Liar, Fraud

I was in midair again. Falling off the top moves of a route called "Mousetrap," my friend had, only two seconds before, been shouting up from the ground, telling me where to grab. I'd come up short of the hold in question. Not terribly so, but short enough to keep the purchase to a minimum and the airtime to a maximum. The rope came taught, and I reacted in the only way that seemed natural. With venom. Anger. Accusation. "Mike Brumbaugh is a liar and a fraud!" Mike, you see, was the friend on the ground. He hadn't failed to grab the hold, I had. In my feeble literal grasping, I needed someone to blame. Eventually, I figured out exactly where he was telling me to go. Mike patiently told me to do something subtly different, and i finally quit falling off. Not before I'd (mostly) jokingly blamed someone else for another failure.

And that's how it's felt lately. I can't seem to grab that last hold. Hell, the real problem is that I don't know where it is on the wall. I've made it high enough to count myself amongst the respectable, though not the actually successful. What's the problem here? I think the answer is that I don't know where I'm headed.

Taking the GMAT was supposed to be the first step in the line of figuring that business school was my destiny, and that I could at least count the next three years as settled. When I got my scores, though, Wheat Ridge High School called and told me I'd need to return my diploma, as it was obvious I'd never learned simple addition or subtraction. "Fine, fine," they reasoned "I could read and write, but no one goes to business school to scribe. They go there to crunch numbers, and learn how to produce the next piece of plastic that will drive American's wild with lust." Shitteroo. Maybe I'm not meant to be a business graduate, let alone finish high school.

So where now? I was hoping that school would be the saving grace, but it may not happen. (Hell, maybe it will. Maybe I'll get really psyched to study more and retake the exam. I'll be the comeback player of the year.) I was hoping that the answer would be right there, attainable with the help from my friends shouting directions from the ground. I even recruited the Princeton Review to go up the route before me, tick all the holds, and brush off the dust. Then, they'd stand there and yell encouragement. They gave their directions for six hours a week in a dank, sweaty basement. All for naught, it seems. I want to cry.

Once again, So Where Now? I know I like to climb rocks. That much is easy enough to tell. I know I like to write. I like to drink tea and talk shit about Wal Mart and that I fear spiders and public toilet seats. I don't much like office culture, high culture, or, as discussed, mathematical culture. You know anyone who is hiring along those lines?

If nothing comes along, I can keep blaming Mike Brumbaugh. Or my boss, or lack of education, or general lack of opportunity for the upper middle class white man. But sooner or later, someone (my girlfriend, perhaps) is gonna get tired of this liar, this fraud. Or maybe I'll (BroGnar alert!!!) match the crimp, bump my foot up and left, and really try hard to grab the slot. That might beat falling off again. Take!

California Recap

I just spent a week in California climbing in the Sierra and in Yosemite. I'd tell you all about how great it was, how sick the climbing was, how splitter the weather was.....blah blah blah, but then I'd be a bro-gnar killing you with lingo bombs. I don't want to do that. So what the hell am I going to say about it? Here's what:

I just went from being frazzled and busy and stressed out to living entirely in the moment for a week. The trip in CA was almost more of a retreat from the hubbub and hoodoo of day to day life than an excuse to get out and climb. Don;t get me wrong, though. It was still a fantastic excuse to climb. But I'll keep those stories confined to the exchanges between other climbers and myself.

Before I left, my brain was going seven different ways, and I was having a hard time keeping it all straight. Kate and I were trying to figure out where we were going to live in Boulder. I was studying for the GMAT's while debating if I even wanted to go to business school, let alone the most efficient way to add and multiply fractions of the circumference of a circle in a graph. My boss was frantically trying to get work finished because he would be out of town for the last two weeks of August, so projects were flying at me left and right. And finally, another job I've been doing for another client was exploding just before he left for a big trade show. I sound like one of those idiot squawk boxes who talks trash about how many TPS reports have to go out the door, but I'm trying to tell you I was too busy to eat. Honestly, have you met my skinny ass?

So while I had this whole array of work/study/life issues coming my way, my mind was never really centered on one task at hand. If I was studying for the test, I was worried about how I'd finish the map work for my job. If I was driving to some rural podunk hellhole to run title on a project, I'd be pissed I wasn't studying. If I was worrying about work or studying, I sure wasn't thinking about where Kate and I would move to, and this relationship insouciance left some troops sharpening their bayonets. When the week finally wrapped up, I had done a mediocre job on everything. Passable, but not extraordinary. Then, it was off to Reno.

As soon as I landed, my mind began to focus on what I'd be doing for the next week. Climbing. Traveling. Moving. And that was it. Purity of thought, and a victory for the uncluttered mind. I could finally afford to concentrate on what I was doing at that moment. And that alone is really the reason I like to climb. I've never found anything else that forced me to concentrate and forget distractions. When I was climbing on the Incredible Hulk, I wasn't thinking about anything except the rock at my toes and fingers, the crack I'd stuffed my knuckles into, and the next ledge where I could stop and bring Rob up to the belay. It was perfect.

I spent an entire day on the wall, 7AM to 6PM, followed by a descent via rappel, gully, and scree field. When we finally got back to the bivy site after 14 hours, I was totally wasted. I realized as I crawled into my sleeping bag after dinner that I hadn't thought of anything outside of the valley where we were climbing for a day. My mind was perfectly focused, and I realized that if I could have had that kind of ability to concentrate before I'd have left for California, maybe I'd have scored better on the GMAT, been more helpful to Kate as we looked for a house, and done a better job at work. And now that I'm back, all I can think about is going climbing again. Maybe I didn't learn a lesson after all.

OK, I am going to post this before any editing because Nuno wants something to read at work, so if there are typos, lazy sentences, or shit that just doesn't make sense, blame the Portuguese.

Swamped

Egads! I am proper busy. This last week I've had a furious workload, a need to study, and one quick session on a route called the Flying Beast. Whoa!

The work is pretty un-blogworthy. Basically, it breaks down like this:
-I tried to figure out who owns a ranch.....Guess what, the owner is a rancher.
-Then, I had to drive to Trinidad, CO (sex change capital of the world!) I successfully avoided THAT, but I spent a day in an abstractor's office where the whole gaggle of broads were literally glued to the TV watching One Life to Live. When TimmyO called and asked if I wanted to go climbing, I was nearly inconsolable. "Sorry bud, can't go. Surrounded by eunuch white trash."
-My boss got mad at me because I told a client I had time for their project. I like their work, but John thinks they're a pain in the ass. Look, jefe, I'd rather do work for a client that keeps me in Rifle than drive to within spitting distance of New Mexico for the day.

GMAT's are tomorrow, and then I am off to the Sierra for a week to climb with Rob. Psyched! Let's just say that this week has been dragging, given that I am off to one of the best alpine climbing places in the country.

I'll hopefully have a better report when I get back. Maybe with photos.
Gotta pack. Silverman is talking about porn. This is a disaster.

King Bro Gnar

Ever heard of a "Bro Gnar"? Even if you haven't heard the term, you probably know one. Mr. Bro Gnar (BG) is cooler than you, and certainly cooler than your lame ass friends. BG can be a skate rat, a climber punk, or, and this is probably preferred terrain, a ski douche. BG's name is derived from his mode of speech, in which indecipherable slang is tossed around with reckless abandon. These lingo bombs hit their targets and leave little for the CSI team to go on.
"Bro, that pow was SICK!"
"Yo man, dope!"
And so on. Even typing these fake quotes makes me hate English. You get the point. A BG sucks, and everyone knows it but him and his BG friends. Alas.

The trouble starts when BG's words and/or actions begin to affect me.

Kate and I headed up to Independence Pass after she did a triathlon on Saturday. It was going to be a reasonably mellow camping/climbing trip, and we were hoping to stay along Lincoln Creek just above Aspen. There is a string of about 25 free sites that the Forest Service has staked out, all of which overlook a picturesque creek and snowcapped mountains. I'd say go for yourself to see, but you may run into the King Bro Gnar, a bastard from Crested Butte.

After some afternoon climbing, Kate and I headed up the creek to search for a site. We weren't surprised to find the first several taken, although we commented that it looked like a terrible WalMart convention given all the cut off T-shirts, Bud Light cans, and heavy metal mellifluously flowing from souped up Bronco II's. We drove past site after site, and were discouraged by all of the traffic that seemed to be inundating our quiet back road. Sure, it wasn't our road, but we were there to enjoy nature. All these other jack wieners just wanted to get bombed and tear it up in 4 low. When Kate and I finally found an open site, we had driven for close to an hour, and were just happy that the ordeal had ended. Premature tent unrolling.

We were pulling out various camping implements; tent, stove, sleeping bag, when a VW campervan drove up with a Dodge 2500 Diesel just behind. For some reason, they saw our site and decided to park exactly where our tent was destined. When BG emerged from his van, I heard something remarkably stupid come out of his mouth. "You guys mind if we share your site?" His friend stood by his Dodge nodding in quiet agreement. After all, they had each arrived in their individual vehicles. Their dog pissed near Kate's front wheel.
Well, yes, I did mind. As a show of courtesy (to BG? to Kate? to Fido?) I walked back to the car and asked Kate if she wanted to share the site. I might as well have asked if she'd like to eat dirt for dinner.
When I returned to BG, I calmly explained that we weren't keen on sharing, and I was sorry, but they'd have to go.
"Nah Brah. This is Forest Service camping. You didn't even pay for it. We're sticking around."
I'll admit, this possibility never crossed my mind. I figured that any decent human would realize that they were being an ass, and kindly drive along. Add interpersonal insouciance to the BG's qualifications.
Every man likes to think of the bad ass shit they'd say, do, or roundhouse kick when some dipshit does something like steal a campsite from under their Therm-a-rest. I just stood there, chuckling at the nerve and shaking my head in disbelief. Kate and I met back at the car under the banner of her stare that read: "Are these morons serious?" and quickly decided on the only reasonable conclusion: pack up and find a new site. We sure weren't going to share a campfire with these guys.
"So, I wanna make another S'more. Oh, by the way, since I have no choice but to rescind my objection to your existence, could you pass the marshmallows? Sick!"

Kate and I found a new site further along the Pass, only a few minutes after seeing two hulking SUV's smash mirrors when both drivers misjudged the width of their Goliaths. What the hell is happening to that place?

Payback: Its easy, fun, and everybody's doing it

Below, you'll find a post I wrote a few days ago. I took it down mere seconds after it went up, because the guys mentioned in the story were still at the house, and Kate thought there'd be a meltdown if they read it and were still here. I agreed.
But I agreed not necessarily because I feared a meltdown. More than anything, I didn't feel like it told the whole truth. Basically, I wrote it feeling a certain way at a specific period of time. I actually really enjoyed having the company, although I think it stressed Kate out to have the house taken over by climbing bums (not to mention the Japanese, which I'll probably talk about later). I'm trying to learn from the Greece mess with my family that when there is an emotion from a specific period of time, it better be put in context or there will be blood. "Drainage!"

For background, I was in Rifle the last two weekends trying to finish up "Extended Family" and just generally enjoying the abject SCENE that the place has become. At any moment, you'll see a full blown Mexican fiesta (complete with music, a bonfire, chupacabra...the works), some roughneck drive his pickup into the creek, face craned up towards the Project wall in wonder at "how'd dem get up der?," and maybe even a rock climber now and then. It's a wonderland.
During these trips to said wonderland, I've gotten to know a couple of young men aspiring to clip chains AND go to medical school. Now that, my friend, is Audacity of Hope.
These two guys are named Peter and Thomas. Peter is a scruffy, bespectacled gentleman, and Thomas is now known as "He-Man" because of his Aryan good looks, brawn, and once flowing blond hair. The three of us have gotten along well, and as I was heading home from Rifle this weekend, I offered both of them a ride back to Boulder. Their flights were leaving this week, and they were each car-less. Peter had a friend in Boulder, so I assumed I'd just be giving them a ride.

# # #

Ok, several things are going on right now.
I am in the office, and in an effort to maintain complete and total transparency with my readers, I'll strongly advise against a career as a division order analyst. "What the hell is that?" I hear the throngs croon in unison. Basically, its the worst job in the world, whereby you are stuck reading spreadsheets and computing payouts for oil wells to the eighth decimal place. If you like a world that looks like the computer screen in The Matrix, then feel free to apply for a job. Me? I think that screen sucked. But somehow, (likely because God is a heartless bastard) my boss occasionally gets some contract work auditing division orders, and the Sisyphean work of number crunching falls upon my shoulders. At least it would, if I weren't too busy writing in a blog.
Also, I am happily digesting a Vicco's Charcoalburger (everything, with pepper jack) and a chocolate shake as a reward for finally sending Extended Family. Its a long story filled with 30 foot falls within spitting distance of the chains, but I'll spare you the tears and suffice things by saying I finally started using the good holds at the crux instead of the crap. Amazing what habit and hypoxia will do to a man in mid crux.
And in a related story, on my way back from Rifle, I filled Abigale the Subaru with two scruffy southerners and their stuff. These were guys I had met the week before, and they needed to get back to the Front Range to catch their flight. Here, however, is where my interpretation of the situation diverges from fact. I had assumed that "Thing one and Thing two," as Katie dubbed them, had another place to stay. In fact, they have become my new roommates.
I have spent enough time living out of a backpack to recognize a man in need of a couch when I see one. Problems start when that same man in need, the one borrowing your couch, soap, and food, and needing to be driven around Boulder, doesn't see the world for what it is. The truth of his predicament is that he needs to be thankful, appreciative, and clean, or he risks exhausting the generosity upon which he survives. Especially when there is a girlfriend involved who REALLY didn't know she was about to have company for a week.
For the last couple of days, Thing one and Thing two have been hanging around, but wearing their welcome paper thin. I don't want to have to ask them to wash their dishes, I don't want to have to ask for gas money (again), and I sure don't want them inviting themselves on a date with Kate and me. When I left for work today, I was pulling my hair out in an effort to expedite the process of their departure.
But then my phone rang. Thing two called to ask if I needed anything from the grocery store. He asked what kind of beer I liked, as he was going to the liquor store. He asked if it would be an imposition to use the kitchen to cook dinner tonight so that Kate and I could have some alone time on a date. Wow!
My mood immediately changed. I had been dwelling on an effective strategy for fooling them into taking a drive with all their stuff in the trunk but then throwing them out at the youth hostel. Now, I was feeling like a gracious host. It reminded me of an important lesson. If you're gonna step on people's toes, offer to hook them up in return. Example: if you're gonna make your employee's eyes fall out from looking at division orders, pay them regally, and if you need weeks upon weeks to work on a rock climb, pay back those belay sessions with beer and a back rub now and then. Its only fair.

# # #

So really, I was bummed out for a bit and vented in a post. If I'd have left it up there, I think everyone would read the post and think, "man, I bet he never sees those dudes again." I really would like to catch up with them, though. Except next time, maybe on THEIR couch.

Sublime

"Summertime, and the livin's EZ.
Bradley's on the microphone with Rock MZ"

At least that's how I thought the song went. Keep in mind, I also wrongly heard Beck say "Two ton pimples and a microphone" instead of his actual "Two turntables and a microphone," so take everything with a grain of salt. And who cares what Bradley is doing with Mr. MZ? That guy is dead anyway. It's summertime, all right, but Sublime didn't need to tell me that: I am writing this post with a Kleenex folded up and jammed in my right nostril in a feeble effort to stop the bleeding. Oh yes, kiddies. Hot + dusty + dry = bloody face. Good grief.

So what else comes with summer? How about searing temps and a merciless sun when climbing at Rifle? This weekend, there was plenty of that.

Kate and I went out to the canyon this weekend, and met up with some old buddies. You'll be pleased to know that Team Grumpy was there, in full effect. Ironically, they have a 4 year old mutt that is as wild as a redneck on moonshine. I watched this beast run laps in the shade of the Ruckman Cave, happily using someone's rope as a turnaround point. Fido would race up in a cloud of dust, stomp on the rope, pivot and run towards the woods. Repeat that process about a dozen times, and you have me (annoyed as shit) leaving the Ruckman Cave. I'd rather go slip off a greasy climb on some baking wall with sweat trickling into my eyes than endure more of this mumbo jumbo.

Off to the other side of the canyon, in full sun, where at one point it was so bad that I computed a quick equation in my head. Selling family member X into slavery > Staying put. (Solve for x). Times were tough. The route I wanted to do, Extended Family, had been taken over by feral animals. The other side was too dam hot. Kate and I bailed for the only sensible option, a charcoalburger from Vicco's.

Now we're back in Boulder where GMAT study, oil and gas leases, and an unhappy mucus membrane await.

Correction: Hans says its Ras MG. Some Pharcyde rapper. So there you go.

Busted by Mom

I was on the phone with my Mom this morning when she chided me for a need to write another post. I know, I know, sorry Ma, I've been slacking. She also told me about her dream where the Mormon Church was angry at my Pagansim, and in righteous retribution, ripped my toenails out ala Syriana. Tough start.
I don't think I have a story in me this morning, so I'm just going to rant for a bit.

Things have been busy lately. Eli got married, Kate moved back to Boulder, and I started a GMAT prep course. Wow. To sum:
Eli and Brianna got married up in Lyons, and the night ended up being a blast. I was slightly nervous about the prospect of an entire clan of Philadelphians (Eli's clan) getting bombed on the sidelines while everyone else became too scared to dance, less they risk the infamous wrath of Eagle/Flyer/76'er/Phillies fans. As things turned out, there was enough young blood pulsing with just the right amount of booze to get the crowd dancing, and the reception ended up being memorably fun. The outside ceremony was a bit hot for tuxes in full sun, but we slipped back inside ASAP and avoided sun stroke. Now those two are off in St Lucia on their honeymoon.

Kate is back! Solid development for both of us, and things seem like they are going well. I am going to be as forward thinking as my Neanderthal brain will allow, and keep most of the details of our relationship out of the public realm of the internet. For now, suffice it to say, things are going great. We've been up on a fantastic hike around Fern Canyon, had a day on the bikes, a few days climbing, and are headed to Rifle this weekend. Sounds like the same old us.

And the wheels of personal and intellectual development have begun to shake free their rust and sand, prompting me to consider going back to school. Knowing that I would need a sincere hang holding to complete the required study effort for any entrance exam, I signed up for a prep course. My dad even helped me out with some of the cost, so I've got no excuse to slack. Speaking of, I better get back to it.
But one last thing: A big thanks to Jesse and Dan for the tutelage. I have just solved the Rubik cube for the second time. I really think it is going to help me on the GMAT. Maybe?

Deep Sea Fishing

I have begun soliciting my friends for one or two (and in this case, even three) word subjects for potential blog posts. I think this serves multiple purposes, but primarily it keeps some spontaneity in the blog. I'd hate to devote all the space to lingo bombs, sick climbing sends and gnar shredding. Plus, if the post sucks, I have a scapegoat.
When someone said, "Deep Sea Fishing," my mind immediately went to Mexico and the good Doctor, Darrel Gorman. Perfect!

Darrel is not normally a name I associate with white guys. (Always good to start off public blogging with racism.) There are, in this great blanched soup of American men, several Darrels, and maybe even a D'rel, though I've never met one. I have, however, met a specific Darrel. I present to you the father of my friend Will.
'Dr. D,' as we affectionately nicknamed him while covertly drinking in his basement during high school, was quite the guy. He had (and presumably still does, though I haven't been drunk in his basement for several years) a remarkable manner of speaking that involved dramatic pauses, a string of "ummmms" and "ahhhhhhhs" that took hours to intellectually navigate, and a driving style that shuttled passengers in a series of forward jerks known as bopping.
That he was a doctor, licensed to practice medicine in the honorable state of Colorado, gave him transcendent credibility. Despite the timid, herky-jerky speech, here was a man who had graduated from high school at 15, college at 17, and was a veritable Doogie Howser.

The Gorman family took their their son Will, me, and 2 other high school miscreants to Mexico for spring break of our Junior year of high school....and here's where the rubber meets the road. Actually, this is where the tequila hits the gullet after a feed bag of all you can eat taquitos, and Will projectile vomits all over a bar called "El Toro Bravo." I blame no one but Will himself, eyes watering with green sadness as the bartender politely asked if he needed the bucket while pushing it under his chin.
But AFTER the Toro incident, and AFTER some thief stole my Pawtucket Red Sox hat, and AFTER one of the other friends on the trip realized a high school boy's dream by sleeping with a 30 year old (woman, no less!) on the beach, we went fishing.
The boat left the port under gray skies and a breeze. The fishermen laughed and gave us soda on our way to the Gulf of Cortez, famed marlin waters but certainly subject to the Pacific's force. The boat began to buck with waves that were close to 10 feet. No "Perfect Storm," but on a 40 foot fishing boat, plenty big enough! The roiling continued, and after about 30 minutes of what felt like riding the mechanical bull back at "El Toro Bravo," we all began to wonder if Will, or all of us for that matter, would be debating a decision regarding a bucket.
Eventually, Dr. D was overcome. He, like his son, refused the perfectly good bile receptacle, deciding instead to sully the side of our vessel. Again. And again. And comically again. He got to the point that there was nothing left to give. Poseidon would have to be fully appeased. With the 30 year old incident, our ship was fresh out of swell quelling virgins to sacrifice. What was the boat of deep sea fishermen to do? Hold strong. Let the Doctor do the talking.
We eventually made it back to the port, content in the knowledge that if we were going to do any yuking, it would be from man made poison, and not due to Nature's rage.