bet her feeherlusk. Baarned.
Patterskun paherl ‘nd a little kid in the background fuckin’ goin’ CRAAHZEHEHEHE.
Who’s this guy? Mr. Balloons. Mr. Balloon hands.
No way. No way. Get real. Like those things.
Mr. Walkway. Mr. Walkdownme, I’m the walkway.
Lead me to the building – Fuck you.
5,6,4,3, Yeahhh, right. Here’s some stupid bitch.
Who paid for that floor? Not me, no way.
Never payin’ for no floor ever again. Not once, not never. Nope.
Who’s chair is that? Who brought that goddamn chair here, that’s not my chair.
“Not my chair, not my problem,” that’s what I say.
No way. Stupid dresses, stupid flowers.
Lighthouses rule. You don’t like the lighthouse - you suck.
What is this? Sea horse, capitan? What a…sea horse sea shell party?
Who didn’t invite me? Why didn’t I get invited?
Sea horse, sea hell.
What is this? Get real.
I’m in love with sea horses. I’m in love with ‘em, they’re so beautiful and cute. I’m in love with sea horses.
They’re fuckin’ unreal. I love them. They’re like all the clocks. I love ‘em, I love sea horses, and I love lookin’ at ‘em. And I love sea shells, I love sea shell things.
I love things with sea shells and sea horses on ‘em, like blankets and towels and little bags, I love ‘em.
Sea horses.
Forever.
The back-story he told me regarding the video goes something like this:
The audio content comes from the hallucinating mouth of a dude well into an acid trip. Hunkered down in a closet with no one but the demons in his mind for company, The Voice chatters away to himself while his buddies clandestinely roll the tape. Being creative, though perfidious, cohorts, the friends string the words behind an animated short they've put together to match the diatribe. The video sublimates a makeshift Geiko Gecko onto The Voice.
In reality, our protagonist might as well have been a guy named Vic. Squatting in his v-neck, dress shirts and slacks hanging around his Mets cap, pulled slightly to the side of his head for that Suburban Gangsta look that's all the rage these days, he's seeing stars and talking jibberish. And he definitely went to Rutgers. Put it all together, and you've got "Drinking Out of Cups." NOT GOOD FOR (your) WORK. (fine for mine, I guess.)
Yes, I went ahead and transcribed the audio in an attempt to better understand this guy's high. I'll spare you the tension, and tell you I am no closer to understanding what he was thinking than I am to understanding George Bush after reading Bob Woodward's State of Denial. The brains of others are a total mystery.
Truth be told, when I get all baked (and that's been the case for about half this post,) language becomes all the more fascinating. I wonder what everyone's back-story is. What's driving anyone to say what they do? I don't have shit to say to a world that couldn't stop to listen, so why even take the time to open my mouth?
The insecurities that peek out and bare their ugly fangs are fascinating. The connections people have with their world are beautiful. The insights people have into motivation and passion is inspiring. And the taste of dates or European Style rice pudding can bring peace to Palestine. Open wide.
Here is the transcript:
What does this guy think, he’s an Indian?
What is he, a goddamn asshole?
What the fuck is he doin’? Not ever. No way.
Now he’s Johnny Hammersticks, hammerin’ away like he’s…frickin’ Tommy Noble.
What the hell is he doin’? Thinks he’s, thinks he’s got it goin’ bossanova.
No Way…mmmhah, no way! What is this garbage? What is this?
Oh, I’m king of the trees, I’m the Treemeister. I count on them.
What sometimes I praahhg. I like to steilsts. Yeah right. Yeah, right.
This guy’s a faggot. Guy’s some sort of faggot Indian in the teepee.
Whooo, this guy thinks he’s Capitan Knots. Thinks he’s Capitan Tying Knots.
When everyone needs some knots tied, they go to him.
BULLSHIT. Bullshit dice.
This woman’s such a bitch. Thinks she’s Miss Sand. DRINKING OUTTA CUPS.
Bein’ a bitch. I bet her fist. I bet her feeherlusk. Baarned.
Patterskun paherl ‘nd a little kid in the background fuckin’ goin’ CRAAHZEHEHEHE.
Who’s this guy? Mr. Balloons. Mr. Balloon hands.
No way. No way. Get real. Like those things.
Mr. Walkway. Mr. Walkdownme, I’m the walkway.
Lead me to the building – Fuck you.
5,6,4,3, Yeahhh, right. Here’s some stupid bitch.
Who paid for that floor? Not me, no way.
Never payin’ for no floor ever again. Not once, not never. Nope.
Who’s chair is that? Who brought that goddamn chair here, that’s not my chair.
“Not my chair, not my problem,” that’s what I say.
No way. Stupid dresses, stupid flowers.
Lighthouses rule. You don’t like the lighthouse - you suck.
What is this? Sea horse, capitan? What a…sea horse sea shell party?
Who didn’t invite me? Why didn’t I get invited?
Sea horse, sea hell.
What is this? Get real.
I’m in love with sea horses. I’m in love with ‘em, they’re so beautiful and cute. I’m in love with sea horses.
They’re fuckin’ unreal. I love them. They’re like all the clocks. I love ‘em, I love sea horses, and I love lookin’ at ‘em. And I love sea shells, I love sea shell things.
I love things with sea shells and sea horses on ‘em, like blankets and towels and little bags, I love ‘em.
Sea horses.
Forever.
Monday, September 7, 2009
Oh, Those Leftists
There are a few places, I'm sure, as interesting as the WalMart in Rifle, CO. I just haven't stepped foot into many of them. My buddy Arnold, a blogger for the website Pimpin'&Crimpin', actually works at the superstore along the frontage road here in Western CO, and I'm sure he could tell better stories than I can. I've only stopped in to capitalism's logical progression twice; once a few weeks ago when I forgot a pillow for a camping trip, and once today. I needed duct tape for my knee pads. I'm trying a route called Apocalypse, and it's not going to work without duct tape.
The knee bars on Apocalypse aren't secure, but you have to jack your legs into these tight, slippery spaces to have any chance of doing the route. I'm sure somebody can do it without this trickery, but I'm certainly not strong enough at this point to entertain that kind of challenge. So, as it were, I've got to slide neoprene sleeves covered in sticky rubber over the tops of my knees/bottoms of my thighs, lever my legs against protruding rock faces, and hope for the best. Taking some of the weight off my feet and hands makes the moves possible, but still entirely desperate. If my pads slipped even a little, I was airborne. This led me to WalMart.
I decided to get some duct tape and strap on the pads extra tight, a trick employed by a bunch of climbers out there. I'm hoping this is the difference maker. Otherwise, I'll just have to get stronger. But the moral of the story is that the best place I could think of to get the tape in Rifle was just down the road from my hotel, and it attracts all of the town's finest like a bug zapper gets mosquitoes.
Walking into the store, I overheard a quick, angry little exchange between a young cowboy and his lady friend. He was getting out of his gigantic pickup, and she told him "not to take too friggin' long." Apparently, there's plenty to distract a man in his mid twenties, dressed in a cowboy hat, boots, and plaid short sleeve shirt tucked into tight Wrangler jeans and sporting a telltale circle in his back pocket at this mega store. Hustle back, Jethro.
Watching this guy saunter, and that's really the only word to describe his forward motion, into the store got me thinking. I created this long and intricate back story for him. One filled with stereotypes, NASCAR, the Republican ticket, and ultimate sadness. All of it based upon a quick glance and one sentence from his significant other. Now the mirror in action: what do people think when they see ME walking around? I'm sure I look like some emaciated sissy to most of the folks out here. This might be true, but I wonder if they can pin my true history on me at a glance. Do any of them assume I'm going to buy duct tape to tighten rubber pads on my legs so I can crawl up rocks? Would any of them believe me if I told them?
Judging from some of the looks we get when they drive their trucks into the canyon for a family picnic, I'll say that we appear about as alien as Democrats. Ironically, most of us climbers actually are.
The knee bars on Apocalypse aren't secure, but you have to jack your legs into these tight, slippery spaces to have any chance of doing the route. I'm sure somebody can do it without this trickery, but I'm certainly not strong enough at this point to entertain that kind of challenge. So, as it were, I've got to slide neoprene sleeves covered in sticky rubber over the tops of my knees/bottoms of my thighs, lever my legs against protruding rock faces, and hope for the best. Taking some of the weight off my feet and hands makes the moves possible, but still entirely desperate. If my pads slipped even a little, I was airborne. This led me to WalMart.
I decided to get some duct tape and strap on the pads extra tight, a trick employed by a bunch of climbers out there. I'm hoping this is the difference maker. Otherwise, I'll just have to get stronger. But the moral of the story is that the best place I could think of to get the tape in Rifle was just down the road from my hotel, and it attracts all of the town's finest like a bug zapper gets mosquitoes.
Walking into the store, I overheard a quick, angry little exchange between a young cowboy and his lady friend. He was getting out of his gigantic pickup, and she told him "not to take too friggin' long." Apparently, there's plenty to distract a man in his mid twenties, dressed in a cowboy hat, boots, and plaid short sleeve shirt tucked into tight Wrangler jeans and sporting a telltale circle in his back pocket at this mega store. Hustle back, Jethro.
Watching this guy saunter, and that's really the only word to describe his forward motion, into the store got me thinking. I created this long and intricate back story for him. One filled with stereotypes, NASCAR, the Republican ticket, and ultimate sadness. All of it based upon a quick glance and one sentence from his significant other. Now the mirror in action: what do people think when they see ME walking around? I'm sure I look like some emaciated sissy to most of the folks out here. This might be true, but I wonder if they can pin my true history on me at a glance. Do any of them assume I'm going to buy duct tape to tighten rubber pads on my legs so I can crawl up rocks? Would any of them believe me if I told them?
Judging from some of the looks we get when they drive their trucks into the canyon for a family picnic, I'll say that we appear about as alien as Democrats. Ironically, most of us climbers actually are.
Thursday, September 3, 2009
My New Nylon Home
After a super successful 8 year run at my old home, I've finally moved into a new place. I'm not talking about some shabby apartment here in Boulder. The home that means the most to me is made of nylon and is held aloft by graphite poles. A destroyed zipper on the door has forced me to call the movers. Actually, given that a professional moving company isn't really necessary to clear out roughly 45 square feet, I brought the subject up with my mom. She recently asked me what I wanted as a birthday gift, and though I hemmed and hawed about not really needing anything, the bugs in my den argued otherwise.
It's a bittersweet move. On one hand, I'm really psyched to try out the new tent. I'm hoping to leave behind the "nice Wal-Mart tent" barbs that are so carelessly thrown my way with no regard to my feelings. Wal-Mart? Certainly I appear successful enough to be counted as a Target man, no? I'll have a new shelter free of structural duct tape, leaks, and UV damage. But on the flip side, that old home will be missed.
I'd love to recount all the amorous nights spent in my REI Harem 4, but doing so would be mildly disingenuous. The typical night out in the now defunct tent was spent out in Rifle or The Creek, begging for sleep, not sex, after a long day cragging. I'd do my best to avoid using the rain fly, preferring to gaze at the stars if possible. With the typically arid West, most of the time I'd get away with it. Why even sleep in a tent at all, you might ask. I hate bugs, I might answer. And that old tent was perfectly capable of keeping them out of my hair. At least, that is, until it finally fell apart.
REI has a guarantee that's impossibly generous. A lifetime warranty is offered on their merchandise, but honestly, I didn't want to push the folks at customer service for store credit or a replacement on something that had been so well used. That fact, combined with my mom's suggestion that she'd be happy to pick up a replacement, allowed me to do what comes so rarely for me: just get something new. I kept the old one, thinking I'd one day find a professional repair shop and have them install a new zipper, but maybe my mom will do everyone a favor and just pitch it in the trash before I get the chance.
Now that I've got the new one, and it looks like I might have the chance to check the waterproof-ness. I'm getting really psyched to get back to Rifle, keep working on the projects and sleep in the new nylon home. Anyone who won't be there this weekend, you'll be missed. For those of you that are making the labor day trip, look for me in the shiny new Hoodoo 3.
It's a bittersweet move. On one hand, I'm really psyched to try out the new tent. I'm hoping to leave behind the "nice Wal-Mart tent" barbs that are so carelessly thrown my way with no regard to my feelings. Wal-Mart? Certainly I appear successful enough to be counted as a Target man, no? I'll have a new shelter free of structural duct tape, leaks, and UV damage. But on the flip side, that old home will be missed.
I'd love to recount all the amorous nights spent in my REI Harem 4, but doing so would be mildly disingenuous. The typical night out in the now defunct tent was spent out in Rifle or The Creek, begging for sleep, not sex, after a long day cragging. I'd do my best to avoid using the rain fly, preferring to gaze at the stars if possible. With the typically arid West, most of the time I'd get away with it. Why even sleep in a tent at all, you might ask. I hate bugs, I might answer. And that old tent was perfectly capable of keeping them out of my hair. At least, that is, until it finally fell apart.
REI has a guarantee that's impossibly generous. A lifetime warranty is offered on their merchandise, but honestly, I didn't want to push the folks at customer service for store credit or a replacement on something that had been so well used. That fact, combined with my mom's suggestion that she'd be happy to pick up a replacement, allowed me to do what comes so rarely for me: just get something new. I kept the old one, thinking I'd one day find a professional repair shop and have them install a new zipper, but maybe my mom will do everyone a favor and just pitch it in the trash before I get the chance.
Now that I've got the new one, and it looks like I might have the chance to check the waterproof-ness. I'm getting really psyched to get back to Rifle, keep working on the projects and sleep in the new nylon home. Anyone who won't be there this weekend, you'll be missed. For those of you that are making the labor day trip, look for me in the shiny new Hoodoo 3.
Tuesday, September 1, 2009
Musical Electric Chairs
Iron & Wine's "Best Of" CD has two tracks that leave me heartbroken. I've had the disk essentially on repeat over the past week, and each time through, I'm battered by track 2, Such Great Heights, but demolished by number 4, Jezebel. Here's why:
Such Great Heights was penned by The Postal Service duo Ben Gibbard and Jimmy Tamborello, but was covered by Sam Beam of Iron & Wine for the Garden State soundtrack. I like both versions, but have a particular affinity for the slower, crooning version sung by Beam. Two particular reasons come to mind.
I've always had a thing for the mopey singer-songwriter tunes, evidenced by my penchant for what my roommate during freshman year of college called "kill yourself music." He was much more into Lil' Wayne, and quickly grew tired of my never ending stream of David Gray. But second, I think it's because the first time I told Kate that I loved her, this song, and this "kill yourself" version, was quietly playing in the background. The moment was perhaps a bit sappy, and even stunk of movie quality melodrama, but it's my life, and that's how it happened.
We acknowledged the song as historically ours, and Katie even went so far as to frame a picture of our two faces pressed together, side by side, along with a printout of the lyrics. The picture hinted at the line, "I'm thinking it's a sign, that the freckles in our eyes are mirror images and when we kiss they're perfectly aligned."
I can't hear that song and avoid the realization that whatever I felt in that moment has been corrupted by the passing of time and the clawing of our flaws on our collective hopes.
And I can't hear Jezebel without remembering a podcast that NPR's All Songs Considered released in 2007. I was in DC, staying with Kate while taking a two week course up in Baltimore at Johns Hopkins. Each morning, I'd have to make the commute north in the cold of the predawn, January morning. There are few things as pathetic as boarding a commuter train before the sun can even warm the sidewalk, leaving the bed of a woman dear to your heart for a commute to another sprawling, criminal city. That's where I found myself each morning, and my sole company was this concert, played in its entirety as I rolled into Maryland. The commute was about an hour and a half, almost perfectly coordinated to the concert's duration. As I'd pass BWI, the airport between the two cities, the sun would crest and create a glow on the windows of the train's right side. Beam would offer to me, only me; "who's seen Jezebel? She was gone before I ever got to say, 'lay here my love, you're the only shape I'll pray to...'." Other than the fact that it was me who was gone, the symmetry worked well. I was realizing on those train rides that Kate and I were perhaps running on different tracks, with mine heading away while hers remained within the more respectable confines of a career.
And now, each time I press play, I am taken back to two different times in my life. The first; an unspoiled display of hope and longing. The second is the realization that though I may wish otherwise, people, and more particularly, people's lives, don't stay put.
My mind goes back in time now, and tries to remember. I need to find some new music.
Such Great Heights was penned by The Postal Service duo Ben Gibbard and Jimmy Tamborello, but was covered by Sam Beam of Iron & Wine for the Garden State soundtrack. I like both versions, but have a particular affinity for the slower, crooning version sung by Beam. Two particular reasons come to mind.
I've always had a thing for the mopey singer-songwriter tunes, evidenced by my penchant for what my roommate during freshman year of college called "kill yourself music." He was much more into Lil' Wayne, and quickly grew tired of my never ending stream of David Gray. But second, I think it's because the first time I told Kate that I loved her, this song, and this "kill yourself" version, was quietly playing in the background. The moment was perhaps a bit sappy, and even stunk of movie quality melodrama, but it's my life, and that's how it happened.
We acknowledged the song as historically ours, and Katie even went so far as to frame a picture of our two faces pressed together, side by side, along with a printout of the lyrics. The picture hinted at the line, "I'm thinking it's a sign, that the freckles in our eyes are mirror images and when we kiss they're perfectly aligned."
I can't hear that song and avoid the realization that whatever I felt in that moment has been corrupted by the passing of time and the clawing of our flaws on our collective hopes.
And I can't hear Jezebel without remembering a podcast that NPR's All Songs Considered released in 2007. I was in DC, staying with Kate while taking a two week course up in Baltimore at Johns Hopkins. Each morning, I'd have to make the commute north in the cold of the predawn, January morning. There are few things as pathetic as boarding a commuter train before the sun can even warm the sidewalk, leaving the bed of a woman dear to your heart for a commute to another sprawling, criminal city. That's where I found myself each morning, and my sole company was this concert, played in its entirety as I rolled into Maryland. The commute was about an hour and a half, almost perfectly coordinated to the concert's duration. As I'd pass BWI, the airport between the two cities, the sun would crest and create a glow on the windows of the train's right side. Beam would offer to me, only me; "who's seen Jezebel? She was gone before I ever got to say, 'lay here my love, you're the only shape I'll pray to...'." Other than the fact that it was me who was gone, the symmetry worked well. I was realizing on those train rides that Kate and I were perhaps running on different tracks, with mine heading away while hers remained within the more respectable confines of a career.
And now, each time I press play, I am taken back to two different times in my life. The first; an unspoiled display of hope and longing. The second is the realization that though I may wish otherwise, people, and more particularly, people's lives, don't stay put.
My mind goes back in time now, and tries to remember. I need to find some new music.
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