Intruders!

The electrical wiring in our apartment made me nervous. We'd turn on the outdoor porch light, and immediately blow the circuit for the entire entryway. On the irregular morning where I'd feel like coffee instead of tea, the grinder would have to wait if we were using the microwave. Use them both at the same time, and again: blown circuit. Neither bathroom had power outlets. This left Kate blow drying her hair in the living room, and me with a stubbed toe after any midnight pee. (I love me the nightlight). When the wall outlets died in our bedroom, I finally had to write our landlady and request an upgrade.
Boli, the squat Indian homeowner who rents us our house, was decidedly cheery about my request to spend hundreds of thousands of her rupees. My overt referral to a fire hazard must have had an affect. Kate told me that Boli would send the team of miscreants our way, power saws and wiring in hand.
The problem is that I work from home. When Henry, and I think the readers might remember him as the beer drinking, shade-hanging Dude-lookalike, and the crew show up at 8:30 for a day worth of noise, I'm pretty much hosed. It's hard enough to focus on pipelines when the snow is falling in the mountains and my skis are crying in the closet. When you add into the mix a din of ungodly proportions, this wiring can't get fixed quickly enough.
The good news is that the guys are slated to finish tomorrow, and I'll once again to make toast and hot water at the same time. The bad news: it's snowing like crazy up there, so the distractions continue, regardless.

Rights Within Reach

The sidewalks in my neighborhood are a patchwork collection of concrete, paving stones, and flagstone slabs meeting at irregular intervals. With each house, the footpath changes color and texture, but when a pedestrian passes along one of the flagstone strips, there is a real possibility for a turned ankle. It seems like one stone will end, and the other will haphazardly begin four inches away and half a foot down. Thank god the Rollerblade revolution has peacefully concluded, or we'd have quite the adolescent mortality rate here in Boulder.

I dodge these pitfalls when I walk down to Pearl Street. In particular, there are bars and restaurants, as well as plenty of funky little stores that sell anything from books to statues of the buddha. Sadly, my favorite store on "The Mall" just closed down. It sold fun, quique one-off cards, but I guess people are cutting back on their boutique card shopping. Fortunately, there is also one that sells notebooks, pens, cards...a stationary shop. Of course, we're in Boulder, so it's called a "Paperie", but cognates are a powerful thing. Plus, I speak a little French. Ju Sui Glamour.

When I got to the store, the mission was to find a particular style of notebook as a gift for Christmas. I asked the woman who was working at the cash register if they carried such an item, but before she could respond, a patron turned to me and told me that I should really go to Design Within Reach. They have exactly what I'm looking for. At first, I looked at the woman as though to thank her, but then realized she didn't work there, and I'd stepped into a weird conflict of interest. The woman behind the register tried to inform me that they had entire shelves dedicated to notebooks, and surely I could find something to my liking. The shopper just sort of grinned, as if to say "We both know you want to leave to see if I'm right. Design Within Reach. It's only four blocks away".

In fact, I did kind of want to leave to see if they had exactly what I was looking for, but felt an odd sense of duty to at least make a passing glance at the wall of notebooks. I felt bad for the owner, who had clearly not been to pleased to have her customers advising other clientele to head for the exits. Didn't I have some kind of responsibility to at least try to find what I was looking for in her shop? I remembered my favorite card store had just shuttered. Now, I'm gonna have to get all my cards from Target, and even if they're cheaper, they'll never be unique. I can personally guarantee that Target Corporation will never sell a card that has small, colored squares and writing that says "You are Fucking Awesome." If I headed to DWR, this cute little paperie might be next.

Thankfully, my phone rang, and I was able to say "Hold on, I'm in a store. Let me step out." loudly enough to take my leave with an excuse. I needed to see about a notebook that I could get only four blocks away. Everyone in town is raving about it, and I don't want to miss the boat.

As I finished my conversation on the phone, I started walking towards the DWR store. My mind was wandering back to how I'd taken my wallet and bolted from a store, and how the owner must be standing behind her counter looking at the remaining customer with violence in her heart. Maybe I was giving myself a bit too much credit, but, to be honest, that's kind of my thing.

Deep in thought, I stumbled unprepared into the ambush. The people who ask for your money or a signature for a ballot initiative are usually easy to spot. They're the ones that another pedestrian is shaking their head "No" to while hurrying away. And, they usually have a clipboard. I see these people every day that I'm down in Denver walking to catch my bus or train, and they're a mainstay on Pearl Street, too. I just want to keep walking, and don't want to take their requisite "one minute" to save anything. Some electronic distraction is the best defense, but as I'd been lost in the thought of competitive notebook peddling, my phone was nowhere near my ear.

"Do you have a minute..."
I knew where this was headed. The Environment? No, I'm sorry, I don't. Can't you see that I'm wearing a Patagonia jacket? They give 1% to the environment. Isn't that enough for you people?
"for gay rights?"

I've never heard that one. Caught totally unprepared, I could only be honest and look her right in the eyes and reply, "No." I kept walking.

It came out so harshly. Yes, I do have a minute, just not this minute. You see, I've gotta get to Design....oh Jesus. I'm no bigot, but I felt like I had voted yes on Proposition 8. I felt like I had voted according to Focus on the Family's command. I felt like a jerk.

I hope she could understand that I was just doing my part to...to...to... To what? Close local businesses? Just as I had when I blew off going into the card store two weeks ago, and right before they closed their doors for good, too?

When I got to the corner, I got did what any caring, upstanding citizen would do. I kept on walking, zigzagged my way back to the paperie. I might not ensure civil unions, but I might just keep a local stationary shop buzzing along through these tough economic times.

Holiday Cheer

Normally, I don't seek out house music. I'll happily listen to it, and dancing like an entranced whipsaw at a live show brings a smile to my face. The names of the individual DJ's themselves, though, mean no more to me those of my neighbors' pets. I'll gladly throw a stick for the friendly Labrador at the end of the cul-du-sac, just as I can be convinced to pay $15 bucks to hear somebody like Pete Tong or Armin Van Buuren spin a record at a downtown club. I don't want to buy the dog food or pay for a trip to the vet, though, just as I'm not too interested in getting obsessed with the club scene.

The problem with techno in Denver is that the clubs themselves are, unless you're incapacitated with drugs, unrelentingly self conscious. If you look hard enough, you see plenty of empty space, and a decor that looks more like recycled linen than anything else. I've yet to find one that tricked me into thinking that I'd stumbled into a reincarnation of Studio 54. Instead, I'll dance knowing full well that a glittering 7-11 stands just next door. This is fine if I get thirsty and need a Gatorade, but somehow it detracts from the allure that the party of a lifetime is going on back inside. When I was living in Madrid, I went into a few clubs that were large and ostentatious enough to leave me wondering if the Spanish government wasn't partly funding the place. Golden pillars supported a hovering stage where the DJ played to a 6 story house utterly packed to the gills with revelers. Everyone was dressed in their best leather and mesh, knowing full well that anything like a John Elway jersey would get you thrown out of the establishment and possibly deported to Portugal. Back in Denver, though, the shine just isn't the same, and some tool in his Bronco shirt has a good chance of getting into the festival.

This disparity in ambiance didn't stop my friend Rob from getting me a ticket to see Christopher Lawrence play music at a place in Denver called 'The Church'. Rob is much more of a music connoisseur than I am, and in homage to his superior knowledge, I tried to replicate his excitement for the show. In truth, I'd never heard of Christopher Lawrence, but I didn't want to ruin the fun. Playing along, I even rallied the enthusiasm to eat a bunch of mushrooms just to get in the groove. It wasn't too long before the crowd turned into a pen of bouncing rabbits, much to my delight. I was dancing like a maniac, and at the end of the night, I had developed a sort of affinity with Mr. Lawrence in spite of any shortcomings with the Denver club scene. He and I had bonded.

So you'll understand my nostalgia and surprise when I met a man named Christopher Lawrence on a climbing trip years after the bunnies attacked my cerebellum. I was down in Kentucky enjoying the out of this world climbing at the Red River Gorge, camping with my friends Dan and Derek. Dan had grown up in New York, and had moved to Colorado for college. He and I met out in Rifle, and have been buddies for a few years. Derek is another climbing buddy, although I just met him a few weeks before the trip to the Southeast. He had been on a cross country road trip, living out of his Toyota LandCruiser and climbing for six steady months. Derek had just finished his fellowship as a pathologist, but wanted to indulge in some climbing before getting too serious with medicine and regular employment. Immediately after meeting in Rifle, we hit it off, and he invited me to fly to Lexington after his road trip took him to "The Red". There, he'd pick me up and climb with me for a few days. Knowing that Dan and Derek were both down there, and that Derek had generously offered enormous convenience if I made the trip, was too much to pass up. I booked my ticket and prayed for good weather.

When I arrived, the guys had set up a tent city at a campground called Lago Linda. This sort of redneck resort caters to climbers, and has cabins for rent along with their rougher amenities. We camped in a converted horse barn, but had access to electricity and hot water. Survival is practically a given, and comfort is entirely possible, with these two facts. On my second day at the "Lago", Dan ran into his old buddy Christopher from New York. He sauntered up and we immediately started talking.

Christopher was also a climber, and was renting one of the aforementioned cabins from the resort. He had known Dan for years, and even took him climbing a bit before Dan turned into a total wonderkid and started crushing 5.14. When I was introduced to "Christopher Lawrence", I thought there was no way it was the same guy. Sure, he looked much like I remembered him, but my view of the stage wasn't immaculate. His bleach blond hair was the same, but he looked a lot older in person. 'Huh,' I thought. Name checks out, hair looks the same, and the fact that he is nearly deaf from years "in a band" also seemed to fit. I couldn't tell if it was the same guy, but I just hung out and tried to cover my bases by not doing anything foolish either way. I didn't want to act starstruck and fawn over "my favorite DJ" just in case it was mistaken identity, but I wanted to mention that I'd seen some great house shows just in case it actually was him. That way, I could play it cool and tell him, when and if his identity was confirmed, that I had known all along.

I asked him about his music, and he started telling me about all the punk he played growing up. The wall of amps behind his head was the main culprit for the hearing loss, but he'd gone from the drums to a career in photography. He'd been climbing for 25 years, and had plenty of stories from trips around the globe, but he made his money behind the lens.
"So you're not Christopher Lawrence The DJ?"

He smiled wryly and said I wasn't the first person to get confused, but he was in fact Christopher Lawrence The Photographer. That's how his contact info went into my phone - "Christopher Lawrence, Photog not DJ". Christopher and I spent a few days hanging out together, climbing and drinking at a Halloween party. We were talking about trips we'd like to take, and places we'd been, and had a bonding moment regarding sailing. Where he'd taken to it, and found it almost as gratifying as climbing, I was just getting over my most recent sailing experience in Greece. Regardless, the talks would always come back to climbing and travel, and he told me about his yearly trip to Mexico during the Christmas holiday. For the past couple of years, Christopher and a few friends had been down to Potrero Chico for Navidad climbing. Given my longstanding desire to climb the huge sport routes down there, some heading skyward for 20 pitches, I found myself salivating with jealousy. My holiday traditions didn't leave much room for rock climbing.

One tradition has been our family's attendance at a weird, old restaurant up in Empire, CO. We'll all go out for a dinner right before Christmas. The roots of the experience lie with my stepmother, who found this old hotel and restaurant decades ago when she was still in her first marriage. Each year, her for over 20 and our family for 12, we'll pile into the car and head West towards the ski areas, stopping in a town on the shoulder of Berthoud Pass to take over a certain dining room. The Peck House always has a roaring fire going when we get there, and the menu NEVER changes. The waitress, her hair always in the ever tight bun, and her slim figure tucked neatly into the same formal red dress as always, describes with pride the pate or mushrooms that are special for that night. She makes her announcement as though we'd be blown over with surprise. Actually, we all know what we're going to order before we even step out of the car, just as we know there will be a family picture in the sleigh on the front porch while we try to avoid freezing to death. The evening is typically a nice reunion, and it doesn't last so long as to become a burden. After dessert, we head back down the highway and close the chapter on The Peck House tradition for another year.

Another annual ritual, though this one more of a recent phenomenon, is overt charity. Oprah took to her daily television show one specific episode a few years ago, and talked at length about what a wonderful and fulfilling experience it was to give away money or gifts to perfect strangers. I imagine that it is entirely superficial for her bottom line, given that she has a net worth that is greater than the GDP of many developing nations. My stepmom saw this particular show, and liked the idea to the extent that a few weeks before Christmas, we would get an envelope stuffed with $100. The catch: the cash wasn't for us. We had to take to the streets like a modest Oprah army, distributing the loot to unsuspecting strangers. We were forbidden from doing something like give it to our girlfriends in order to curry naked favors, or engage in any other kickback schemes. The rules have remained fluid over the years, and have recently expanded to prohibit any internet microcredit organizations. That bylaw was directed mostly at my sister Megan. A few years back, she'd pledged the money to a candy vendor on the streets of Asuncion, Paraguay, via the internet. Simultaneously, she aroused suspicions amongst my dad and stepmom that she'd broken rule No. 1 and simply pocketed the dough. They heard of her "internet donation" because that was another rule. We all had to hit the streets and give out the money before Christmas eve, so that when we had dinner that night before Santa stuffed our stockings, we'd all be able to share our tales with the benefactors. I mean, how much fun is it to give away money and not hear about the homeless man's reaction when you bought him new boots? If a tree falls in the forest with no one around, does it make a sound? If your kids give away your money without you knowing exactly how and to whom, are you still generous?

I like to spread the $100 around, preferring to drop $20 here, $10 there. One night, though, I went a bit bigger than usual, and offered to pay for a large part of the dinner bill for an adjacent table while eating at a restaurant. Colorado was enduring quite a snowstorm, and my friend Ethan was in town for some skiing. After a day on the slopes, we were ready for a hot meal, so Ethan, Kate and I went out for a burger and a beer. The table next to us had two men and one woman, all of whom appeared middle aged. They were pretty somber, expecially in light of the huge snow the mountains were getting, so I assumed they needed some cheering up. Perhaps their goggles had gone missing, or they'd failed to tune their powder skis. I slid my chair to their table, startling one of the elders into grabbing his knife in defense. I talked quickly, and flashed the cash to keep from getting stabbed. When the older woman began to gently cry, I wondered what the hell I'd gotten into. She explained that her mother had just died, but her flight was cancelled out of Denver because of the weather. Now, she was going to miss the funeral. She said that it made her day, and though I don't think even giving her the whole $100 would have brought her mom back, at least I'd lucked into doing something.

That story went over well when I retold it at the dinner table on Christmas eve.

And on the very night of retelling my tale, Santa slid down the chimney and deposited a heap of gifts at the bottom of a 20 foot fir tree standing in my dad's living room that, luckily, has a vaulted ceiling. You might ask, 'Where the hell does one find a tree so over the top?' I'd answer, 'At Greg Penkowski's forest hideaway, of course!'

Greg and my dad shared a law practice for a few years back in the 1990's, and they've remained passing acquaintances ever since. It seems like quite a regression to go from sharing an office with someone to seeing them just once a year, but Greg is a huge Soviet man with more than a hint of oddness. I guess that's enough for my dad and his old law partner. This isn't to say Greg's a bad guy, and he has sincere kindness and generosity in his heart. He will always shake your hand with his bear paw, though just a bit too firmly, and for a few seconds too long. Now and then, I see him sitting on a bench downtown, watching the crowd stroll by on 16th Street with a grin from ear to ear. I wonder, then, if Greg has lost every last marble, or if he's just more suited to fresh air. Aside from my coincidental meetings on the sidewalk, I see the Penkowski clan only one other time during the year. We march onto their mountainous 160 acre estate with saw in hand. Greg sets aside a Saturday in early December each year, and has a whole team of wannabe foresters slip and slide on the hills above Golden in search for that perfect Christmas tree.

Along the way, my dad has gotten the idea that bigger is better, so each year we're all called into action to scour the hillsides for the perfect two ton behemoth. It gets chopped down, we gather around and grab branches, and then lug the sacrificial foliage back to the waiting Suburban. When we're back at the vehicle, my dad does some strange gyration he calls "The Tree Dance", which is more seizure than coordinated movement honoring the fir's demise. When he comes to a stop, all the Pharo kids look over their shoulders in prayer that no one was looking, and then heft the tree onto the roof of the car. After everything is tied tightly, we walk back to the campfire Greg has stoked, and rip through some of the wine he's donated. After a few glasses, our feet will get cold, we'll have caught up with all the necessary pleasantries and platitudes. We'll leave Greg, his wife Francis, and their two kids for another year.

And on my way home, I'll usually think to myself, "These Pharo traditions are nice. But man, it sure would be pretty great to be down in Mexico, climbing with a deaf man and a herd of rabbits."

Full Circle

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.

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."

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.

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.

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.