NASA Lift Off, Bird Calls, and Visions of Hueco

Well, I owe you Voyeurs a big post. Sorry for the time off, and hopefully this bad-boy makes up for it.

You gotta understand, it was Christmas. Christ's goddamn birthday, for God's sake! How could I sully such an occasion with my sophomoric drivel? Plus, I celebrated the holiday with a reasonably substantial hangover. Hardly the state of mind that would allow me to weave another masterpiece. Sure, blogging's an art, right?

Enough chatter, let's get down to business. This post is about the indomitable psyche I've got brewing right now as I pack up and get ready to head down to Hueco Tanks State Park for the best bouldering in the world, located just outside of El Paso, Texas. Texas? And you thought I was crazy for my pilgrimage to Kentucky! It just so happens that some of the best climbing in the world isn't necessarily in a place where you'd expect to find it.

My buddy Greg is a teacher, but he splits time in his 7th grade science class with another instructor, and has a block of time free. My friend Kathy just finished her nursing program, and has some time to "study" before she takes her boards at the end of the month. And for me? I think we all know that my lifestyle allows for ample leisure and enjoyment. All in, we make three excited, available climbers. I called my buddy Mike Personick, The Legend when it comes to making a lifestyle work for climbing while still managing to retain a professional outlook, and he's currently in El Paso for the best weather window for Hueco. He and I shared The Highlander cabin at The Red, and it looks like he's going to let us crash his party once again.

The main mitigating factor muting our excitement is the bear of a drive that stands between Boulder and the border with our Mexican neighbors. 10+ hours in the car is going to be a pain in the ass, literally and figuratively, but given how much fun it is to climb down there, I think we'll all happily make the sacrifice. I've been there once before, way back in 2006. Actually, it was on this trip where I went to visit Nuno that I met Mikey P in the first place, and also ran into my friends Dan Mirsky, Mason Baker, and John Wallace for the first time. If you're really excited to climb, I suppose, you're drawn to Hueco during the winter like moths to a flame.

I've got several cards to play that should make the drive less onerous. First off, Spike Jonze's brother is going to keep me company. Spike is actually Adam Spiegel, and his brother, Sam, is a DJ with the moniker Squeak E. Clean. Squeak is also 1/2 of N.A.S.A., a collaboration with Brazilian DJ Zegon. N.A.S.A. stands for North America/South America, but the songs from the debut album "Spirit of Apollo" are pure Hollywood.

Putting to work their obviously deep connections to the entertainment world, N.A.S.A. attracts guest vocals from David Byrne, Kanye West, Tom Waits, Chuck D, George Clinton, members of Wu-Tang, and MIA, among others. The two DJ's then lay a spunky dance beat in the background. You've got to be kidding me with guest appearances like that! I've had "Spirit" on my ipod for a few days, and have been largely impressed with many of the album's 19 tracks.

I can't say that it gets me as excited to climb as, say, Pretty Lights, but I'd wear out my favorite local DJ if I only played him on my ipod when I climbed.

Additionally, I'm going to have a new uniform, literally, when I head down to El Paso. It seems like everyone has their favorite climbing pant/shirt combo, though I'm willing to concede that this opinion might be largely colored by the fact that I was at The Spot on Saturday and Movement on Sunday. Between the two indoor facilities, I saw plenty of young gym rats who gave me a ferocious sense of deja vu. There were literally a half dozen climbers that I saw both days who were dressed in the same getup. Honestly, dude? You don't even have a different color beenie to go with that familiar ragged tank top? Guess not.

Terrified of hypocrisy, I decided to expand my sartorial quiver before I became the next hipster V10 wannabe. And what better shirt than the official away jersey of my favorite soccer team, Real Madrid, complete with their playmaker Kaka's name and number on the back? Taking a variety of spellings, you'll hear the bird noise come from the belly of many a rock climber as they greet their fellow stone grapplers, while simultaneously alerting the world that a manorexic knave is fast approaching. I'm no exception. I love me some bird screeching. Now, I won't have to say a thing. I can just let 'em know when I whip off my hoodie, revealing spindly arms attached to an unlovable body.

It is important to emphasize just how neurotic I have become about this goddamn shirt. I alternate between wanting to live a life that would not necessarily be described as ascetic, but certainly less driven by materialistic want, and enjoying nice new things just like everyone else. I put off the decision to buy a new soccer jersey for a long time, though I'd constantly hoped that someone would just buy me one and save me the guilt. After the Christmas season, I finally caved and decided to get one, ordering it online from Real's official store.

I opted for the express shipping, figuring that if you're going to go for it, you might as well go all the way. Isn't that a nice way to describe impatience? UPS allowed me to track the package as it weaved its way towards my craving mitts here in CO. I updated the tracking information constantly. My spirits sank when it went from Manchester over to Cologne, Germany. Wrong way, Kaka! When it arrived in Philadelphia, I smiled knowing that we were within the borders of the proper country. Then to Louisville, UPS' hub, and finally to Commerce City, the hub for greater Denver's pollution and warehouses. Now it's out for delivery, and I'm gonna see it today.

I like to think that engaging my own material whims only sporadically is somehow better than wearing thin the magnetic strip of my Visa card in mere days. Especially given the thousands of gallons of jet fuel that were necessarily sacrificed to the deities in order for me to wear a number 8 on my back.

In spite of it all, I don't think I'm gonna rock Kaka at all times. Again, the hypocrisy. I'm envisioning a sort of special power suit, the type I'll bust out when I need the extra motivation that can only come in the form of a marketing scheme devised by a behemoth soccer club as they attempt to pay for their $90 million dollar Brazilian midfielder. And, if ever bereft of such need, I'll sport the kit on any given Thursday.