I blasted out of Boulder right as, ironically, Boulder was getting blasted. The snow was national news, I'm told. I'm just happy I wasn't involved in any multicar pileups, thereby becoming state and local news of my own.
I rolled out along US 36 at the ungodly hour of 5:30 AM, one of the relatively few cars to brave the conditions so early in the morning. That was precisely my plan, and I was happy to find myself in that more secure isolation as I fishtailed Eastward, throwing a blinding spray of slop out from behind my rear tires. As the sun rose, confirming Eastern Colorado as the gray, desolate pall we'd all suspected, I smiled mightily. I had begun my long anticipated road trip, and it had started safely.
The first stop on the agenda was The Farm, an effort to spend time with my aging maternal grandparents. Their presence on those sacred 220 acres in central Missouri is embedded in my memory, and there it will invariably remain. The beauty of our family's rolling retreat is nuanced, as is the case with any location blessed with being central to a sense of home, but stricken of crashing waves or snow capped mountains.
I arrived at sunset, bearing witness to the pink clouds, bloated with rain, rolling over our fields and pond. That evening, vast liquid nourishment was provided to both. Perhaps my western upbringing has left me overly sensitized to precipitation, but I'm always stunned that any place can be so verdant and lush. While it poured down, my grandparents shared stories of their own memories on the place, and then of raising a family in the peripatetic ethos (chaos) of America's Air Force. The three of us came together with The Farm as the literal and imagined backdrop for our shared histories. The Farm, though also baseball and shuffleboard. Let's not forget that we're in 2009. I didn't milk any cows or anything.
After 36 hours with Grandma and PawPaw, the urge to revisit the interstate returned, and I hugged and kissed them farewell. They'll be the terminal bookend of my road trip, as well, when I turn Abigale the Subaru Westward and head for home. I'll stop for Thanksgiving on my return leg to Colorado, meeting with many more folks (aunts, uncles, and cousins, oh my) who remember their own youth occasionally played out on the same background.
I rolled up Rural Route N, then J, and headed further East on I-70, this time to St Louis. Though the city is the Gateway to the West, for me it's actually the gateway to East. From here, I can begin to smell the Red, can feel my fingertips begin their sweaty longing for sandstone. I'll be climbing in only a few days, though I'm still patiently meandering, still renewing acquaintance with old familiar sites and faces.
The first place I saw upon my arrival in STL was the university where I spent my first year of college. At 18, I ran to St Louis University in a snap, lazy decision to flee the anger I felt towards my father in particular, and boredom with Colorado in general. The first year was largely spent in halfhearted academic pursuit in the classroom, and in earnest attempted violence on the lacrosse fields. I marked time until I would flee, this time as a sophomore, for Spain.
To portray the year in St Louis as stolid would be an unfair assessment. My freshman year was spent in between many things, though firmly committed to none. I was uncomfortable with myself and unsure of where I was going, though not yet ready to forswear my origins. I remember with great clarity saying goodbye to my parents as they dropped me off for the academic year, wondering where I'd go now that I was no longer under my parents' thumb. The tears that this goodbye produced in my angry eyes were hastily pushed back into their ducts, though that sadness of leaving my youth hasn't been forgotten.
Today, from the very paving stone where I last remember my mother standing as she and my father left me for college, I called Mom in Colorado. I told her I loved her, and shared a reminiscent moment with her. Each of us remembered the day in 2000 with clarity, though it was subtly different to this autumn afternoon over nine years later. Today, the air was thick with the smell of french fries. Perhaps they weren't on the menu back then.
Tonight, this city will again act as a gateway, this time to my past as I'll see two friends I've kept from my days at school in the SLU system. Soon, though, I'll grow anxious, again, and aim the wheels, again, to the East. My plan is to stop in Louisville to greet one of my closest friends, Neil, and his parents in their home city. Their family is coping with the loss of Neil's grandmother. The news was all the more poignant given that my phone rang with the sad acknowledgment of her passing just yesterday while I was in the new farmhouse with my own elders. I'm glad to have seen them then, and will honor my friendship with Neil before I drive the final two hours and arrive in the Red.
Climbing can wait, at least for a few days. This drive is, certainly, a mode of transit to that outstanding recreational destination. Equally important, though, it's a way to reconnect with my friends and family, and my own past. I hope to honor all of them with some precious time. It's been a pleasure so far. I'll keep you up to date as the miles pass.
Love from Abaluba.
Friday, October 30, 2009
Sunday, October 25, 2009
Sunday Morning Observations
Not the religious type, as I'm a skeptical man who prefers sleep to sacraments. But I have a few things I've noticed this morning, Sunday, October 25, 2009.
I'm getting ready to leave for the Red on Wednesday. I'm alternatively enormously excited and a bit nervous. My first climbing day won't be for a week from today because I'll stop for a day at the farm to visit Grandma and Grandpa, and then again in St. Louis to see Vino and Nicole. In Louisville, I'm going to swing in for at least a "hello" with Neil's parents. That will break up the cross country drive well, but keep my pace slow.
I'm excited for the reason most obvious to any rock climber. The Red offers limitless climbing opportunities. The rock is beautiful, the routes number in the thousands, and the steep walls ensure a nasty fitness after enough time.
But behind the carefree optimism that could come to someone else, I'm nervous. My back has been hurting, and I want it to get better before I get there. Today I'm at around 75%, which is a marked improvement from three days ago. On Thursday, I couldn't even climb, but in a testament to the sole focus that personifies my life, I went to the gym, anyway. I figured I'd stretch and hang out with friends. Instead, my friends climbed, many of them with their sig-oh's, and I, coincidentally, saw my old college girlfriend and caught up with her. And then, I watched them climb and felt a twinge of jealousy. I just wanted to train. I want to be fit. I want to justify the fact that climbing is enormously important to me. You can't do that climbing 5.11.
I hope the weather will be good, and the cabin will let me relax. I wonder about driving across the country by myself. I still need to apply to grad school, and will have to do it while I'm in KY. I still need to finish my work for the Access Fund, but it's increasingly looking like I'll have to do it there, as well.
__________________________________________________________________
Back here in CO, I noticed that the coffee beans smell amazing. If I had to choose between smelling coffee and drinking it, and could only have one, the smell would win in a landslide.
Yesterday, my friend Dan did a route called Anarchitect down in Clear Creek. If you remember, I wrote about it around the time of my Greece trip last summer. I think that route has to be one of the best in CCC. Way to go, Danny!
Thinking about Anarchitect, it's interesting to see where my life has gone since I did that route. If, as I was lowering to the ground right after I finished the route, you'd have told me that on the horizon were a bust up with a lot of my family, a painfully slow and cautious reentry, and a break up with Kate, I would have told you to piss off. That's exactly what happened though, and I'm still trying to make sense of it. Maybe the Red will help with some clarity.
I'm getting ready to leave for the Red on Wednesday. I'm alternatively enormously excited and a bit nervous. My first climbing day won't be for a week from today because I'll stop for a day at the farm to visit Grandma and Grandpa, and then again in St. Louis to see Vino and Nicole. In Louisville, I'm going to swing in for at least a "hello" with Neil's parents. That will break up the cross country drive well, but keep my pace slow.
I'm excited for the reason most obvious to any rock climber. The Red offers limitless climbing opportunities. The rock is beautiful, the routes number in the thousands, and the steep walls ensure a nasty fitness after enough time.
But behind the carefree optimism that could come to someone else, I'm nervous. My back has been hurting, and I want it to get better before I get there. Today I'm at around 75%, which is a marked improvement from three days ago. On Thursday, I couldn't even climb, but in a testament to the sole focus that personifies my life, I went to the gym, anyway. I figured I'd stretch and hang out with friends. Instead, my friends climbed, many of them with their sig-oh's, and I, coincidentally, saw my old college girlfriend and caught up with her. And then, I watched them climb and felt a twinge of jealousy. I just wanted to train. I want to be fit. I want to justify the fact that climbing is enormously important to me. You can't do that climbing 5.11.
I hope the weather will be good, and the cabin will let me relax. I wonder about driving across the country by myself. I still need to apply to grad school, and will have to do it while I'm in KY. I still need to finish my work for the Access Fund, but it's increasingly looking like I'll have to do it there, as well.
__________________________________________________________________
Back here in CO, I noticed that the coffee beans smell amazing. If I had to choose between smelling coffee and drinking it, and could only have one, the smell would win in a landslide.
Yesterday, my friend Dan did a route called Anarchitect down in Clear Creek. If you remember, I wrote about it around the time of my Greece trip last summer. I think that route has to be one of the best in CCC. Way to go, Danny!
Thinking about Anarchitect, it's interesting to see where my life has gone since I did that route. If, as I was lowering to the ground right after I finished the route, you'd have told me that on the horizon were a bust up with a lot of my family, a painfully slow and cautious reentry, and a break up with Kate, I would have told you to piss off. That's exactly what happened though, and I'm still trying to make sense of it. Maybe the Red will help with some clarity.
Tuesday, October 20, 2009
Ride A Bike, Save the World
Well, maybe that's getting a little bit over the top. But I still say, "Ride a bike, enjoy your day a little bit more." Especially if it involves riding your bike to do errands, and pedaling with a buddy on bad ass single track around Grand Junction. Allow me to fill in the details.
My city bike is a converted cyclocross bike. I should actually be a bit more precise and say my only bike is a city bike, and it happens to be a converted 'cross bike. I've sold my other bike, a road racing machine, and happily neutered my 'cross bike in order to ensure that I'd never again have to race that heinous sport, either. Racing 'cross is a mix between sprinting as fast as you can for 45 minutes, interrupted only by occasional interludes best described as a midget kicking you in the groin. Yeah, it's that fun. For some unknown reason, I did it for nearly two full seasons. Further proof that I'm an abject moron.
And as for racing the road? Well, that's a bit more enjoyable, but I still found myself terrified at the prospect of losing all the skin on my ass, legs and face from a high speed dismount. This reality is pressing, given the nature of Category 4 racing, which basically pits balance-challenged, wanna-be Lance Armstrongs against one another in a war of attrition. Come to think of it, the best parts of road racing are the training and fitness, and the vanity of a team kit that allows you to pretend you're a pro. So, without too much regret, I sold that bike to a man in Florida.
What's left is a blue Cannondale Cyclocross bike that I originally bought to ride during the winter on filthy roadsm and race 'cross during the fall. For clarification, cyclocross is an activity invented in Belgium where road bikes are outfitted with knobby tires and slightly different gearing, and the racers do laps around muddy, sandy, slick tracks with the occasional barrier that forces a running dismount to clear. It might sound like grown up gym class, but to actually excel requires great bike handling skill, superhuman endurance, and a hatred of peace and quiet. I posses none of these qualities, and subsequently sucked.
So instead of subjecting myself to more races and humiliation/crippling pain, I took the bike to my favorite shop, University Bicycles, and had them change things over from 'cross to commuter. U Bikes is owned and run by Doug Emerson, a generous and warm Boulderite with a love of bikes. He also has the propensity to grow the wildest white-man afro you've ever seen. His hair is calmed down at this point, but he still gets out and rides a ton, and owns a shop on the corner of 9th and Pearl that is as spectacular in its memorabilia on the walls as in its customer service.
Doug's mechanics got me set up with a full tune up, more comfortable gear ration, easy riding flat bars, a killer chain guard, lights, and tires built for cruising, not racing. The bike is now way more comfortable to ride, and gets me around Boulder nearly as much as my blue Subaru, Abby (so named after Abaluba). The one thing I was missing, though, were fenders. Even though Doug provides me quite a bro deal, I still had to spend a few hundred dollars for all the work. At that point, I was drained, and it was the summer, anyway. Now that fall has hit, so has more predictable precip, and I need to keep the rain, sleet, and slush off my pants. Hence, the need for fenders.
With the shopping spree at U Bikes, I also came away with some cool brown leather grips. I wanted something to match the color and style. It was just my luck that, while walking on the 16th street mall after my date with a hideous sea creature, I saw a guy chaining his bike to a rail, and something special caught my eye. He had beautiful wooden fenders and I immediately asked him where he found them. He gave me the name of Woody's Fenders, a shop out of Bend, OR, and as soon as I got home from work that day, I called them up and got the skinny. Cody Davis makes fenders, racks and chainguards to anyone's specs, but also has some inventory that is sitting around for immediate delivery. I wanted my fenders ASAP, and wasn't overly particular, so long as they looked cool and kept things dry. We discussed the size I'd need, and then I ordered a set from his site.
The fenders recently came, and last week I had a chance to run to the hardware store and get everything I'd need for installation. My only two complaints from the fender experience were that hardware wasn't included, and the geriatrics working at McGuckin's nearly all had simultaneous coronaries when I brought my bike into the store. I explained that, though I understood it wasn't preferred that my bike be indoors, I needed to get the right screws, nuts, bolts, etc., and this was the only way it was happening. It all worked out, but my other complaint centers on grumpy old men giving me the hairy eye ball.
When I'm not running around the city on the blue bike, I'm usually rock climbing. That took a backseat last week when my buddy Ethan came to town. He has certainly climbed before, and he graciously placated my obsession with a few days in the gym. We had even planned to take a trip to Indian Creek, but my foot still isn't 100%, and that style of crack climbing would have left me battered worse than any 'cross race ever had.
Instead, we planned a few days of mountain biking out around Grand Junction and Fruita. Another friend, Mike Brumbaugh, runs Avon Venture Sports, a great shop around Vail that does skis in the winter and bikes in the warmer months. Mike is a great guy who always leaves me feeling like I should swear a little less, drink a little less, and do a little more for my friends. But in a good way, if that makes sense. He and I climb together out at Rifle during the summer, and in the Creek during the winter, as Mike rarely skis anymore. Instead, he rents the sticks out to Texans, and bikes out to buddies like myself. I got a full suspension Giant and Ethan grabbed one for himself, and we headed west to ride.
I'd never been on a full suspension bike before, and was amazed that I could basically point the front wheel downhill and easily float over any obstacle. That was, at least, until I got a little big for my britches and sent the front end over a boulder. At the time, Ethan was behind me, and said he saw the back of my jersey, and then one second later, the bottom bracket of the bike. Rapid crash and burn. That happened the first day, and I still had two days left on the trails. Needless to say, I slowed down considerably after that.
Ethan and I had originally planned on going to Moab so that we could ride and climb in the desert, but with my foot uncooperative, we changed plans and stayed within Colorado's border. I had a blast, and though Ethan had originally been excited to see Moab's famed slick rock biking, he seemed to really enjoy the riding we did. We rode along the Colorado river on the first day, scooted along the speedy and immaculate single track north of town the second, and ended with an ass kicking at the hands of Grand Junction's Tabaguach trail system.
The river rides were hugely scenic, and were reasonably mellow, save for the occasional terror through the rock hops. Fruita's single track was really well maintained and offered plenty of fun as we rode along the ridges and banked corners of the downhill slalom course. Tabaguach was like riding in Mordor, with rocks everywhere. This was by far the most technical and difficult riding we did. Fatigue finally settled in after three days of riding, making Tabaguach even more maddening. Of all the different venues, I think I liked the Fruita single track the best. For a neophyte mountain biker, the terrain was the most forgiving (read: least rocks to buck me off the bike) and the riding on spines of ridges, looking into the valley below while cruising along at high speed, was a blast.
So, the moral of the story: go ride a bike. It's a fine way to see the world. As an Abaluba first, we've got some video. Check it out!
My city bike is a converted cyclocross bike. I should actually be a bit more precise and say my only bike is a city bike, and it happens to be a converted 'cross bike. I've sold my other bike, a road racing machine, and happily neutered my 'cross bike in order to ensure that I'd never again have to race that heinous sport, either. Racing 'cross is a mix between sprinting as fast as you can for 45 minutes, interrupted only by occasional interludes best described as a midget kicking you in the groin. Yeah, it's that fun. For some unknown reason, I did it for nearly two full seasons. Further proof that I'm an abject moron.
And as for racing the road? Well, that's a bit more enjoyable, but I still found myself terrified at the prospect of losing all the skin on my ass, legs and face from a high speed dismount. This reality is pressing, given the nature of Category 4 racing, which basically pits balance-challenged, wanna-be Lance Armstrongs against one another in a war of attrition. Come to think of it, the best parts of road racing are the training and fitness, and the vanity of a team kit that allows you to pretend you're a pro. So, without too much regret, I sold that bike to a man in Florida.
What's left is a blue Cannondale Cyclocross bike that I originally bought to ride during the winter on filthy roadsm and race 'cross during the fall. For clarification, cyclocross is an activity invented in Belgium where road bikes are outfitted with knobby tires and slightly different gearing, and the racers do laps around muddy, sandy, slick tracks with the occasional barrier that forces a running dismount to clear. It might sound like grown up gym class, but to actually excel requires great bike handling skill, superhuman endurance, and a hatred of peace and quiet. I posses none of these qualities, and subsequently sucked.
So instead of subjecting myself to more races and humiliation/crippling pain, I took the bike to my favorite shop, University Bicycles, and had them change things over from 'cross to commuter. U Bikes is owned and run by Doug Emerson, a generous and warm Boulderite with a love of bikes. He also has the propensity to grow the wildest white-man afro you've ever seen. His hair is calmed down at this point, but he still gets out and rides a ton, and owns a shop on the corner of 9th and Pearl that is as spectacular in its memorabilia on the walls as in its customer service.
Doug's mechanics got me set up with a full tune up, more comfortable gear ration, easy riding flat bars, a killer chain guard, lights, and tires built for cruising, not racing. The bike is now way more comfortable to ride, and gets me around Boulder nearly as much as my blue Subaru, Abby (so named after Abaluba). The one thing I was missing, though, were fenders. Even though Doug provides me quite a bro deal, I still had to spend a few hundred dollars for all the work. At that point, I was drained, and it was the summer, anyway. Now that fall has hit, so has more predictable precip, and I need to keep the rain, sleet, and slush off my pants. Hence, the need for fenders.
With the shopping spree at U Bikes, I also came away with some cool brown leather grips. I wanted something to match the color and style. It was just my luck that, while walking on the 16th street mall after my date with a hideous sea creature, I saw a guy chaining his bike to a rail, and something special caught my eye. He had beautiful wooden fenders and I immediately asked him where he found them. He gave me the name of Woody's Fenders, a shop out of Bend, OR, and as soon as I got home from work that day, I called them up and got the skinny. Cody Davis makes fenders, racks and chainguards to anyone's specs, but also has some inventory that is sitting around for immediate delivery. I wanted my fenders ASAP, and wasn't overly particular, so long as they looked cool and kept things dry. We discussed the size I'd need, and then I ordered a set from his site.
The fenders recently came, and last week I had a chance to run to the hardware store and get everything I'd need for installation. My only two complaints from the fender experience were that hardware wasn't included, and the geriatrics working at McGuckin's nearly all had simultaneous coronaries when I brought my bike into the store. I explained that, though I understood it wasn't preferred that my bike be indoors, I needed to get the right screws, nuts, bolts, etc., and this was the only way it was happening. It all worked out, but my other complaint centers on grumpy old men giving me the hairy eye ball.
When I'm not running around the city on the blue bike, I'm usually rock climbing. That took a backseat last week when my buddy Ethan came to town. He has certainly climbed before, and he graciously placated my obsession with a few days in the gym. We had even planned to take a trip to Indian Creek, but my foot still isn't 100%, and that style of crack climbing would have left me battered worse than any 'cross race ever had.
Instead, we planned a few days of mountain biking out around Grand Junction and Fruita. Another friend, Mike Brumbaugh, runs Avon Venture Sports, a great shop around Vail that does skis in the winter and bikes in the warmer months. Mike is a great guy who always leaves me feeling like I should swear a little less, drink a little less, and do a little more for my friends. But in a good way, if that makes sense. He and I climb together out at Rifle during the summer, and in the Creek during the winter, as Mike rarely skis anymore. Instead, he rents the sticks out to Texans, and bikes out to buddies like myself. I got a full suspension Giant and Ethan grabbed one for himself, and we headed west to ride.
I'd never been on a full suspension bike before, and was amazed that I could basically point the front wheel downhill and easily float over any obstacle. That was, at least, until I got a little big for my britches and sent the front end over a boulder. At the time, Ethan was behind me, and said he saw the back of my jersey, and then one second later, the bottom bracket of the bike. Rapid crash and burn. That happened the first day, and I still had two days left on the trails. Needless to say, I slowed down considerably after that.
Ethan and I had originally planned on going to Moab so that we could ride and climb in the desert, but with my foot uncooperative, we changed plans and stayed within Colorado's border. I had a blast, and though Ethan had originally been excited to see Moab's famed slick rock biking, he seemed to really enjoy the riding we did. We rode along the Colorado river on the first day, scooted along the speedy and immaculate single track north of town the second, and ended with an ass kicking at the hands of Grand Junction's Tabaguach trail system.
The river rides were hugely scenic, and were reasonably mellow, save for the occasional terror through the rock hops. Fruita's single track was really well maintained and offered plenty of fun as we rode along the ridges and banked corners of the downhill slalom course. Tabaguach was like riding in Mordor, with rocks everywhere. This was by far the most technical and difficult riding we did. Fatigue finally settled in after three days of riding, making Tabaguach even more maddening. Of all the different venues, I think I liked the Fruita single track the best. For a neophyte mountain biker, the terrain was the most forgiving (read: least rocks to buck me off the bike) and the riding on spines of ridges, looking into the valley below while cruising along at high speed, was a blast.
So, the moral of the story: go ride a bike. It's a fine way to see the world. As an Abaluba first, we've got some video. Check it out!
Friday, October 9, 2009
The End of The Season
Loveland and A-Basin are both open for skiing. It seems a little odd, given that it's only October 9th, but the fact that chair lifts are running makes the end of the Rifle season seem a little more appropriate. I've been climbing there for what seems like about 15 straight weekends, with plenty of weekday sessions thrown in for good measure, and, to be entirely honest, I welcome the break. That's not to say that I won't want to be back projecting the choss in a few weeks, but taking a breather from the three hour drive and the exhausted Sunday night/Monday morning combo should do me some good.
To be fair, I've had an INSANELY fun season. I spent a lion's share of the time climbing with All-Stars. Teaming up to climb with friends seems like it's a no-brainer, but Rifle lends itself to plenty of time spent scumming belays from anyone you can find. I was pretty lucky this year, because I seemingly always had a supportive, fun crew around who were psyched to climb during the days and then cook great food, and talk about interesting subjects around the campfire. I know what crimps feel like. Heel-hooks? Yeah, sick, brah. But getting to know the details of teaching a room full of third graders, some basics about computer programming, and the pitfalls of managing multimillion dollar portfolios is a lot more compelling. Thanks, Team A+.
Recent developments at home have left me feeling happy for some local time, too. My mom got pretty sick last week and ended up in and out of the hospital, first in Paris while she was on vacation with my sister Megan, and then back at St. Joseph's in Denver when they got home. It's a strange feeling to watch a parent fade into a shell of themselves and wonder if they might be dying. Fortunately, the health woes seem to have been caused by dehydration a reaction to several medications. For the first half a day or so, we weren't sure what was going on, and as one of her physician coworkers said, "it's either something like a drug reaction or a brain tumor." Brain tumor? That's not exactly how I was spending my autumn with my mom. That it turned out to be a pretty casual health issue is fortunate, but certainly acts as a warning not to take for granted those who you love. And for me, it was a good reminder to spend a few days with them now and then.
When she was still in the ER at St. Joe's, my sisters and I took turns sitting by her bed and watching the hysteria that can typify the ward. There were nurses and doctors everywhere, and at this point we weren't entirely sure of what was going on with our mom. Trying to stay calm and not grab anyone in scrubs and scream into their face, "What the fuck is going on with Mama Sus?" was a chore.
Besides the employees, there are plenty of patients with their own dramatic issues. A priest walked somberly into the adjacent room to deliver an elderly woman her last rites as the dying woman's daughter sobbed in the hall. It's hard not to get at least marginally attached to a stranger's plight when a man in a collar is involved. With walls made of fabric, it's easy to eavesdrop. You can imagine my relief, two fold, when I asked my mom what happened to her neighbor.
"Oh hell, she was just having nicotine withdrawal. She forgot her patch."
"Estelle" would live to fight another day, and that my mom's sense of humor was coming back showed that she was getting better, too. Thank god she could laugh about it, because the scene was pretty grim. After a few days on an I.V. and some positively atrocious hospital food, she's back on the mend. She was stuck on the renal diet because the dehydration threatened her kidneys, and the look on my mom's face when they denied her even fruit and cottage cheese, instead providing plain green beans, was maybe the saddest thing I saw the entire time she was in the ER. I felt like a criminal, but I covertly provided a few medjool dates so she had something sweet to gnaw on. Now that she's out, the food has improved dramatically, and so has her energy.
So as the summer winds down, take some time to share with people you care about. I'm glad I'll get another chance to do so.
To be fair, I've had an INSANELY fun season. I spent a lion's share of the time climbing with All-Stars. Teaming up to climb with friends seems like it's a no-brainer, but Rifle lends itself to plenty of time spent scumming belays from anyone you can find. I was pretty lucky this year, because I seemingly always had a supportive, fun crew around who were psyched to climb during the days and then cook great food, and talk about interesting subjects around the campfire. I know what crimps feel like. Heel-hooks? Yeah, sick, brah. But getting to know the details of teaching a room full of third graders, some basics about computer programming, and the pitfalls of managing multimillion dollar portfolios is a lot more compelling. Thanks, Team A+.
Recent developments at home have left me feeling happy for some local time, too. My mom got pretty sick last week and ended up in and out of the hospital, first in Paris while she was on vacation with my sister Megan, and then back at St. Joseph's in Denver when they got home. It's a strange feeling to watch a parent fade into a shell of themselves and wonder if they might be dying. Fortunately, the health woes seem to have been caused by dehydration a reaction to several medications. For the first half a day or so, we weren't sure what was going on, and as one of her physician coworkers said, "it's either something like a drug reaction or a brain tumor." Brain tumor? That's not exactly how I was spending my autumn with my mom. That it turned out to be a pretty casual health issue is fortunate, but certainly acts as a warning not to take for granted those who you love. And for me, it was a good reminder to spend a few days with them now and then.
When she was still in the ER at St. Joe's, my sisters and I took turns sitting by her bed and watching the hysteria that can typify the ward. There were nurses and doctors everywhere, and at this point we weren't entirely sure of what was going on with our mom. Trying to stay calm and not grab anyone in scrubs and scream into their face, "What the fuck is going on with Mama Sus?" was a chore.
Besides the employees, there are plenty of patients with their own dramatic issues. A priest walked somberly into the adjacent room to deliver an elderly woman her last rites as the dying woman's daughter sobbed in the hall. It's hard not to get at least marginally attached to a stranger's plight when a man in a collar is involved. With walls made of fabric, it's easy to eavesdrop. You can imagine my relief, two fold, when I asked my mom what happened to her neighbor.
"Oh hell, she was just having nicotine withdrawal. She forgot her patch."
"Estelle" would live to fight another day, and that my mom's sense of humor was coming back showed that she was getting better, too. Thank god she could laugh about it, because the scene was pretty grim. After a few days on an I.V. and some positively atrocious hospital food, she's back on the mend. She was stuck on the renal diet because the dehydration threatened her kidneys, and the look on my mom's face when they denied her even fruit and cottage cheese, instead providing plain green beans, was maybe the saddest thing I saw the entire time she was in the ER. I felt like a criminal, but I covertly provided a few medjool dates so she had something sweet to gnaw on. Now that she's out, the food has improved dramatically, and so has her energy.
So as the summer winds down, take some time to share with people you care about. I'm glad I'll get another chance to do so.
Wednesday, October 7, 2009
Urph and Merika Part ways
In Startling news, oft-photographed model Giselle Urph has ended her long standing romance with business mogul Jonathan Merika. Urph has long been associated with the ethos of the entire world, while Merika is a paragon of his home country, The USA. Dwarfing the likes of other movers and shakers Brad and Angelina (Brangelina), Tom Cruise and Katie Holmes (TomKat) and Pam Anderson and Kid Rock (Sluttrash), Urph and Merika reigned supreme as the preeminent power couple. The two had been romantically involved for years; ostensibly a model of monogamous synergy ever since the well publicized three way tryst involving the Russian oligarch Dmitri Petrovski came to an end in the late 1980’s.
(Urph and Merika in happier times)
Urph says of her previous flirtation with the two rival suitors, “Once I realized that the stress and tension was going to kill us all, it became obvious that I’d have to pick one of them. For a long time, Johnny was a good choice.” Multiple small fights and petty arguments over seemingly innocuous subjects, such as workers’ rights in Asian factories, put everyone on their toes. Mercifully, Urph chose to go steady with Merika, leaving the dejected Petrovski dumped and single. Since that falling out, the Russian has only sparingly seen the limelight, most recently in a business deal with a group in Georgia that fell flat with investors.
Indeed, the Urph-Merika courtship started out with fantastic promise. In their early years, the two were often spotted engaged in excited flirtation. Merika would arrive unannounced, flowers in hand, and whisk the model off her feet. Pleasure cruises in his convertible Corvette were the name of the game, and he’d often take Urph out to dinner at upscale restaurants. Without fail, Merika would always pick up the bill. His nonchalance with expenditures initially made Urph uneasy, as though the businessman expect something in return, but during their nascent courtship, he always maintained a gentlemanly attitude.
These lavish attentions gave the entertainer and model a feeling she hadn’t felt in the years prior to her fling with Merika. She’d suffered through multiple broken relationships with a string of B-listers. Congressman Anatoli Griego, Admiral Julius Rome, and rapper Widespread Islam (or We-I, as he’s best known in the hip hop world) had all led Urph by the arm to various film screenings and short-term dating scenarios prior to Merika’s arrival.
When asked to reminisce about those old flings, Giselle was hesitant to drag too many skeletons from her closet. However, she would offer the following: “Anatoli was fine, but he was kind of old fashioned. The thing that really stands out is that all he wanted to do was fuck me in the ass. Jules was fine, and to be honest, I thought we had some long-term promise. He got pretty caught up with his image, and then ran off with some Egyptian broad. That was that. Although, thinking about it, Jules sometimes reminded me of Anatoli. And We-I, well…”
Of course, Urph is referring to We-I’s well-publicized rise and decline. He’d come from a prominent recording family, and his debut album, The Stars of Love, The Mathematics of Desire, had gone triple platinum. Soon after, however, he’d tried to expand into genres that were too experimental for his core audience, and with the release of his first Spanish language record Te Adoro, Te Odio failing to achieve any lasting commercial success, We-I left Giselle for a life of ascetic cave dwelling where he’d renounced all reason and logic. (Below, We-I after his decline)
“Yeah, that one really went weird there at the end,” recalls the model. “I knew he was pissed because his whole Spanish experiment ended so poorly, but when I refused to give up vodka tonics and sunbathing in my bikini, he flipped. I was young, and fiercely hot. I was just coming into my own, and partying was such a big deal for me. Besides, my rock hard tah-tahs got me so much attention, there was no way I was wearing a burka for him.”
After We-I, Urph took a long hiatus from dating. She’d focused on career in the subsequent years, though with limited success. She’d begun to feel distressed about her few magazine covers, and perhaps was slightly vulnerable to Merika’s advances when he’d first arrived on the scene. Petrovski, too, saw the chance for love with the still stunning model. Though the Russian and Urph saw each other on several occasions, the two never really hit it off.
“When he asked me to split all the dinner bills in the name of Universal Brotherhood, or some such bullshit, I knew I’d have to end it. Besides, Johnny was calling me all the time then, anyway. It was actually a pretty easy transition, especially with him willing to pick up all the tabs. At least that’s what he wanted me to think.”
Here, Giselle refers to Merika’s propensity, after several years together, to forget his wallet from time to time, forcing the model to dip into her own funds. These money woes were in fact one of the initial signs of stress between the former power couple. While Merika had initially offered to buy dinners and fancy clothes for his “Special Lady,” as he’d often referred to her, eventually the strain began to show. The businessman had hoped for some sort of “return on investment,” as he was often fond of saying. Merika has been quoted as saying, “Look. If you’re gonna blow all that hard earned dough on some chick, at some point, she better pay it back. I’m not going to get into too many gory details, but I really could have gone for something more exciting in the sack. After a while, I got tired of paying for all her fun.”
Asked if he’d had something in mind along the likes of the Anatoli Griego rumors, Merika offers only a terse “No comment!”
Again, Urph: “It got pretty annoying when he was trying to play it cool like he had all this cash in the bank, but he was always judging my decisions with my own money. We were out at Macy’s one day, and I wanted to get a dozen new pairs of Seven jeans. I know they’re expensive, but they make my ass look great. Christ, it’s my money, but when we were checking out, he kept sarcastically saying they were a bad choice and so unnecessary. Who the hell is he to judge me?”
For all of his criticism of Giselle’s private expenditures, Merika’s business ventures were beginning to fall upon hard times. He’d recently filed for Chapter 11 bankruptcy protection, and had been humiliated at a recent casual dinner at Appleby’s after his credit card had been declined. Witnesses say that Urph had emptied her purse of cash, but the bill remained unresolved. Rumors abound that Merika joined in the dishwashing duties, and his recent quips about an “American Reinvestment Plan” do little to quell the disquiet.
Recently, Merika had begun to show the signs of his age. Perhaps most tellingly, his once rock had abs had given way to an unsightly paunch. His golden, flowing mane has been embarrassingly reduced by male pattern baldness. Though Merika remains that it’s perfectly natural for an aging superpower such as himself to begin to lose some of his old shine, the hefty amounts of McDonalds he’s recently taken to eating (no doubt partly due to his strapped budget) have left him worse for wear.
Another sign that the relationship was under strain was the constant disagreement on sports and leisure. Says Giselle, “(I)t got to the point where all he wanted to do was sit around and watch football with his awful buddy all weekend. I hate football. It’s despicably violent. I tried to get him interested in other stuff that we could do together, but he really wasn’t interested. My cricket suggestion went down in flames, and the one time I thought we’d have a chance with the soccer game I set up, it was more of the same childish tantrum crap.”
(Tex)
Here, Urph points out two signs of trouble. The first is Merika’s friendship with his insufferable friend, Tex. Tex had been a fraternity brother to Merika back in college, but had failed to ever move on from his drunken, abusive persona developed back at school. His trust fund (old family money from the oil business) has allowed for rampant temerity, and though the funds appear to be dwindling, his actions show little promise of forethought.
The second, of course, is the infamous soccer game Urph tried to stage in 1994. Jonathan was feeling experimental at the time, and agreed to play against Giselle in her favorite sport. “She kept calling it ‘football’ to try to trick me, and that’s the only reason I agreed to play. Every time I’d take the ball from her, she’d fall to the ground crying and scream ‘foul!’” Says Merika. “That’s a game for total puss bags. She’ll never forget when I scored my goal, though. God, I’m a natural at that inferior game.”
He refers, of course, to his celebration after his only goal of the game, a 13-1 demolition. He’s seen below, in the days where his blonde locks still reigned supreme. (There’s no word as to why he was wearing a sports bra)
“Around the time of the soccer game, I could see then that things were coming to an end,” says Urph. “And it just so happened that after the game, I was introduced to one of Johnny’s business partners. We hit it off then, and now that John and I have decided to break, we’ve been on a few dates. I don’t know if it’s serious, but the change of pace is really nice. We take long walks in the middle of the afternoon, and my God can he hit the clubs!”
Urph is, of course, speaking of her budding fling with new beau EUgene Schroder.
Merika was recently found in Tex’s basement, both of them blind drunk and playing a game they were calling “Tummy Sticks.” When asked for his romantic strategy following his break with Giselle, he simply muttered, “She’ll be back, she can’t resist this,” and pointed to his bulging belly, pink and distended from their game.
Despite his optimism, the two appear to have split for good. Giselle was last seen riding horses on an exclusive beach resort in Malta, EUgene laughing as he dismounted to spread a blanket for their picnic.
Thursday, October 1, 2009
Tacos with Fatties
In preparation for telecommuting in November, I took a bold step. My biggest client asked that I spent 2-3 days a week in their Denver office, and I said yes. The corporate cube life would certainly run amok of my typical routine of working from home. At home, I end up sleeping until I wake up (no alarm clocks allowed) and then hammering away on my laptop in a robe, sipping coffee until about 11. Civilized. Downtown, I'm wearing a tie and using a magnetic ID badge to pass through locked floors. At least, that is, until I fly the coop.
I've had a tough time adjusting. I find myself listening to my iPod, snickering at the Sports Guy's podcast or rapping along to Common and Kanye. This ain't the living room, though, and my colleagues' nervous glances make me feel like I'm breaking some sort of law. The shoes I wear to their office are great for going down to Obourn's (my boss who works from his home), but knackered Sperry topsiders look a little shabby in a hulking, soulless office tower. Hence the tie. I'm trying to fool them.
Rolling in at an hour I can only describe as ungodly, I'm shocked at how many people are already here. I mean, seriously. No one should try to permit a pipeline or make plans for oil and gas wells before 10AM, right? I've tried to "be a team player", as they're fond of saying around these parts, but I think tennis is more my game. Think of me as the lone wolf with a tennis racket. And a sweat band. And certainly some bad-ass kicks.
After I've put in a solid 
morning of work, I've taken to cruising around the 16th street mall, a big pedestrian strip running through town. There's an odd collection of business executives mingling with homeless vagrants, so far as I can tell. The people watching is really a nice diversion from four spartan, white walls and the occasional disembodied voice on the intercom asking that "Linda Hughes, please call the front desk." Oh yeah, and the pipeline permits. Maybe this is why I just took the GRE's in hopes that I'll go back to grad school and get a cooler job. Of course, I'll probably end up right back here, only in an office with a window. The test went well, by the way, so I'm thinking I'll get a big window. Sweet.
On my lunch break today, I headed down to Chipotle with hopes of rejuvenation. The day was moving along pretty slowly except for the news that a close family member had to check into the hospital, and instead of sulking in the office waiting for an update, I decided to head out for tacos. When you're helpless against fate trying to impose Sartre's Stranger on your life, you might as well get a snack.
The line was long, but October weather here is beautiful. Spending a few minutes outside waiting to be rushed through a line gave me time to think about the symmetry of the whole thing. The pigs, cows and chickens, so tastily marinated, grilled and chopped behind the counter, went through a similar sensation of waiting in line before being whisked through the rendering plant. I ordered veggie tacos.
My money taken by Chipotle (presumably on its merry, commercial way to buy more ingredients to feed to more people) I turned to find a seat. The choices were slim. A group of guys my age had an extra chair, but they were talking about football. I couldn't go back to that kind of conversation, not yet. There was a couple who could fit me in, the woman adorable with short, dark hair and nice skin. Playing third wheel would make for a heaping helping of awkward. Then I saw my destiny.
Three middle management types had commandeered a large table in the middle of the dining room. Three open seats stuck out, and just across the aisle from this inviting location were two cute girls chatting over burrito bowls. Ha! I could innocuously sit down, and perhaps strike up a conversation with these fine young lassies. As I strode over, my hopes were dashed. A horrible monster, unleashed by Poseidon to wreak doom upon my burgeoning sex life, waddled in front of me and stole my desired seat. The nerve!
Swamp thing was shaped like an egg, a pointy head nefariously attached to an oblong body without any regard for the need for a neck. Her hair was an odd mess of perm and dreadlocks, and her Kendle announced that she not only found herself infatuated by Lord of the Rings, but that she also starred as one of the ogres haunting Frodo.
"Humpty Dumpty," I thought, returning to my egg idea. "Humpty Dumpy." Yes, that'll do. Humpty Dumpy. So I turned to my third option, a table meant for four, though occupied only by a pleasant woman of about 50. She and I exchanged a few words, but spent lunch in relative silence. I didn't get to meet the cute girls, but I wasn't eaten alive, either.
I've had a tough time adjusting. I find myself listening to my iPod, snickering at the Sports Guy's podcast or rapping along to Common and Kanye. This ain't the living room, though, and my colleagues' nervous glances make me feel like I'm breaking some sort of law. The shoes I wear to their office are great for going down to Obourn's (my boss who works from his home), but knackered Sperry topsiders look a little shabby in a hulking, soulless office tower. Hence the tie. I'm trying to fool them.
Rolling in at an hour I can only describe as ungodly, I'm shocked at how many people are already here. I mean, seriously. No one should try to permit a pipeline or make plans for oil and gas wells before 10AM, right? I've tried to "be a team player", as they're fond of saying around these parts, but I think tennis is more my game. Think of me as the lone wolf with a tennis racket. And a sweat band. And certainly some bad-ass kicks.
After I've put in a solid 
morning of work, I've taken to cruising around the 16th street mall, a big pedestrian strip running through town. There's an odd collection of business executives mingling with homeless vagrants, so far as I can tell. The people watching is really a nice diversion from four spartan, white walls and the occasional disembodied voice on the intercom asking that "Linda Hughes, please call the front desk." Oh yeah, and the pipeline permits. Maybe this is why I just took the GRE's in hopes that I'll go back to grad school and get a cooler job. Of course, I'll probably end up right back here, only in an office with a window. The test went well, by the way, so I'm thinking I'll get a big window. Sweet.On my lunch break today, I headed down to Chipotle with hopes of rejuvenation. The day was moving along pretty slowly except for the news that a close family member had to check into the hospital, and instead of sulking in the office waiting for an update, I decided to head out for tacos. When you're helpless against fate trying to impose Sartre's Stranger on your life, you might as well get a snack.
The line was long, but October weather here is beautiful. Spending a few minutes outside waiting to be rushed through a line gave me time to think about the symmetry of the whole thing. The pigs, cows and chickens, so tastily marinated, grilled and chopped behind the counter, went through a similar sensation of waiting in line before being whisked through the rendering plant. I ordered veggie tacos.
My money taken by Chipotle (presumably on its merry, commercial way to buy more ingredients to feed to more people) I turned to find a seat. The choices were slim. A group of guys my age had an extra chair, but they were talking about football. I couldn't go back to that kind of conversation, not yet. There was a couple who could fit me in, the woman adorable with short, dark hair and nice skin. Playing third wheel would make for a heaping helping of awkward. Then I saw my destiny.
Three middle management types had commandeered a large table in the middle of the dining room. Three open seats stuck out, and just across the aisle from this inviting location were two cute girls chatting over burrito bowls. Ha! I could innocuously sit down, and perhaps strike up a conversation with these fine young lassies. As I strode over, my hopes were dashed. A horrible monster, unleashed by Poseidon to wreak doom upon my burgeoning sex life, waddled in front of me and stole my desired seat. The nerve!
Swamp thing was shaped like an egg, a pointy head nefariously attached to an oblong body without any regard for the need for a neck. Her hair was an odd mess of perm and dreadlocks, and her Kendle announced that she not only found herself infatuated by Lord of the Rings, but that she also starred as one of the ogres haunting Frodo.
"Humpty Dumpty," I thought, returning to my egg idea. "Humpty Dumpy." Yes, that'll do. Humpty Dumpy. So I turned to my third option, a table meant for four, though occupied only by a pleasant woman of about 50. She and I exchanged a few words, but spent lunch in relative silence. I didn't get to meet the cute girls, but I wasn't eaten alive, either.
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