Last night, around the dinner table, my step mom asked all of us who had come to Montana for Thanksgiving about the most scared any of us has ever been. We went around the table, starting with her story of a friend who fell down a mineshaft while they were out on a hike. Joey was the one who, for five hours, stayed at the entrance to the hole while the others went to get help. When Search and Rescue arrived, she had been trying to talk her friend into continual consciousness with varied success. The friend, we'll call him Al, had begun hallucinating from the pain of his broken hip, but otherwise had undergone the ordeal with amazing luck. The rescuers killed the rattle snake he'd been keeping company, and they measured the fall at 60 feet. That's quite a distance, especially when you consider that at the bottom was a piece of rebar sticking straight out of the ground. Al had tumbled down the shaft and somehow missed that, as well.
The act itself was terrifying, I'm sure, but one reason I think the story qualifies as her most terrifying is due to the protracted nature of the whole thing. A tumble is one thing, but when you've got to sit and think of the repercussions of gravity for half a day, that's quite another. Especially when the victim is saying, "I hear a rattle".
In another interesting twist of Al's fate, he works at the EPA in Denver. His employment isn't so overwhelmingly interesting, but when you consider that Spencer, my step brother, works for an oil and gas lobbying group that generally opposes the EPA in Denver, we begin to breach irony worthy of head scratching. Apparently, Al and another woman from Spencer's employer are nemeses, and Al is a total pain in the ass for them. I'm sure he has always had it out for the extractive industries after that fateful day hike.
When it was my turn, I talked about how I'd been climbing a particular route that left me above some 30 year old quarter inch bolts that were rusted to all hell. The slab moves were only supposed to be 5.10, but when I looked about 15 feet to my right and saw a dusting of chalk, I knew I was off route. Maybe the route was 5.10, but I found myself in some slippery 5.12 R territory. I was perched on a dime sized edge for what seemed like an eternity, and while trying desperately to match feet in my efforts to get back on route, I careened off the wall. Looking down, I had sufficient time to wonder just how far I'd be going when the bolt tore out of the wall, but my daydream halted when my face slammed into the rock. There was an immediate shock of pain, but then I realized that I'd only gone 25 or 30 feet, so the protection must have held. More pressing was my dismay at what was tumbling down the rock. Two white nuggets were rolling down the face, and I quickly ran my tongue across my teeth. Interestingly, all were accounted for, and I realized my mistake. In my mental haze, I'd mistaken spilled chalk from my chalk bag as molars.
Besides a few more cuts, bruises, and a face that looked like it had just met the business end of a boxing mitt, I was ok. Standing on that edge waiting to die was likely the most scared I'd ever been, though.
When I woke up the morning after our story session, I was prepared to amend my tale of terror.
I dreamed that it was raining in Boulder and I was trying to get home. A group had gathered in the lobby of a local hotel, and were drinking and catching up. All of these people were alums from Wheat Ridge High School, home of the Farmers and my Alma Matter. Normally, I find any reason available to avoid cocktail hour with old high school acquaintances, and for this night I decided I just had to walk in the freezing rain. Fully drenched and shivering, I returned to the lobby and said hello to the group. I expressed how much I missed everyone and everything long forgotten, and excused myself. It seemed I was cold and wet, and needed to get home. How convenient. In my dream, I had reunited with my girlfriend from those same high school days, and here she was sitting in this very hotel. When I asked her what room we were in, my head spun. Terra, the old high school flame, explained that we weren't actually staying at that hotel, but lived together down in Westminister. Not only had I gotten back together with my high school girlfriend, I'd decided to move in with her, and into possibly the worst city in America. Three strikes, and I'm out.
When I woke up, I wanted to tell my family of the horror. I figured they'd laugh about the gigantic step backwards that a reunion with history would represent. Thinking of me living in Westminister, a soulless city along a highway that is full of shopping centers and apartment complexes would set them to howling. Instead, the whole family was still asleep, inebriated from too much turkey.
Alone, I made some coffee in hopes of freeing myself from the pain I was feeling. Too much food over the last couple of days was leaving me sluggish. Normally, I'd just take a heaping spoonful of pure psylium husk and be done with the stricture the following day, but I hadn't brought any. When I saw my father's Metamucil on the counter, I figured that it was an acceptable substitute. In the quiet of the morning, I chugged down some fiber and smiled at the reality of becoming my father, at least in my guts. Like him, I could look back with some perspective at the choices I'd made, and know that if I'd made them today, it would be the most terrifying decision of my life. In it's proper context, though, it's just a punchline that takes 12-24 hours to come full circle.
Saturday, November 29, 2008
Monday, November 24, 2008
Patty bein' Patty
First off, a report about Sonic Youth.
Yesterday was my seventh day trying the route. Spending a week of your life trying to move 70 feet is pure, unadulterated slowness. Can you get up and go to your fridge and get me a beer? That's how much progress I would make in a day. Luckily, I think day 8 will be my last down there. I managed to set a new high point, where previously I'd fallen only as high as the 5th bolt, which is at about 35 feet. Now, I've twice fallen grabbing, but not quite reeling in, the absolute last hold on the route.
Tomorrow I'm headed back with Dan Knights, and am feeling really good about my chances. Mostly, it's because of Dan. He has two claims to fame. First, he belayed me on Anarchitect when I did that route back in June. That one is, so far, my best send in CCC, and I'm liking the symmetry of his presence for what should be my new personal best in terms of difficulty.
Dan's second claim to fame is that he is a world champion rubik's cuber. I don't mean it off the cuff like he's really good. I mean he boarded a plane and flew to Toronto in 2003 and set a world goddamn record for the thing. He makes up for it by being a math genius (obviously), an exceedingly strong climber, and generally a great guy. I'm dumb, weak, and horrid. Like I said, symmetry.
I'll post my results for the route tomorrow.
While baseball lacks the appeal of rock climbing in my eyes, it does have one very signifigant magnetic force: Manny Ramirez. Specifically, Manny acts like himself. With alarming regularity, he is a GOON, and sometimes he's just totally normal. The media, teammates, and pop culture just shruggs it off as "Manny being Manny."
Today, I went for Patty being Patty.
I've been working on a pipeline project for a client for over three months, and I'm really getting ready to just finished it. Today, we had a final conference call with about 15 people, and settled on some changes I'd make on my portion of the application. I'd have a two other people check on my final draft to review specifics. Chuck and Larry are the two in question, and I've worked with these two guys before. Chuck looks like Jerry Garcia, and I'd say is about 55. Wild white hair compliments his soft, nasally voice, and his background in chemical engineering is matched by his experience as a construction guru and general savant. I like him a bunch, and enjoy working with him.
Larry is a surveyor who is working on the project, and though I've never met him face to face, I imagine he looks a lot like Chuck. He is similarly experienced and thoughtful, with a level of technical expertise that I don't have. Larry has probably been a surveyor since Nixon, and he might be 70, but who knows. Larry and Chuck have worked together for years, and though I want to crack the joke about "I now pronounce you Chuck and Larry," a film about gay marriage with Adam Sandler and the King of Queens guy, I refrain.
Larry and I were on the phone today after the conference call. I asked him about the review that he and Chuck would be doing on my report. He said they'd work on it in tandem, and I could think of it as "the Larry and Chuck tag team."
I chuckled at the joke, and went back to my computer to finish the document. When I was finished, I got prepared to email it to both of them. Here is the actual text:
Gentlemen,
(Or, as Larry referred to you both, the Larry and Chuck Tag Team)
(Or, as you're known within the Mexican Wrestling Federation, El Hombre and El Vampiro)
Please take a look at the attached Plan of Development. It has the changes we talked about this morning, all tracked for ease of editing.
When I get back the version you two have settled on, I'll tidy everything up and send it along to the BLM.
Thanks very much,
Patrick (Or, El Guapo, as I'm known down South)
* * *
Now, El Hombre means "The Man," El Vampiro means "The Vampire," and El Guapo either means "The Handsome One," or "You're Fired," depending on which Spanish to English dictionary you're using.
Who the hell knows if they got the email and laughed like crazed kids on pot, or if they discussed my obvious insanity. I just hope that we can get to a point in my career when email recipients shake their heads and say, "That's just Patty being Patty."
Yesterday was my seventh day trying the route. Spending a week of your life trying to move 70 feet is pure, unadulterated slowness. Can you get up and go to your fridge and get me a beer? That's how much progress I would make in a day. Luckily, I think day 8 will be my last down there. I managed to set a new high point, where previously I'd fallen only as high as the 5th bolt, which is at about 35 feet. Now, I've twice fallen grabbing, but not quite reeling in, the absolute last hold on the route.
Tomorrow I'm headed back with Dan Knights, and am feeling really good about my chances. Mostly, it's because of Dan. He has two claims to fame. First, he belayed me on Anarchitect when I did that route back in June. That one is, so far, my best send in CCC, and I'm liking the symmetry of his presence for what should be my new personal best in terms of difficulty.
Dan's second claim to fame is that he is a world champion rubik's cuber. I don't mean it off the cuff like he's really good. I mean he boarded a plane and flew to Toronto in 2003 and set a world goddamn record for the thing. He makes up for it by being a math genius (obviously), an exceedingly strong climber, and generally a great guy. I'm dumb, weak, and horrid. Like I said, symmetry.
I'll post my results for the route tomorrow.
While baseball lacks the appeal of rock climbing in my eyes, it does have one very signifigant magnetic force: Manny Ramirez. Specifically, Manny acts like himself. With alarming regularity, he is a GOON, and sometimes he's just totally normal. The media, teammates, and pop culture just shruggs it off as "Manny being Manny."
Today, I went for Patty being Patty.
I've been working on a pipeline project for a client for over three months, and I'm really getting ready to just finished it. Today, we had a final conference call with about 15 people, and settled on some changes I'd make on my portion of the application. I'd have a two other people check on my final draft to review specifics. Chuck and Larry are the two in question, and I've worked with these two guys before. Chuck looks like Jerry Garcia, and I'd say is about 55. Wild white hair compliments his soft, nasally voice, and his background in chemical engineering is matched by his experience as a construction guru and general savant. I like him a bunch, and enjoy working with him.
Larry is a surveyor who is working on the project, and though I've never met him face to face, I imagine he looks a lot like Chuck. He is similarly experienced and thoughtful, with a level of technical expertise that I don't have. Larry has probably been a surveyor since Nixon, and he might be 70, but who knows. Larry and Chuck have worked together for years, and though I want to crack the joke about "I now pronounce you Chuck and Larry," a film about gay marriage with Adam Sandler and the King of Queens guy, I refrain.
Larry and I were on the phone today after the conference call. I asked him about the review that he and Chuck would be doing on my report. He said they'd work on it in tandem, and I could think of it as "the Larry and Chuck tag team."
I chuckled at the joke, and went back to my computer to finish the document. When I was finished, I got prepared to email it to both of them. Here is the actual text:
Gentlemen,
(Or, as Larry referred to you both, the Larry and Chuck Tag Team)
(Or, as you're known within the Mexican Wrestling Federation, El Hombre and El Vampiro)
Please take a look at the attached Plan of Development. It has the changes we talked about this morning, all tracked for ease of editing.
When I get back the version you two have settled on, I'll tidy everything up and send it along to the BLM.
Thanks very much,
Patrick (Or, El Guapo, as I'm known down South)
* * *
Now, El Hombre means "The Man," El Vampiro means "The Vampire," and El Guapo either means "The Handsome One," or "You're Fired," depending on which Spanish to English dictionary you're using.
Who the hell knows if they got the email and laughed like crazed kids on pot, or if they discussed my obvious insanity. I just hope that we can get to a point in my career when email recipients shake their heads and say, "That's just Patty being Patty."
Tuesday, November 18, 2008
Nice Pants
Back in the 1990's, when America was still a great nation with a citizenry that could still get out and buy such textile luxuries, Dockers launched an advertising campaign titled "Nice Pants". You remember it, don't ya? The hunky model dressed in the great utility chino suitable for work, lounge, and golf would strut around a city, likely San Fransisco, and fend off the advances of women admiring his trousers. "Nice pants," they'd all say as they sinfully devoured his lower half with their eyes. Indeed. If it were really San Fransisco, he'd have been prancing around the Tenderloin district averting the advances from Hugo the Gay Cuban. Wherever the locale, America needs more nice pants. Specifically, Kate needs some nice new pants. Ski pants, that is. Waterproof, warm, and preferrably a fashionable green were her requisites, and I tried to deliver. I figured it was better that I do it, lest she turn to Hugo.
Dear lord, did I try. I went to The Bent Gate, where all I found was a pair of shoes for a certain someone. That certain someone was me, and it got me no closer to my goal of finding Kate a birthday present. I went to Neptune Mountaineering. There, focusing on the color of the pants in question, I found nothing for her OR me. Same for BC Surf & Sport, Boulder Ski Deals, and Echelon Sports. No luck at Sports Authority, The Ride Room at Loveland Basin, Patagonia.com, or Patagonia's outlet in Dillon, Montana. I looked at a bike shop that didn't sell skis, and in Longmont, happily known as Boulder's ghetto, I found a bike shop that did sell skis, though no ski pants. My quest culminated in total failure at a shop called Sniagrab, an old Gart Sport's spin off, and last stand for acres of unwanted fabric.
A salesman over at an adjacent ski shop told me he thought he'd seen some green pants hanging on their racks. I walked across the parking lot and wandered into the warehouse-come-ski shop. The walls were eye-scaldingly white, no music played as a distraction, and in front of me were racks upon racks of ski wear. Coats, pants, helmets, boots, binding, skis and snowboards. This is where odd sizes, wild colors, and fur lined fashion has come to die. I immediately wandered to the section labeled as "Women's small," and assumed I'd soon find the answer to all my shopping woes. I searched for longer than expected. Sure, I saw fiery red, bleach white, and plaids from any number of companies. But no green. There was a green, orange, and brown pattern that resembled a highly organized game of chutes and ladders, but no simple kelley green. There's not even lime.
But then, I see it. In a different section, this one labeled "Youth Large." Deep, dark green. Perfect. I call my sister and ask her if it might fly. She tries to talk me out of it, asking what sizes Sniagrab has in the youth aisles.
"Only a medium and a large."
She tells me that only an extra large will do, a very polite way of telling me that my idea smells of stupidity and desperation. Which it does.
I bought them anyway. I'd talked myself into the large pair after holding them up in silhouette against a woman's small and deciding that it was pretty close. That's just the kind of gift every girl wants for their big day, right? "Not quite right, but pretty close. I love you, what's for dinner?"
Earlier in the day, I had been by my dad's house, where I picked up the container of ski accoutrements that Kate had been storing there. Feeling sly from my bait and switch, I stashed the pants in the box knowing that she'll look inside when I bring it into the house, instinctively checking to see that I've collected all of her things.
I walked in the door upon my arrival at home with the big box in my hands, and then went back to my car for other things to bring inside. The box sat idly by the door through the unloading process, and I asked her what we're possibly going to do with it in our cramped home. Then, through dinner, I asked if she'll find a place for it. When we're finally both in bed, the box hadn't moved, and I'm not sure if I'm mad because the living room is cluttered, or if it's due to the surprise left hidden.
"Just go open the damn ski box!" I nearly shouted, wringing any romance of the moment directly into the toilet.
When Kate came back into the bedroom, she's was smiling and putting the pieces together. Indeed, that's where I'd been during all of my secret missions in the evenings. Buying boys pants. She tried to slip them on, but they were meant for a human even smaller than my girlfriend.
"They're so green, but I don't really care if they're that color. We should go together and look. Maybe I should get some white ones. That'd go better with my jacket, anyway."
So now it's back to Sniagrab for a return, and maybe another swim through the endless rows of hanging pants, swinging silently on the racks. If we don't find anything there, I know Boulder Ski Deals has quite a selection. Just no green.
Dear lord, did I try. I went to The Bent Gate, where all I found was a pair of shoes for a certain someone. That certain someone was me, and it got me no closer to my goal of finding Kate a birthday present. I went to Neptune Mountaineering. There, focusing on the color of the pants in question, I found nothing for her OR me. Same for BC Surf & Sport, Boulder Ski Deals, and Echelon Sports. No luck at Sports Authority, The Ride Room at Loveland Basin, Patagonia.com, or Patagonia's outlet in Dillon, Montana. I looked at a bike shop that didn't sell skis, and in Longmont, happily known as Boulder's ghetto, I found a bike shop that did sell skis, though no ski pants. My quest culminated in total failure at a shop called Sniagrab, an old Gart Sport's spin off, and last stand for acres of unwanted fabric.
A salesman over at an adjacent ski shop told me he thought he'd seen some green pants hanging on their racks. I walked across the parking lot and wandered into the warehouse-come-ski shop. The walls were eye-scaldingly white, no music played as a distraction, and in front of me were racks upon racks of ski wear. Coats, pants, helmets, boots, binding, skis and snowboards. This is where odd sizes, wild colors, and fur lined fashion has come to die. I immediately wandered to the section labeled as "Women's small," and assumed I'd soon find the answer to all my shopping woes. I searched for longer than expected. Sure, I saw fiery red, bleach white, and plaids from any number of companies. But no green. There was a green, orange, and brown pattern that resembled a highly organized game of chutes and ladders, but no simple kelley green. There's not even lime.
But then, I see it. In a different section, this one labeled "Youth Large." Deep, dark green. Perfect. I call my sister and ask her if it might fly. She tries to talk me out of it, asking what sizes Sniagrab has in the youth aisles.
"Only a medium and a large."
She tells me that only an extra large will do, a very polite way of telling me that my idea smells of stupidity and desperation. Which it does.
I bought them anyway. I'd talked myself into the large pair after holding them up in silhouette against a woman's small and deciding that it was pretty close. That's just the kind of gift every girl wants for their big day, right? "Not quite right, but pretty close. I love you, what's for dinner?"
Earlier in the day, I had been by my dad's house, where I picked up the container of ski accoutrements that Kate had been storing there. Feeling sly from my bait and switch, I stashed the pants in the box knowing that she'll look inside when I bring it into the house, instinctively checking to see that I've collected all of her things.
I walked in the door upon my arrival at home with the big box in my hands, and then went back to my car for other things to bring inside. The box sat idly by the door through the unloading process, and I asked her what we're possibly going to do with it in our cramped home. Then, through dinner, I asked if she'll find a place for it. When we're finally both in bed, the box hadn't moved, and I'm not sure if I'm mad because the living room is cluttered, or if it's due to the surprise left hidden.
"Just go open the damn ski box!" I nearly shouted, wringing any romance of the moment directly into the toilet.
When Kate came back into the bedroom, she's was smiling and putting the pieces together. Indeed, that's where I'd been during all of my secret missions in the evenings. Buying boys pants. She tried to slip them on, but they were meant for a human even smaller than my girlfriend.
"They're so green, but I don't really care if they're that color. We should go together and look. Maybe I should get some white ones. That'd go better with my jacket, anyway."
So now it's back to Sniagrab for a return, and maybe another swim through the endless rows of hanging pants, swinging silently on the racks. If we don't find anything there, I know Boulder Ski Deals has quite a selection. Just no green.
Monday, November 17, 2008
Foolish Designs
When Barbara called during dinner, congratulating me on my new place and offering to start up a subscription to the Rocky Mountain News, I could hardly get mad. She was just doing her job, and I'm sure she has enough people acting like jerks and telling her to quit bugging them that I decided I didn't want to be one of them. I politely told her that I already had a subscription to another paper and was content with that one, but I hoped she would have a nice night. Then, I walked outside to get some stuff out of my car, and heard a camera take a picture of the inside of my pocket. That's when I stopped being forgiving of people "just doing their jobs".
What idiot engineer decided to make a flip up cell phone with a camera function and useless voice activation on the outside of the keypad? Fools, all of them! The whole point of a flip phone is to keep it harmlessly neutered when it is closed. That's it. A car doesn't start when the keys are in your pocket, the microwave doesn't cook food until you hit the start button, and Pandora.com doesn't play music on your computer until you open the browser. So why, in my phone's photo archive, do I have 26 pictures of the opaque innards of my Carhartts?
Another flaw I've found, in in a jacket of mine. I have this Patagonia coat that my mom got me, and it is almost bad-ass. The only problem is that the arms are too short. I think Patagonia decided that America likes to think it's fit and trim, but in fact, it is actually a bunch of sluggards standing on the sidelines. Sometime recently, Patagonia stopped making clothes to fit athletes, and started making stuff to fit the average REI shopper. So now I have a medium jacket that keeps my wrists warm, so long as I don't bend my elbows. The minute I try to feed myself, wipe my nose, or tie my shoes, I've got a problem. My mom got me the jacket and I've used it a fair amount over the last year, but now I'm wondering if I should try to foist it onto some armchair mountaineer browsing craigslist for the latest in outdoor fashion. I'd gladly take the proceeds and apply them on a replacement with superior sartorial effects, but would hate to bum out Mama Sus. I should wash the thing, too. Especially if it's up for sale.
And as for the ultimate in poor design, let's not overlook the abject disaster that is the radio in my Subaru. Somehow, I either lost a connection in the wires that link speakers to tuner, or applied some secret voodoo to the buttons that magically initiated a "Mute" function. One day, it was working fine, and I was singing along to Steve Miller as we both flew like eagles. I parked the car to jump in with my buddy Rob, taking his auto to go climbing for the afternoon. When I got back to Abby the Subaru, she was only capable of a whisper. Now I have the volume cranked up as loud as it will go, but can barely hear what song is playing. Not to mention that there is absolutely zero hope of catching the nasaly croaks from NPR. On top of it all, I'm a little worried that the problem will resolve itself as quickly as it came into being, and I'll jump with fright as the volume cranks back to record setting levels while a shower of blood streams forth from my shattered ear drums. I took to letting my laptop ride shotgun for a while, propped open and playing iTunes. Then I realized that if I got pulled over, I'd get a ticket for, if nothing else, being a total moron.
Guilty. But so are the audio techs at Subaru.
What idiot engineer decided to make a flip up cell phone with a camera function and useless voice activation on the outside of the keypad? Fools, all of them! The whole point of a flip phone is to keep it harmlessly neutered when it is closed. That's it. A car doesn't start when the keys are in your pocket, the microwave doesn't cook food until you hit the start button, and Pandora.com doesn't play music on your computer until you open the browser. So why, in my phone's photo archive, do I have 26 pictures of the opaque innards of my Carhartts?
Another flaw I've found, in in a jacket of mine. I have this Patagonia coat that my mom got me, and it is almost bad-ass. The only problem is that the arms are too short. I think Patagonia decided that America likes to think it's fit and trim, but in fact, it is actually a bunch of sluggards standing on the sidelines. Sometime recently, Patagonia stopped making clothes to fit athletes, and started making stuff to fit the average REI shopper. So now I have a medium jacket that keeps my wrists warm, so long as I don't bend my elbows. The minute I try to feed myself, wipe my nose, or tie my shoes, I've got a problem. My mom got me the jacket and I've used it a fair amount over the last year, but now I'm wondering if I should try to foist it onto some armchair mountaineer browsing craigslist for the latest in outdoor fashion. I'd gladly take the proceeds and apply them on a replacement with superior sartorial effects, but would hate to bum out Mama Sus. I should wash the thing, too. Especially if it's up for sale.
And as for the ultimate in poor design, let's not overlook the abject disaster that is the radio in my Subaru. Somehow, I either lost a connection in the wires that link speakers to tuner, or applied some secret voodoo to the buttons that magically initiated a "Mute" function. One day, it was working fine, and I was singing along to Steve Miller as we both flew like eagles. I parked the car to jump in with my buddy Rob, taking his auto to go climbing for the afternoon. When I got back to Abby the Subaru, she was only capable of a whisper. Now I have the volume cranked up as loud as it will go, but can barely hear what song is playing. Not to mention that there is absolutely zero hope of catching the nasaly croaks from NPR. On top of it all, I'm a little worried that the problem will resolve itself as quickly as it came into being, and I'll jump with fright as the volume cranks back to record setting levels while a shower of blood streams forth from my shattered ear drums. I took to letting my laptop ride shotgun for a while, propped open and playing iTunes. Then I realized that if I got pulled over, I'd get a ticket for, if nothing else, being a total moron.
Guilty. But so are the audio techs at Subaru.
Sunday, November 16, 2008
A climbing weekend
Today in Boulder, it was 70 degrees. I'm not one to take one piece of anecdotal evidence and blow it out of proportion (yes I am) but it seems hard to dispute that something is happening with our climate that isn't totally normal. I did, however, take advantage of the warm air and headed down to Clear Creek with my buddies Brian and Erin for another go at Sonic Youth. Spoiler alert: I didn't send.
Along with Kate and our buddy Dave, the three of us had spent Saturday down at Shelf Road. It was one of those glorious late fall days where the sun is beating down on the golden walls of the Cactus Cliff, washing the valley in warm light all the way down to Little Bear and Blanca Peak. Count on Shelf to attract a fair share of idiots, though. Some group of butt-nutts from Fort Collins (figures) were talking about how excited they were to drink until they shit blood that night. We ran into another guy who had recently assaulted one of our Boulder buddies at a cliff back on the Front Range. But perhaps the most troubling realization of the trip to Shelf was that one of my toenails is going to fall off, and it hurts like hell to toe in really hard with my left foot.
Thank the sweet god of Mexican food that La Casita welcomed us with open arms, cold margaritas, and really good tortillas after all the madness. We weren't sure if we were going to find that particular restaurant in Colorado Springs, but Brian "eagle-eye" Lichtenheld spotted the sign from the highway and had us pulling a u-turn at the next exit. We started to consider a Chipotle substitute, and I'm a serious Chipotle fan, but I'll say with great confidence that we came out ahead thanks to Brian's sniper vision.
With bellies full of Tex-Mex, Kate and I got in some serious sleep on Saturday night. We woke up Sunday and decided to do our own thing for the day, with her hanging with a friend and me making my way south the the project. I met up with Brian and Erin along the highway after they came down from another cliff, and we headed up to Primo wall to warm up and so that Erin could try a route she's been working on. After we survived some substantial rockfall set off by a herd (pack? pride? gaggle?) of bighorn sheep, the three of us took off down the canyon and tried to beat the setting sun for one quick burn on Sonic. I fell just below the first roof, which was frustrating given that I felt pretty good. I pulled back on and then climbed through the next couple of difficult sections, only to fall again just below the anchor. On one hand, I feel really good that I've got the route down to two hangs. That's usually a good sign that it will come together soon. On the other hand, it's almost sad to see hard projects come to a close.
I feel like this is probably going to be the last route I get serious about this season, and it has me coming to terms with the reality that winter is setting in and we'll be skiing soon. Of course, given the recent heat wave, maybe not. Rifle might be coming back into shape, for all I know.
Along with Kate and our buddy Dave, the three of us had spent Saturday down at Shelf Road. It was one of those glorious late fall days where the sun is beating down on the golden walls of the Cactus Cliff, washing the valley in warm light all the way down to Little Bear and Blanca Peak. Count on Shelf to attract a fair share of idiots, though. Some group of butt-nutts from Fort Collins (figures) were talking about how excited they were to drink until they shit blood that night. We ran into another guy who had recently assaulted one of our Boulder buddies at a cliff back on the Front Range. But perhaps the most troubling realization of the trip to Shelf was that one of my toenails is going to fall off, and it hurts like hell to toe in really hard with my left foot.
Thank the sweet god of Mexican food that La Casita welcomed us with open arms, cold margaritas, and really good tortillas after all the madness. We weren't sure if we were going to find that particular restaurant in Colorado Springs, but Brian "eagle-eye" Lichtenheld spotted the sign from the highway and had us pulling a u-turn at the next exit. We started to consider a Chipotle substitute, and I'm a serious Chipotle fan, but I'll say with great confidence that we came out ahead thanks to Brian's sniper vision.
With bellies full of Tex-Mex, Kate and I got in some serious sleep on Saturday night. We woke up Sunday and decided to do our own thing for the day, with her hanging with a friend and me making my way south the the project. I met up with Brian and Erin along the highway after they came down from another cliff, and we headed up to Primo wall to warm up and so that Erin could try a route she's been working on. After we survived some substantial rockfall set off by a herd (pack? pride? gaggle?) of bighorn sheep, the three of us took off down the canyon and tried to beat the setting sun for one quick burn on Sonic. I fell just below the first roof, which was frustrating given that I felt pretty good. I pulled back on and then climbed through the next couple of difficult sections, only to fall again just below the anchor. On one hand, I feel really good that I've got the route down to two hangs. That's usually a good sign that it will come together soon. On the other hand, it's almost sad to see hard projects come to a close.
I feel like this is probably going to be the last route I get serious about this season, and it has me coming to terms with the reality that winter is setting in and we'll be skiing soon. Of course, given the recent heat wave, maybe not. Rifle might be coming back into shape, for all I know.
Thursday, November 13, 2008
New project
After Rifle shut down for the season, I figured that the heavy projecting would have to wait until the spring. Wrong. How the hell did I forget about Clear Creek?
Sonic Youth is one of the more conspicuous routes in the canyon, rising steeply out of the creek just opposite a major parking turnout around tunnel 4. The route ascends an overhanging dihedral and sneaks out of three successive horizontal roofs. The moves are powerful and bouldery, but with two very good rests thrown in the mix, it feels like it can come together pretty quickly. I've been on it four different times, and with each attempt, I get more and more hopeful that it can go down.
I was down there with a couple of friends yesterday, and learned a few tricks that I'll use to hopefully send the route the next day I'm able to get on it.
I think there is a general consensus that Anarchitect, a route I've previously sent in CCC, is actually harder. I'm not sure. Anarchitect is more technical, while on Sonic Youth, you just have to bear down and toss towards some good holds and hang on to the wall. Anarchitect is certainly more my style, but I'm trying to learn how to thug through hard moves.
I'll keep you posted, and hopefully get it finished up soon to round out a really good, successful season.
Sonic Youth is one of the more conspicuous routes in the canyon, rising steeply out of the creek just opposite a major parking turnout around tunnel 4. The route ascends an overhanging dihedral and sneaks out of three successive horizontal roofs. The moves are powerful and bouldery, but with two very good rests thrown in the mix, it feels like it can come together pretty quickly. I've been on it four different times, and with each attempt, I get more and more hopeful that it can go down.
I was down there with a couple of friends yesterday, and learned a few tricks that I'll use to hopefully send the route the next day I'm able to get on it.
I think there is a general consensus that Anarchitect, a route I've previously sent in CCC, is actually harder. I'm not sure. Anarchitect is more technical, while on Sonic Youth, you just have to bear down and toss towards some good holds and hang on to the wall. Anarchitect is certainly more my style, but I'm trying to learn how to thug through hard moves.
I'll keep you posted, and hopefully get it finished up soon to round out a really good, successful season.
Tuesday, November 11, 2008
Zen and the art of knicknack avoidance
I've got nothing against stoners. In fact, given the proper context, I think they might be on to something . But thank God I wasn't high when I was stumbling around Target this morning. Any sense of alacrity goes straight down the tubes after a....ummm...."mindset" change. I get distracted easily. (My mom reads this blog, so I'll be discrete. You know what? This post is going straight to hell. I can already feel it. Ma, quit reading.)
So there I was, on a mission. All I needed to do was return a telephone and pick up some TP. Basic stuff, in and out. About a week ago, I bought an extra phone just in case our Comcast service problems were actually caused by a dead handset. When they replaced the modem and the dial tone returned, I knew I didn't need the extra electronics. That meant I'd have to return to The Store of Very Many Aisles, as it's known in the third world, in order to get my money back. I don't need to explain why I needed more TP.
I was making my way back towards the paper towels, napkins, and TP when I passed by the condom shelf and thought,
"Goodness! Look at that selection! Colors, styles....MAGNUM! I should check that out!"
Now without getting into any uncomfortable details, I'm in a safe, monogamous relationship, and I'm not really in the condom market right now. Then, a voice in my head, apparently one that had come under the influence of marajuana and was enthralled with the prospect of seeing its first magnum, said,
"But you could try to make those balloon animals, if nothing else....Come on. PLEEEEEASE."
I continued on, grabbed only the TP, and headed to the front of the store for checkout and my exchange. Target has shelves upon shelves of stuff you don't need, but if you let your guard down for even a second, you'll get suckered. On the way to the register, I passed by the clothing section. A woman was holding up three different colors of turtle neck sweaters, wondering to herself which one might look best with her skin tone. I guarantee she didn't wake up today and write a to-do list that included "Buy Turtlenecks". You gotta be careful in there, my friends.
This power to avoid the unnecessary doesn't seem to run in the blood of all of us. Take the turtleneck woman, for example. At the check out line, I saw her again. With all three colors. And when I was back in Kentucky on my most recent climbing trip, I saw one of the most egregious examples of when a man should just say no.
The Kroger grocery store in Stanton, KY is home to all imaginable stereotypes of the rural south. Speech is slow, friendly, and slurred. Physical education has long been forgotten at Powell County High School, home of the Fighting, albeit lethargic, Pirates. Tobacco is king, high fructose corn syrup is just corn, and America elected a Negro. "Sweet Jesus, Gawd Almighty!"
In the check out line, I saw a man and his progeny. I'm willing to bet that they were father and son given their genetic similarities (each with a swinging gut, rat tail, etc.) and matching overalls. The son looked to be about 13, and had in his hand a bottle of beer weighing in at exactly 40 ounces. He held it behind his back until his father was loading up the conveyor belt with fixuns. Sheepishly, the boy placed it in line with the rest of the food.
"Ah nah. I ain't gonna buy you that."
"Come on paw." He looked sheepishly at his bare feet. "Please."
"Oh all right."
If I find myself back in Target, tantalized at the prospect of latex, I might just cater to that begging voice. I could always give them away to strangers who I deem unfit to parent. I would have given them away to the man in the check out line, but it seems to me that after 13 years, the damage is done.
So there I was, on a mission. All I needed to do was return a telephone and pick up some TP. Basic stuff, in and out. About a week ago, I bought an extra phone just in case our Comcast service problems were actually caused by a dead handset. When they replaced the modem and the dial tone returned, I knew I didn't need the extra electronics. That meant I'd have to return to The Store of Very Many Aisles, as it's known in the third world, in order to get my money back. I don't need to explain why I needed more TP.
I was making my way back towards the paper towels, napkins, and TP when I passed by the condom shelf and thought,
"Goodness! Look at that selection! Colors, styles....MAGNUM! I should check that out!"
Now without getting into any uncomfortable details, I'm in a safe, monogamous relationship, and I'm not really in the condom market right now. Then, a voice in my head, apparently one that had come under the influence of marajuana and was enthralled with the prospect of seeing its first magnum, said,
"But you could try to make those balloon animals, if nothing else....Come on. PLEEEEEASE."
I continued on, grabbed only the TP, and headed to the front of the store for checkout and my exchange. Target has shelves upon shelves of stuff you don't need, but if you let your guard down for even a second, you'll get suckered. On the way to the register, I passed by the clothing section. A woman was holding up three different colors of turtle neck sweaters, wondering to herself which one might look best with her skin tone. I guarantee she didn't wake up today and write a to-do list that included "Buy Turtlenecks". You gotta be careful in there, my friends.
This power to avoid the unnecessary doesn't seem to run in the blood of all of us. Take the turtleneck woman, for example. At the check out line, I saw her again. With all three colors. And when I was back in Kentucky on my most recent climbing trip, I saw one of the most egregious examples of when a man should just say no.
The Kroger grocery store in Stanton, KY is home to all imaginable stereotypes of the rural south. Speech is slow, friendly, and slurred. Physical education has long been forgotten at Powell County High School, home of the Fighting, albeit lethargic, Pirates. Tobacco is king, high fructose corn syrup is just corn, and America elected a Negro. "Sweet Jesus, Gawd Almighty!"
In the check out line, I saw a man and his progeny. I'm willing to bet that they were father and son given their genetic similarities (each with a swinging gut, rat tail, etc.) and matching overalls. The son looked to be about 13, and had in his hand a bottle of beer weighing in at exactly 40 ounces. He held it behind his back until his father was loading up the conveyor belt with fixuns. Sheepishly, the boy placed it in line with the rest of the food.
"Ah nah. I ain't gonna buy you that."
"Come on paw." He looked sheepishly at his bare feet. "Please."
"Oh all right."
If I find myself back in Target, tantalized at the prospect of latex, I might just cater to that begging voice. I could always give them away to strangers who I deem unfit to parent. I would have given them away to the man in the check out line, but it seems to me that after 13 years, the damage is done.
Sunday, November 9, 2008
They're watching you, too...
About an hour after Comcast's repair man left the house, my cell phone rang. It was someone from their "Escalation Department" checking to make sure everything got straightened out. It was nice to be able to report that yes, indeed, everything had turned out well, and that the phone was fully functioning. If I'd have continued my blogging bellyaching, I fear that the sniper posted on the roof across the street would have been forced to "silence the target," as I'm sure they say over at "Escalations." In truth, I was stunned by how well they responded.
So much so, that I even argued with Kate about the bill. Her mentality, no doubt derived from too many hours behind the wheel on the New Jersey Turnpike, is to argue that, because we didn't have service for the first eight days of the billing cycle, we shouldn't have to pay for it. I can see the logic here, but given that our bill is all of about $20, and the prorated portion is essentially like arguing over the cost of a Venti latte, AND Comcast seemed to genuinely want to fix the problem, I'll happily pay it.
Kate still thinks that not contesting the bill, at least on principle, is crazy. I feel like maybe it is just service karma, so I want to call a truce by quietly paying the bill after they return service. Keep in mind that she recently dealt with multiple thousands of dollars of disputed charges and payments from both Washington Gas & Electric and Marsh & McLennan. D.C.'s utility company continually sent her double charges, misplaced her refunds, and lost her bill info. She happened to meet their CEO at a federal policy meeting she was attending for work, and the problem was magically solved. Marsh & McLennan kept her on the payroll for months after she quit, continued her AT&T account and charged her for it, and never reimbursed her for some expenses. It might be solved now that she's called their general counsel. These two companies need some internet monitor software and an Escalations Department.
Speaking of the man monitoring your every move...
When I lived down in New Zealand just after college, I had zero contacts and even fewer marketable skills other than the muscles in my back. Accordingly, I worked some pretty shite jobs. Worst of the bunch was unloading 60 pound boxes of frozen squid from boats that had recently docked in our town of Dunedin. My roommates were also expat Americans looking for some cash, and together we'd sit in our living room and peer out the window of our rented flat down towards the harbor. If no boats came in, we'd return to our Scrabble, tea, and rag weed, and debate the benefits of staying home. Sure, we weren't making any cash, but all three of us knew how bad the work on the boats really was. Neil, one of my roomates, had grown up on construction sites and was no stranger to some tough manual labor. When he looked at me through exhausted eyes one day while we were working and claimed, "This is the hardest goddamn work I've ever done," I was equal parts bouyed and deflated. On one hand, if Neil thought it was hard, it meant I was pretty tough if I'd survive the shift. But on the other, it was the hardest godamn work I'd ever done, too. Clawing at icy bricks while angry Maoris yelled at me to work faster, occassionally tossing a loose squid like a football just past my ear to make sure I was paying attention, was just not much fun.
On the days when the boats would come in, they'd be accompanied by a cloud of seagulls looking to pick up a snack from the boxes that broke open during the unloading process. We'd all look at the birds, look at each other, sigh, have one last cup of tea and scrabble game, and pack our lunch. Work was calling, in the form of a hungry gull screaming for lunch.
We'd walk the mile or so down to the harbor and check in to the foreman's office. In New Zealand, they do nearly all payroll through direct deposit. We'd tell the guy in charge our bank account number, hope to god there'd be a deposit instead of a withdrawal in a week's time, and put on our uniforms. We'd find our size of rubber galoshes with steel toes, a hard hat, a high visibility reflective vest, and whatever clothes we'd brought along. The holds of the boats are giant freezers, so we quickly realized that multiple hats, coats, and long underwear ensembles were required.
The shifts would last for 40 minutes, and then a third of the workers would get a 20 minute break. This cycle would rotate for as long as it took to unload the entire boat, usually 12-18 hours. During our breaks, we'd drink a couple of cups of coffee, eat a sandwich or two, and try to shake the cold out of our bones. On the dot, a different work crew would emerge from the boat, and we'd have to head back in. All the workers were free to leave at any time, and usually a 10 hour day was all our skinny American asses could handle.
At the start of the shift, the hold was packed so tightly that it would be impossible to even get in, so we'd have to open one of the hatches and start digging like miners. Once workers had exposed a big enough space in the hold, the roof hatch could be lifted open and a crane would swing a giant basket into the clearing.
From this point forward, the crane would lower an empty basket into the hold through the hole in the roof, and pick up a basket that was full of boxes, continually rotating the two baskets. This cycle would continue until the only frozen things left on the boat were humaoid.
I think we got paid $14 NZ Dollars an hour, or about $10 American.
When the boats weren't in harbor, we would occasionally work for a temporary labor agency. HireEquip would scour Dunedin for businesses that needed chores done, and send out the underling Americans to weld, stock grocery shelves, sweep floors, whatever. Thank god I had an iPod. We'd contracted on to do a number of different jobs, and swapped off working for the docks when a boat came in. When the agency called our house one day and asked if we wanted to work, we made one crucial mistake. We should have looked out the window.
The HireEquip guys arranged all the day laborers who had answered their call in front of the waiting van. They explained that they'd be driving us to the harbor. Tom, my other roommate, looked at me and mouthed some choice words, and I knew exactly what he was thinking.
HireEquip paid all of its employees a flat rate of $10 NZ Dollars, regardless of the job. They'd hire us out for whatever they could get, and keep the difference. That's how they made their money, and that is exactly how we'd be losing ours. Tom and I spent the day knowing full well that we'd be paid about 30% less for the exact same work we'd been doing on our own just a few days earlier. The next day, we decided to cut out the middleman.
We went back to the docs, knowing that there'd still be work. The morning saw us back in the boat, loading the last of the boxes into the crane basket. After that, we were above deck sorting different kinds of seafood, and loading them into various containers bound for California, China, and Japan. During our time out in the open air, we saw one of the HireEquip overlords milling around. He'd brought a crew of guys to the docks, and was making sure everything was in order.
"Oy. What are you two blokes doin' about?"
"Working."
"Not for us, so hell no you ain't. That violates your contract. You're going to be paying HireEquip $1,500 in restitution."
The bad guy in this story had clearly been established.
His threat centered around a clause in the contract we signed with the temp. agency that limited us from taking employment with any group we'd worked for on behalf of HireEquip. I checked the contract when we got home from the docks that day, and there was some wording that certainly tried to prohibit this kind of behavior. It makes sense from a business standpoint, but we felt like it was pretty lame given that we'd worked for the squid companies before ever doing a day through HireEquip. I started freaking out, thinking the cops would knock on our door and I'd be liable for a sum of money that I didn't have at the time, regardless of the exchange rate. I called my dad, an attorney, and he pretty much lawyered up on it.
"Do they define employment?"
"No."
"Unenforcable." Then he started referring case law and lost me immediately. I was too wrapped up in the cozy blanket called unenforcable.
For the next few weeks, we'd all gasp when someone would knock on the door, cry when the phone would ring, and gingerly open the mailbox like there was an anthrax scare on the South Island. Nothing ever came out of it, but we certainly weren't keen on returning to the harbor to look for work, and we could pretty much count temp. work as unavailable. With fewer and fewer work prospects, it was only a matter of time until we'd run out of funds and need to book our tickets home.
Eventually, we did just that, bringing the New Zealand chapter to a close. I couldn't help feeling like some international criminal when I went through customs. When the feared strip search didn't materialize, and armed guards didn't appear at passport control, I took a big breath of relief.
Big Brother in New Zealand wasn't nearly as pleasant as his American counterpart. Here, they might try to fix your problems, but down there, they just threaten you with fines.
So much so, that I even argued with Kate about the bill. Her mentality, no doubt derived from too many hours behind the wheel on the New Jersey Turnpike, is to argue that, because we didn't have service for the first eight days of the billing cycle, we shouldn't have to pay for it. I can see the logic here, but given that our bill is all of about $20, and the prorated portion is essentially like arguing over the cost of a Venti latte, AND Comcast seemed to genuinely want to fix the problem, I'll happily pay it.
Kate still thinks that not contesting the bill, at least on principle, is crazy. I feel like maybe it is just service karma, so I want to call a truce by quietly paying the bill after they return service. Keep in mind that she recently dealt with multiple thousands of dollars of disputed charges and payments from both Washington Gas & Electric and Marsh & McLennan. D.C.'s utility company continually sent her double charges, misplaced her refunds, and lost her bill info. She happened to meet their CEO at a federal policy meeting she was attending for work, and the problem was magically solved. Marsh & McLennan kept her on the payroll for months after she quit, continued her AT&T account and charged her for it, and never reimbursed her for some expenses. It might be solved now that she's called their general counsel. These two companies need some internet monitor software and an Escalations Department.
Speaking of the man monitoring your every move...
When I lived down in New Zealand just after college, I had zero contacts and even fewer marketable skills other than the muscles in my back. Accordingly, I worked some pretty shite jobs. Worst of the bunch was unloading 60 pound boxes of frozen squid from boats that had recently docked in our town of Dunedin. My roommates were also expat Americans looking for some cash, and together we'd sit in our living room and peer out the window of our rented flat down towards the harbor. If no boats came in, we'd return to our Scrabble, tea, and rag weed, and debate the benefits of staying home. Sure, we weren't making any cash, but all three of us knew how bad the work on the boats really was. Neil, one of my roomates, had grown up on construction sites and was no stranger to some tough manual labor. When he looked at me through exhausted eyes one day while we were working and claimed, "This is the hardest goddamn work I've ever done," I was equal parts bouyed and deflated. On one hand, if Neil thought it was hard, it meant I was pretty tough if I'd survive the shift. But on the other, it was the hardest godamn work I'd ever done, too. Clawing at icy bricks while angry Maoris yelled at me to work faster, occassionally tossing a loose squid like a football just past my ear to make sure I was paying attention, was just not much fun.
On the days when the boats would come in, they'd be accompanied by a cloud of seagulls looking to pick up a snack from the boxes that broke open during the unloading process. We'd all look at the birds, look at each other, sigh, have one last cup of tea and scrabble game, and pack our lunch. Work was calling, in the form of a hungry gull screaming for lunch.
We'd walk the mile or so down to the harbor and check in to the foreman's office. In New Zealand, they do nearly all payroll through direct deposit. We'd tell the guy in charge our bank account number, hope to god there'd be a deposit instead of a withdrawal in a week's time, and put on our uniforms. We'd find our size of rubber galoshes with steel toes, a hard hat, a high visibility reflective vest, and whatever clothes we'd brought along. The holds of the boats are giant freezers, so we quickly realized that multiple hats, coats, and long underwear ensembles were required.
The shifts would last for 40 minutes, and then a third of the workers would get a 20 minute break. This cycle would rotate for as long as it took to unload the entire boat, usually 12-18 hours. During our breaks, we'd drink a couple of cups of coffee, eat a sandwich or two, and try to shake the cold out of our bones. On the dot, a different work crew would emerge from the boat, and we'd have to head back in. All the workers were free to leave at any time, and usually a 10 hour day was all our skinny American asses could handle.
At the start of the shift, the hold was packed so tightly that it would be impossible to even get in, so we'd have to open one of the hatches and start digging like miners. Once workers had exposed a big enough space in the hold, the roof hatch could be lifted open and a crane would swing a giant basket into the clearing.
From this point forward, the crane would lower an empty basket into the hold through the hole in the roof, and pick up a basket that was full of boxes, continually rotating the two baskets. This cycle would continue until the only frozen things left on the boat were humaoid.
I think we got paid $14 NZ Dollars an hour, or about $10 American.
When the boats weren't in harbor, we would occasionally work for a temporary labor agency. HireEquip would scour Dunedin for businesses that needed chores done, and send out the underling Americans to weld, stock grocery shelves, sweep floors, whatever. Thank god I had an iPod. We'd contracted on to do a number of different jobs, and swapped off working for the docks when a boat came in. When the agency called our house one day and asked if we wanted to work, we made one crucial mistake. We should have looked out the window.
The HireEquip guys arranged all the day laborers who had answered their call in front of the waiting van. They explained that they'd be driving us to the harbor. Tom, my other roommate, looked at me and mouthed some choice words, and I knew exactly what he was thinking.
HireEquip paid all of its employees a flat rate of $10 NZ Dollars, regardless of the job. They'd hire us out for whatever they could get, and keep the difference. That's how they made their money, and that is exactly how we'd be losing ours. Tom and I spent the day knowing full well that we'd be paid about 30% less for the exact same work we'd been doing on our own just a few days earlier. The next day, we decided to cut out the middleman.
We went back to the docs, knowing that there'd still be work. The morning saw us back in the boat, loading the last of the boxes into the crane basket. After that, we were above deck sorting different kinds of seafood, and loading them into various containers bound for California, China, and Japan. During our time out in the open air, we saw one of the HireEquip overlords milling around. He'd brought a crew of guys to the docks, and was making sure everything was in order.
"Oy. What are you two blokes doin' about?"
"Working."
"Not for us, so hell no you ain't. That violates your contract. You're going to be paying HireEquip $1,500 in restitution."
The bad guy in this story had clearly been established.
His threat centered around a clause in the contract we signed with the temp. agency that limited us from taking employment with any group we'd worked for on behalf of HireEquip. I checked the contract when we got home from the docks that day, and there was some wording that certainly tried to prohibit this kind of behavior. It makes sense from a business standpoint, but we felt like it was pretty lame given that we'd worked for the squid companies before ever doing a day through HireEquip. I started freaking out, thinking the cops would knock on our door and I'd be liable for a sum of money that I didn't have at the time, regardless of the exchange rate. I called my dad, an attorney, and he pretty much lawyered up on it.
"Do they define employment?"
"No."
"Unenforcable." Then he started referring case law and lost me immediately. I was too wrapped up in the cozy blanket called unenforcable.
For the next few weeks, we'd all gasp when someone would knock on the door, cry when the phone would ring, and gingerly open the mailbox like there was an anthrax scare on the South Island. Nothing ever came out of it, but we certainly weren't keen on returning to the harbor to look for work, and we could pretty much count temp. work as unavailable. With fewer and fewer work prospects, it was only a matter of time until we'd run out of funds and need to book our tickets home.
Eventually, we did just that, bringing the New Zealand chapter to a close. I couldn't help feeling like some international criminal when I went through customs. When the feared strip search didn't materialize, and armed guards didn't appear at passport control, I took a big breath of relief.
Big Brother in New Zealand wasn't nearly as pleasant as his American counterpart. Here, they might try to fix your problems, but down there, they just threaten you with fines.
Thursday, November 6, 2008
Comcast is Choss 2
Simone, my longtime landlord and college buddy, used to work for a software development firm that, as best I can tell, wrote programs for companies that needed to monitor internet traffic. Specifically, the programs he helped write would search the internet for keywords, specific sites, and likely blogs that were concerned with the client's product. So it was with shallow familiarity, sometimes known as "Modern Jackass" insight, that my recent interaction with Comcast failed to faze me in the least. When I originally compared them to crumbly rock at John Wallace's behest, something deep down told me that they were watching.
I checked back to the site today to review if anyone had commented on any posts. Frankly, I was hoping that someone would have read Volume I and told me that I was a genius. The next best thing was when Mark Casem left a little note for the subsequent post, "Comcast is Choss."
"I would like to apologize for troubles you are experiencing with our company.
I decided to leave a comment so that I can offer my assistance in resolving the issue with your phone service.
Please send me your best contact number as well as the phone number on the account so that I can assist further.
Thanks for sharing this post. I appreciate the opportunity to assist."
Mark Casem
Comcast Corp.
National Customer Operations
We_Can_Help@cable.comcast.com
How bout that? It's a wonder that Comcast's software didn't alert John Wallace that someone was talking about him. I have a creeping suspician that Mr. John Wallace, of NBC fame, or Mr. John Wallace, petroleum magnate, would have been the first to hear the gossip. Sometimes these artificial intelligence things can't be trusted to differentiate.
But now that they're aware of my service issue, I'd like to also bring to light my dissatisfaction with their billing policy. Before sending me an invoice, I'd at least like to receive a functional telephone line. I rarely get the chance to tell my boss, "You know what, I know you want that lease report tomorrow, but how 'bout you pay me today and I'll get back to you next week." I am going to wait to write Mark at Comcast until after Friday, when we have the next repair man scheduled. Hopefully he'll just fix the line and not have to wrestle with any monsters, aka black widows.
But speaking of John Wallace the petroleum magnate, I used to caddy for him when I was in high school. John made an appearance as Matt Hickey's guest in the annual Member-Guest tournament, I believe called the Sliceroo. Truth be told, I spent so much time heavily innebriated at Lakewood Country Club that I might have made that up. Regardless, John later went on to orchestrate a hefty investment into his oil company from Vegas tycoon Kirk Kerkorian. In an eerie Six Degrees of Separation sort of way, I feel like I should be offered preferred stock in Delta Petroleum for my brokerage/putt reading services. And I can clean a 9 iron 'til it sparkles.
I don't think it would be too good of an idea to get into the old Lakewood stories Can you honestly be taken seriously when you're rolling on the floor of your boss' office in tears because your high school girlfriend has made out with one of your buddies? Or when Matt Hickey, the member who invited Wallace to LCC for a few rounds, approaches the caddy shack only to be greeted with "Whattup, Meat Cock!" At least I didn't wedge a golf cart under the truss of a bridge. That was somebody else.
I checked back to the site today to review if anyone had commented on any posts. Frankly, I was hoping that someone would have read Volume I and told me that I was a genius. The next best thing was when Mark Casem left a little note for the subsequent post, "Comcast is Choss."
"I would like to apologize for troubles you are experiencing with our company.
I decided to leave a comment so that I can offer my assistance in resolving the issue with your phone service.
Please send me your best contact number as well as the phone number on the account so that I can assist further.
Thanks for sharing this post. I appreciate the opportunity to assist."
Mark Casem
Comcast Corp.
National Customer Operations
We_Can_Help@cable.comcast.com
How bout that? It's a wonder that Comcast's software didn't alert John Wallace that someone was talking about him. I have a creeping suspician that Mr. John Wallace, of NBC fame, or Mr. John Wallace, petroleum magnate, would have been the first to hear the gossip. Sometimes these artificial intelligence things can't be trusted to differentiate.
But now that they're aware of my service issue, I'd like to also bring to light my dissatisfaction with their billing policy. Before sending me an invoice, I'd at least like to receive a functional telephone line. I rarely get the chance to tell my boss, "You know what, I know you want that lease report tomorrow, but how 'bout you pay me today and I'll get back to you next week." I am going to wait to write Mark at Comcast until after Friday, when we have the next repair man scheduled. Hopefully he'll just fix the line and not have to wrestle with any monsters, aka black widows.
But speaking of John Wallace the petroleum magnate, I used to caddy for him when I was in high school. John made an appearance as Matt Hickey's guest in the annual Member-Guest tournament, I believe called the Sliceroo. Truth be told, I spent so much time heavily innebriated at Lakewood Country Club that I might have made that up. Regardless, John later went on to orchestrate a hefty investment into his oil company from Vegas tycoon Kirk Kerkorian. In an eerie Six Degrees of Separation sort of way, I feel like I should be offered preferred stock in Delta Petroleum for my brokerage/putt reading services. And I can clean a 9 iron 'til it sparkles.
I don't think it would be too good of an idea to get into the old Lakewood stories Can you honestly be taken seriously when you're rolling on the floor of your boss' office in tears because your high school girlfriend has made out with one of your buddies? Or when Matt Hickey, the member who invited Wallace to LCC for a few rounds, approaches the caddy shack only to be greeted with "Whattup, Meat Cock!" At least I didn't wedge a golf cart under the truss of a bridge. That was somebody else.
Wednesday, November 5, 2008
Comcast is Choss
Choss: Bad rock, unsuitable for climbing.
The first time I heard anything other than rock described as "choss", John Wallace was speaking in reference to Fish Oil that wasn't molecularly distilled. When the term "choss" can be transferred from limestone to extracted fats from tuna, I'm firmly supportive. Bear in mind, I've seen John, dressed in an argyle sweater vest, nearly get into a fist fight with some poor sap who brushed against John's Audi that was parked at the Ruckman Cave. He's unpredictable, but provocative.
Anyway, Kate and I have been trying to get this house phone set up, but it has become an exercise in near comic ineptitude on the part of Comcast. We've had multiple people to the house to try to get it fixed, but so far, the best we can do is call out and speak with someone for about 40 seconds before the line goes dead. Where are we? Baghdad? Hey, Comcast, I asked our president elect if we can get this thing straightened out. His response? "Yes we can!" You have an executive mandate to hustle up.
Speaking of Mr. Obama, WOW! Oddly, some of my readers are actually loyal McCain fans, so I'll respect their defeat and temper my reaction.
I had a serious fear that a shadow element of Americana was going to vote strictly on race, leaving the Republican party in power on the "principle" of bigotry alone. Enough stories were coming out of battleground states that featured startlingly overt racism that I began to worry that America was still in the midst of some aspect of the civil war. Even if those feelings influenced some voters, it was a fringe bloc that doesn't deserve much attention any more.
Also, I feel like politics have taken this wild twist where debate isn't really an option, and the other side begins to represent the antichrist to one constituency or the other. I'm don't like this development. I'd like to be able to talk to conservatives without feeling like a Johnny Wallace fistfight was about to ensue. We're to the point where even a rational explanation of a voter's position instigates boiling blood on the other side. Maybe it's always been this way, and I'm just getting old enough for some level of consciousness to take hold.
Regardless, I'm really excited to see how this turns out. I think Obama has the potential to be the next FDR, bringing back the American hegemon. On the other hand, he could be the next Carter, where our economy crumbles, fiscal incentives are skewed, and the Chinese legally own us by 2020 . I don't see any middle ground potential. I happen to believe he'll end up as the former, so he got my vote. This does, regardless of the outcome, feel like we're witnessing events on par with the most important times in America's history.
So, Mr. Obama, you can start getting this ship righted by fixing my phone. I gotta call my mom.
The first time I heard anything other than rock described as "choss", John Wallace was speaking in reference to Fish Oil that wasn't molecularly distilled. When the term "choss" can be transferred from limestone to extracted fats from tuna, I'm firmly supportive. Bear in mind, I've seen John, dressed in an argyle sweater vest, nearly get into a fist fight with some poor sap who brushed against John's Audi that was parked at the Ruckman Cave. He's unpredictable, but provocative.
Anyway, Kate and I have been trying to get this house phone set up, but it has become an exercise in near comic ineptitude on the part of Comcast. We've had multiple people to the house to try to get it fixed, but so far, the best we can do is call out and speak with someone for about 40 seconds before the line goes dead. Where are we? Baghdad? Hey, Comcast, I asked our president elect if we can get this thing straightened out. His response? "Yes we can!" You have an executive mandate to hustle up.
Speaking of Mr. Obama, WOW! Oddly, some of my readers are actually loyal McCain fans, so I'll respect their defeat and temper my reaction.
I had a serious fear that a shadow element of Americana was going to vote strictly on race, leaving the Republican party in power on the "principle" of bigotry alone. Enough stories were coming out of battleground states that featured startlingly overt racism that I began to worry that America was still in the midst of some aspect of the civil war. Even if those feelings influenced some voters, it was a fringe bloc that doesn't deserve much attention any more.
Also, I feel like politics have taken this wild twist where debate isn't really an option, and the other side begins to represent the antichrist to one constituency or the other. I'm don't like this development. I'd like to be able to talk to conservatives without feeling like a Johnny Wallace fistfight was about to ensue. We're to the point where even a rational explanation of a voter's position instigates boiling blood on the other side. Maybe it's always been this way, and I'm just getting old enough for some level of consciousness to take hold.
Regardless, I'm really excited to see how this turns out. I think Obama has the potential to be the next FDR, bringing back the American hegemon. On the other hand, he could be the next Carter, where our economy crumbles, fiscal incentives are skewed, and the Chinese legally own us by 2020 . I don't see any middle ground potential. I happen to believe he'll end up as the former, so he got my vote. This does, regardless of the outcome, feel like we're witnessing events on par with the most important times in America's history.
So, Mr. Obama, you can start getting this ship righted by fixing my phone. I gotta call my mom.
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