That's about enough. I haven't come through with a full scale post for what seems like months, and to my loyal voyeurs (all 4 of you) I offer my most sincere apologies. Perhaps you'll find consolation in the fact that I've endured a monumental shake up in my life, and forgive the inaction. As I've mentioned a few posts back, I'm going to keep details out of it, but Kate and I have faced facts and are busted up. Since I started the blog, I've tried to keep the profanity to a minimum at my mother's request, but I assume that she'll look past this one little slip: These last few weeks have fucking sucked.
There's no easy way to get past a relationship that has been a mainstay for the last three years. Time and bourbon might dull things a bit, but at the moment, it's hard to see much end to the storm. What's a wayward ship to do in such a situation, but talk about climbing as a gravity defying distraction?
I just got back from Rifle, my second trip in as many weeks. Throwing myself wholeheartedly into the last passion I can rely on, my trips have been some welcome relief. The results are already evident, as I sent a hard 12D in just a few tries and am making fantastic progress on a 13A at the Arsenal, in my mind Rifle's steepest and most intimidating wall. I had only hoped to make good progress on both routes this weekend, preferring to set the goals low and hope that humility would keep my wounded ego safe. The surprise of sending Blocky Horror Show early in the weekend lifted that veil a bit, and gave me a kick start to really go for a high point on the aptly named Pump-a-Rama. I don't give a damn if Samet calls the route 12D. Just because he lived in the canyon for enough time to wire the route into oblivion, likely doing it in Chuck T's, gives me little pause in labelling the climb with the benchmark grade (for me) of 13A.
Though the climbing was a success, camping and crag life was slightly less seamless. I realized that I'd forgotten my sleeping bag right as I drove through Glenwood Springs. Quickly seizing on the power of the cell phone, I begged my friend Mike to bail me out and hook me up with a loaner. He graciously forgave my "Liar and a Fraud" taunt and lent me a cozy duvet. I was happy to have it, as my only other real option was Samson, my friend's mutt. As much as I love canine spooning, even jumping at the chance to get an up close and personal view of any potential ticks, I'm happy to have had the blankey.
That's not all, though. I also managed to forget any backup contacts, and my only water bottle was a sad little half liter unit that consistently left me begging. I was forced to climb in glasses, and I've only got one pair. Every time I started up a route, I said a little prayer for my 'specs' hoping they'd survive the scrapes on the rock and the jolt of any fall. I only had one incident of falling more than 10 feet, and am happy to report that all four eyes stayed with me. The water situation? I just had to keep running to the car to fill up from my 5 gallon jug. Not my best show in terms of camping equipment, but at least I didn't forget my harness or shoes.
I've got some work that has popped up, and I'm happy to make some money while I rest up from the effort of the weekend. Next week, I start up an internship for the Access Fund, the national group that lobbies to keep climbing areas open. I am really psyched to put to use some of the skills I've gleaned from working over the past few years, while still being able to keep my job. The hours at the Access Fund will be limited, and they aren't paying me to do the work. That said, I am hoping that I can really connect with some of the people busting their asses to keep climbing available, and that I'll do my part in the same. The best news? I'll still have time to get back to Rifle. I'll keep you posted.
Lastly, and in accordance with the title of this post, there's one more little change here at Abaluba. I'm ditching the Fake Twitter section, as well as the climbing diary at the bottom. Instead of the sidebar, which I'm told just screws up the ability of anyone on a Blackberry to read the blog, I'll just add some random shit to the end of each post, if applicable. Let's start now:
I was in Greeley last week for work. The car in front of me had three provocative bumper stickers. The first, and most benign, was Obama's O. Instead of being in favor of the Prez, though, this O was one half of the word "NO." Fine. Homeboy doesn't like Barack. That's his right, and he's welcome to it. However, to the right of his presidential negative read "Honk if I paid your mortgage." Now I think it's admirable for this guy to try to single handedly fix the floundering American housing market by writing a check to all those distressed debtors out there. What a true patriot. And any patriot would love his third sticker: "I Love Waterboarding." In the interest of totally honest reporting, I should add that, instead of the actual word 'love,' stood a heart, but my socialist keyboard doesn't have that symbol.
This imbecile, we all realize, is the extreme fringe. But any fringe that so casually supports torture is one that gives me pause. Unless, of course, they'll actually come through and buy me a house.
Sunday, May 31, 2009
Friday, May 8, 2009
Big Rain, Big Whips
Well, I'm in Kentucky. The drive took the required two days with little extra fanfare, save for the shuffle board table my grandfather recently installed in the basement. When you combine that with pool table, foosball table, bar, and bomb shelter, there's a recipe for some real living. To tell the truth, stopping in the middle of Missouri was pretty much the high light of the drive. I guess the only real competition was the dinner at Big Boy's. Neil and I met up just outside of Louisville, and we had about an hour to chat before we met the other two road trip companions for some seriously good, seriously greasy cheeseburgers sporting tartar sauce as the secret ingredient. If I've had it 1,000 times on fish sticks, Mr. Big Boy, your sauce ain't so secret.
Since we've been here, I've been fighting battles on several fronts. Personally, stuff at home has been tough, to say the least, but that's all I'm going to say. With that cloud hanging over the trip, I've had real life thunderclouds to contend with, as well. They've delivered a remarkable amount of rain, essentially unleashing a heavy downpour every day for the past three weeks. We've only been here for a few days, but the soggy shoes, muddy pants and drippy tent have made things tough at times. Even though the Red is reknowned for its super steep walls, a lot of the climbs have had wet sections, leaving the choices for projects fairly limited. When the holds aren't dripping with water running from the top of the cliff, the holds are certainly feeling like a sixth grader went a little nuts with the Elmer's glue on the wall. Slippery and grimy....that's for sure.
I've started working on a route that launches upwards, and when I lower off from the last carabiners, I'm a good 50 feet from the belayer. I'm sure I could calculate the angle somehow....as the climb goes for 95 feet from ground to chains. I suppose that would be the hypotenuse. And while we're doing a little math, there's the part about the run out at the top. I've only taken the big fall once, but there's a nice distance between the last bolt and the chains, and going for a 50 foot fall is pretty exhilirating. Don't worry mom, it's safe.
This project, named Tuna Town, sports some gigantic holds. That's good for two reasons. First, there's the part of the angle. And second, my finger has been giving me some serious trouble. Grabbing small holds is painful, so thankfully the smallest grips are still pretty big. I had to take an unintended rest day today to try to give it a little time to heal (as well as giving my mind a little bit of time to chew on the tough spot I'm in with Kate). We'll see how everything feels after a breather.
Since we've been here, I've been fighting battles on several fronts. Personally, stuff at home has been tough, to say the least, but that's all I'm going to say. With that cloud hanging over the trip, I've had real life thunderclouds to contend with, as well. They've delivered a remarkable amount of rain, essentially unleashing a heavy downpour every day for the past three weeks. We've only been here for a few days, but the soggy shoes, muddy pants and drippy tent have made things tough at times. Even though the Red is reknowned for its super steep walls, a lot of the climbs have had wet sections, leaving the choices for projects fairly limited. When the holds aren't dripping with water running from the top of the cliff, the holds are certainly feeling like a sixth grader went a little nuts with the Elmer's glue on the wall. Slippery and grimy....that's for sure.
I've started working on a route that launches upwards, and when I lower off from the last carabiners, I'm a good 50 feet from the belayer. I'm sure I could calculate the angle somehow....as the climb goes for 95 feet from ground to chains. I suppose that would be the hypotenuse. And while we're doing a little math, there's the part about the run out at the top. I've only taken the big fall once, but there's a nice distance between the last bolt and the chains, and going for a 50 foot fall is pretty exhilirating. Don't worry mom, it's safe.
This project, named Tuna Town, sports some gigantic holds. That's good for two reasons. First, there's the part of the angle. And second, my finger has been giving me some serious trouble. Grabbing small holds is painful, so thankfully the smallest grips are still pretty big. I had to take an unintended rest day today to try to give it a little time to heal (as well as giving my mind a little bit of time to chew on the tough spot I'm in with Kate). We'll see how everything feels after a breather.
Thursday, April 30, 2009
Run Up The Canyon
Yesterday, I decided to take a run. My finger has been hurting pretty bad lately, so I've been trying to scale back the climbing before the trip to the Red. Normally, I wouldn't take the rest and relax approach right before heading on a climbing trip, I'd try to train. Doing that, though, might well leave me unable to crimp with my right hand, so I've had to try to chill and lather the digit in arnica. (I think that's how you spell it. Spell checker suggests arsenic. Thanks.)
So in an effort to get some kind of movement, I laced up the saddest pair of Asics around. They go back to my freshman year of college. I'm sad to admit, but that was nearly a decade ago. Christ. I'm blowing through my life like a teenager through mom and dad's liquor cabinet when they're out of town. When they get back, there's hell to pay.
I ran South and made my way for Boulder Canyon, thinking I'd see the creek. The air was perfect, crisp but not bitter, and my iPod kept shouting good music in my ears, so I eventually found myself below a rock formation a ways up the canyon called The Dome. I stopped and looked up at the big slab of granite, remembering a few things.
My first real rock climb was on that same piece of stone. I remember driving up from Wheat Ridge with my father and two more friends of his, making our way up Highway 93 on a sunny weekend day one summer when I was about 12. One of the other guys climbed up to a stance under one of the roofs that punctuate the rock, put me on belay, and I started scrambling up the slab. I remember getting stuck and being scared to weight the rope, convinced that my 90 pounds of mass I carried at the time would be too much for the anchor, killing everyone involved. My dad's other friend saw that I was terrified and soloed up to where I was shaking and whithering on the rock to push me up past the "featureless" section. I'm sure it was about 5.5, not too difficult by any standard except mine at the time.
Below The Dome, Boulder Creek makes a series of pools as it flows towards the city. Another memory struck me as I wandered down through the willows and gazed out towards the water. My father gave me a light weight fly rod for my 23rd birthday, and just a few days after he gave it to me, I rode my bike up to that same pool and cast a fly for the small brook trout that dart in the shadows. My birthday is in the fall, but I remember it being warm enough to simply wade out into the water in shorts and sandals, the heat of the day washed away by the creek still chilly from late runoff.
As I looked out on the water, remembering myself standing there a few years earlier, I got the feeling that I really wanted to see another trout rise and take a natural fly from the water's surface. I looked to the same bank where I'd caught several with that day, and after a few minutes, saw the tell tale rise. Not content to just see one, I kept telling myself to stay for one more rise. Three more fish rose to take mayflies from the creek, and I turned away, finally content to let them eat their bugs.
I ran home, up and over Anemone Trail, eventually finding my front door just as the sun set. It was a nice run, but I'm ready to have a working finger and start climbing in Kentucky.
So in an effort to get some kind of movement, I laced up the saddest pair of Asics around. They go back to my freshman year of college. I'm sad to admit, but that was nearly a decade ago. Christ. I'm blowing through my life like a teenager through mom and dad's liquor cabinet when they're out of town. When they get back, there's hell to pay.
I ran South and made my way for Boulder Canyon, thinking I'd see the creek. The air was perfect, crisp but not bitter, and my iPod kept shouting good music in my ears, so I eventually found myself below a rock formation a ways up the canyon called The Dome. I stopped and looked up at the big slab of granite, remembering a few things.
My first real rock climb was on that same piece of stone. I remember driving up from Wheat Ridge with my father and two more friends of his, making our way up Highway 93 on a sunny weekend day one summer when I was about 12. One of the other guys climbed up to a stance under one of the roofs that punctuate the rock, put me on belay, and I started scrambling up the slab. I remember getting stuck and being scared to weight the rope, convinced that my 90 pounds of mass I carried at the time would be too much for the anchor, killing everyone involved. My dad's other friend saw that I was terrified and soloed up to where I was shaking and whithering on the rock to push me up past the "featureless" section. I'm sure it was about 5.5, not too difficult by any standard except mine at the time.
Below The Dome, Boulder Creek makes a series of pools as it flows towards the city. Another memory struck me as I wandered down through the willows and gazed out towards the water. My father gave me a light weight fly rod for my 23rd birthday, and just a few days after he gave it to me, I rode my bike up to that same pool and cast a fly for the small brook trout that dart in the shadows. My birthday is in the fall, but I remember it being warm enough to simply wade out into the water in shorts and sandals, the heat of the day washed away by the creek still chilly from late runoff.
As I looked out on the water, remembering myself standing there a few years earlier, I got the feeling that I really wanted to see another trout rise and take a natural fly from the water's surface. I looked to the same bank where I'd caught several with that day, and after a few minutes, saw the tell tale rise. Not content to just see one, I kept telling myself to stay for one more rise. Three more fish rose to take mayflies from the creek, and I turned away, finally content to let them eat their bugs.
I ran home, up and over Anemone Trail, eventually finding my front door just as the sun set. It was a nice run, but I'm ready to have a working finger and start climbing in Kentucky.
Tuesday, April 28, 2009
Color Preference? Mine's Red
When there's been a big break in the blogging action, a good bet is to return to what you know. I know this: I'm going to the Red River Gorge in a couple of days, and I AM PSYCHED! Why? Let me count the ways.
The Drive/The Farm
I just saw a commercial for a new sammy from Arby's, and I had a chance to say to myself, "I'll probably eat one of those in the middle of Illinois." We are driving out there, you see, and there will be plenty of time to peruse middle America's dining options. In spite of the 20 hour
on-yer-ass-sentence that driving inflicts, I'm actually really happy to be doing so. The Farm is about halfway, and I am really looking forward to seeing my grandparents when we stay out there for a night. I haven't seen them for too long, and to be fair, none of us are getting any younger. In addition, The Farm is a place that is really dear to me. I've been outlining and working on a more focused essay that will hopefully be up soon on Abaluba. It is totally focused on stories from my many trips out there growing up. Keep your eyes peeled.
The Weather
I won't blame you if you live on the East Coast and haven't been keeping up, but if you live in Denver or Boulder, you know. It's been wet, rainy, and all too often, snowing here on the Front Range for most of April. There are few things that squash climbing opportunities as effectively as precipitation, especially heavy wet snows like the ones we've had lately. Fortunately, it looks like it will be warm enough out in the South to keep the snow at bay. Rain won't really matter, because the rock is so steep out in KY that it's almost like climbing inside. But you can bet I'm looking forward to wearing shorts and sunscreen, and not belaying in a big puffy coat. Summer's coming, and I'll ring it in when I'm watching leaves bloom at the Red.
The Rock
If you think you go to the gym and climb out the cave with your shirt off, all the girls thinking "I bet he's got a pound of junk in that lycra," and are climbing on the steepest walls in America, you're full of shit. First off, you don't have a pound of junk. And, more importantly, nothing is as steep as The Red. Nothing. Other than on the very rare 5.14, I'm not sure you can do a move much harder than V5 out there, but if you have to do about 194 of them in a row, you've got yourself a 5.13 in Kentucky. The Red is the land of 5.12, but not because they actually have one move of 5.12 on them. In fact, what you've got is a dead vertical 5.9 kicked back 45 degrees, renamed The Undertow Wall, and one of the most classic areas around. Oh my god, I can't wait.
The plan is to try to do a new 5.12 every day, and hopefully project one or two 13's while I'm out there. As long as my skin can hold up to the heavy duty sandpaper texture that defines the place, and as long as my finger can hold up (it's been feeling like a mule stepped on it recently) I think those goals are well within reach. I will certainly keep you up to date. Given that I'll be out there for two weeks, the stamina for those 45* overhanging 5.9's should come around. If not, a winter in the gym will have been all for naught.
The Routes
The tick list:
Too long to reproduce here.
Miguel's Pizza
Have I mentioned that one of the few places every rock climber knows about rests a few minutes outside of Slade, KY? Anytime you can get a pizza with sweet potato, BBQ chicken and roasted red pepper, you gotta grab it. That should be base camp for the trip, and I'll be keeping Abaluba updated with sends, flailures, and esoteric lingo bombs.
The Drive/The Farm
I just saw a commercial for a new sammy from Arby's, and I had a chance to say to myself, "I'll probably eat one of those in the middle of Illinois." We are driving out there, you see, and there will be plenty of time to peruse middle America's dining options. In spite of the 20 hour
on-yer-ass-sentence that driving inflicts, I'm actually really happy to be doing so. The Farm is about halfway, and I am really looking forward to seeing my grandparents when we stay out there for a night. I haven't seen them for too long, and to be fair, none of us are getting any younger. In addition, The Farm is a place that is really dear to me. I've been outlining and working on a more focused essay that will hopefully be up soon on Abaluba. It is totally focused on stories from my many trips out there growing up. Keep your eyes peeled.
The Weather
I won't blame you if you live on the East Coast and haven't been keeping up, but if you live in Denver or Boulder, you know. It's been wet, rainy, and all too often, snowing here on the Front Range for most of April. There are few things that squash climbing opportunities as effectively as precipitation, especially heavy wet snows like the ones we've had lately. Fortunately, it looks like it will be warm enough out in the South to keep the snow at bay. Rain won't really matter, because the rock is so steep out in KY that it's almost like climbing inside. But you can bet I'm looking forward to wearing shorts and sunscreen, and not belaying in a big puffy coat. Summer's coming, and I'll ring it in when I'm watching leaves bloom at the Red.
The Rock
If you think you go to the gym and climb out the cave with your shirt off, all the girls thinking "I bet he's got a pound of junk in that lycra," and are climbing on the steepest walls in America, you're full of shit. First off, you don't have a pound of junk. And, more importantly, nothing is as steep as The Red. Nothing. Other than on the very rare 5.14, I'm not sure you can do a move much harder than V5 out there, but if you have to do about 194 of them in a row, you've got yourself a 5.13 in Kentucky. The Red is the land of 5.12, but not because they actually have one move of 5.12 on them. In fact, what you've got is a dead vertical 5.9 kicked back 45 degrees, renamed The Undertow Wall, and one of the most classic areas around. Oh my god, I can't wait.
The plan is to try to do a new 5.12 every day, and hopefully project one or two 13's while I'm out there. As long as my skin can hold up to the heavy duty sandpaper texture that defines the place, and as long as my finger can hold up (it's been feeling like a mule stepped on it recently) I think those goals are well within reach. I will certainly keep you up to date. Given that I'll be out there for two weeks, the stamina for those 45* overhanging 5.9's should come around. If not, a winter in the gym will have been all for naught.
The Routes
The tick list:
Too long to reproduce here.
Miguel's Pizza
Have I mentioned that one of the few places every rock climber knows about rests a few minutes outside of Slade, KY? Anytime you can get a pizza with sweet potato, BBQ chicken and roasted red pepper, you gotta grab it. That should be base camp for the trip, and I'll be keeping Abaluba updated with sends, flailures, and esoteric lingo bombs.
Snap to it
My schedule for today has filled up substantially, but I'm still going to heed the calls of the masses and rock out a quick post on Abaluba.
Here we go.
Last night, at a local Mexican food emporium called Illegal Pete's, there was a collision of worlds. So far, I've been able to keep Kate from most of the carnage that is my life. She got a little taste of her sweetheart's inner idiot when she shook hands with Giggle Magic Barbie. I know that's not a very nice thing to call someone, but in my defense, I didn't come up with the nickname. It was given to my college girlfriend by my friends and family in an apt description of how they really felt about her.
Kate was polite, and GMB giggled, as you might expect. It's weird when the present meets the past, especially when you're standing by and it's your present melding with your past. There's a certain embarassment I felt with the whole thing, especially when Kate looked at me as we were walking out and said, "I thought she'd be really hot," somehow insinuating that GMB actually wasn't. I'll take it as a compliment that I should be dating only the finest of the fine, and not read too much between the lines. Doing that, and I'd have to think Kate was discreetly asking me how I could fall in love with someone whose flaws are so on display.
But that's the problem with meeting up with your past when you've got perspective as an ally. A more precise picture comes into view, and you can no longer hide behind blind passion. Is that where I'll be in a few years' time? Looking back at this present, which will then be the past, with a clearer perspective and a hint of sadness? Goddamn, trying to figure out how to live is difficult.
So the worlds colided, and everyone survived. Kate and I went into a film after the chance meeting, and met up with friends. We watched a premier for a climbing film, and even though I love climbing, it can occassionally be a tough time at the movies. There are enough chumps (not me, of course) at those shows to make it uncomfortable at times, especially when they're yelling "Poser!" at the screen if they happen to recognize the 50-foot tall face we're all staring at.
And now, I've got to get back to work. There's a bunch of stuff to finish before I can take off for Kentucky on a two week climbing trip. I just hope that when I'm down in the South, scaling some of the best sandstone sport climbing in the country, that my belayer doesn't take the opportunity to yell "Poser!" at me as I clip the rope into a draw.
Here we go.
Last night, at a local Mexican food emporium called Illegal Pete's, there was a collision of worlds. So far, I've been able to keep Kate from most of the carnage that is my life. She got a little taste of her sweetheart's inner idiot when she shook hands with Giggle Magic Barbie. I know that's not a very nice thing to call someone, but in my defense, I didn't come up with the nickname. It was given to my college girlfriend by my friends and family in an apt description of how they really felt about her.
Kate was polite, and GMB giggled, as you might expect. It's weird when the present meets the past, especially when you're standing by and it's your present melding with your past. There's a certain embarassment I felt with the whole thing, especially when Kate looked at me as we were walking out and said, "I thought she'd be really hot," somehow insinuating that GMB actually wasn't. I'll take it as a compliment that I should be dating only the finest of the fine, and not read too much between the lines. Doing that, and I'd have to think Kate was discreetly asking me how I could fall in love with someone whose flaws are so on display.
But that's the problem with meeting up with your past when you've got perspective as an ally. A more precise picture comes into view, and you can no longer hide behind blind passion. Is that where I'll be in a few years' time? Looking back at this present, which will then be the past, with a clearer perspective and a hint of sadness? Goddamn, trying to figure out how to live is difficult.
So the worlds colided, and everyone survived. Kate and I went into a film after the chance meeting, and met up with friends. We watched a premier for a climbing film, and even though I love climbing, it can occassionally be a tough time at the movies. There are enough chumps (not me, of course) at those shows to make it uncomfortable at times, especially when they're yelling "Poser!" at the screen if they happen to recognize the 50-foot tall face we're all staring at.
And now, I've got to get back to work. There's a bunch of stuff to finish before I can take off for Kentucky on a two week climbing trip. I just hope that when I'm down in the South, scaling some of the best sandstone sport climbing in the country, that my belayer doesn't take the opportunity to yell "Poser!" at me as I clip the rope into a draw.
Tuesday, April 14, 2009
Round 2, Finally
Sorry to go so long between posts, but I've been busy traveling to New Jersey for a funeral. On the brighter side, this unexpected trip got me out to see my girlfriend's family, always a blast. While I was hanging in The Garden State, I got another round of suggestions for the blog, and I'm trying to figure out how to weave them all together. I know it's possible. Alchemists turn lead into gold, and Chinese doctors can turn the odd tiger penis into a cure for baldness. I've got to be able to turn breakfast, St. Patty's day, yard sports and naps into a blog. Let's roll on this Bad Oscar.
I should start things on an entirely unrelated note. Thievery Corporation is coming to Denver on Thursday, and even though my credit card bill is a bit unruly at this juncture, I'm really considering picking up an overpriced ticket. Keep in mind, my buddies Rob and Jim are going with a big bag of mushrooms, and anytime those three are involved, the possibilities are endless. The last time we went to a show, I saw Christopher Lawrence at a renovated church, and ended up meeting Mr. Gay Leather Colorado at an after party. That was literally how he introduced himself, and you can imagine my giddiness. How many times can you say you've shaken mitts with Mr. Anything?
Back to the matter at hand. The sandwich. Recently, my friend Brian has been calling me The Sand Man, out of homage to my love of stacked goodness between sliced, toasted bread. He and I were at Snarf's the other night after a climbing session, and I devoured an 8 inch sub filled with chicken salad and roasted peppers faster than you can say, "What the hell is Snarf's?" Snarf's, my friend, is a Colorado culinary specialty.
So far as I know, they started purveying their delights in Boulder, raking in cash from stoned students and rock climbers alike. Snarf's just opened a new location down in Denver, about 5 blocks from the home of Abaluba's own resident celebrity, Hans. The H Dog was thinking about moving to a new, cheaper apartment until he found out that Snarf's was coming to town. This has led him to abandon all plans for saving money on rent, and in fact has forced him to take out a personal line of credit that'll be used to finance his daily dose of Snarf's sammys. His favorite? The pro sized Turkey with all the fixin's. Good choice, my man. And at 9.24%, a good business decision, too!
Bear in mind, I'm not called the Sand Man due to my affinity for Snarf's alone. There's a place here in Dirty Jerz that has me salivating with equal anticipation. I'm sure you've all heard of the Sloppy Joe, a piled high mess of hamburger and ragu that looks and tastes like sadness. I want to dispell such silliness from your minds, and instead beg you to realize that a Sloppy Joe, at least as produced by the Milburn Deli, is a creation that rivals the internet and Pam Anderson as one of god's finest. Two slices of rye bread (rumored to be buttered) stand as the bookends. Between lie a stack of meat, swiss cheese, another slice of rye, cole slaw and russian dressing. Oh holy Christ. I'll have two.
I asked Will Swayne what he thought of this incredible food creation, but he was much more impressed by the delight that is breakfast. Fine, William, breakfast it it.
We've taken care of lunch with the sandwich combo of Snarf's and a proper Sloppy Joe. Breakfast is best handled in a bowl. Preferrably, there's cereal of some sort, and a lactose counterpart, either milk or yogurt. I know some people who claim Berry Berry Kix as the pinnacle start to their day. I've heard some claim that Cinnamon Toast Crunch stands atop Mount Morning, and Dr. Blackburn is a Frosted Mini Wheat man. And it's true that all of these entries leave a flavorful stew at the end of the meal. So tasty, in fact, that I remember wondering if Cinnamon Toast Crunch Milk was a marketable concoction. But for my money, I prefer something I gleaned from a trip to El Paso, TX.
My friend Nuno was living in a place named "The House of Doom" during a winter climbing season in Hueco Tanks. Four guys all split a house for a 6 month lease back in 2006 or so. Oddly, this was exactly the kind of place that landed the American economy in the stinker, just like the kid in Slumdog Millionaire. A newly built, cookie cutter McMansion on the outskirts of town, but that's exactly why the boys loved it. This particular subdivision was about as close as you could get to the climbing while still being within spitting distance of civilization, and allowed the Doomers unfettered access to The Tanks. AND, The place was big enough to allow for guests. I took Nuno up on the offer.
I went down over a long weekend in February, just short of the end of the season which can be felt around St. Patty's day. By then, the air down by Mexico starts to get too hot to allow fingers to stick to boulders, and the whole climbing crew visiting for the season of good temps head north for cooler crimping conditions. When I arrived at the house, another band of ruffians were visiting, and all told there were about 10 of us packed about. We'd all have breakfast together, talking about where we'd climb, which rangers were dicks, and who's skin felt the worst. I was only there for a few days, so I didn't have a food cache of my own, and left my guide Nuno to dictate the menu. He poured me a heaping bowl of granola, and tossed yogurt, peanut butter, sliced almonds, fruit, and milk on top. With that kind of calorie blast, I was ready to demolish any V2 in my way. (Mom, V2 boulder problems are for anemic Canadians. Things don't get hard until V7 or so.) That, amigos, got each day started right. Now if I only wasn't so goddamn weak!
From there, we'd go towards Hueco Tanks State Park, almost literally the backyard playground for the boys at the Doom Hut. Instead of the traditional bean bags or "corn hole," a terribly named but tremendously fun attraction featuring washers and a hole cut into plywood, we'd just stumble around a maze of building-sized stones with foam pads on our backs. Hoping not to need them, we'd drape the pads over the projected landing zone and motor upwards against gravity. Sadly for me, physics usually win. After three days of losing battles against Earth's inertia, I headed home for CO aboard an airplane, hoping and praying that this time, my luck would hold and I'd beat the unstoppable force, at least for the moment.
I don't know about you superhuman voeuyers, but after that many consecutive days of climbing, I need some rest. I think as I get older I start to enjoy a little down time. When I was younger, I told my parents, "No mo' nappus, never ever!" I also told them that I wanted to be a lion, so take it all with a grain of salt. Now that I've gotten more into climbing, though, I see it as a way to recuperate, and maybe grown some new fingers.
I've tried a new breakfast regime, and even added to my lunch menu. I'm hoping to figure out some way to get strong enough to maybe send a V3. If napping doesn't work, maybe I'll talk to some Asian doctor about a little tiger wang stew for dinner. Anything that helps, right?
I should start things on an entirely unrelated note. Thievery Corporation is coming to Denver on Thursday, and even though my credit card bill is a bit unruly at this juncture, I'm really considering picking up an overpriced ticket. Keep in mind, my buddies Rob and Jim are going with a big bag of mushrooms, and anytime those three are involved, the possibilities are endless. The last time we went to a show, I saw Christopher Lawrence at a renovated church, and ended up meeting Mr. Gay Leather Colorado at an after party. That was literally how he introduced himself, and you can imagine my giddiness. How many times can you say you've shaken mitts with Mr. Anything?
Back to the matter at hand. The sandwich. Recently, my friend Brian has been calling me The Sand Man, out of homage to my love of stacked goodness between sliced, toasted bread. He and I were at Snarf's the other night after a climbing session, and I devoured an 8 inch sub filled with chicken salad and roasted peppers faster than you can say, "What the hell is Snarf's?" Snarf's, my friend, is a Colorado culinary specialty.
So far as I know, they started purveying their delights in Boulder, raking in cash from stoned students and rock climbers alike. Snarf's just opened a new location down in Denver, about 5 blocks from the home of Abaluba's own resident celebrity, Hans. The H Dog was thinking about moving to a new, cheaper apartment until he found out that Snarf's was coming to town. This has led him to abandon all plans for saving money on rent, and in fact has forced him to take out a personal line of credit that'll be used to finance his daily dose of Snarf's sammys. His favorite? The pro sized Turkey with all the fixin's. Good choice, my man. And at 9.24%, a good business decision, too!
Bear in mind, I'm not called the Sand Man due to my affinity for Snarf's alone. There's a place here in Dirty Jerz that has me salivating with equal anticipation. I'm sure you've all heard of the Sloppy Joe, a piled high mess of hamburger and ragu that looks and tastes like sadness. I want to dispell such silliness from your minds, and instead beg you to realize that a Sloppy Joe, at least as produced by the Milburn Deli, is a creation that rivals the internet and Pam Anderson as one of god's finest. Two slices of rye bread (rumored to be buttered) stand as the bookends. Between lie a stack of meat, swiss cheese, another slice of rye, cole slaw and russian dressing. Oh holy Christ. I'll have two.
I asked Will Swayne what he thought of this incredible food creation, but he was much more impressed by the delight that is breakfast. Fine, William, breakfast it it.
We've taken care of lunch with the sandwich combo of Snarf's and a proper Sloppy Joe. Breakfast is best handled in a bowl. Preferrably, there's cereal of some sort, and a lactose counterpart, either milk or yogurt. I know some people who claim Berry Berry Kix as the pinnacle start to their day. I've heard some claim that Cinnamon Toast Crunch stands atop Mount Morning, and Dr. Blackburn is a Frosted Mini Wheat man. And it's true that all of these entries leave a flavorful stew at the end of the meal. So tasty, in fact, that I remember wondering if Cinnamon Toast Crunch Milk was a marketable concoction. But for my money, I prefer something I gleaned from a trip to El Paso, TX.
My friend Nuno was living in a place named "The House of Doom" during a winter climbing season in Hueco Tanks. Four guys all split a house for a 6 month lease back in 2006 or so. Oddly, this was exactly the kind of place that landed the American economy in the stinker, just like the kid in Slumdog Millionaire. A newly built, cookie cutter McMansion on the outskirts of town, but that's exactly why the boys loved it. This particular subdivision was about as close as you could get to the climbing while still being within spitting distance of civilization, and allowed the Doomers unfettered access to The Tanks. AND, The place was big enough to allow for guests. I took Nuno up on the offer.
I went down over a long weekend in February, just short of the end of the season which can be felt around St. Patty's day. By then, the air down by Mexico starts to get too hot to allow fingers to stick to boulders, and the whole climbing crew visiting for the season of good temps head north for cooler crimping conditions. When I arrived at the house, another band of ruffians were visiting, and all told there were about 10 of us packed about. We'd all have breakfast together, talking about where we'd climb, which rangers were dicks, and who's skin felt the worst. I was only there for a few days, so I didn't have a food cache of my own, and left my guide Nuno to dictate the menu. He poured me a heaping bowl of granola, and tossed yogurt, peanut butter, sliced almonds, fruit, and milk on top. With that kind of calorie blast, I was ready to demolish any V2 in my way. (Mom, V2 boulder problems are for anemic Canadians. Things don't get hard until V7 or so.) That, amigos, got each day started right. Now if I only wasn't so goddamn weak!
From there, we'd go towards Hueco Tanks State Park, almost literally the backyard playground for the boys at the Doom Hut. Instead of the traditional bean bags or "corn hole," a terribly named but tremendously fun attraction featuring washers and a hole cut into plywood, we'd just stumble around a maze of building-sized stones with foam pads on our backs. Hoping not to need them, we'd drape the pads over the projected landing zone and motor upwards against gravity. Sadly for me, physics usually win. After three days of losing battles against Earth's inertia, I headed home for CO aboard an airplane, hoping and praying that this time, my luck would hold and I'd beat the unstoppable force, at least for the moment.
I don't know about you superhuman voeuyers, but after that many consecutive days of climbing, I need some rest. I think as I get older I start to enjoy a little down time. When I was younger, I told my parents, "No mo' nappus, never ever!" I also told them that I wanted to be a lion, so take it all with a grain of salt. Now that I've gotten more into climbing, though, I see it as a way to recuperate, and maybe grown some new fingers.
I've tried a new breakfast regime, and even added to my lunch menu. I'm hoping to figure out some way to get strong enough to maybe send a V3. If napping doesn't work, maybe I'll talk to some Asian doctor about a little tiger wang stew for dinner. Anything that helps, right?
Wednesday, April 8, 2009
Bikes
I have been in and out of the house a number of times this morning. That's what having a new puppy will do. Actually, that's what the fear of having your new puppy piss or crap on the floor will do. Either way, I've made the acquaintance of the front yard once an hour, and each time outside, have managed to look up at the blue sky and west toward the snow covered hill behind the house, and wonder at what a beautiful day it is.
The birds have been singing the praises since sun-up. The air temperature is warm enough to allow me to slide the window open for fresh air. In pours the oxygen, and the chirping of the jays, robins, and magpies. There are even bees swirling around the fresh, budding flowers of one of the trees in the corner of the yard. It looks like Spring is in the air.
It was hard to think about the coming season without reminiscing about my bike. I checked Velonews.com and caught up on some of the races going on this week, the Spring Classics, they're called. The Tour of Flanders, Ghent-Weveglem, and the famed Paris-Roubaix are all going on about now, and stand proud as Continental Europe's three pronged version of The Masters. These races always fall on this week of the calendar, and hopefully signal to an awaiting Flemish public that the leaves will soon bloom green.
These three races inspired one local bike promoter to come up with some races that Boulder could rightly call its own "Spring Classics." Chris Grealish owns and runs Denver-Boulder Couriers, a package delivery service that floods the streets of the two towns with an army of fixie riders, all carrying the unmistakable orange Chrome delivery bag over one shoulder. They dart into offices and shops with their packages, and when Chris isn't on the walkie talkie directing traffic, he's planning bike races.
When I was still racing bikes, I looked forward to Chris' races because they were something entirely different from the average office park criterium. Instead of doing 15 laps around a parking lot, sprinting to the next corner and then hitting the brakes, the Boulder Spring Classics were road races that would last for hours on open roads. The number of entrants would always be greater, the courses much more interesting and diverse, and the 50 plus miles in the saddle suited my preferrences better than a 45 minute race. My favorites were the Boulder-Roubaix, named after its French counterpart, and the Boulder Beer Race, sponsored by a local brewery (and much easier to say than, say, Weveglem.)
A few years ago, I would have been doing something entirely different on a day such as this. Instead of staying at home, working (thinking about climbing) and tending to the mutt, I'd have been on the bike for at least a couple of hours. I'd have ridden around the roads north of town, perhaps chattering along the washboard of the dirt farm roads that the Boulder-Roubaix race would feature. I'd have come home, exhausted and covered in dust, and have been excited at the prospect that this extra training would mean I wouldn't get shelled. Not that it ever mattered much. It seems like I was always far from winning.
So far from winning, in fact, that racing lost its appeal. Knowing that if I didn't train a bunch more, I'd never cross the line at the front, and this left me with a decision to make. I could either sacrifice an enormous amount of time, energy and trade-off for a few silly wins around town, or I could give up on racing and pick something else. I never loved the racing, more the training and the spring air, so the decision wasn't too tough.
The one remaining race bike I still own is in the shop. Instead of having it tuned and readied for a spring of racing, I'm converting it into a city commuter bike. The handle bars are being changed to straight, comfortable grips, and the tires are going to be housed in fenders. I'm putting on a chain guard to save my pants from the ravages of grease and store runs, and adding a rack that will carry those very groceries back from Ideal Market. I've given up on the idea of speeding around in a group of 50 men with shaved legs, all clad in professional looking lycra emblazened with logos and shop names across the chests and asses. Now, I just want to speed around town.
Today would be a great day to hit the road on that newly tuned machine, but alas, it's still in the shop. When it's back, I'll be glad at the trade. Dacks is learning how to fetch, and a bottle of wine and a fresh baguette are going to fit perfectly in the basket.
The birds have been singing the praises since sun-up. The air temperature is warm enough to allow me to slide the window open for fresh air. In pours the oxygen, and the chirping of the jays, robins, and magpies. There are even bees swirling around the fresh, budding flowers of one of the trees in the corner of the yard. It looks like Spring is in the air.
It was hard to think about the coming season without reminiscing about my bike. I checked Velonews.com and caught up on some of the races going on this week, the Spring Classics, they're called. The Tour of Flanders, Ghent-Weveglem, and the famed Paris-Roubaix are all going on about now, and stand proud as Continental Europe's three pronged version of The Masters. These races always fall on this week of the calendar, and hopefully signal to an awaiting Flemish public that the leaves will soon bloom green.
These three races inspired one local bike promoter to come up with some races that Boulder could rightly call its own "Spring Classics." Chris Grealish owns and runs Denver-Boulder Couriers, a package delivery service that floods the streets of the two towns with an army of fixie riders, all carrying the unmistakable orange Chrome delivery bag over one shoulder. They dart into offices and shops with their packages, and when Chris isn't on the walkie talkie directing traffic, he's planning bike races.
When I was still racing bikes, I looked forward to Chris' races because they were something entirely different from the average office park criterium. Instead of doing 15 laps around a parking lot, sprinting to the next corner and then hitting the brakes, the Boulder Spring Classics were road races that would last for hours on open roads. The number of entrants would always be greater, the courses much more interesting and diverse, and the 50 plus miles in the saddle suited my preferrences better than a 45 minute race. My favorites were the Boulder-Roubaix, named after its French counterpart, and the Boulder Beer Race, sponsored by a local brewery (and much easier to say than, say, Weveglem.)
A few years ago, I would have been doing something entirely different on a day such as this. Instead of staying at home, working (thinking about climbing) and tending to the mutt, I'd have been on the bike for at least a couple of hours. I'd have ridden around the roads north of town, perhaps chattering along the washboard of the dirt farm roads that the Boulder-Roubaix race would feature. I'd have come home, exhausted and covered in dust, and have been excited at the prospect that this extra training would mean I wouldn't get shelled. Not that it ever mattered much. It seems like I was always far from winning.
So far from winning, in fact, that racing lost its appeal. Knowing that if I didn't train a bunch more, I'd never cross the line at the front, and this left me with a decision to make. I could either sacrifice an enormous amount of time, energy and trade-off for a few silly wins around town, or I could give up on racing and pick something else. I never loved the racing, more the training and the spring air, so the decision wasn't too tough.
The one remaining race bike I still own is in the shop. Instead of having it tuned and readied for a spring of racing, I'm converting it into a city commuter bike. The handle bars are being changed to straight, comfortable grips, and the tires are going to be housed in fenders. I'm putting on a chain guard to save my pants from the ravages of grease and store runs, and adding a rack that will carry those very groceries back from Ideal Market. I've given up on the idea of speeding around in a group of 50 men with shaved legs, all clad in professional looking lycra emblazened with logos and shop names across the chests and asses. Now, I just want to speed around town.
Today would be a great day to hit the road on that newly tuned machine, but alas, it's still in the shop. When it's back, I'll be glad at the trade. Dacks is learning how to fetch, and a bottle of wine and a fresh baguette are going to fit perfectly in the basket.
Tuesday, March 31, 2009
These are a few of my favorite things...
Hank dropped the request on me this afternoon. Rock, paper, scissors; bacon and avocado; and the Masters. Write it up, PattyP! His favorite things, immortalized on the EWeb.
First off, I talk about climbing too much, to the point that it strains relationships, alienates my family, and annoys readers who grow weary of the lingo bombs. One thing I've tried to avoid for patrickpharo.blogspot.com is ending up with a blog exclusively devoted to climbing. More than likely, I've failed. For this reason, I'm psyched when people send in suggestions for topics. I need some kind of push in a new direction. Otherwise, I end up rehashing tales of gravity defying crimps, high steps, and hunchbackedness.
So without further ado, I present my thoughts on Henry Swayne's chart toppers.
Francophobes call it Rochambeau. Homeless men ask, when invited into a friendly game, "what about crack rock?" Uber-nerds have come up with an entirely-too-complex mutation involving the standard rock, paper, and scissors, but also including a lizard, spock fingers, water, and the once in a lifetime use of fire. Once in a lifetime? I prefer the standard game play that allows for unlimited rocks, papers, or scissors thrown. Although...the next time I battle a random hobo when walking down 42nd Street, I'm tossing Spock just for fun.
I'm going to toss my outstretched hand firmly into the Pro-RPS camp. It's one of those perfect games. Zero set up required (although someone will inevitably "shoot" too early. For Christ's sake, it's one, two, three, SHOOT!). It isn't some Monopoly marathon that goes on well into the night, long after you've had it with your sister extorting your last nickle from his hotel on Marvin Gardens, gleefully taunting you until you have a nervous meltdown and chase her into the kitchen with balled fists, ironically called "rocks". RPS is, at most, a best of five scenario that can be shelved before things get tedious. Strangers know what's up, even men with nappy beards and 14 teeth. It's international, or at least beloved amongst the Parisians. Only mancala comes close to RPS' appeal.
Ricky Schrichabok taught me how to play mancala when we were sitting on the back porch of his family's house. Ricky grew up just down the street from me in Wheat Ridge, but as opposed to my very suburban American upbringing, Ricky shared a modest split level ranch with an uncle, aunt, a multitude of cousins, a grandmother, and the stifling smell of boiling octopus. The whole Schrichabok family made their way from Laos sometime in the early 80's, landing in Colorado. Even as a 10 year old, I'd tower over his entire family while Ricky and I would play video games or soccer at his house.
When we'd get tired of NBA '91 on the Nintendo, Ricky would always have a new distraction. Sometimes, we'd read the Laotian comics that meant nothing to me, but would send him into convuslions of laughter. I never knew talking ducks and green lobsters could be so funny. Other times, we'd head upstairs to the kitchen, and his doting grandmother would feed us snacks. I tried to be polite, but would always leave feeling like I'd just been fed a tire bathed in napalm. One of the other diversions Ricky came up with was a game he'd learned as a little kid in Asia. We'd draw the board on the cement with chalk, and move piles of rocks around in accordance with a very few set of rules. Voila, mancala.
When we were in Grandma Schrichabok's kitchen, we never, ever ate bacon and avocado. That, my friendly voeyuers, is an international tragedy. I think that if Laos was the land of animal and plant fat, the Ricky's family would have stayed put. Instead, they never developed a taste for it. Growing up in America, I was actually fed bacon as an infant at Rose Medical Center, mostly in preparation for a lifetime of hydrogenated oil, high fructose corn syrup, and McDonalds. Growing up in the American West, I was actually fed avocado in the form of guacamole by the Hispanic nurses at Rose Medical Center, mostly in preparation for a lifetime of tacos al carbon, huevos rancheros, and enchiladas patzcuaros at the insanely good eateries around Denver and Boulder. All I can say is, dig in!
Eat until you're crushed, and then come back for one more piece of cremated pork or tostada covered in green paste that tastes like gold. Because, if photos of John Daly are to be trusted, you don't have to be particularly fit to be a good hack.
Here appears a man who has won two of the four most prestigious tournaments in the world, The British Open and PGA Championship. But you know what he hasn't won? The Masters, and it's on next week. This tournament is always in April, always at Augusta, and always signals that Spring has sprung. If I'm on the course comparing myself to Tiger, it will also remind me that my swing has been stung by lack of practice and a dearth of natural talent, but I've always got my Mantoloking Open Open trophy to fall back on. It's no green jacket, butI did get to drink Dunkin Donut coffee on the 9th and final hole. Gotta start somewhere.
While we're here, I really should take the chance to tell you my one and only personal, albeit second hand, John Daly story. As always, anything ridiculous in my life involves my buddy Hans. He's my only friend who has starred in a movie, lived the 17 year old boy's dream by sleeping with a 30 year old on a Mexican beach, and given a strange child "the heeby jeebies." The only sad thing is that these were three separate incidents.
Hans was a wild man in high school. I credit this largely to the fact that his parents, upon Hans' graduation from WRHS, up and retired in Chang Mai, Thailand. They basically left him a house and assumed he was responsible enough to care for it. If a measure of success is not burning it to the the ground, then it is, in fact, possible to judge him so. If, on the other hand, a man is judged a failure when they get blind drunk and, while trying to sneak into the community pool that's been closed for the night, fall onto a wrought iron fence and leave a gaping slice in their calf, Hans catastrophically lost that battle.
Sadly, his health insurance had yet to kick in, so Hans needed a way to pay for the 24 staples that went into his leg during his field trip to the ER. He and I worked at a local country club as caddies, and we set the summer alight carrying bags for wealthy men, none of whom would ever win the Mantoloking Open Open. I swallowed my pride and allowed them to plod around their local course, unknowingly in the presence of golfing greatness.
Colorado used to host a PGA tournament called The International, and aside from the modified Stableford scoring system that turned the game nearly on its head, the most exciting aspect for us was the Pro-Am. Hans and I would, as local caddies, be invited to carry for some of the local businessmen who'd paid a king's ransom to, again, walk in the presence of golfing royalty. This time, though, they at least recognized the majesty, as the PGA professionals, the very men who would compete for the hundreds of thousands of dollars in prize money, would play as a member of the group.
Hans and I drove down to the course and waited for our group assignments. As you'd expect, I was so lucky as to have drawn a group that would play with Brandt Snedeker. I know, baller, right!!! Oh wait, you've never heard of him. I hadn't either. Hans, however was chosen to carry in the group that would feature two time major winner John Daly. Some guys have all the luck! I would include Daly in that group of lucky ones, except at the time, he was coming off a divorce and a stint in rehab for some serious alcoholism. Hey, he didn win at St. Andrews, though.
During the round, Hans managed two great feats. He's an overly gregarious sort, and while he was headed to one of the refreshment tents dotting the course, managed to ask John if he'd like a beer. Fresh from Betty Ford, John's will was still strong, and he managed to shake off the offer. But funnier and more awkward still, Hans was later bent down on a green, reading a putt for his golfer, when Daly walked behind our favorite caddie and asked "what the hell happened to you leg?" Hans, teeming with embarrassment from his last drinking faux pas, didn't want to divulge the truth. Instead, he replied that he'd, "Ummm....got it in a knife fight with a midget."
"You're a weird fucking kid, Hans."
Daly might have been an alcoholic accused of beating his wife, but he nailed that call on the 15th green.
So that, my friends, is my reaction to Hank's list of things he's excited about, either for the moment or for all time. I beg you, what are your favorite things? Shoot me an email at patrick.pharo@gmail.com, leave a comment, or write me a letter. I don't care how you do it, just give me something to write about that isn't rock climbing. Left to my own devices, I'd bore you to tears.
First off, I talk about climbing too much, to the point that it strains relationships, alienates my family, and annoys readers who grow weary of the lingo bombs. One thing I've tried to avoid for patrickpharo.blogspot.com is ending up with a blog exclusively devoted to climbing. More than likely, I've failed. For this reason, I'm psyched when people send in suggestions for topics. I need some kind of push in a new direction. Otherwise, I end up rehashing tales of gravity defying crimps, high steps, and hunchbackedness.
So without further ado, I present my thoughts on Henry Swayne's chart toppers.
Francophobes call it Rochambeau. Homeless men ask, when invited into a friendly game, "what about crack rock?" Uber-nerds have come up with an entirely-too-complex mutation involving the standard rock, paper, and scissors, but also including a lizard, spock fingers, water, and the once in a lifetime use of fire. Once in a lifetime? I prefer the standard game play that allows for unlimited rocks, papers, or scissors thrown. Although...the next time I battle a random hobo when walking down 42nd Street, I'm tossing Spock just for fun.
I'm going to toss my outstretched hand firmly into the Pro-RPS camp. It's one of those perfect games. Zero set up required (although someone will inevitably "shoot" too early. For Christ's sake, it's one, two, three, SHOOT!). It isn't some Monopoly marathon that goes on well into the night, long after you've had it with your sister extorting your last nickle from his hotel on Marvin Gardens, gleefully taunting you until you have a nervous meltdown and chase her into the kitchen with balled fists, ironically called "rocks". RPS is, at most, a best of five scenario that can be shelved before things get tedious. Strangers know what's up, even men with nappy beards and 14 teeth. It's international, or at least beloved amongst the Parisians. Only mancala comes close to RPS' appeal.
Ricky Schrichabok taught me how to play mancala when we were sitting on the back porch of his family's house. Ricky grew up just down the street from me in Wheat Ridge, but as opposed to my very suburban American upbringing, Ricky shared a modest split level ranch with an uncle, aunt, a multitude of cousins, a grandmother, and the stifling smell of boiling octopus. The whole Schrichabok family made their way from Laos sometime in the early 80's, landing in Colorado. Even as a 10 year old, I'd tower over his entire family while Ricky and I would play video games or soccer at his house.
When we'd get tired of NBA '91 on the Nintendo, Ricky would always have a new distraction. Sometimes, we'd read the Laotian comics that meant nothing to me, but would send him into convuslions of laughter. I never knew talking ducks and green lobsters could be so funny. Other times, we'd head upstairs to the kitchen, and his doting grandmother would feed us snacks. I tried to be polite, but would always leave feeling like I'd just been fed a tire bathed in napalm. One of the other diversions Ricky came up with was a game he'd learned as a little kid in Asia. We'd draw the board on the cement with chalk, and move piles of rocks around in accordance with a very few set of rules. Voila, mancala.
When we were in Grandma Schrichabok's kitchen, we never, ever ate bacon and avocado. That, my friendly voeyuers, is an international tragedy. I think that if Laos was the land of animal and plant fat, the Ricky's family would have stayed put. Instead, they never developed a taste for it. Growing up in America, I was actually fed bacon as an infant at Rose Medical Center, mostly in preparation for a lifetime of hydrogenated oil, high fructose corn syrup, and McDonalds. Growing up in the American West, I was actually fed avocado in the form of guacamole by the Hispanic nurses at Rose Medical Center, mostly in preparation for a lifetime of tacos al carbon, huevos rancheros, and enchiladas patzcuaros at the insanely good eateries around Denver and Boulder. All I can say is, dig in!
Eat until you're crushed, and then come back for one more piece of cremated pork or tostada covered in green paste that tastes like gold. Because, if photos of John Daly are to be trusted, you don't have to be particularly fit to be a good hack.
Here appears a man who has won two of the four most prestigious tournaments in the world, The British Open and PGA Championship. But you know what he hasn't won? The Masters, and it's on next week. This tournament is always in April, always at Augusta, and always signals that Spring has sprung. If I'm on the course comparing myself to Tiger, it will also remind me that my swing has been stung by lack of practice and a dearth of natural talent, but I've always got my Mantoloking Open Open trophy to fall back on. It's no green jacket, butI did get to drink Dunkin Donut coffee on the 9th and final hole. Gotta start somewhere.
While we're here, I really should take the chance to tell you my one and only personal, albeit second hand, John Daly story. As always, anything ridiculous in my life involves my buddy Hans. He's my only friend who has starred in a movie, lived the 17 year old boy's dream by sleeping with a 30 year old on a Mexican beach, and given a strange child "the heeby jeebies." The only sad thing is that these were three separate incidents.
Hans was a wild man in high school. I credit this largely to the fact that his parents, upon Hans' graduation from WRHS, up and retired in Chang Mai, Thailand. They basically left him a house and assumed he was responsible enough to care for it. If a measure of success is not burning it to the the ground, then it is, in fact, possible to judge him so. If, on the other hand, a man is judged a failure when they get blind drunk and, while trying to sneak into the community pool that's been closed for the night, fall onto a wrought iron fence and leave a gaping slice in their calf, Hans catastrophically lost that battle.
Sadly, his health insurance had yet to kick in, so Hans needed a way to pay for the 24 staples that went into his leg during his field trip to the ER. He and I worked at a local country club as caddies, and we set the summer alight carrying bags for wealthy men, none of whom would ever win the Mantoloking Open Open. I swallowed my pride and allowed them to plod around their local course, unknowingly in the presence of golfing greatness.
Colorado used to host a PGA tournament called The International, and aside from the modified Stableford scoring system that turned the game nearly on its head, the most exciting aspect for us was the Pro-Am. Hans and I would, as local caddies, be invited to carry for some of the local businessmen who'd paid a king's ransom to, again, walk in the presence of golfing royalty. This time, though, they at least recognized the majesty, as the PGA professionals, the very men who would compete for the hundreds of thousands of dollars in prize money, would play as a member of the group.
Hans and I drove down to the course and waited for our group assignments. As you'd expect, I was so lucky as to have drawn a group that would play with Brandt Snedeker. I know, baller, right!!! Oh wait, you've never heard of him. I hadn't either. Hans, however was chosen to carry in the group that would feature two time major winner John Daly. Some guys have all the luck! I would include Daly in that group of lucky ones, except at the time, he was coming off a divorce and a stint in rehab for some serious alcoholism. Hey, he didn win at St. Andrews, though.
During the round, Hans managed two great feats. He's an overly gregarious sort, and while he was headed to one of the refreshment tents dotting the course, managed to ask John if he'd like a beer. Fresh from Betty Ford, John's will was still strong, and he managed to shake off the offer. But funnier and more awkward still, Hans was later bent down on a green, reading a putt for his golfer, when Daly walked behind our favorite caddie and asked "what the hell happened to you leg?" Hans, teeming with embarrassment from his last drinking faux pas, didn't want to divulge the truth. Instead, he replied that he'd, "Ummm....got it in a knife fight with a midget."
"You're a weird fucking kid, Hans."
Daly might have been an alcoholic accused of beating his wife, but he nailed that call on the 15th green.
So that, my friends, is my reaction to Hank's list of things he's excited about, either for the moment or for all time. I beg you, what are your favorite things? Shoot me an email at patrick.pharo@gmail.com, leave a comment, or write me a letter. I don't care how you do it, just give me something to write about that isn't rock climbing. Left to my own devices, I'd bore you to tears.
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