BABLINGBROOX

Hawaii revisited: What do you get when you turn out the lights? I'm not sure, but I know it's my own...

2011-12-12T18:16:00.006-06:00

This was my first encounter with a professional surfer.

"Yeah, so I swam to the shore, took a squat on the sand and proceeded to let the warm shit fill my cupped hand."

I thought to myself, "my God, this.... This is awesome."

It was my first night on the famed North Shore of Oahu. I, being an ultra-mega-super-classic gumby in the surf scene was privy to some of the most sideways condescending facial expressions known to modern man. Body language like this is usually reserved for predator-prey sequences on Animal Planet, as I was most assuredly drinking from the wrong watering hole. As veteran climbers recall the chin-tucked look one menaces when you are more certain than naught that the person on the sharp end will die. The rope is threaded through the Grigri backwards or the belayer’s untarnished five-toed footwear give the beholder an air of suspicion that perhaps a few suggestions should be reviewed. Ahhh, but the exhilaration of ignorance cannot be overlooked, and the only difference between a vacation and an adventure is that the latter involves a deviation from the itinerary. Every day is an adventure when the solidarity of the future is as predictable as the dynamic crest of fluid energy that delineates the land from the sea. In other words, surfing is an adventure.

So without much knowledge of what I was doing, I tightened the velcro around my ankle and prepared for an adventure.

Twenty minutes of “duck diving” through head-high waves and paddling with only the preservation of my life in mind, I reached the salvation of “out to sea”, a veritable event horizon of hydraulic power inhabited by sun kissed athletes straddling their boards, uniformly scrutinizing the frequency and pitch of the incoming surf. An alien observer would surely recognize this platoon as a separate humanoid culture of aquatic Meercats. I was camped out beyond the break at an area called "Log Cabins" really trying my best to stay out of everyone's way, when a girl paddles over and lets me know my place.

"You're new here, right?" She doesn't allow me to answer. "When I drop in... just stay out of my way. Got it?" Her revealing bathing suit alone made me nervous; but an attitude... I was speechless. I wondered what gave me away as “fresh meat” in this ravenous pool of thoroughbreds. And as I uncontrollably slid off the back of my board, panting from the exhaustion of paddling beyond the break, and seeing my pale skin lacking any sort of tribal ink, I decided that I was indeed the kid at the crag with soft hands projecting 14+ trad routes in a sea of people recognized by faces and last names alone.

"Yes ma’am!" I exclaimed in my best southern accent, praying that she would pick up on my hyper-foreign, respectful, bright-eyed, ignorant, friendly vibes-- she did not. I wanted nothing other than to pick her brain for what she meant by “dropping in”, but I hesitated, speechlessly staring at her from a distance of no less than 10 feet. To touch her would mean suicide; this girl was made of lava. She paddled off and rode the next perfectly sculpted, beautiful, round, butte of a wave to shore.

I have never been so happy to be "put in my place".

"This buddy of mine was pissing on me. He was taking the sand off with his water bottle he said, and I thought nothing of it....moments later, noticing the warmth of the stream and eruption of laughter, I realized what was happening, and before I could jump to my feet he had sprinted into the surf. I wanted to beat the pulp out of this kid, but the two day old burrito in my colon said otherwise."

New born infant in arms, the story continues, "Yeah, so this guy pisses on my back, and when I get to shore, hidden by the height of the sand bank, I squat at the water’s edge and I squeeze out a keeper into my right hand. I yell out his name, and as he turns around, I throw a two-finger shit-splitter in his face!" Later I came to find out that this is not an entirely uncommon practice, and it bears the enigmatic name of a ‘Hawaiian Snow Ball’. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.

I wasn't sure about what kind of response he wanted, but my natural inclination was-- jaw dropped.

"Woah. You're back is safe from my piss." I exclaim hesitantly, because for one: this guy is the best surfer out here; two, he's a local; and three, I'm pretty sure that once you've broken your "shit throwing cherry", it's much easier to do subsequently for lesser crimes (throw your own shit)... and he seemed a bit bloated.

Surfing the North Shore of Oahu is difficult. The sheer power of the waves does not translate into words, and one must experience the helplessness of being unmercifully held under rolling whitewash to fully grasp such a natural authority. Every day I paddled out to sea attempting to shred the gnar out of the water’s natural inertia, and every time I dragged my board back up the land, eyes bloodshot, with an Armageddon arsenal of snot rockets, I thanked God for allowing me to live another day.

I have a profound respect for the dudes and dudettes who paddle out beyond the break on such a proud coastline. They stare out towards the horizon admiring the shadows and shimmers that placate the sets of waves that are churned up by deep currents in the Pacific, waiting patiently for a perfect “cherry”. There are no names, grades, or numbers to keep a log of. There is no, “How hard do you surf?” There is no way to mimic the sport in a gym. There are no access issues at all, as water cannot be property.

Respect is only earned through visual proof and word of mouth. Unlike climbing, where we hear whispers of, “that dude is super strong. He did (insert difficult climb relative to your strength).” And instantly we know what atmosphere this guy’s head is in, or more importantly whether we will expect to be inspired or perhaps be the one doing the inspiring.

That doesn’t exist in surfing. “He’s a really good surfer.” Okay, well what the hell does that mean? He can stay up? I’m still not really sure what “being a really good surfer” means, but I do know that I recognize it when I see it, and that’s the entire point. The only place to log “the best ride of one’s life” is in the mind, and the only people who will ever know about it are the ones who were there that day-- in that moment, recalling how the rider looked unquestionably at ease going with the flow in a perfect style, and naturally you say to yourself, “now, that’s a really good surfer.”

I pray that one day I will view climbing as so pure...

Shaka Bradah,

BB out.

summer

2011-10-11T16:19:00.009-05:00

Summer time. Done with it.

It's now October,

summer is over,

and I'm still not sober,

but hungover,

fightin the spins,

from summer sends, sins, and friends that tend to offend my zen,

and I flex and bend,

fightin back with a sword and a pen,

with my mind to lose and nothin to win,

but a dirty ass grin that sags to my chin,

and spins upside down til it looks like a frown,

so I stand on the ceiling instead of the ground,

and I look at my reflection when I see so unsound,

when I "round, round, get around, I get around",

pound the ground and stir up this mound and everything in it,

push people to the limit every hour and minute;

this hive I defend it like a civil war soldier,

I see the rules, and I'm here to amend it,

as I march to the front lines of summer times,

take shrapnel to the shield of my mind's confines,

an army's worth of verbal fines, man mines,

I've takin some heat: rule of nines.

I'm the Human Torch, flame on, time to get this game on,

and put my fame on,

hold for the moment.

Down I'm gonna tone it.

Bone it. Own it.

This person in this moment,

is not the same one, you put your claim on,

not a tame one,

set fire to the face of this place on, cuz these seeds I've sewn em,

and abandoning them is not an option.

Fight of the Concords

2011-08-31T08:09:00.013-05:00

Due to some scrupulous events that have occurred recently, I've been thinking of fighting-- not like the Beasty Boys, I'm talking about 1994 Sega Genesis style Mortal Kombat, last man standing, haymaker, big crowd, "oh my god, I can't believe this is happening" sort of stuff.

This post will be a bit reconnaissance of Misty Murphy's blog.

Allow me to elaborate.

Obviously, there is no money in climbing rocks, so where is the money? Black Diamond's biggest sales are in trekking poles, not locks of Ondra's hair as was once thought. Pattagucci used to make it's millions on selling ethically sound chopped bolts... now it's Frat boys and silky underwear. Prana never made money, just good vibes. And La Sportiva makes it's money off stealing souls (Why P-rob? Why'd you make the switch?)

Anywhoo.

There's no money in climbing, so where is there money? I think you know where this is going. That's right: FIGHT! [cue: Mortal Kombat theme]

So here's an exhaustive list of some fights that would make the contenders millionaires over night granted we could all watch them happen on paper-view from our desk chairs...

One. Webb v.s. Nalle

They just seem so evenly equipped. Yes, Nalle fought in WWII, single handedly dismantling a blitzkrieg with a sidearm and whispers of broken English. But Webb has the humble heart of a champion stallion. He made a cameo in "Over the Top", and was poised to face Sylvester in the final scene, but was disqualified for failing to divulge that his forearms are in fact-- refurbished Russian diesel submarines.... check out the extras.

Two. P-rob v.s. Grahm

"Skinny guys, they never go limp. They fight until they're burger. White guys like skeletons dipped in yellow wax with tattoos, black men like dried meat, these guys usually hang together, the way you can picture them at Narcotics Anonymous. They never say, stop. It's like they're all energy, shaking so fast they blur around the edges, these guys in recovery from something. As if the only choice they have left is how they're going to die and they want to die in a fight.
They have to fight each other, these guys." Fight Club

Three. This is a Southern one. Trailor v.s Sierzant

Really, I would watch Trailor fight anyone. He's a Titan among ants, but can he handle Sierzant's worldly knowledge and gaggle of female posse in tote?

Robert the Bruce: "This Wallace (Trailor)... he doesn't even have a knighthood. But he *fights*, with *passion*, and he *inspires*."

"Now tell me, what does that mean to be noble? Your title (five time reigning cover centerfold: Sierzant) gives you claim to the throne of our country, but men don't follow titles, they follow courage. Now our people know you, Trailor. Noble, and common, they respect you. And if you would just lead them to freedom, they'd follow you. And so would I."

Good GOD! I'm tearing up. Moving on.

Four. Honnold v.s. The Time Child (for anyone who subscribed to P&C; a.k.a. T.C., a.k.a. his valley majesty, Tommy Caldwell)

A battle foretold by the oracles of Delphi, rivaling Google and Apple as the Titans of tech. They answer to no higher power, no one inspires them, as they tip-toe the bar of insanity and we stare shielding our eyes from the eclipse of their pasted feet. We just stare and wonder, "how?"

Five. And finally. The Dalai Sharma v.s. Pringle

This one's been coming for a long time. "When personal grading stops being polite, and starts getting real!" Pringle stunned the world by doing that V13 thing in Dosage whatever that Sharma was too-scared-to-do. NOOOOOOO!!!!! A lifetime's worth of confidence ignited from one propagated scene demonstrating a chink in the armor of our once invincible deity.
"Well I've done a bunch of 14d's and personally, Realization felt reasonable at that grade, you know, maybe 14e even, but 15a, c'mon Omaprash! Did you see the way you cowered in that scene we shared, and the way those same moves were so easy for me?" Is it just me, or has the entire world gone to shit since that clip was made public? Death, war, famine, Carlo Traversi....
I think if these two met in the ring, a singularity would occur as they cancelled each other out, and Zion would be free at last from the machine world.

One more. Ondra v.s. Lord Voldemort

Ondra found the Elder Wand. No, the Elder Wand found him. And Voldemort wants it back! Stay tuned for the 7th installment of the Ondra Potter series as he battles the pale featureless face of his only foe. (For the love of God, Ondra if you name your first 16a Lord Voldemort, I will shit a funny brick, and all of our envious spite for you on this side of the pond will be reconciled. Bridge the gap my friend. Bridge the gap.)

Following tonights showing of 'Brawlers and Fallers' will be a Girls Gone WILD episode that you won't want to miss, so stay tuned!

bb

Post Script: D. Woods? What about the 'man with the lion tattoo'? You did God Module in the rain. I will fight you. Hiss.

Some more pics...

2011-08-19T23:13:00.007-05:00

Alex eats breakfast, and this makes him happy.

Jeromy holding down the couch.

View from the front yard.

To the right...

A plant.

James, a guy who met Baby Mike, trying Worm World Roof...

Petrified fire...

Everything is sooooo GREEN!!! Perfect temps.

There's no 'U' in Squamish... Beautiful Place.

2011-08-19T00:31:00.008-05:00

A Picture is Worth a Thousand Words....

2011-08-17T19:47:00.005-05:00

The girl sitting diagonally from me on the plane slowly opened her book to page one. It was titled, "It was all a dream". Camera dangling heavily from my neck, I fought the urge to snap a photo of such a literally meaningful shot. She was an off-duty stewardess. She still had her uniform on, and her golden winged pin shimmered proudly on her lapel. Her fingers were heavy with silver jewelry, and her wrists chimed with each turn of the page.

My exhaustion has somewhat caught up with me at this point, being my 31st hour of awakedness, and perhaps it was this feeling of delusion or detachment that led me to abruptly tap her on the shoulder, pause and smile, and then ask, "watcha readin?"

She was overly hesitant to respond, so I took the liberty of introducing myself, "Hi, I'm Brooks."

"Josephine. It's a pleasure." she stared at me over her shoulder as if I had somewhere to go with the conversation. I did.

"So is this flight just an aside to the day? You just felt like going to Denver? That's so awesome." I questioned, assumed the answer, and complimented her all in the same breath.

Awkwardly, "yep, something like that. I can pretty much fly to wherever after work as long as a seat is available on the flight."

"Can you bring company?" I ask pointedly and transparently letting her know of my agenda with such a question.

She smiled, tucked her chin to her chest, looked up at me with big brown eyes, "Sure, I can bring a guest. Ya know, if I feel like it."

Assuming I was in sync with her thoughts, I replied assuredly, "well then, where we goin!?" I was compelled to give some suggestions for destinations, but I restrained myself and confined my thoughts to those typical of a feather.

Then I was falling, falling fast with the full body reaction to arrest the fall by doggy-paddling through the ether. Milliseconds were a millennia, and I had an ephemeral episode of amnesia followed by realization. "We'll be arriving at the Mile High City in approximately 15 minutes. Please buckle your safety belt, and put your tray tables in the upright and locked positions."

It was all just a dream.

Off to Squamish/Vancouver/British Columbia/Canada

2011-08-17T13:13:00.006-05:00

Depending on whom I'm talking to, the name of the place I'm traveling to changes. At the moment I'm flying up to visit our friendly neighbors to the north. If it's a climber, I'm going to Squamish; a college graduate or Chinook, I'm going to Vancouver; a marijuana legalization champion, British Columbia; and to your everyday "Jay walker", I'm just going to Canada.

"Why would you wanna go there?" Jay walker unabashedly asks, seemingly repudiated by my obvious disdain for my own back yard, the United States of Mud Bustin America. (I heart America by the way.)

"For the healthcare." I reply straight faced and unconcerned with their politically inspired moral compass. I give a sideways smile, and console their belief that I'm a communist free health-care advocacy nut, and mumble an answer that is doubly unbelievable. And should my forearms not be hung like my [radio edit], I would surely be painted red.

"I'm going rock climbing." I don't wait for their ear to touch their shoulder and for them to repeat my answer; I just continue to explain WTF it is that I'm doing for seven days.

"My friends and I throw a bunch of bed mattresses underneath big rocks and only using our hands and feet, we try and get to the top." I speak clearly as if talking to a non-English speaker. This is apparently one of the most confusing statements you can say to anyone. Try it in debate class, you will stun the opposition.

"I thought you might be a mountain climber." Most people down here are really good at realizing truths in retrospect.

I usually end the conversation there, and listen to them serenade me with how much they just adore the beach. Again I think to myself, "your life is my rest day."

I'm sitting here in the Birmingham terminal, staring out at the tarmac in all it's manmade splendor, waiting for Stephen King's Langoliers to come gobble it all up and erase the past.

Food for Thought:

I read this article about how everything one sees is actually an image from the past due to the fact that light travels over space and time, hence resulting in an undeniable delay in everything one sees with their eyes. The only one true now is the mind's self or "I". If all we see is the past though, and time is linear going in two directions, then their is no "now", and we are relatively always presiding in the future.

With that being said:

Looking to the past, living in the future, this is Nature's playground, and I'm just a moocher.

SER.....

2011-08-09T07:38:00.004-05:00

Because I'm big timin,

on the porch reclinin,

To go? nah, I think I'll dine in,

Rastafayin.

Here's a link to my mind and,

if you don't like the design in,

then don't waste your time in,

what is a ride and,

redefinin the yellow line,

swerve to the other side,

and I'll be your guide,

think wide, a bonifide high tide, a lonified ship tie.

Out to sea, to see what a man can be,

certainly, no enemy to the earthly,

just inadvertly an abuser of what's been cursed on me.

count to ten, but first on me.

When I'm not around you will be seeking thirstily,

like the rain in the Gobi,

an electronic supernova burst of Moby,

So go be,

a clergy of the mirthly,

Not me,

cuz I'm about to unleash the worst in me.

But before I begin, pick your poisin,

shirt or skin,

tic, tac toe, nobody wins,

and that's the way it all ends,

but I'll still rack up my sends,

and defend, close friends, get the spins, and wreck the benz,

time to cleanse the lens, sink or swim,

put up my fin, and sneak up on your chins,

cuz time tends to lend,

a certain amount of suspense,

hence, I surf the fence, your minds I will rinse,

and wash your brains; it's my claim to fame.

free of the shame that once clouded my game,

aint gonna be the same, impossible to tame, growin out my mane.

and hear me roar, put your knees to the floor, and I'll drop my drawers.

carin no more, about the politics. snore.

In my life I want more, muy calor.

What's it all for? don't really care any more.

knock, knock on your door,

don't ignore, the points you will score,

when we escape reality, escapin like sobibore,

look it up,

Its not a sorority,

its the only concentration camp to take over the authority,

and escape the minority, of guards that are holdin me,

and you, back.

Break the rack, there's no more foldin mac.

Don't play the hand you were dealt,

Play the hand you felt.

Native American, scalp some bitches, and get a new pelt.

Cuz whatever I'm steppin in is somethin you smelt,

don't hide the gilt, don't pack down like silt.

Like a banana I pilt, or every face I melt.

This will go down in history, like the words "freedom" and a "kilt",

poured my guts and I spilt,

somethin to cry on; call it milk.

It was just waitin for a spill.

Windin like a mill on the real, a jagged little pill,

but still,

you can wait on dyin, or hurry up livin,

cuz time's measured in the words I'm spillin,

and spittin, and twistin,

all this life I've been missin,

all the haters are hissin,

but I'm not really listnin,

cuz my life is still sizzlin,

my life is still fizzlin,

and my life is still missin,

the rest of the mission,

a vision of wishin that someone will be there to be listinin,

when I'm out of my kingdom, more freedom to beat em,

unseat em, and repeat em,

its just what I'm seein, its appealin, on the bottom of my being,

the opposite of weening, more like speeding,

to an end of believing,

something or nothing,

just something to be deceived in,

because believe me,

I will never be you, and you will never be me,

but here is a truth that will put your mind at ease,

we live, and it's a terminal disease,

loosen up, at ease, unfreeze, and lay siege,

to an existence on lease,

back to the trees, we will all be,

and I assure you,

you and I will always-- be.

Basics.....

2011-07-26T11:49:00.008-05:00

Stack the books back on the shelf,

and have a small suicide of the self,

miss what we felt, but we played the cards that a just dealer dealt.

So now on the floor supine,

Time to realign what's mine,

time to refine, and re-establish my bottom line.

Unwind.

Like a spindle, bout to rekindle the fires and desires,

bring a spark to your brain, when you hear my name.

Critically acclaimed, Brooks Walker, the shit talker, professional rocker, and what a shocker...

anger, jealousy, envy, a metaphysical bently,

less known fourth in the holy trinity.

peace and serenity stemmin up a chiminey, use what God's given me, to be a just frenemy.

Ears be lent to me, like I'm fuckin Mark Antony.

So listen down to me, haters gonna boo me, lawyers gonna sue me, and lovers wanna do me.

But ignorance is bliss,

and words are like photons,

they don't miss,

but they go right through me.

Welcome to the new me,

understand what I'm sayin like Scooby.

Groovy.

Fibrilatin, shakin, no more thinkin, and thankin, denyin, no more relyin on a proverbial dooby.

"screw me?"

"who me?"

I remember when you blew me.

you knew me.

Those were the times,

when I was foreign to my goal to sublime,

solid to vapor, at the drop of a dime,

now I'm sittin on a trouble to grippin,

and I'm sippin, and flippin, trippin, and rippin,

things I've been missin,

cuz my life has been missin,

a couple things in the kitchen.

And I remember myself,

somethin high on the shelf,

an expression I felt,

cookin a patty melt,

of livin, or die-in, somewhat hard to difine-in,

and maybe I'm lyin, to myself or deny-in,

but calvin cline-in,

ait about what I'm buy-in,

tye-dye-in the Mayin on a prophesy still vye-in,

and I aint shy-in, from die-in, just a new to to this life'in,

and still I'm always sigh-in.

Gettin back to my own personal Zion.

somethin to rely on,

somethin to live my life on,

somethin like gettn my climb on,

and I mean somethin to cry on,

somethin to fly on.

cuz I'm about to implode,

on my mind's humble abode,

kill the horse that I rode,

cuz he aint handlin the load.

Once what flowed,

is now time that is owed,

and seeds that were sewed,

is just grass to be mowed.

So I'm sittin here peein in the bushes,

wishin things were the same, things were different,

rememberin, rekindinlin,

my life's swingin like a pendulum,

or something like that,

"don't think, act."

right? or something like that.

as a matter of fact, I like where I'm at,

ego fat,

livin like a rat,

runnin from the cat,

not really sure how to act,

but dwellin on exactly that.

And the unknown,

because to far places I will roam,

which is where I wanna be,

so don't hate on me,

when I tell you of places that are exactly,

where you wanna be,

with me.

In my life.

Balancing on a knife,

a friend to strife, and a friend to the plight.

Make everything right,

in and outa sight, the good fight,

is just the way I was raised... RIGHT?

Think so,

don't really know so,

but I'll ramble on under this cree-do,

to be a good person, a person,

things could be worsin,

as always,

we're really just rehearsin, things we were taught,

whether we like it or not,

In the future, I will never have forgot,

the things we got,

and the feelings that will rot, and the things that will not,

go away,

as much will as I pray, or the things that will fade,

life is today, and tomorrow's the same,

I'm happy with the way,

the way I am today,

not much left to say,

but remember the good,

and forget the bad,

life is short,

but there's so much to be had............................

You're welcome FiveTen...

2011-05-09T12:13:00.007-05:00

First of all, I would like to point out that I am in no way affiliated with any kind of company or sponsor.

I'm again at the coffee shop.

And lately, I have been trying to perfect a three dimensional espresso based Prana design suspended within the lofty foam of a well steamed cappuccino--whilst being locked in the warrior pose. I know it is risky, but so is buying into an unregulated system of government backed underwater highly levied housing securities...

Stay with me.

Aside from risky yoga poses and acrobatic break dancing, I also do some things that precede a paycheck like restocking my humble coffee hut. Even this seemingly mundane act has its unapparent risks though. Surrounding me from the center of the hut are stainless steel tables a meter tall stacked with muffins, cups, and coffee. Pressurized steam and boiling water labeled with red warning signs on their levers and buttons make this job seem more like the engine room of a WWII diesel submarine than a food service restaurant. The torpedoes, made of cheerful yuppie Homewood residents slowly rolling by my window in their foreign cars, a gang of street sweeping soccer parents, "pings" my state-of-the-art radar; radar being the static that interrupts Fresh Air on NPR.

Above the stainless steel tables circumnavigating my "yoga studio" is another level of shelves, which are just out of reach of this 5'6" man. Sometimes I do a sort of jump-shot/Kill Bill eye-snatch/V9 deadpoint and snag a stack of cups from this nose-bleed-section of the hut, but when this maneuver proves to be ineffective I resort to the two-point, break-dance mantle, which clocks in at around soft V14. Sun Tzu writes of this maneuver in the lost books of 'The Art of War', which he deems, "The rising moon mantle pose."

But seriously...

I was doing the 'rising moon' pose today because my 16oz cups had been depleted, and as I was fully locked off, left palm down, right foot high-stepped, left foot smeared on the lower fridge, I heard a voice from the window. A BMW X5 had pulled up, boasting a thirty-something lady and a car full of sequelae from the movie, 'Sperm Meets Egg'. "Wow, what kind of shoes are those?!" She looked puzzled that such an elite feat of tension and balance could be achieved by someone other than an Asian Olympic gymnast, hence the suspicion that I was wearing magical shoes. Per usual, I was wearing my FiveTen Guide Tennies, as I usually have to do some serious parkour to avoid being hit by blind drivers without brakes on my way to work. "They're FiveTen's." I am staring at her sideways, because I am certain that she has never heard of the sport-specific company. "They're a climbing company." Of course she remains puzzled, not only at the word, "climbing", but at the revelation that the shoes may not in fact be magical as she once assumed.

Twenty minutes later, after giving an iPhone power point on climbing rocks, explaining my schedule, including why I own a Prius and not a dune-buggy, all while flexing my forearms, she came to the fact that I was in-fact, crazy. She was under the assumption that such devotion was reserved for Russians and other people who reside in shitty weather. The fact that there is a small community of motivated athletes who wear special (and perhaps magical) shoes living among her was mind bending, and I think I witnessed a transient existential doubt moment followed by the resolution that she would have yet another child to keep her mind from wandering.

After the moment of this suppressed daydream, as she drove off, she said something that took me off guard, "It seems like a good life."

And you know what, it is.

bb

Get Rich or Die Climbing...

2011-04-26T19:30:00.007-05:00

All I want to do is climb; all other days, these two degrees, this blog, any monument or land-mark I've ever seen has been the result of a rest day. Finding challenging sequences up rocks is an unreasonable infatuation, which I will do forever... forever... forever... [wavy hands and initiate daydream]

[song]

"I wish that, I knew what I know now, when I was younger." This song makes me want to slather on sunscreen until I suffocate. I randomly flip to it on some hard-to-find radio station driving up to crag X, where X= any random piece of bullet stone littering the the valley west of the Appalachians.

"Aint that the truth..." I mumble to myself; I'm in sitcom mode, talking to myself and writing screenplays for no one. For the rest of the ride, I'm contemplating ways to infinitely expand myself to become one with light, reach the edge of the universe, circle back around on the spherical surface of time, and give myself some guidance. Who could one trust more than their future, older, wiser self, who has experienced the consequences of all the left turns you made in life (you can always turn right...)? I have had this realization for a few years that the idea of listening to my future self would be an opportunity to learn vicariously in order to avoid the punishments "rewarded" through the black-and-white operant conditioning of la vida loca.

We always ask ourselves, "why did my parents (or anybody) not warn me about X, where X= any random life changing, stupid, usually self-destructive event that I was dead set on accomplishing?" Well, the goals set by our ego then were a bit different from the "obvious" goals of the present. I forget about seeing the person in the mirror as a laboratory meant for bold experimentation. I forget about the illusion of independence and the reliance on the group, or gang, or herd, with whom I identified, labeling a cathexis of grandeur on each and every one of them for special hidden qualities of which only our unique society was aware. I was happy to put my brain in a blender and scrub it clean and replace all those perfectly balanced but questionable answers with a new blend of existential anarchist principles; idealize the ancient past, individualize the present, disregard the future. One day not too long ago, while thinking that I should have listened when I was younger, I realized that I was younger, and started asking questions-- and listening.

The frontal cortex, the "human" part of our brain that values reason over impulse, matures at the age of 24. Up to this, it is evolving, and as it evolves it is fighting a battle for executive function with the amygdala (remember this?). The amygdala, along with assigning importance to memories, also plays a central role in interpreting stimuli into emotional significance. In other words, until you have reached a certain age (24 on average), the amygdala can overcome the resistance of the immature frontal cortex and act out with emotion, without reason, whimsically-- impulsively. Have you ever wondered why insurance rates drop at age 25? I'm 24 now, so I'm young enough to recall the feeling of the yester-years, staying at the party too late, ingesting most suggestions, not going back to work-- ever. The impulsive "yes man" attitude of my younger self lingers like a fart in a Plato's cave. And it tugs and pulls at my heart strings, saying, "c'mon, what's it matter in the grand scheme of things? If not now, when? You only live once..." These days, as a mature 24 year old boy, still filling my rest days with other people's lives, I now have a dependable executive control over this emotional lability, and I can foresee the consequences of certain actions (mostly revolving around climbing like shit the next day).

This brings me to my point...

There's no money in climbing and there never will be; hence, I cherish my rest days.

A peer of mine asked me a funny question today, "Are you still going to climb when you start working?" As if they are one in the same, or one must be managed in place of another, he asked me if I would continue my "on-days", my life (Please refer to sentence one). I am.

"This job, your life, is my rest day activity!" My amygdala wanted to shout at him.

But my frontal cortex said, "steady, as he does not have any comprehension concerning this lifestyle, and your words would be misunderstood". No other sport really allows for the rhythmic observation of our body, and how a rest day can bring back power that you had assumed was lost from when you were 12 hours younger. Furthermore, while regaining the mysteriously lost power, the best thing I can do on my off day is earn a real paycheck. I said, "Yeah, I pretty much started nursing school so I can climb four days a week." Of course I enjoy it immensely now, and I'm stoked about getting paid for such a rewarding and lucrative rest day activity, but that's another story.

Because, unless I plan on climbing 5.15b for my entire life, at some point no one is going to pay my ticket to project some 20m sport route, bolted and poorly/mainly chipped by some sooth-saying local (futuristic). Other JOBS associated with climbing, such as owning a gym, editing magazines, guiding, or representing companies seem to take away from the fundamental nature of climbing. It makes my objective assessment of people, crags, areas, and organizations turn into a subjective assessment, where I'm playing an angle, a slant, and just generally trying to gain an edge on my competition, which inevitably are my friends. It keeps me involved, sure, but how do I separate the 'rest day' from the 'on day'. I can't. I'm stuck in an environment in which I am exploiting that which I find enjoyable, that which no other extra-cultural lifestyle compares. And that is where earning money from climbing rocks leads me.

Or I can climb til I die. 1/320,000 "climbs" lead to death according to data compiled by the British government (I was nearly a part of this statistic). I'm not going to start a list here, but some high profile climbers have died while ascending rocks. I'm not referring to true accidents that occur, like forgetting to tie in to your harness.

Free-soloing, either over land or water seems to be the terminal activity of a few experienced climbers. Maybe there's something there, maybe not; but it brings me to the fact that if all I do is climb, and I don't want to exploit the sport, and my rest days consisted of racing go-karts and putting the hurt on some noobs in paintball, then free-soloing and tempting fate seem like a logical progression that the frontal cortex can buy in to. Its sort of a last ditch effort to maintain dignity and control over a life who's options are becoming quickly limited. Think of the end of 'Point Break' when Swayze is betrayed and the quintiple over-head waves are eroding his reason, his reason to live, so I gamble my life in the sea, something epic-- to see what happens. So we die climbing. I've got nothing to lose...

Learning from others is not an obvious life lesson for me. I was more motivated to learn from my own mistakes, and just redo all the life that everyone in history had lived and proceed to man-handle it to submission. But at some point we realize that, "no man is an island, I get by with a little help from my friends, an unshared life does not exist, and I'm no superman." And this is where I'm at now.

A rest day is not something to be dreaded or frowned upon. It is something to be celebrated. I find myself as excited to take a day off the rock as I am to be on the rock, because I've found something challenging, competitive, and continually changing-- like climbing, only I'm paid to do it.... and it doesn't exploit my friends. It's not about money either, it's just about being motivated on the "off days" as much as I am on the "on days".

And that's just me: Get Rich or Die Climbing...

bb

[This is not meant to be an insult to anyone's choice in maintaining their climbing lifestyle, it is just a introspective clarification into my own choice to manage and maintain my own personal climbing lifestyle. ]

A life update...

2011-04-25T21:13:00.001-05:00

[sigh] So I’m once again staring out the windows of the coffee shop, secretly despising the customers as they merrily order their hot lattes and casually decide they wanted the drink frozen—so it seems as though nothing has changed since the last time I sat on this stool.

A couple of positives have come to fruition in my life as of late:
1. I’m graduating…. Again. I will officially be a ‘murse’ as of May 7, 2011.
2. I landed a five star job on NICU, which is the climbing equivalent of getting a La Sportiva sponsorship—in Spain.
3. My right middle finger is still effed, but I can still pull 8a on it, which is totally cool with me at the moment. The bright side is that this injury really balanced me out for a bit. I think my sub-conscious made an legislative decision to ‘not heal’ this injury, so I could focus on more pressing issues.
4. My record in Words With Friends is 100-4.
5. Beg, Borrow, and Steel is in seven weeks. It’s gonna be fun. We’re working hard on it. I hope everyone is as psyched as we are….

I wrote this a few years back... It is my "personality," and it is wordy.

2011-04-23T15:31:00.002-05:00

Brooks Walker

Personality November 20, 2008

Floaters

Initial aversive insults to the psyche inevitable lead to the question of whether or not to live or die. One road is a dead end, and one is a “live” end if you will. Furthermore, if the subject chooses to live then he must live well. Is there any disagreement that a person would rather have a good life rather than a bad life? No, but how does he achieve this good life? Take the cathexis off all material possessions in favor of only seeking personal happiness. The mind sets goals and loves attaining them, so let it, but do not allow your goals to be non-abstract. For example, “once I climb that mountain, I will be happy.” This is faulty, because you are making your happiness contingent on an external physicality which leads to desiring unimportant goals for unimportant reasons. Remember, he has decided to live and with this decision comes the decision to live happily. Happiness is not contingent; it is a state of mind.

Cats are universally known to be snooty, and dogs are universally known to be friendly. Barring extreme trauma or abuse, it seems that no matter what the situation, the dog or cat will generally behave in accordance with its universal expectation. People follow this example as well. What is a person’s universal expectation? It seems that people are naturally good natured provided that a normally developed brain is situated correctly in a normally developed cranium. This is because people can derive morality simply and eloquently by understanding another’s relationship to his surroundings. With a normal brain, he can live vicariously through another, experience his feelings, and conclude that he would or would not enjoy whatever stimulus is being studied; hitherto, a person of normal mental fortitude will always come to the conclusion of “the golden rule”. For example, barring extreme cases, a man does not desire to be dead, therefore he will not kill. People are basically and universally good. If this is true, then why are there so many supposedly bad people? Why is there crime, hate, and rudeness?

It all stems from learning. Sometime in the life of a criminal, he was wronged in his mind. It could have been when he was three years old, or it could have happened yesterday. Whatever the case, his perceived mistreatment has led to an inward hostility. He becomes his own universal expectation, and accordingly believes that all men have been mistreated as he was in the past. Mistreatment has become normal to him. He will mistreat others as well, because that is how he would have them treat him. In other words, his “golden rule morality” is tarnished because his self worth has declined, and he accepts mistreatment as a part of life. In fact, he not only accepts mistreatment, he expects it. For example, a person of this type would have you steal from him, and he expects it, however he is also going to steal from you, and in his mind you expect it. More extremely, this person would have you kill him, and he expects this, however he will kill you, and in his mind you expect it.

Conversely, people who have always been treated well will expect to be treated well and will be in a position of positive self worth. Their universal expectation of others is basically good, because they are in fact supposedly good. They have learned this because they have not personally perceived wrongdoing, and they do not have an inward hostility. They have an inward appreciation for themselves and their accomplishments, which they expect to see in others. Their “golden rule morality” is functioning properly. There is a problem with this approach in that a properly functioning “golden rule moral” system ultimately leads to naivety. This raises the question that maybe some people deserve to be treated immorally or “not the way I expect to be treated”. This is the way most people behave, a sort of waterfall class system, neither treating others perfectly good nor bad, but depending on where they “float” is how they will be treated (sh** rolls down hills principle). Perhaps this is true, but it opens the door to bigotry and discriminative stereotypes. For example a man thinks that all people that use Medicaid and don’t need it are no better than street beggars, and he treats them with spite and contempt (aka not the way he expects to be treated). He expects to be treated differently by them as well though; in fact he already perceives them to have wronged him by taking his tax dollars. Accordingly, this means that the “street beggars” expect maltreatment from this man, who may be naïve to people he perceives to be in his own class (he expect them to treat him well… pay taxes), but he expects only maltreatment from the Medicaid users in the form of handouts, and he therefore returns this learned wrongdoing in the form of prejudice.

Accepting that people have differing levels of “golden rule morality” due to the theory of perceived wrongdoing, we can conclude that the mind is dynamic in relation to others, meaning it changes its perception positively or negatively depending on other present mentalities and situations. In this case, it would seem that altruism is not sustainable for any period of time, and it carries no value either. Actually it inherently carries no value, because if it did, it would not be altruism. No person with a normal brain situated in a normal cranium will sacrifice themselves for a stranger, but maybe they will sacrifice themselves for a family member. This is likely, but it is still not altruism. People die for family members because they expect that they would do the same. Men go to war and die for their country, because they believe their country would take a hit for them. Abraham Lincoln famously said that he did what he did because anyone else in his position would have done the same. In all of these cases, the subject expects a certain treatment, and subsequently gives a certain treatment. People are selfish and usually have a selfish reason for doing the things they do, and as seen in the former examples, “golden rule morality” works here as well.

Building on this basic moral system is the outrageous idea that someday all people die, and afterwards there is nothing. There doesn’t need to be anything. Why would someone make this life so unbearable as to need something to look forward to when they die? Ultimate operant conditioning (read: heaven) only has credence because it has been invented, and the idea has yet to be dissolved. Yes, people do great and wonderful things under threat of eternal damnation, and if the threat was not there, people would still do good things, especially if they expect whomever they are helping to be good to them as well. For example, building mission churches in the Congo is great for spreading religion, and missionaries expect these people to find whatever religion is introduced. Likewise, if they were not building churches and instead building shoe factories, sure it would be perceived as wrong, but its not wrong. The same mentality that drives people to build churches can drive people to build factories. Missionaries expect salvation for their effort; entrepreneurs expect profit. The Congolese people expect wages.

All of these principles exist because “golden rule morality” exists. It becomes skewed with learning. Whether the learning comes from worldly stimuli such as abuse or praise, or if learning stems from abstract ideas such as religion, it does not matter. Prejudice comes from generalized expectations, and altruism has no place in the human psyche. This world is good, and should therefore be perceived this way, because everyone dies, and once you are dead, there is nothing more. Do not place contingencies on happiness, because this leads to desire, which is ultimately unfulfilling as no one can possess everything he desires. Happiness is a state of mind, but it must be balanced due to the fact that naivety ensues with excessive acceptance. Existential, Middle Path, Golden Ruler mentality is a way of thinking that is my way of thinking, and I came up with this on my own, and therefore I expect that anyone else with a normal brain in a normal cranium can do the same.

The Hard Way

2011-04-01T18:57:00.001-05:00

The CT scan showed a sub-arachnoid hemorrhage in the occipital lobe of my brain. My second cervical vertebrae had been fractured. I had just graduated high school.

Let me back up…

Besides being kicked out of Spanish 102 every day, my life revolved around what I thought and knew was the sport of rock climbing. As many of us young guns do, I had glorified the ascension of rocks into a fantastical reality where my Gods became mortals and my currency was grades. When I say grades, I mean the subjective, oligarchic, designation of difficulty assigned to each sequence of moves. My ego was a small sub-prime stake holder in this currency, because I assumed (betted) that in the future I would be one of the best climbers in the world, sipping cognac with Warren Harding under El Cap while sharing beta with Tommy Caldwell. Like Lehman Brothers, I was a cocky little bubble waiting to burst. Don’t bet future gains on capital returns.

Lesson: Don’t assume the future.

A year before my accident a man of steel had made famous the consequences of a severe C2 fracture: cessation or alteration of most autonomic functions. Much of these centrally (brain) controlled systems operate on a negative feedback loop, so centers for basic functioning require feedback from the circuitry running down the spine and extending into the periphery. Respirations, blood pressure, kidney function, electrolyte balance, gastric motility, genitourinary function, and cardiovascular systems all become compromised and must be maintained artificially. The only basic functions remaining are facial expressions and mandibular control, so a person can speak; however, they cannot swallow. Christopher Reeve died in 2004 due to complications of antibiotic treatment which sent him into cardiac arrest. He had survived an astonishing two years with a C2 injury.

Lesson: It could always be worse.

The amygdala is an almond shaped area in the center of the brain that encodes levels of significance to an event to be stored to memory. So let’s say that one is in a traumatic explosion in Iraq; the amygdala makes this event an infinite imposing memory. It is fundamental for fear and learning, both of which go hand-in-hand with life’s little lessons. For example, you only touch the boiling pot once, because pain and fear are now associated with this action. So, if you know your psychology, this is an example of operant conditioning (reward and consequence), so without the amygdala making this hierarchy of “no-no’s”, learning does not occur.

When the doctors withdrew the sedative hypnotics that had been holding me in a comatose state, it was apparent that my spinal cord was largely intact. I was doing one arm pull-ups in every direction using whatever body position and mechanical advantage my subconscious could manifest. I had been intubated and placed on a ventilator, and a machine was now pumping air into my lungs at a pre-determined rate and volume. As I slowly gained consciousness, I became aware of the panicked state my body was about to unleash, a true fight or flight, sympathetic, damn-the-torpedoes moment. I was drowning in my own fluids.

“Relax! Relax! We’re going to have to do this now…”

As the endo-tracheal tube was yanked from my airway, a solid liter of fluid followed it. This was not vomit. The contents of this fluid were not gastric in origin. It was the contents of a week’s worth of the hyper-secretory work of my cilia trying to eliminate whatever foreign object was occluding my trachea. It was the lung butter of a dragon. Two hundred years ago, this would have been identified as an exorcism. In my mind, I had fallen half an hour prior, and I now became aware of the pain in my head—my neck; my entire body ached. Fade to black.

Lesson: Remember and learn. Don’t dwell.

A week after graduation, two of my friends and I had set off on an adventure to circumnavigate the country. Our first stop was Joshua Tree in Central Southern California. J-tree is known for its bullet stone, wacky waving cacti, and run-out routes. My friends and I were just getting into traditional climbing after putting a few years into sport and bouldering. It is important that you know that traditional climbing involves the placement of your own protection, so if it fails, you only have yourself to blame.

The wind was blowing hard that day. My wrists were taped up—too many hand jams. I had some tendonitis flaring up. My elbows were sluggish for the same reason. The shirt on my back was a ‘311 Day’ concert tee that was originally white, but I had tie-dyed it green in AP Chemistry to reflect my state of mind and my political polarity. Tim had given me the Prana shorts I was wearing as a hand-me-down, and they settled at my ankles when I first tried them on, so my mom had them hemmed. This was my favorite outfit, a completely custom motif that gave people a sense of my devotions: climbing, 311, and experimentation.

The paramedic in the helicopter seemed like he was waiting on something. What it was I could not tell. He just stared at me asking simple questions—and waiting. I knew we were flying. Fade to black. My clothes, my favorite clothes were cut to pieces, lying sadly in the corner of the chopper. Fade to black. My perspective of the roof of the hospital doesn’t seem to be my own; perhaps the image is taken from just off the deck. Fade to black. “What is that awful noise?!” I thought to myself. Another seizure occurred in the CT machine, and I wake up drowning.

Lesson: Listen to your body.

Fear is much like stress. You can do two things with it; either you use it to your advantage and tai-chi that stimulus, or you break—lose your head, your focus, your vision. On a route, staying calm is as relevant as being fit. When your sub-conscious senses that you’re not appropriately handling this situation of being two feet above your last bolt, it takes over. The result is a full system meltdown of physical and mental functions. As the goal of the climb is switched from sending to “not falling”, the mind falls under the spell that “staying put” is the solution to the current crisis. As you try and hold your position or rest on your toes, the muscles in your legs begin to go into a tetany like state, shaking uncontrollably which is known as “type writer leg”. Your core muscles, tensed in one position lose their posture on the rock and your ass sags to a 90 degree angle, so all of your weight is now on your hands. The pump builds in your forearms, a mixture of increased blood flow to the capillary beads and lactic acid waste as a result of anaerobic metabolism (because you neglect to breath). The pump prevents the unoxygenated blood from returning to the heart like a mild case of compartment syndrome—and then you fall unharmed.

It takes quite a long time to realize that you’re not quite as paralyzed as you imagine and moving up is in fact a reasonable option. Remember though that the fear is there for a reason, and ignoring it is foolish.

So, I know this now, because like the US housing market, my little bubble burst when I neglected to acknowledge fear, ignoring it to my fullest capacity, and as a result, I crashed. I fell on my head, touching chin to chest on a giant slab of hard rock. I had a trauma induced grand mal seizure, and my entire body seemed to have type-writer-leg. I’ve been told I’m not supposed to remember that, but my amygdala says otherwise. I immediately flipped over, stood on my knees, and vomited what looked like everything I could have possibly ever eaten. My eyes were blood shot and tears rolled down my face, though I wasn’t crying. My ears were ringing fiercely, and they felt hot. I had an instant headache of biblical proportions as my brain told me it hurt the only way it knew how (the brain has no pain receptors, hence conscious brain surgery). After vomiting up the last supper, I started ripping gear off my harness as I assessed my situation. I knew I was done for the day.

Lesson: We all have stress and fear. Don’t ignore it. Focus it. (But seriously, don’t ignore it.)

What happened? Simply put, the piece of gear that I had placed in the crack and hung on did not hold the short fall I took on it, and I decked. That’s it. My senior trip was cut short, and I was a minor celebrity in my small circle of friends, as the only one of us idiots to sustain a traumatic brain injury: the same injury superman had and died from. The two seizure episodes got me diagnosed with an epilepsy disorder, and restricted me from driving or operating heavy machinery, i.e. a car. I was made to wear a cervical collar for six months and for at least six months, I could flex my neck forward, and my entire body would tingle, which is clinically known as the Lhermitte phenomenon.

I still climb. In fact I climb more than ever. I took a two year hiatus from climbing after the accident, trying to figure out the most difficult route through college. I earned a degree in psychology, and I graduate in May from UAB with a degree in nursing. I’ve never bragged about this injury, and I know how stupid, foolish, and egotistical I was for throwing myself at a route for which I had no business being on at the time. Today, I’m as strong as I ever dreamed of being when I was that age, and I don’t plan on slowing down. Climbing is a full time sport, and it’s as healthy and fun as life gets. Remember how I said I had glorified “the ascension of rocks into some fantastic reality”? Well, I’m still there.

The major injury I’m dealing with right now is some pesky tendon issue in my right middle digit, and I’m not complaining, because hey… it can always be worse.

The Hard Way

2011-04-01T18:55:00.001-05:00

The CT scan showed a sub-arachnoid hemorrhage in the occipital lobe of my brain. My second cervical vertebrae had been fractured. I had just graduated high school.

Let me back up…

Lesson: Don’t assume the future.

Lesson: It could always be worse.

“Relax! Relax! We’re going to have to do this now…”

Lesson: Remember and learn. Don’t dwell.

Lesson: Listen to your body.

Lesson: We all have stress and fear. Don’t ignore it. Focus it. (But seriously, don’t ignore it.)

What happened? Simply put, the piece of gear that I had placed in the crack and hung on did not hold the short fall I took on it, and I decked. That’s it. My senior trip was cut short, and I was a minor celebrity in my small circle of friends, as the only one of us idiots to sustain a C2 fracture and a traumatic brain injury: the same injury Superman had and died from. The two seizure episodes got me diagnosed with an epilepsy disorder, and restricted me from driving or operating heavy machinery, i.e. a car. I was made to wear a cervical collar for six months-- and for at least six months, I could flex my neck forward, and my entire body would tingle, which is clinically known as the Lhermitte phenomenon.

The major injury I’m dealing with right now is some pesky tendon issue in my right middle digit, and I’m not complaining, because hey… it can always be worse.

Well My Name's Johnny....

2011-03-06T15:50:00.006-06:00

The only reason I'm typing this line here is because I prefer not to start any kind of writing with a quote; I think some teacher in fifth grade gave me the notion that this is a taboo thing to do-- like beginning a road trip with a flat tire, a season with a tendon tweak, or a festival with a monsoon. It doesn't really ruin the future, it only muddles the present, leaving a reader/climber searching for answers when everything seemed to be working perfectly...

"If you want to attract the crowd, find the kids who are the ones who rage against the machine, ya know, the ones fighting the establishment. Give them a place to unleash all that teenage angst, a place to be with like minded freaks. Tony Hawk wasn't the one who inspired a generation of skater punks, CKY and kids like Bam Margera made that culture what it is. We all go through that phase, and some of us never leave it."

I looked past the guy talking and notice D. Woods sitting alone at a picnic table smoking a cigarette, more like us southerners than he realizes. He's quiet. He doesn't turn down the shots of bourbon that are being casually pushed on him. He bums a smoke in between drinks, and he professes that he's on the prowl for an alternate hobby, something other than climbing. The top must be lonely.

"Trust me, it's paradise. This is where the hungry come to feed. For mine is a generation that circles the globe and searches for something we haven't tried before. So never refuse an invitation, never resist the unfamiliar, never fail to be polite and never outstay the welcome. Just keep your mind open and suck in the experience. And if it hurts, you know what? It's probably worth it." This is a description directing the lone traveler to the perfect island. Leonardo Decaprio says it on the movie 'The Beach', and many of the breeze floating professional climbers seem to have this quote innately and unknowingly scribbled into their personal mantras. The island cannot be counted as a bashful theme in climbing circles. It surfaces again and again, revealing the loneliness that dots the landscape of crushers, gumbys, and non-climbers alike. Climbing is a religion of self introspection, a widely claimed personal journey with formidable foes that hide the fear of seeing the icy water break on your shores if you stray from the center. It's not the island we fear, it's the shores...

The life of a traveler is difficult. You float on these rafts made of people, hopping from coat tail to coat tail with the sole intention of gaining experience for an underrepresented future. All of us climbers are born from the same mud: If I know where I'll be in ten years, kill me. This island is a paradise, my personal unshared experience, where only my perspective is all that matters.

The guy that relayed the secret to inspiring the younger generation is Matt Stark. Matt is the sharp tongued Editor for Dead Point Magazine, and he is known well enough that his words carry weight and consequence... like the Charlie Sheen of climbing. Being privy to some of the most exceptional artistic climbing expressions submitted to his magazine, he can both massage your ego and miniaturize your life in the same sentence. His brutal honesty and quirky insider perspective on the past and present calamities of climbing is renowned, and I know more people that have a spite for the guy, than those who have a love for him; but he is respected nonetheless.

This past weekend was the climbing/music festival known as HP Rocks. The weather held out for about two hours past the posted forecast; like a barely chewed block of cheese had been curled up at God's sphincter holding back the Montezuma's Revenge he contracted from spring breaking in Cancun. It was the eleventh plague erroneously withheld from the bible, "and God did shiteth on HP Rocks to test their resolve for the sport of climbing." And shiteth, he did.

A buddy of mine (Ben H.) made the assertion that we were in Hell, a roofed island in a sea of beautiful boulders with no possible way to get to them, much less climb them. Furthermore, the jam band had no end in site, the dyno wall had been ransacked by a gaggle of barefoot hooligans, and did I mention the rain? The highlight of the night was a local curly headed philanthropist (Tyler W.) getting his hair cut into the likeness of Crusty the clown. Yes, it was agreed that Hell could not be much worse.

HOWEVER...

Mark Twain said, "go to Heaven for the climate and Hell for the company." No quote could fit so poignantly. It was well established that the only people in our Hell were the ones that had to be there, which is a good crew to have when there are two kegs to finish and a DJ who's about to shake the chalk off of Bum Boy. It was Saturday, there was no climbing for Sunday, we had so much beer, and we danced our faces off til 2am. The DJ is a machine. He didn't look up a single time, and with less than twenty people to inspire, it was an impressive feat to get us all moving; "Heaven can wait," I thought.

D. Woods left his projects in Hueco and came to the festival without really knowing anyone. He won the dyno comp. He did a slide-show. He gave us the scoop on which climbers are douches and which ones are straight. We poked and prodded him like King Kong or "fresh fish" on the movie, 'Half Baked' (think about it, "you are not a fish, you're a man!"). And despite our best efforts, he handled our curiosity in stride with the composure of a seasoned traveler, a guy aware of his island, and a pioneer of his culture. He laughed at the dumbest jokes, and leveled with the local sketch-balls; he seems like a good guy, one that is accepted wherever he goes, and we're sorry if we made you uncomfortable.

If D. Woods is the savior in this story, then certainly M. Stark is the, well, anti-savior. Not that he's meant to bring the destruction of all man kind (like Obama... I kid. I kid.), but he represents the other side of the rope, the sharp end-- the business end. I like Matt, but he hides his horns well. He can spit venom online and attack weaknesses with the asinine fury of a veteran editor. In person, he is not so audacious with his rhetoric, but you can feel the heat from his thoughts. He's not afraid to take the microphone and talk shit to strangers or us "trustafarians in the back", but with that speech he garnered another thirty dollars for the Crusty haircut Tyler would receive later. So when it comes to drumming up support, he knows how to roll. He's been around and dissected twenty years of events and climbers, and like I said before, "his words carry weight." He balks at injustice in the community and exposes incongruities without the necessity of feedback or criticism. In any case, the angle he plays is a humble one being who he is, he converses seamlessly about international and local climbing events alike, and if someone didn't tell you, you wouldn't assume that DPM is his brain child.

"The greatest trick the devil ever played was convincing the world that he didn't exist." - The Devil's Advocate

Continuing with this "Dante's Island" metaphor: the next morning after the night from Hell, complete with the angels and demons, debauchery and plagues, the skies cleared and the competition was postponed for seven days. Unfortunately D. Woods won't be able to compete, not because he'll be back in Hueco crushing projects, but because on the seventh day-- he'll rest...

[cue: Paint it Black]

bb

Tibatabatooba...

2010-12-30T17:31:00.007-06:00

"Do you think I like boys?" For some reason Tyler finds this an amusing question to ask Holly, a Chattanooga climber gal we just met. Of course, her answer was based soley off first impressions which is why he asked so abruptly, and with an awkward gasp she let out an astounding, "No, Why? Should I?" Nat and I sat on the couch opposite of the conversation, staring at the train wreck of hesitation, half-way interested in the answer.

Two bottles of wine later, a dance off, and a run-down of every childhood game known to man, we arrived at the conversation of what Holly looks for in a man: well manicured eyebrows, scant body hair, long hair, and big arms... oh and good teeth. I told her she was a closet lesbian, and we never really recovered-- she's the sensitive type.

By the third bottle of wine, which was meant for Lea H., we were rolling around naked on the floor, naked as jay birds with nothing on but smiles and socks. Not really, we passed out and woke up nine hours in the future. To Dayton!

I blew a tip on the first go of the trip moving off a jug, and I've pretty much spent the rest of my time recovering from this silly injury. It was deep. I sent the rig next go (some V8 with a big right hand crossover), but the damage was done... no more right hand crimping for this week. I did flash helicopter traverse, a soft V9 at Rocktown, which is good. Otherwise, nothing too notable.

Nat has been crushing. She's always surprised at the things she does, and she usually down grades any problem that took her less than three tries to send.

Tyler's been cruising up just about every 7C (V9) he touches.

Tennessee has enough rock to keep a motivated climber occupied for a lifetime, not to mention they have no state income tax. Every corner rivals Birmingham's best corners. In other words, there are like four J. Clyde's (a killer Bham bar). Love it. We'll probably move here in the near future.

Hospitality

We had a waiter at Applebee's (Tyler had a gift card) that we tipped $20. He deserved it. He was a level headed veteran that really had some insight into today's national and foreign policy. I assumed that his ideas don't get much coverage due to the fact that they are-- agreeable. He joined the marines when he was 17, and now he's 21; however we guessed thirty.... crazy. He was hard of hearing in one ear, attributing this to injuries incurred while being an artillery man sans earplugs.

"Why don't you get those headphones that football teams use to make calls?"

"Just one more thing to get sand in..." he stared off into space and smiled.

"Sure I'd like John McCain as a president." he blurted out as we probed him for his stance on our current president's policies; "but at the same time, I don't want to be in Iraq for twenty years either." He explained how Obama has "brilliant" foreign policy, and an atrocious domestic plan. I brought up 'Don't ask don't tell' and was met with a question. "Do you have any sisters?" I did not, and though I told him I understood where he was going with his point, in retrospect I'm a bit confused.

"Years ago in the Gulf War, a woman was captured and over 100 men lost their lives trying to save her. We're [men] natural protectors, and that's just the way our DNA works. If it's my buddy that's captured, yeah I wanna save him, but I won't endanger others in the process. If my girlfriend or sister is captured, screw all the men around me, I'm going to rescue her with any means necessary."

Looking back on this conversation, I think he was assuming that with homosexuals (and women) in your unit, it leaves open the possibility of non-platonic companionship, where a hierarchy of lives you value forms. This is unacceptable as each man in the unit should be valued equally. Of course, he reiterated that this only applies to combat situations.

After two hours of just talking to this veteran and discovering just how convoluted our perspective of the military, national policies, and foreign policies is, he invites us out with his buddies for drinks.

This was a waiter at Applebee's... He had been cut from the floor a full hour before we stopped talking.

As R. Jenkins always says, "Livin and learnin." Right at home in this case...

bb

The Present.

2010-12-20T14:05:00.007-06:00

So-- its been a while since my last substance containing post, and to all you substance abusing blog readers, I know you have had a rough time coping with my absence from the interweb. But alas! In lieu of Winter break, I am making a cameo for December, bringing all kinds of babble to the forefront of the modern climbing man's shore of consiousness....

Blog, climbing-- you are truly all I have to focus on at the moment, and it doth feel so good to narrow my gaze.

Get that "7 day sauce" (aka. weak sauce) outta here! The only thing more fun than climbing is topping out, and I've been doing quite a bit of both lately, which has led to a swelling of my ego as I now think of myself as a big fish in a little pond, and I need to bring myself back down to Mars. The run down on winter break so far:

Day one: God Module V11. Got off work and teleported to Horse Pens via Prius magic, warmed up on the slider boulder, and begged for a spot. So effin syked to do this one, and I've sussed out some pretty chillax beta whenever you pansies get the gumption to put some cathexis on this bonita.

Day three: Biggie Shorty V10. Fresh off a season of engi-queering graduate school crushing, Leslie, my old roommate from Auburn came up for the week, and we made our presence known at Little Rock City. We stayed at Lee's casa with some globe trotters from New England, drank some forties, and met a whole lot of people who thought they knew me. I have one of those faces I suppose, or some residual effects of the Dougie Houser show hasn't worn off the Gen X-ers yet. Either way, we had a good time even though it was mega cold (we were duel weilding portable propane heaters), and our need to celebrate Auburn's 13-0 record somewhat preceeded our will to crush ze rocks. Many projects remain.

Day five: The orb and orb direct V8, Vagina V8, and lots of other lines to finish upon my return. I haven't been to Rocktown since Natalie and I met... so more than three years ago or something like that. Les and I polished off a pretty classic tick list with the quickness, and then turned our attention to Golden Harvest V10. We did not send, but I think I have some sneaky short man beta that will go. Natalie did helicopter V6 and idiot roof V6, and Tyler did helicopter traverse and Tractor Trailor with the quickness.

Day six: My mother is coming to town this week, but I'm going to HP tomorrow to try No Tranquility and Skeletor. I might put some gym time in Wednesday or Thursday, and then we're going back to Rocktown on Christmas day. Happy Hannukah! Then LRC>Dayton>???

Syked.

Eminemitation...

2010-09-15T13:36:00.005-05:00

Aback I've been takin,
from a nation I've for sakin.
So I guess what I'm sayin,
is that I'm a little bit shakin,
from tryin to keep up with the politico pacin,
like Agassee's serve and return combination.
So much of an abomination in this Obamanation,
with a third degree heart block in the makin,
leavin behind Aristotle's moderation.
So take this made up inflation,
and get a cardiac ablation,
and allow the sensation we're facin,
to surface so we can gaze in,
to the mason that's playin,
with the puppets still pacin,
so complacent,
adjacent to the ball the dog's chasin.

There's no time to be wastin,
cuz the turkey's still bastin,
and in case you were thinkin,
that the eight ball that we gaze in,
has a little more haze in,
from all the green that we're blazin,
and not the vegetation,
but the fiscal devestation,
rakin paper and bakin,
some oral stimulation,
to a bubble that's fake-in,
the center that's takin,
a twelve guage-in,
the basement,
blowin the face off the nation.

So I guess what I'm sayin,
is we put too much haste-in,
emptyin this basin,
of California dreamin that we're wastin,
just to be bracin,
for a political debate in,
which past spankins,
are to be erased and,
all the freedoms we're chasin,
forgone in the derangement,
that got us into this thing,
we call a system of gentlemen.

I'm out.

No Life Guard on Duty (hmm heh... duty)

2010-08-30T13:59:00.009-05:00

SLOPE N' SLIDE

Except for having a township in England named after us, Birmingham really has nothing to brag about. Well, I suppose we have the civil rights movement, but in retrospect, I think half the marchers were just trying to get a respite from the heat by running at fire hoses (joke). Furthermore, we have one of the most down-turned economies of any municipality in the United States... which means ON EARTH. And we're ridin it to the bottom.. WEEEEEEE!!!!

As an analog to this fiscal avalanche we call Birmingham politics, we created an event to mimic its graphic skew: SLOPE N' SLIDE!

Slope n' slide was held at an area that Birmingham can brag about called Horse Pens 40, and I lied... It had nothing to do with fiscal policy in the 205. It had everything to do with bringing a community of climbers who have bravely been battling the doldrumic burdens of the southern summer for a celebration of the "sloping" temperatures and humidity. It's all down hill from here baby! The season is upon us! So syked!

If you want the full effect of the day, all you have to do increase your risk for heart disease, type II diabetes, hypertension, and obesity; in other words, make Alabama your home. So turn up the heat and eat a Klondike bar while shoving fist fulls of freshly pulled pig ass smothered in BBQ sauce down your gullet. Then wash it all down with pint after pint of Good People pale ale.

At the end of the day, as I picked Crisco from my hair, wiped vegetable oil from my eyes, spat out the sour tinge of soap from my lips, and generally smelled like I'd been hazed at fat camp, I set out to pull myself up some warm rocks. This was short lived as the overly hydrated skin cells on my finger tips sloughed off as if I'd been exposed to VX poison gas. Its okay. Everyone was spent, preferring beat-boxing and beer pong over climbing, which probably won't happen again for a long, long time. Sha-weet!

bb

Southern Exposure...

2010-08-30T13:29:00.002-05:00

First: I started my fourth semester of nursing school here at UAB, and it is supposedly the most difficult, boasting an attrition rate upwards of 20%. I also have pediatrics, which I feel is going to be a lot like Older Adult class in its non-specificity of information. So, I've been reading, watching skills videos (AND1 nursing tapes at the library), and getting syked for my clinicals which start this week.

So this semester, I will have a pediatrics preceptorship, an adult clinical in three different floors, a community clinical, and class two days a week. I think I'll be able to get away with the same fall schedule as last year having Tuesday, Thursday, Saturday, and Sunday to climb. I'll probably work Monday, Wednesday, Fri AM, and Sat AM, and that should keep me occupied for a bit.

Climbing:

Beg, Borrow, and Steele 2010
Three FACT series competitions
Slope n' Slide
HP40 Bluegrass fest 9/10 (this has nothing to do with climbing, but it supports HP)
Little River Canyon Trail Day on 9/25
Boulderween (also the first truly cold day of the season... just watch)

A lot has happened, and there is more to come...

Wikileaks..

2010-08-06T10:17:00.003-05:00

[Thought I should share this tidbit from our SCC prez... ]

Hey man,

Was just having a thought on your blog post concerning the psyche of having this paradigm shift with the NPS. I'm ultra psyched but everyone needs to keep in mind that the reason we have gotten to where we are with the NPS is through multitudes of efforts: upholding local ethics to ensure we stay off of their radar, keeping a low profile, policing ourselves, doing the past two trail days at NON climbing areas, working with the rangers and the superintendent, going to public meetings on land work. All of the efforts, as diverse as they may be in how the Canyon is characterized, have lead to this shift.
While we all need to be psyched on this, we also need to always remember that we are there under third party permission and that now, MORE THAN EVER, we need to ensure that the good graces that we have gained, we need to maintain. Climbers need to be reminded (and it is our job to remind them because God knows it will be needed at some point) that this shift does not represent a free for all. It represents a new found privilege that we need to maintain and respect as Canyon climbers.
I know you know all of this stuff but it was just something I was thinking about and I'm "just sayin". At Sunset Park in Chattanooga, we have to constantly be on TOP of our shit to keep the NPS happy. It is a different situation for sure than Little River but the principle is the same.
Climbers have the thumbs up from the NPS. If we ever get a thumbs down, it will be our fault.

Paul Morley
President
Southeastern Climbers Coalition

Seasonal Tantra...

2010-07-27T13:11:00.017-05:00

My two cents of seasonal sense for sends since waiting for the scents of falling leaves from the trees are such a tease: a study on the temperaments that make up the climbing governments of southern gents.

Ya dig?

When 'Apocalypse Now' was searching for locations to film the steamy hell hole jungle scenes, the south was number three on the list, bested only by every circle of Hell in Dante's Inferno, and 1971 Vietnam itself. And like Viet-F'n-Nam, you've gotta think like a soldier, hike like a bulldozer, and swim like a fish, because you're now in the jungle. Welcome to summers in the south, "time to dieeeeeeeee!!!!!"

Making decisions between summer activities can be a chore: Should I go climb anywhere outside today below the Mason Dixon Line or just have sex in a Native American sweat lodge on a submarine at the bottom of an active volcano. Both are comparable in terms of physical effort. Chalk turns to toothpaste. Every pitch turns into a commercial for Gatorade; except for the green hue, the electrolyte laden beverage bypasses your bladder in favor of condensing on your skin. Salamanders become interested in you-- sexually. Its scary. All the while, you battle spiders that actually bite, birds that fiercely protect their homes on your rests, and bees that sting.. like bees.

From June to the end of August, we develop a sort of religious fervor, converting gyms into makeshift Meccas for pilgrimage and worship. We throw parties eloquently disguised as fundraisers (see previous post) and constantly look towards the future when better conditions will pull us effortlessly up the contrived sequences we've dreamed about while kicking the covers off our soaked navels as we lie in bed.

Every summer is a recession for climbers. We save up for better times, take less risks to avoid injury (bankruptcy), and fight the urge to drink away our sorrows. We have a SAD (seasonal affective disorder) of a different kind, because we're a different breed, hibernating in the summer and hunting in the winter.

And as much as I hate to make this allegory, we are on the same itinerary as college football, and we are on par with the culture of training fanaticism that takes hold during the long summer days. We have two-a-days, three-a-days, and early morning core sessions. We read the offense and work on our defense. We find weaknesses and recruit muscle from underneath, and we prefer to run the ball and climb thuggish, than pass and be a crimp prancing bitch. DMX said it best, "Woof! Woof! Woof!"

I field endless predictions all day concerning the send potential of my closest allies in this aimless war on heat. "We're going to take it to the next level aren't we man?"

"Sure." How should I know? If there is one thing I've learned in my years as a southern climbing gentleman, its that gains in the gym predict success in the field about as well as Nostradamus predicted the end of the world on Y2k (holding off on the Mayans for the moment).

For example, with newly ripped abs in hand and a hard earned 4+ pounds of back meat, last weekend with the mercury trying to mantle out the 100 mark, we tried our hands at repeating some easier routes at the canyon. Of course we were immediately distracted by proud 14 point roof projects that were incessantly taunting us from above, and that's all we touched for two days.

Moving off the first holds is a race against time, because you really have about two shakes before your hands become as slimy as a masseuse's rubbing the fat around on some old man's deltoids. Artificial rain drops fall from your back, and the soaked knot on your harness cinches tight, later revealing the fingerprints of summer sending, a spiraling salt deposit that crusts and flakes the next time you tie back in. The sharp end is as sharp as a butter knife in your Aunt Beatrice's yard sale. And as you stare out this horizontal roof, wiping your hands clean on the pleats of your Prana pants as if you were about to take a serious beer pong shot, you simply sigh.

"Take that up. Thanks." You giggle these words through the panting as your belayer dodges the bullets trickling down your back.

Beta is useless. You can't lock off a sloper to a baby penis, match another sloper "with an okay bite in the back" and bust to a gaston, regain your wits and pop to a jug. No! It is impossible! I swear my feet are sweating through my shoe rubber. Still, you brush the holds with the patience of a two year old with her barbie and search for the secret undercling that will sprout from the rock if you focus hard enough. It doesn't.

"Your turn!" Fuck this, I'm going back to the gym.

THE GYM

Ahhh, the gym. Oscillating fans, good eighty degree temps, and like minded creatures abound.

"Two more months man... two more months." Yes, we celebrate a kind of winter solstice.

"Can't wait, what's on your tick list?" I ask as I pull the Velcro shut on my Solutions, preparing myself for yet another circuit/enduro session/power session/core session/whatever else we can muster from our ennui laden imaginations at the moment.

"Five-O!" Yep, that's not going until December I think to myself as its one of the more condition dependent slopey problems at ole HP40. My shirt comes off revealing the slight chaffing above my hips left by a wet harness.

"Where ya been brother? The canyon?" Keen observation Nancy Drew, as he points to my inflamed waist.

"Yeah, the canyon." I could have said The Great Pyramids, and it would have sufficed. The heat in the summers keeps people oblivious to the outside world of roped rock scaling, and when the temps drop enough everyone goes pebble wrestling, which makes for a slim crew of climbers that put on a harness. Saying the canyon to most people in the south is like a generic answer for saying, "I got on ropes this weekend. If I told you where exactly, you still wouldn't understand where exactly, and I don't feel like taking you there, because you might jeopardize access, because I know your affinity for throwing objects made of glass... and if you have any sort of medical condition, you may die from exhaustion and dehydration, and I'm not carrying your Gucci ass out of there." (perfect example of how a burgeoning southern elitist attitude works)

"Anything good?" Again I could answer with anything.

"Sure, we climbed a dried-up waterfall using only double-toe-cling-under-pulls." I stare at a random point on the wall and fight the urge to expand on the notion of climbing using only toe hooks.

"Sounds sick!" As they go to practice their bat hanging skills from the hang board.

THE POINT

Perhaps this illustrates a southern gentleman's elitist mindset for those who don't understand it. There are plenty of public climbing areas that are still "off limits" to the general climbing population for whatever reason. It is so easy to get caught up in the 'good ole boys' club that we lose sight of the interest of others, preferring to resonate on their ignorance instead of their potential.

Private land is not the only land to climb on, even if it is fresh, unbrushed stone, with the potential to make you miss finals. I've become accustomed to never seeing new faces on routes in the south, and I need to get over it. We were all goobers at one point... well not me, but most of us used to be made of taffy (Gumby). With that being said, I am about as OG as Miley Cyrus, and would be forever shunned for giving the intellectual property (directions) of others away to climbers not in the sphere. I would be like DiCaprio on 'The Beach' running around Desoto Falls by myself, hallucinating that I'm in the trenches taking heavy fire (which ironically is a lot like my childhood). Its not that I even want to make all these areas more public. Its just that I don't think the Apocalypse would ensue if these places were made more available. Access is becoming less of an issue in many areas nowadays, and as long as those little minnows take after some of the bigger fish, access will be preserved. Even the National Park Service is on our side now. They brought us BBQ down to the crag on the aforementioned weekend, and yes, I climbed with sticky BBQ fingers, and it was glorious.

And I know what many of you are thinking, "Why do we need more people on the rocks? There's too many as it is, and I don't like it [spit]." Here's the answer you are looking for: We need to buy all this land, and we need more people involved to do it. If they don't see the crags, then they won't see the potential of investing in them, and outdoor (real) climbing will be doomed to stagnate and decline, while we slowly loose crag after crag as they're swallowed up by housing developments and rich people with fire arms/packs of ravenous wolves.

These areas are basically our churches. I wish I knew how to do all this. Didn't intend to get all preachy.

bb

Beg, Borrow, and Steele!!! 2010!!!

2010-07-20T09:13:00.034-05:00

IN SHORT

Beg, Borrow, and Steele was more fun and successful than we ever could have imagined. It was truly a grassroots organized fundraiser with numerous people involved that came together to unite a community behind a common goal--a huge summer party-- I mean, the purchase of STEELE! This one belongs to everyone. Like last year, it was held at Adam Henry's back yard/crag/river paradise.

DANCE PARTY

It was only a week ago that Doc and Marty would have come back to the future, July 10, 2010. Imagine if they had stepped into the main cave that night.

"What have we done!? Great Scott! We've altered the course of history, and this must be an alternate reality!"

Nope Doc, you just landed on the hottest southern climber party on the planet!

With giant black vinyl tarps, we had closed in the first bunker in Adam's back yard. The inside of the tarps were painted with vibrant neon colors, and in the middle of the structure we erected a series of black lights and a disco ball, complemented by smoke machines and other lighting equipment. The people were smiling and laughing, decked out in some serious costume combinations, and prepared to enjoy a night of mayhem.

Doc would have seen a golden Buddha doing the robot, a hot dog wearing sunglasses, a male ballerina, a guy in a bright pink wrestling leotard, and in between these celestial objects were scantily clad guys and many gals "on they baddest behavior--lend me some sugar, I am yo neighbah!!!" Everyone was glowing-- literally-- not like J-Lo, more like the human torch. And by the way, call your mom, and tell her that all those ballroom dance lessons she made you take in middle school-- wasted. Fox trot? More like "drop down and get your eagle on girl..."

EZ-B (Ben Henson) was redlining all night in the DJ booth, mowing down acres of wall-flowers to establish a dance floor with the gravity of a collapsing black hole blooming like your grandma's rose garden. The beats were sick.
The walls were purposefully set three feet from the ground, so from the outside all one could see were dozens of feet stomping and a smattering of light trying to escape the increasing density of the moment. People breathed in and out of the tent, swapping between eating desserts from the "cobbla-wobbla" spread on the porch and refilling their cups with genuine high gravity Good People IPA from one of the two kegs we eventually floated. I looked at the time. It was only 10pm. Two hours of "high class" dancing later, we ran (stumbled) to the water and took a "fat southern dip."

A FAT SOUTHERN DIP

"This night has gone very well..." I mumbled to myself. We had just floated the second IPA barrel, and what ensued was a sort of cleansing of the spirit.

We had been successfully getting first-downs on people's comfort zones all day, and this was fourth and goal. Jumping off this rock into this flowing opacity of cold water would be the kind of punctuation that a night like this deserved: dissolution of self, letting go of the outside perspective, looking through your own eyes, stepping on the gas, and flying into oblivion.

There were five of us perched on a lonely rock hidden from view under the swift waters behind Adam's property. We had just taken the plunge and stood proudly as if it we had been through a sacred initiation. The moon was shy that night and the clouds hung low, cushioning the landscape far into the distance.

"Come on! Jump!" We were an enticing bunch, as we danced on the water's surface with our half submerged feet illuminated by glow sticks.

"Come on! Jump!"

"Splash! Splash! Splash!... Splash! Splash! Splash!"

The water was way up from all the rain that had fallen in the area; there was no light, albeit what we had on our hands, feet, and heads; and in this moment when you shriek like a puppy as the cold water finally collapses on the softness of your belly, you can't help but smile. Seconds later you're fighting to climb aboard an island of what seems to be a family of giant plankton glowing just above the surface of the darkness.

"These are my people!" You think to yourself as a helping hand pulls you to the island.

Everyone cheered in unison. A genuine explosion of uncontrolled air erupted from the mouths around me as if we were Scots winning our freedom from the English. Every William Wallace speech I'd ever memorized resounded through my head, and I imagined the emotional magma that bubbles up with every heart beat as a hail-Mary flies towards a crowded end zone... score.

"Yep, this entire day went very, very, very well... and wow that was dumb." We crashed into bed hard, and it had only just passed midnight.

This was all after 8pm of an all day event, so there's more-- but I'll be brief.

ORGANIZATION

Other than living our lives a quarter mile at a time, what do we (Tyler, Natalie, and I) have in common with Vin Diesel in every movie he's ever done? We're motha truckin outlaws! That's right, we run stop signs and red lights like its our job, and for this event we were pulled over for "excessively imagining" at every turn.

"You want to do what with the cave? Do you know how much power you're going to pull? The physics are simply mind blowing!" said the hater.

"One hundred and thirty-one Gigawatts!!!" we jested.

"How are you going to keep people out of the way while you set it up?" said the hater.

"Smoke and mirrors baby... smoke and mirrors." we jested.

"A zip-line over the river and a floating moon walk?" said the hater.

"And an army of didgeridoos with a full symphony orchestra in the background!" we were put in imagination prison for that idea, but I digress.

While the dance floor was being mysteriously erected, people filled up on some of the best pulled pork on Earth while checking out the stuffs at the silent auction. We interrupted the recovery from a day's worth of crushing and swimming with a heated tournament of sumo crashpad wrestling. And it got messy as Adam threw his "over the hill" birthday cake at the participants.... [sigh]. Somehow... somehow, we were spared from the rain. I'm pretty sure it had something to do with our syke bubble.

THE NUMBERS

105 people showed up.

We raised $2300 for the purchase of Steele (the crag, not the commodity).

60% chance of rain all day and night...

20 minute sprinkle from some friendly overcast skies...

SPONSORS:

Thank you! ADAM and LEA HENRY (property), Ben Henson (for staying up a week straight in preparation for the party and for those mad DJ skillz), Alabama Outdoors (crashpad, hangboard, training eq.), Black Diamond (sick backpack), Blue Water Ropes (4 quality ropes), ASANA (chalk bags), VooDoo (chalk bags and buckets), So Ill (good vibes), Mountain High (gift bags), Good People Brewing Co. (Two IPA kegs), First Ave Rocks, Chris's fantastic BBQ, and Five Ten (demo shoes).

Thanks also to everyone who donated gear to the silent auction and who brought desserts for the post-party treat. There are too many people to individually thank for input, ideas, and equipment...this was truly a group effort!

THE FUTURE

Look forward to the next southern summer event. I'll just give you the name for now: Slope n' Slide.

Holler,
Brooks

The Last Crab Claw...

2010-07-06T11:05:00.006-05:00

SHOWTIME

"Whew!" I managed to somehow squeak out this exclamation between my blushing grin. "I am so glad that I'm still alive!" I was staring at the back of Natalie's head, and nobody was listening; I didn't care, I just wanted to get back to my seat at the back of the room and finish my cherry coke.

EYWAH!!!

I listen to NPR every day, and every day they remind me of the devastated coast line of the northern gulf. It is really difficult for hearsay and pictures to do justice to the mutilated shores. Brown foam caresses each break of every wave and then leaves its signature on the sands; a line of highly bound hydrocarbon residue makes scale like variations on the shores, the fingerprints of the oil spill. Further up the beach towards the houses, the white sands become a pasture of "tar balls" which resemble cow turds. Baked in the sun, they harden on their surface and conform the beach into an ancient highway, brittle and desolate. Cleanup crews do their best to keep up with the "turds" by bagging up each half cubic foot of caked sand into thousands of bags and then send them off to--- who knows where? But they fall behind fast as this is an ongoing problem that would favor the use of patience and a backhoe, but something has to be done... right?

TACKY JACK'S

We're ordering dinner on the deck of the local marina, and the sun-setting horizon is a freckled silhouette of vessels commandeered to help out with the cleanup. They're numbers are so vast that they seem to blockade the entire entrance to Mobile Bay-- like warships.
"There hasn't been this much maritime activity in these waters since the civil war." The waitress was staring in the same direction. "Damn the torpedoes. Full steam ahead. Right?" She snickered with a sarcastic glum and asked about my dinner selection (praying I didn't order sea food).

FERN GULLY

Months ago, Adam had given me the book 'Crime and Punishment' and said it was classic. It is... if you like endless introspection. And as I finally turned the last page over, I heard my mother summon me to help do some "landscaping."

SHOWTIME

Using guilt and flattery, I had been coaxed into singing a Grease karaoke duet in front of TOO many people at the only bar on Fort Morgan Road. Do I know any Grease songs? No. Am I musically talented? Only in the shower. Waiting for our names to be called, an inevitable summoning of "Brook" (note the missing "s"), I began reenacting the scene from Anchorman where he's warming up before giving the news. "How now brown cow. How now brown cow. Unique New York. Unique New York." What was I doing?

"Brook and Natalie?!"

"Yep, that's probably me." I thought.

I think its the demands that the crowd's eyes make, like imaginary metronomes, tick-tocking, waiting, and watching as you....

"I got chills! They're multiplyin.

And I'm losin' control.'

Cause the power you're supplyin',

it's electrifyin'!!!!!"

Minutes later, I was out! Done. People were clapping and praising us, and I heard some jealous kid say, "they've obviously done that before." Hah! And as I sprinted back to my cherry coke, carrying my imaginary flowers, twirling my dress, and fixing my crown, I was up in my head thinking, "what's next?! Huh, who wants some?! Hey yo, bar-keep! Hit me with another of the same!"

"Sure thing Mr. Travolta! Its on the house."

"Yep, she wants me."

Damn, that was a good cherry coke.

TACKY JACK'S

Perhaps because I knew I couldn't have seafood, it made me really crave it...

"Crab claws for an appetizer." I mumbled it quickly, so she would hopefully overlook my request and magically be required to serve me crab claws.
"Sorry son, but we ran out of crab claws last night, and I don't expect us to be gettin any in any time soon." The waitress genuinely frowned as she relayed this information to me."Damn..." I thought to myself. "I missed the last crab claw appetizer that's going to be served for the next two years by one day. Damn. Damn. Damn. Well, beef it is." And I ordered a really good bacon cheese burger after she let us in on the details of the fishing ban.

FERN GULLY

There is a piece of land on our street that has single handedly brought the endangered Beach Mouse back from extinction while simultaneously nurturing families of black birds and no less than five species of snake; a piece of land so thick with underbrush and palmetto plants that it has withstood the winds and waves of countless storms, and this piece of land is where the beach house rests. "Landscaping" on this property is more akin to bushwhacking in the Congo.

Its rented alias is conservatively called, 'Palmetto Villa' and don't blame me for such deceit, I voted for 'Welcome to the Jungle.' Legend has it that years ago my grandmother attempted to burn down the palmettos in an attempt to quell their overgrowth... This forest is under the house, and as the fire department later reminded her, "this was not a wise decision," nor was it effective, and the forest doubled the following year.

Thirty years later, my mother, in a state of drunken mania (kidding, this is her being normal) was tearing away at the bushes as if some glorious treasure was buried underneath. The beach mouse and I now had much more in common, namely fearing that the destructive nature of my mother would be unleashed on our lives. I imagined the little mice in their little bunkers with stores of nuts and water to ride out the unrelenting attacks of the "Mom Bombs."
Just to put in perspective the importance and protection this mouse invites, a builder must wait one year for approval to build a house on the beach now, so that a committee of beach mouse habitat experts can approve the design as "non-harmful" to the native population. They're like mouse lobbyists, and I suppose they're paid in tree nuts and sand dollars.

GOIN COASTAL ON THIS BEACH!

Later that night, with the beach mouse's stronghold effectively eradicated, we sat watching fireworks come straight at us on the beach. The winds were blowing unusually hard, like tropical storm hard, and many fireworks were just flying sideways... West... toward the Fort.... toward our face. With hot embers and grains of sand scarring my shins and corneas, I feared my eyesight would never be the same-- but my drunken curiosity thought otherwise. Six bottles of Jockamo and Visine later with the realization that Arabs wear burkas for a reason, I was back at the beach house crying from happiness and irritation.

And after watching 'The Hebrew Hammer' for the first time, I reflected on my new found beach appreciation. My skin was burned; I was blind; my fingernails were growing at double speed for some reason; I had sand up my ass; I was constipated from cheese; and my arms and legs were bleeding from hauling palmetto bushes around the yard. But..... I can knock karaoke from my bucket list. I saw an extremely 3D fireworks show. And I saw first hand what the oil spill has done to my home. It sucks. As much as I can't tolerate the beach life, it still hurts to see such an unremitting attack of pollution on the coast, a coast that so many people try to uphold to a Vatican like standard. The locals are massive in their volunteer numbers and personal gumption to make their private bit of coast clean again, but this is a tsunami that won't stop. The worst part of the whole thing is that the only thing do now is to remove the tumors and put makeup on the scars, and who knows when we'll have crab claws from the gulf again. I'm biking everywhere from now on...

bb

Verbal Chernobyl...

2010-07-02T10:36:00.009-05:00

Climbing, like rhyming is all about timing,
going bezerker like The Shining,
or crushing rock like strip mining.

But the planets are realigning,
and I'm no longer lying, but I'll be shying,
from endless whining and prying,
from kids always trying to get a sponsorship signing,
and reminding,
me of how we're a dying breed,
when their beguiled smiles frown at me,
as I'm climbing free,
never shy to the lead, just shy to this seed.

And my demeanor,
is a deceiver,
when I leave the mirth, and go bezurk on this earth,
step on the gas, and skurt a line in the dirt,
cuz I got here first.
I'll keep you alarmed and alert,
as I let you know what you're worth,
rippin off my shirt and spit words that hurt,
if you flirt and usurp any of my focus and work.

Because for me, it frees,
a terminal disease that seeks to appease,
supernova egos that will drop you to your knees.
So breathe, you're lucky to have such trivial calamities.
Notice the perplexities,
they are in your peripheries;
strike and believe,
automatic as a sneeze; light and unstoppable...
move like a breeze.

I'm not clownin around.
I fight fire with fire,
and I Can't settle down, cuz I wasn't meant for the shire.
I'm a gun for hire,
a thief and a liar: not a man to admire,
just a devoted little climber that seeks to inspire,
people to fly-or retire, go awry and climb higher.

Like a gorilla bulldozer,
Strike with fingers of cobras,
I spit hot fire, so stop, drop, and roll over!
And red rover, come over,
think like:
hocus pocus, I'm focused,
hate sprayers like supa soakas,
Where is Dr. Topo?
We need a map to show us the locus,
of this magnum opus absent of the locusts,
that think they know us and feed off our focus.
They spray til it chokes us.
Are you trying to provoke us?

Puff, puff, pass, toke on this,
Here's the gist, you're not on the list,
another dumb joke?

well, you can choke on this fist.

I fight like a masochist,
and I'm the protagonist,
you're the antagonist.
Now, I wanna see my ass kissed.

When climbing is unraveled,
its all about the road less traveled,
and don't be delirious;
this is a game within life, it is really not serious.
To be mocked with every tick of the clock,
certainly all roads will be unlocked,
but I heard Mars has a ton of rock!
But really,
this is all silly,
but it sure beats stayin home and playin with my willy.

bb

2010-07-01T10:51:00.004-05:00

Dear blog,

I can't stop thinking about rhymes. It has become an all consuming disease. I'm secretly starting a record label in my head.... NOT HEALTHY. With that being said, I'm dropping another one soon that is going to rock the foundations of the universe... HEMAN style.

SCHOOL:

Whew! So I made it through June with a palpable heartbeat. I've had a Spanish class every day, and it is (was-- THANK GOD its "was" as in "in the past") extremely stressful. Why, you ask? Well, I don't speak Espanol, and this was a complete immersion class-- ergo, no habla ningun ingles. SPA380!!! And how many Spanish classes have I taken? ZERO! It is recommended that you have 4 college level Spanish classes before pursuing such a class... actually it is mandatory, but I lied. So, I think I made a B in the class, which is completely acceptable to me. Plus, I now have a primitive translator in my head. I used a whole lot of RAM taking this class, and now I can turn my cathexis on other tasks.

CLIMBING:

Since I had Spanish every week night of June, 5:30-7:30, I decided to begin my training [goooooooooong]. So every night I have been putting two hours in the gym doing various core, push, back, and finger exercises.... without injury-- success! I'm on week 5 now, and I feel like I have improved quite a bit on all fronts, especially power. I've even gained a solid three pounds. And yes, in case you were wondering, I'm tipping 130 on the scale every night.

POWER

Three months ago, I set the profound goal of doing 5-11 on the campus rungs-- impossible then. A week ago, remembering my "long term" goal, I hit it first try with both hands, and I know I can go further. I can easily do "1-5-9" on our campus board, however it is slightly off, so I've now set the goal of "1-6-10".... so close. Also, I can now do one arm COMPLETE lock offs... on small jugs, so my goal now is to do them on a small one pad half crimp position. I'm also going to focus more of my energy to big moves on the 45 wall. I started doing sets of 2-5-9-10 on the half pad rungs, but I'm holding back due to the fact that it splits my tips... not good. I do muscle ups on the pull up bar, which is as much of a chest workout as it is a back workout. Five weeks ago: sets of 6-5-4; now: sets 10-10-10. I may add some ankle weight, but I'm really not sure if that gymnastic beast strength will be all that helpful (but hey, its 98 degrees outside with 100% humidity, what else is there to do?).
In addition, I do a heinous hangboard/lock off workout. It involves half crimp positions on the small moon board crimps, then more of the same on this other board that Adam built, pinches on a pusher board, and one arm lock offs on a pretty good crimp.

ENDURANCE

Endurance? Ehh. I have a goal of campusing up and down the hit strips five times, which sounds easy, but I'm maxing out at four-- oh, and no shaking out (berserker style). Endurance is difficult to train indoors, because plastic destroys your skin, not in a traumatic fashion like real rock, but in a burning eviscerating feeling that is more or less, delapidating, so it is difficult to get syked on that.

CORE

The most difficult aspect of training "core" is remembering to breathe.
I have short legs (I think), so my core workout probably looks really hard, but its all relative. I can now hold a pure front lever position for just over twenty seconds, and I can lock off the horizontal position, hands to hips with straight arms, but I can't pause for long. My core workout really just consists of about 200 front lever positions, one leg and two leg, pauses and bycicles. Then I do some upper core by laying horizontal on the saw horse, and with the eight pound weights, I punch out and reach alternating one arm at a time over my head.. like climbing a roof. Then obliques and lower back. My core physically looks bigger now, which is foreign to me, as I've always seen myself as a "Skelatore" which was my nickname in soccer, but I think I've gained some inches around my waist.

LEGS

Oh yes, I do some leg stuff. One legged 18 inch hops with 16 pounds (us shorties need all the leg power we can get.... SPUDD WEBB IN THE HOUSE!). I bike to class, and there are an eff ton of hills, and my tires are flat, so it's like a v7 bike ride every day. That's all for legs.

RANDOM

My chest workout is more endurance focused. I do sets of 2-3 sets of 20 on each: palm down, palm up, pushed together, flies, and I do dips on the gymnastic rings, which is way harder than dips on parrallel bars, so I started out 6-5-4, and now I'm doing 8-8-8, and its a struggle. Between chest sets I do 10lb "roll ups" for flexor/extensor muscles on my forearms, and I'm not sure how they help, but hopefully it will somehow translate to either stability or endurance. Oh yeah, we climb/get spanked outside on the weekends, and I do all the new problems that are set on Thursdays.

Can't wait to see if any of this helps with real rock in the fall. Until then, I'm just going to train more.

HEALTH

I started out with some inflamation/bothersome pain in the most proximal joint in my right middle finger. It is all but gone now. Sometimes I have a tinge of exterior elbow pain/pressure, but it is always an acute event, and it is never debilitating. I've been supplementing with protein powder and eating tons of pasta (which is not unusual), and I drink a good bit of milk and coffee at work.

NOW

I need to plan out the events at Beg, Borrow, and STEELE! Interview Robyn Ebersfield for the SCC. There's a comp at FAR coming up on the 10th. And I still have two classes to crush this summer. Goin to the beach this weekend to relax and watch fireworks. Hopefully, we won't run into any oily beaches.

Time to think of more rhymes.

peace.

Soul Security...

2010-06-12T15:36:00.012-05:00

This is a poetry slam,

wham bam thankyou mam,

the summer of Sam, in Birmingham,

Time to get a tan and make a plan,

for the future of Iran, goin nuclear man,

So, open up a can, shorten your life span,

and get out, re-route, and flip-out,

and don't pout about the amount of heat the sun puts out.

Sweatin in the South is what I'm about,
The sultan of swat? Nah, I'm the king of clout!
Hear me shout, cuz there's

no doubt we're goin bezerker, on every route,

We're brush'n em, and crush'n em,

haters: we're hushn'em, stuff'n em like they're nuthin.

Hustlin and suss'n em, forever be buss'n em.

Every pitch is a heater in my wife beater,

chuggin liter after liter tryin to defeat her,

unseat her or repeat her.

Life couldn't be any sweeter.

Have you seen the the new 8ab-er?

Nah, but I really wanna meet her,

and put my wiener in her biner,

after I clean her and expose her,

and every day I'll get a bit closer to gettin some closure.

Fo sur,

and I'll never be a poser,

or a loser, sometimes a boozer,

but I'll cut back when its cooler,

and dryer when every day we fire,

off projects like a howitzer,

every high point, a little bit louder,

the forecast is calling for scattered showers of white powder.

And I couldn't be prouder,

of the sends we mime while drinkin our wine,

every single one is a Pulitzer prize winning line.

We'll get over the heat, make a beat,

get out and perform a feat,

with magnificent intentions,

only to piss on it in better conditions.

But whatevs.

Building potential is the new mission.

Hit me up. And screw goin fishin.

Pesado...

2010-06-11T14:03:00.014-05:00

All of these thoughts weigh heavily on me,
like ideas of lead; high density,
black holes trapped behind a levy.
psiked out of mind.
It's time to try.

Behind these gray eyes hide the heaviest disguise,
surprised smiles hidin the little lies,
the whats, hows, whos, and whys,
and how time flies through sighs and cries,
a capsize of the wise that tried to find,
a much more perfect climb or
the answer to time,
while wishin and waitin for invisible signs:
and moving, living, and dying in the wines of our times.

We spend our time,
with the goal to sublime.
Chiseling the mortar on these cosmetic borders,
like wannabe soldiers without justified orders,
unable to ignore the culture, of these aimless vultures,
captains of industry are captains of torture.
They seek to annoy her and destroy her,
loiter, and avoid her,
and without a shoulder to hold her,
she'll fall out of order.

We're droppin the world, a drop at a time,
at the drop of a dime.
Blemishing purity should be a capital crime.

And we hold the world in our callus hands,
A band of fans that spans the lands,
ready to take a stance with chants, rants, and the occasional rain dance,
and advance the limits,
passionately and naturally without any gimmicks.
willingly trapped,
we're advanced ants in a hill of security,
giving up,
the temptations of impurity.

Furiously finding ways to enjoy this subtle shuttle,
unwilling to muddle the smallest puddle,
so huddle.
Prepare for take off, blast off, and log off,
and make the most of this joke of a life of,
rough, tough love, and all of the above.
So,
Covet
or
Shove It.
Cuz I love it.

My name is Volatile.... [read fast]

2010-06-04T11:18:00.012-05:00

Fight or flight, eyes ignite,
Flipped flopped and ready to drop,
words like like a bomb in Vietnam,
Irate state of a refugee ape,
without the patience to wait,
on butterfly strokin, chokin, and smokin,
through this ether,
to the top of the theater.
This is the feature,
so don't forget your,
medicinal tincture.
An I'll be the teacher,
and you be the creature.

Movin up in the third dimension,
Holden the tension,
you wishin, that thisis,
a mission that's free for admission,
when you go fishin,
for complements inthis,
environment of that which we piss in,
so listen cause I'm a man on a mission.

Lay off of the media that feeds ya,
the meaningless news, views, and interviews,
chasin the ceiling, and dealing with anonymous feelings,
that ulcerate the dear, sphere,
which is near,
to the heart,
of every Clark Kent from the start,
when he leaves his mark.

Leaving a number on the Terra firma,
and a hole in the soul,
so look behind the derma,
which Sharma, and Sherman, and other men,
didn't see comin.

Its becoming a pathetic
study of genetics,
the "haves" and "have nots"
to which we have forgot,
the blood and tears and all of the years
that we and they spent wasting,
cutting and pasting,
at the same time shaking,
and wagging our mutilated pointer finger,
at the wake of what's conquered,
and the opinions they offer.

So what a shocker,
that we need to evolve or,
get lost in this coffer,
and pay homage to the fathers,
of vertical walkers.

Stop being a stalker with nothing to offer.
Time to defeat the monster,
that feeds off the roster,
of sprayers that foster,
this snake that's eating his tail,
and hammers the nail,

in the coffin of climbing,
that will die before I do,
unless we do what we have to,
and loosen this noose and go back to our roots,
and get rid of those in cahoots with the suits,
who seek to loot such a worthy pursuit,
to bear a tainted fruit and meet a bottom line.

Well, its time to shine,
for those opinions who are aligned with mine.
This is the bottom line:
Its time to climb.

Familiar Faces and Last Names...

2010-05-19T14:41:00.011-05:00

DRUGS

"Hey Chris!"
What was Tyler doing? I thought to myself. Surely he knows better than to casually address such a divine member of our climbing community by his first name.
"What kind of chalk do you use?"
"Just whatever, ya know." I expected an answer to involve illegal mining operations on the white Cliffs of Dover.
Tyler coaxed Sharma's glowing hand into his chalk bag and awaited a response. "Tell me what you think of this stuff?"

SEX

For the first time ever, I was climbing for a purpose. For the first time I was using climbing as a utilitarian means to a tangible end, instead of an egotistical end. I had to get a better look at the goods.
On the edge of lake Summersville lies a rock, a rock that juts perfectly out of the water at the slightest angle, so that it is seemingly meant solely for sunbathing. Staring at the view finder on the camera, Kinder, Tyler, and Kamitses were stacked behind a boulder like a SWAT team in full Scooby Doo formation.

ROCK&ROLL

Baby Mike as of late has been like fillet Mignon to prowling cougars. He all but onsighted the Action Direct (9a) of the female climbing community, holding back for reasons unknown to anyone but himself.

From my vantage point in the rear of the dance crowd, I was privy to an astonishing display of well placed "patty cakes." This scene is perhaps one of the strongest feats of mojo wielding, gut feeling, in the moment prowess I have yet to witness. Patty cakes?
This scene continued into the night as lofty soft spoken words of Italian were tossed around like butterflies in a hail storm. Hours later I found the two idly chatting in the booze tent as if they had known each other from back when Camp 4 was home to a handful of dirtbags, and The Nose had not been freed yet.

DRUGS

As Sharma dipped his hand into some stranger's (Tyler's) chalk bag to test for normality, he grimaced as the flour like "super chalk" lubricated his fingers as if it were graphite.
"I heard Metolius had some bad batches lately." Everyone nodded in agreement of such prophecy.
Then unexpectedly, Chris reached into his own bag and placed a handful into Tyler's bag. This was the same chalk that was now pasted on the 14b at the right of the cave. There was no plug involved, no Evolv sticker hidden inside, no thanks needed. It was just a selfless, guilt free, Forrest Gumpian moment in rock climbing, "Shit happens..." Here you go, dry your hands with this; climb on.
Tyler hasn't fallen since.

Normal? I was inspired.

SEX

I felt like a pirate at the top of a ship's mast searching for land. "Boobs ahoy!" I yelled out to my compatriots down below on the deck, who were utilizing the latest in telescopic technology to get the details of our discovery.

"Is there a bush?!" Kerzner appropriately asked as he was belaying.
"Aye! Bushes, coconuts, beans, and twigs!"
Wearing nothing but smiles and sunblock, a group of girls and guys had ventured onto the lonely rock to even out their farmer's tans.
As they politely waved at passing boaters and us climbers, unfortunately not needing a rescue as hoped for, their apparent comfort in the nude was strange to me. Shame and embarrassment were absent from this crew of locals, and they were not making statements or being lewd-- just enjoying the sun... as if public nudity was not unusual on our side of the pond.

Normal? I was inspired.

ROCK&ROLL

Running his hands through his hair, Mike looked at me with a look of bewilderment. This is Lynn Hill. I am Baby Mike Rosato. What am I doing?
She didn't seem to notice him mantling out this inner summit.
I walked over to ask him where everyone was, and as soon as I opened my mouth, Lynn looked at me like she knew me-- No time to introduce myself. A smile later, speechless and awkward, I ran off in search of more familiar last names.
Humble? She was born in 1961, she was the first person to free the Nose (14a), and has been everywhere and met everyone associated with rock climbing. At the New River Rendezvous 2010, she is cutting a rug on the dance floor and hanging out with relative nobodies from Alabama...... and enjoying herself fully.

Normal? I am inspired.

bablingbroox

Belationships...

2010-05-06T11:35:00.009-05:00

Finding a remotely psyched person that puts on a harness in Alabama is like searching for footprints on the moon: they're around, but you have to know where to look... and unfortunately, you might have to make some footprints yourself. Making footprints on the moon [read: teaching good belay technique] is a pain. Not only is there less gravity, so you really have to stomp hard to make an impression, but the surface of the moon is mired in years of cosmic asteroid pounding abuse that takes the patience of an archeologist digging in a sand dune to change.

What am I talking about?

belationship (bee-lay-shun-ship) n. singular. - a strong symbiotic bond formed between two rope climbers in which a detailed automaticity for belaying technique exists to a point of borderline telepathy.

Where does it begin?

Its no secret that many girls (and guys) start climbing on ropes due to some guy's endless beckoning (soon to be whiny boyfriend). The girl learns to lead. They begin to belay each other %100 of the time, and many of the readers know of the terminal end to this story. As we take our partner's telepathic belaying powers for granted, spoiled into thinking that this is a perfect belationship, we forget to yell "slack" on a hidden clip, we forget that advice and beta that "works" is not wanted unless asked for, ad nauseum. And the bickering starts.

So we branch out in our communities, abandoning our avatar like connection (yes, avatar is also an adjective) we had with our "first", and proceed to scour the lands for belaying mistresses. For the ones who have been climbing long enough to begin experimenting with new belayers, you know what I mean when I say that belaying must be the most unobvious skill on Earth. It takes five weeks minimum of intensive training just to explain "short-roping". Short-roping is when gumby or said ass-hole avatar belayer does not pay slack when you need to clip a bolt ten feet above your head off a micro edge undercling and/or stops your swing when you blast off to that sloping jug at the end of whatever 12a you happened to be trying to onsight (although this can be beneficial as in, "whew! Thanks for tripling my core strength on that dyno avatar belayer... Onsight!"

The best way to learn belay technique is by watching someone who really knows what they are doing, hopefully with a Grigri (not a plug... just sayin). HMMM, but your new rope climber can't see you belaying him? Easy solution. You WILL have to fight the urge, but you must not give him/her one of your world class "I can't feel the rope and it's like falling on a bed of feathers" belays. I'm serious. Giving a good belay will double the learning curve. Make them work to clip. Pump them out if you have to. Make them understand "short-roping," and I know this is harsh, but find a soft patch of rock to "spike" them into. DO IT or they will do it to you and everyone else.

Now, watch them notice as you chunk yards and yards of weightless slack there way for that difficult clip; watch that light go on in their head when they see you puma-pounce to the first bolt, so that they don't pendulum into the wall (spiking). Trust me.
Learn from my mistakes.
Its for the good of everyone.

Like Ludacris, you now have a wife, a mistress, and a main biatch. Thanks to you, they are all tying double bowlines; they tie in before putting their shoes on; "boinking" and "walking the rope" are commonplace; they always offer to split gas; they brush holds on the way down; and they can throw out 50 meters of slack in thirty seconds flat. Now you have a different belationship for every day of the week, and life is good....

And out of sympathy for your flailing one day, an altruistic whisper peeps from their boca, "maybe you should........."

"Clipping! Clipping! Clipping! ARG! TAKE!!!!"

-bablingbroox

P.S. This post was almost called "Cut Me Some Slack."

Its more of a silver trim than a silver lining...

2010-05-06T10:43:00.004-05:00

Something to think about. As a somewhat morbid thought related to Tyler's post, I've been overly judicious lately concerning what song is playing on my iPod whenever I lock the doors to the Prius and participate in a (recently) very dangerous sport [read: don't use a cinch and don't trad climb... deal].

Findings:
I've come to the conclusion that any buzz ballad is worthy, "Hurt" by Radiohead covered by Johny Cash, the Braveheart theme song, and finally "Drop the World" by Lil Wayne ft. Eminem (sick).

Any of my four readers have any thoughts????

Der's chalk in dem hills!!!

2010-03-20T11:54:00.004-05:00

So, that last post was describing the feeling of being psyched, so to any of you non-poetic types out there, stop asking me if that was some kind of personal narrative-- nope, except for the genitalia part.

I'm sitting in my Prius at the Red at the moment, and I am trying to regenerate some skin/resting/studying pharmacology. Every time I make it up to the Red, I never want to leave. That's all for now. Hope everyone's SB10 is off the chain.

Funny thought: SNL old prospector with overalls and long mustache screams "there's chalk in them hills!" With his pick axe he starts pounding away at a rock face. [change scene] Holding up a giant piece of MgCO3 (chalk), he examines it through a monocle, stuffs it down his pants, looks around to make sure no one is watching and proceeds to run away......

Classic.

Peace,
bb

Psychling like Lance.

2010-03-13T08:12:00.007-06:00

Defining psyche, sike, sighk, syke, s-aye-k.

Permanent evil grin unsolicited;
lines begin to lag on the wall;
the future is napalm.
Everything ever done; every fork in the road; every choice made---
the right one.
hope.
Mania, quelled with a lethal amount of lithium.
laser blocking light saber reflexes.

Every song is THE song.
Every person is THE person.
Every curiously sloping knife blade crimp locked off to your thigh.
Exhale.
Reach.

Perma-smilin.
You joke. Connan O'brian is jealous.
Everyone-- laughing.
Infectious.
Everyone-- funny.

Realize, she is the best.
Still. Girls make eyes with you--
over two seconds.
Blushed, grinning.
Mirrors in the dirt.

Foreign faces and last names.

Obvious lines.

Shrinking problems.

Welcome to climbing.

SYKED [shift 1]

The New Deal... HP ROCKS! 2010

2010-03-09T06:11:00.009-06:00

THE COMMUNITY:

I have a dream. One day Prius drivers will mingle with mud busters, VW buses will mingle with BMW's, boulderers and sport climbers will bump fists, and more girls will want to climb outside. Gumbies and OG's will walk together, ignorant of the others status in our feudal climbing society, and psyche will not be reserved for v13's.
Lucky for us, HP has no v13's, our vehicles were hidden from sight, everyone was obviously here to boulder, and the OG's are becoming more political. Everyone was happy. The event was a fantastical success, and we raised enough money to buy out almost all of the seats in three screens of Avatar, so eat that James Cameron. Basically, the South has been becoming the best community of climbers in the world. We raise more money, give more stuff away, and have more numbers in our phones than anyone else on earth, and you can take that to the bank. Welcome to HP Rocks! climbing comp/music festival.

THE MUSIC:

The atmosphere at this event is so chill. All day, as you are climbing, good simple man music seems to be just around the corner...until Lenior Swinger's Club shows up. Anyone who was present at the 2009 Triple Crown Comp at Hound Ears knows what I'm talking about. Recall the band who's lead singer screamed into a vacuum cleaner for the better part of their performance? Well, they kicked off the night with a round of comical punk and 80's death-metal antics to shake up the crowd. Leanna Culp, a local Birmingham singer was a big hit during the day, taking the song "Scrub" and some Outkast hits and giving them the country twang they always needed. Following all this was Jesse Payne and then a follow up performance of last years Incredible Sandwich. Of course, Ben Henson, who became famous for rapping Snoop Dog and Eminem lyrics on stage at the aforementioned Hound Ear's comp, made his comeback debut with a new rendition of a classic Pearl Jam ballad and a remix to his last single, "Sharma Arms." We'll be hoping to see more of that guy in the future.

THE CLIMBING:

The humidity hovered around 40% all day, the pressure was up, and the temperature topped out at 58 degrees Fahrenheit with no clouds in sight to make for a great dry hands day on the stone at HP40, and yes I have a barometer/thermometer/hydrometer in my car. The format was upgraded to being endurance based, so a competitor could do as many problems as they could within their category. This is a great idea for future outdoor comp formats, so Triple Crown, please take note. For full results, go to http://horsepensrocks.blogspot.com/ (will be up soon). Brad Weaver, the overall men's points winner also has a rundown of his impressive tick list at his blog, b-weaver.blogspot.com-- inspiring to say the least. Another notable win was local strongman, Jeremy Watson's stonemaster scorecard of 125 problems. Youch!

THE BOOTY:

The prizes were off the chart this year with many competitors coming home with packages worth $300 or more. In other words, there were many crashpad/climbing shoe combos given away. BIG THANKS TO ALL THE SPONSORS FOR PUTTING SO MUCH GEAR UP FOR GRABS. These are the guys who supported the event, so buy their products until next event: The North Face, Five Ten, La Sportiva (finally), Evolv, Rock Pillar (new guys ponying up), Asana (crashpads galore), Black diamond, So Ill, VooDoo, Dolamite, and one of my favorites, Dead Point Magazine.

IF YOU LIVE IN BAMA AND YOU ARE A CLIMBER (and over 21), buy Good People products as they have been a recent generous sponsor of our events. Also Alabama Outdoors and Mountain High were probably one of the main components in the mega amount of prizes. Big thanks to them, and don't go buying "lightly" used ropes on Ebay when these guys are around the corner.

FINALE:

As I was cutting Tyler (Willcutt) Timberlake's pampered poodle curls on stage in front of 50 cheering folk, I thought, "man, now here is a guy that has his ducks in a row; here is the altruistic, philanthropic, selfless character of the new generation, and this guy really needs some color-- and maybe a Paul Mitchell protein rejuvenation treatment." In a state of "five sheets to the wind," he had stumbled around collecting money/votes for different haircuts to raise funds for the Alabama Bouldering Fund. As I inched closer to his scalp trying to mimic the "pubes" look that had been chosen by our generous climbing community, I couldn't help but notice that there was a new smell in the air (not that); it was the smell of new beginnings. This year, 2010, has brought the establishment of a new era in southeastern ideology-- progress. With the newly founded Alabama Bouldering Fund, the opening of First Ave Rocks in Birmingham, the publication of the HP bouldering guide, and the inauguration of a new SCC president, Paul Morley, we southern climbers have found a leadership to build around, and if HP Rocks! is any indication of the future of climbing in the South, then I'd say we're on the straight and narrows to good times.

The success of HP Rocks! taught me that we have a leadership that is going to move forward in 2010 and beyond to advance the climbing community into a collective that knows no bounds. In twenty years, we'll have accrued enough land to bail out AIG, get climbers a discount at participating Quiznos, and lobby congress into preserving all worthy rock below the Mason Dixon Line. So, with that being said, big thanks goes out to Adam Henry, Paul Morley, Joe Ortega, The Schultz family, and everyone else that these guys inspired to pitch in to make this event the success it was. Oh, and no pressure.

THE FUTURE:

We gonna buy us some land. Its not for hunting, fishing, dog fighting, or farming. We gonna just climb some rocks that God and Randomness placed on that private chunk of property that are just waitin for some scrubbin and lovin.

Holla,
bablingbroox

Stranger than Friction....

2010-03-02T11:28:00.004-06:00

So,

I just finished reading D Grahams's expose in the latest edition of DPM, and I have got to say that he has lost his mind. Is he even talking about climbing any more? He describes routes as if he's describing a Picasso made of worm holes in an upside down blender. With that being said, his excerpt of the "crusher" trip to Spain was the only one really worth reading, even if only every tenth word contained some substance, but hey, that's how DNA (introns/exons) works too, and it has been a pretty effective method of communication for a couple years... right? I'm such a nerd.

Anyways, this weekend is Sloperfest/HP Rocks, and I'm psyched about it (not the new name, but whatevs). I've gone to this event many-a-time, and its probably my favorite in terms of everything. There are usually no big names (other than me). Live bluegrassy music starts during the comp, which makes for a good vibe when you're climbing. The party continues throughout the night, and it is pretty intimate and relaxed, so bring you're party pants, and we'll celebrate the beginning of spring in style.

bablingbroox

http://horsepensrocks.blogspot.com/

I'm the kinda guy that laughs at a funeral...

2010-02-11T10:49:00.009-06:00

Yo,

I've been in psyche rotations at the hospital for a few weeks now, and I'm starting to feel like I may be going a bit crazy.... according to the book. Many of the more suicidal/depressed residents have this nihilistic Fight Club way of looking at the world that they take to an extreme. So all of them ultimately deny the afterlife, decide that life is meaningless/worthless, and try and call it quits. This prompts a family member to commit them to a "safer" place absent of "egocidal" thoughts. They're given drugs and propaganda that aid in finding truth in the after life, so that they may see some worth in the process of dealing with their problems and the human condition instead of unsuccessfully offing themselves at the first sign of trouble.

Why do I feel crazy? or more importantly, why do we all feel crazy? I feel crazy when I'm not doing something that has to do with climbing... and so does everyone else. We've all gots to be climbing something.

One of the therapists drew up this picture on the white board of this man alone on a deserted island with three boxes of his DOC (drug of choice) floating toward him. The scenario was: "You have ten days till doomsday; now give me five reasons not to use." I could not think of a single reason not to just get totally shmasted, with that being said, I could not think of my DOC either. What would I be schmasted on? I kept switching back and forth between a few good times that were possible but nothing stood out. Instead of black tar heroin and EtOH like everyone else in the room, my floating boxes were full of everything I had not done, which I won't define... and maybe some coffee. That's not important though. The reasons the people in the therapy session did not use were all related to judgment, rapture, and your basic run of the mill operant conditioning. Had the scenario been changed to 1. the world is not ending and 2. assume the non-existence of heaven and hell and 3. you have no family, I wonder why the participants would choose not to use (of course you can't ask these folk to imagine this scenario as they're ironically very religious and would be offended).

One of the more affluent addicts offered an answer that I thought was a good response to my hypothetical question. In his most southern of tones, he said, "I would stay sober so I could climb that tree." Yes, there was one lonely tree on the island the therapist had drawn, and for some inexplicable reason, it all the sudden had to be climbed. Why?

Exploration, curiosity, or risk seeking behavior? Who knows. Once we needed sobriety in order to climb to the top of that "damn" tree, it opened a whole world of possibilities. EtOH guy (that would be "alcohol guy" for you laymen) decided, "well, I'd stay sober so I could appreciate the sunrise and sunset, and breath clean air- smell the water." Everyone agreed. I agreed too, but I'm pretty sure I would have been schmasted face for the remainder my time... only if I were alone... on an island... with three boxes of everything I havn't done... chemically speaking I suppose.

"Self improvement is masturbation," Brad Pitt says on Fight Club. Well, that may be true, and so I like to masturbate then... as do most people... in one way or another.

Changing gears. How do we self improve? Really, how do we know we are for sure improving?

We have to quantify certain things, making mile markers, colored karate belts, college degrees... and oh yes: CLIMBING GRADES! [oh yeah, I'm going there]
I've never understood much of the animosity some of our most respected patrons of climbing have had towards grading climbs. "It shouldn't be about grades. It should be about soul, contact with nature, and yada, yada, yada." I agree with the latter two (minus the yada-ing), but what I don't understand is why grades can't be a part of the climbing experience. Just don't get your panties in a wad because you can't pull a two move V10 when you climb 15 move v10's all day. Can a biology major answer all your questions about biology? Can a feather weight black belt beat the shite out of a husky anybody? No, or not every time at least. And everyone knows this and understands this, so to all you non-sprayers a.k.a. suckers (its the opposite of spraying), gimme a break. As a caveat to this point, any ego spraying is downright egregious, and those kids should be taught a lesson on humility.

I like to keep track of my improvements, and I like to see that my effort is going somewhere, and I'll log my accomplishments (or lack there of) on 8a.nu all day. Let me be. I (we spray.spewers) don't need all this judgment. [In light of recent events, if the area is closed or has access issues... don't log it under it's common name... ]

Improving is extremely rewarding, and its an addiction onto itself. Grades make improving easier to recognize in climbing, so stop biatching about grades.

bablingbroox

Knights in Bishop... Check Mate.

2010-01-25T10:27:00.004-06:00

You will never notice how many senses you have until you think about how to put your life into words.

Shadow, a dirtbag in the climber sense with blue flames for eyebrows, informed me that it was natural sage that I could smell as we approached the Happy's in Bishop. California had just seen it's first big snow in some time, and I was told that the foot of snow on the ground and covering the boulders was not typical for the shadow (no pun intended) of the Sierra Nevada's. Still, we were the only people in the area, and I was psyched to have a new place to explore: a somnolence that would soon change as the sun made its presence felt over the coming days.

The rock is volcanic, pockety, crimpy, and pinchy. This sums up the Happys. As the snow melted, the area became a hodgepodge of Cali's strange brew of characters that live in the area. Leading the pack is a man named Steven J. (crusher) and like many crushers, he happily walks the line betwixt psyched and losing it, but these guys are always fun when wrestling pebbles. After he warmed up on three V10's (which were wet), he coaxed us into working goldfish trombone, a V14 he had done ten years ago, but he "just wanted to see where he was at". The climb has v8/9 moves separating a v12 roof crux. It's hard. SJ almost cruised it off the couch and sighing with each failed attempt, he would look straight at me and say, "at least we're getting stronger right?" He also had a growl that seemed like a climbing trump card, but it was reserved for one move per attempt. I'm convinced if I could yell the entire time I'm on a problem, all sends are within reach... or injury.

The Buttermilks: HARD. I was warned by a visitor during the Triple Crown LRC comp that the Buttermilks take patience and can be brutal on the reach impaired (stumps). "My friend D. Woods can't do half the 14's out there". I suppose that's saying something. The rock is quartz monozite, an extremely gritty, almost conglomerate like stone with slick feet, high topouts, and beautiful scenery. 90% of the problems are 4/5 stars: BRILLIANT! as my British friend Ted would say. He crushed. "Just like the grit!" he would yell, "minus the rain, and moss, and bolts." That day, which was to be our last day in Bishop, was Ted's long awaited rest day. Alas, it was not his day to sit idly by and watch us southerners roller skating off "obviously gigantic feet". He destroyed all that he touched, ticking Stained Glass (v10) within three goes along with numerous other double digit sends.

The Pit is a pit. When we arrived, I moved a picnic table over to occupy the only spot on the site that didn't have a foot of snow on the ground. 19 degrees the first night was bitter. The rest of the days were a bit more balmy at 25-30 degrees. Needless to say, we went without showers for much of the trip, albeit we did splurge $8 to visit the hot springs, which I strongly recommend. The highly mineralized hyper-tonic 108 degree water circulating throughout the spring made my skin look as if I had escaped from a leper colony, but I don't think I've felt so rejuvenated in my life.... so refreshing.

Go to Schaat's Bakery! You will not regret it. I allowed myself to be at risk for developing type II diabetes in order to enjoy all that this shop had to offer.

Coffee shops are everywhere. The Looney Bean has free, slow internet with good coffee drinks. As a professional barrista, I'm a connoisseur of sorts in coffee making enterprises so trust me.

As I don't feel like writing an autobiography at this point in my life, I'll leave the story the way it is.

What I learned: I could live in Bishop with the crazies. I love using British adjectives. The Buttermilks are ridiculously good. The prius is quite competent on the snow.

I'm out snitches,
Brooks

Undah Pressure! ---- eh.

2009-11-30T15:12:00.006-06:00

"Ahm aboot to sit on dat coach ovar dehr... ehhh." I yammered in my best Canadian accent. My new friends chuckled politely as though they'd never been the butt of an American joke such as this one-- a friendly people. I have climbed with Canadians before on singular occasions at Horse Pens, and I always liked them... whatever, but I had never spent more than a day getting to know any of our northern neighbors.

[Before I go on: They probably will have the exact opposite description of southerners as I'm 100% sure that we touched on every stereotype that has ever existed for anyone lucky enough to call The South their home. Anyways...]

In the twilight of the Wednesday when we arrived at Lago Linda's campground, Nat and I strolled up to the pavilion billowing with the confidence of two faceless climbers that no one has ever heard of, and we greet everyone accordingly. Blurry faces, as I do a once over for Sharma (Chris) and introduce myself for those who didn't know... haha.

There's a guy named Nick sitting peacefully in the corner of the pavilion playing with his dog, Loki (angel of death???) who's long black hair looks strikingly similar in color and texture to his owner's. He's a house painter from Canada with some gnarly looking tattoos on his back and upper arms. Tyler described them as "death metal" tats. We all agreed that "house painting" was a cover up for Nick's real operations of hired assassin and/or werewolf. I think it was the coolness that seemed to come naturally to him, like that cousin we all have that we all looked up to for whatever reason. He's en route to Spain for New Years which sounds like a blast.

Cooking in the middle of the pavilion was a younger girl named Vicky, a stout climber from Canada who drove with her friends (44hrs) to the Red for a 6+ week stay... I must say that she seemed like the least stressed person I've ever met, and I've met some pretty low stress folks in my day. She had a red candle lit while she chopped up her fresh vegetables and boiled water for tea. This image led to a rather long skit Tyler and I devised involving her cooking in her little efficiency apartment with her candles lit, eyes closed, swinging her long brown braided "hippy" hair, all the while cranking out some late 80's Micheal Jackson tunes. We couldn't be too far off... hehe.

We had the pleasure of meeting a couple from Fort Collins, Co, who was traveling the country and climbing with their little three and a half year old girl Ella.

"I'm toh told (I'm so cold)" she would always say, and she was absolutely one of the most precious little kids I've ever had the pleasure of meeting.

"Where did you climb today?" we would ask her.

"The Maja Load and I crushed and sended it!" as she scooted around on her little bicycle wearing the helmet that never seemed to come off. In the mornings, she would get a bowl of yogurt and set her little chair up in the sun in the grass past the pavilion and just enjoy eating her breakfast in the heat on a 45 degree morning. The family seemed to be doing things right I thought to myself. John, the father, a civil engineer, was just working on the road while they rented their Colorado abode out for the winter. The only deadline they seemed to have (I assumed) was Ella's pre-school starting in six months. On Thanksgiving night, Ella's mother cooked everyone a huge feast, and I felt lucky to be a part of such a good crew on that night.

Thanksgiving could not have been more special this year. Even though we were spending it away from the family, the people we met were good natured, respectable, and knew how to have a good time. Note: Canadians are more psyched aboot Thanksgiving than us Americans, and they love cranberry sauce... love it.

The climbing was top notch. The weather was soooo good this time around. On our last trip, it rained every day; this trip, we had a slight sprinkle on Thursday night, and that gave everyone who had been on for nine days an excuse to take a rest day on Friday. Rewind a bit. Tyler, Nat, and I went to the Solarium in Muir Valley on Thursday and dispatched four good twelves. The next day (everyone's rest day), Nat and I went back for her to try Manifest destiny, which she cruised but ended up pumping out clipping the anchors, a reoccurring malady as of late. I did some pretty good pockety 12d to the right of it on my second go. It turned out to be a good day, despite the 16lbs of extra turkey weight we were carrying around with us.

As my tips were wearing thin, the next day entailed a late start and a visit to the mother load. Its a vast amphitheater of 12's, 13's, and 14's sport routs: ultra steep and ultra pumpy. There's classic stuff to the left and right of Madness cave too. I didn't send a damn thing. Tyler cruised heart shaped box as a warm up (12c and a really good route), then he dispatched golden touch second go with some good match, undercling, reach, and fire beta.... good work. Regan, another one of the Canadia crew/strong climber cruised Stained (12c) which looked like a super good line. Oh, and Todd had a good day. He sent a bunch of stuff that I can't remember, but he's definitely stronger than I remember. Seems like yesterday, we left him at Linda's at the mercy of the wolves.... He's just grown up sooo much; so brave; so strong. Love you Todd.

Todd, a climber from Huntsvegas, has a good situation up at the Red. He has commandeered Tyler's old job as "cabin boy", and his job description seems to include making pancakes and starting massive bonfires with diesel fuel...... So, Saturday night, Todd started this massive bonfire, which we all sat around for hours. It was the last Saturday for most people at the Red as Thanksgiving marks the end of the season there-- pretty much. We passed around Todd's PBR's and my vodka, while Vick sipped her tea and strummed her guitar. Note: I saw the biggest shooting star ever, and no one else saw it with me, so that sux.

Four hours later, I woke up naked in a mud puddle with no recollection of how I got there.... joking.

The night died down as everyone was zapped from a good day of climbing hard routes, and we all passed out....

Left flank ensued on Sunday. Nat sent Wild yet Tasty (12a). I did Mercy the Huff (12b). Tyler had a heart breaking fall on Table of Colors (13a) after finding some dank beta... bummer. Hey man, the rock will always be there. [I hate when people say that].

With lots of prayer, we managed to shove everything into the prius, and after a terrible amount of TG traffic, we made it back to the Ham in one piece.

Chatt next weekend.

Then Bishop.

What I learned: I love Canadians. I love the Red. I love routes.

Till next post.

Brooks

Live by the code, die by the code...

2009-11-05T17:57:00.004-06:00

I was perusing B3bouldering the other day, and I came across an article that proposed establishing "standard problems" for each grade. In other words, if you truly level up and do all the standards problems, no one could argue with you. You've done the standards.

This got me thinking.

Allegory 1: Climbing and karate. Should climbing have belts? If I've done three v9's, am I a 3rd degree brown belt? Black belt would be v10, and any upgrade (I use the term "upgrade" in jest) would just be a degree on the black belt. We have masters, dojos, and enemies. We have different areas that enhance different styles... think Brazilian jujitsu, American boxing, Korean taekwando= french, thug, and techy... respectively. I could almost go on forever with this...

Samurais and secret codes of discipline and respect.

Its definitely something to think about, as our futures may be similar. Samurais are extinct.

Alegory 2: Climbing and study. Should climbing have school degrees? Problems are tests of ability and competence on the rock. Paper exams are tests of ability and competence in a classical school subject. Is Sharma a double Phd in bouldering and sport climbing kinestesia while doing research in DWS. Weird huh? because that sounds legit.... If you are standard 12a, is that like getting your HS diploma, likewise 13a, college degree, and 14a Phd, 15a, a pioneer... or something like that.

This is another future course for climbing to take. I could elaborate but I'm not. Its just something to think about.

Allegory 3: Climbing and Star Wars. Masters and apprentices. Unreal strength. "some people just have more of it: metachlorians... or whatever that stuff is". The dark side: gym rats, comp climbing and 8a (seems like it makes you stronger faster, but at what cost). The light side: outside climbing, soul climbing and anything Sharma does. Standards: Apprentice, Jedi, and Jedi Masters. B1, B2, B3. Oh, and how could I forget "light sabers", green(good) vs red(bad), five-ten vs La Sportiva.

WOW.
WOW.
WOW.

And what is climbing now currently? before a perfected establishment of grades? Is it anarchy? Are we going to have floor routines, height/weight classes, and a centralizing of climbing culture? Belts, fellowships, and councils?

I hope not.

Yoda says in his little Yoda voice, "fear leads to envy, envy leads to hate, and hate leads to the dark side!"

whew,
bablingbroox out.

King of the beasts....

2009-11-05T14:55:00.003-06:00

Let me pose this question to you blog. Its a question I think of often when I make decisions about my life.

"Is it better to rule in Hell or to serve in Heaven?"

I don't particularly sway one way or the other all the time. It just depends on the topic. Am I going to be a team player and collectively hold more weight while sacrificing some of my own strength? or am I going to go all Benjamin Franklin on this beast and live to the beat of my own drum, accelerate like a classic American sports car and risk leading alone with no textbook to guide my path? Decisions... decisions...

Democrat/Republican?

yada, yada, yada.

How can anyone just side with one philosophy and wholeheartedly defend it no matter what? Sometimes you're a ruler and sometimes you're a server... well, I am at least.

This upcoming weekend is the HP leg of the Triple Crown Competition, and I will be competing in advanced. I'm going to say this another way: This weekend, I will be ruling in Hell. My score card will be a thought out compilation of problems that I added up in hopes of skimming the surface of the advanced category, while avoiding the ever present and dreaded "bump team". I am sandbagging this year, but I don't care. It's been my goal to compete well in this comp at this level all year, and just because I improved a bit faster than expected doesn't mean I'm going to retire myself to being crushed in the open category (a.k.a. serving in Heaven).

Either way, I really don't care anymore about the results of this weekend's competition. I just had to get that confession off my chest.

[switch to ebonic vernacular with afro-centric white tee spinning like a helicopter above my head]

!!!~!I'm psyched on some routes that I never thought I would be strong enough to do!!!... MAN SHOW!! WUT? WHERE YOU AT?! YA HEARD?! WOOF, WOOF, WOOF.... [HOWL].

bligaty blaow,
bablingbroox

Glenn Beck: A Climber?

2009-10-27T13:11:00.005-05:00

A Glenn Beckian view on soloing...

In lieu of recent events, namely Max Zolothukin's 10 foot fall with a sketch landing, "free-soloing" has made more of a blip on the dangerous radar. I've read the literature surrounding this event and the potential for other ominous events, and you know what I've found that they all have in common.... NEGATIVITY!! "Oh free-soloing is bad! Its selfish! Dangerous! Unnecessary!" yada... yada... yada. So, with this in mind I've decided to focus on the positive aspects of free soloing, in part: ITS CHEAP! Think about it.

Rope: $200
Draws: $200
Trad gear: $1,000,000 or so...
etc....

Soloing: You need shoes and some dry soil, preferably MgCO3.

Imagine how much money we could save if we just free solo everything. (I wonder if Alex Honnold has a rope sponsor? If he does, then he shouldn't.. just sayin.) What is it, free-soloing?
It is climbing to a dangerous height with the absence of any protective aid, minus divine intervention (in my case). With rope being the most replaced item in a sport/trad climber's arsenal, it is obvious where all the animosity towards soloing is coming from.... that's right: Mammut, Beal, Sterling, Metolious, and others. They're on the offensive. Safety? hah. Recklessness? hah. Selfishness? bleh! I spit on this [in a French accent].

Follow the money.

bablingbroox

P.S.
check this out plus comments .. good stuff.
http://gheverly.blogspot.com/2009/10/ayn-rand-was-fucking-dumb.html

Tiger Woods... a climber???

2009-10-15T17:50:00.002-05:00

So, I'm sitting here in my humble coffee hut listening to NPR inundate me with praise about Where The Wild Things Are movie coming out tomorrow, and I had a strange comment strewn my way.

I'm making a pumpkin spice latte with the little window open, so the customer can see me (tips go up when they can see you working hard to make a perfect 16oz cup a joe), and in the thickest English accent, my female customer says, "my, you have the biggest forearms I've ever seen on such a young lad! Do you play golf" She seemed genuinely impressed by the WWII diesel subs I have hanging below my elbows (haha).

Anyways, before I responded I thought to myself, "I like complements from British folk" and then I thought, "do golfers have big forearms?"

So I says to her, "why no maam, I don't play golf, I climb rocks." I hate explaining climbing, so I didn't try. When she looked at me confused, I just gave her the answer she was looking for, "I can drive a ball 400 yards on a windy day".
"I bet you control the club well too." she replied.
"Sure do." I have never swung a golf club in my life. Furthermore, I wasn't sure if this lady was flirting with me or really enthusiastic about golfer's forearms, but it made me think. Oh, before I go on, that was the end of the conversation, and she smiled at me as she drove off.

So here I am in my coffee hut thinking: do golf players have big forearms? Did I miss my calling? Is golf good training for climbing? or visa versa? Is LRC about to be like a golfer's paradise??? and Hound Ears??? And why are so many boulder fields located on golf courses anyhow???

bablingbroox

Still waters run deep... five nines plus fo pennies.. put it in the air!

2009-10-15T14:31:00.005-05:00

First: I feel like the best climbers never truly onsight anything. They understand the exact position of their fingers and toes in relation to their eyes and core. They understand that the core bends, extends, sinks, sags, wags, and swims. Its a flow of movement from one positive position to the next, and its what so many physically strong climbers fail to master.

Assess, formulate, execute. (without looking like you're trying... its good form)

Second: I've been skipping around some blogs lately, and I've noticed that there's been a whole bunch of introspection into the mental game of climbing. Everyone seems to be less interested in achieving the 24lb bicep, and instead becoming much more keen on honing in on movement and flow.... including me.

I was on a "one arm pullup" kick for about two weeks, and I realized something lately: I need balance. BALANCE, BALANCE, BALANCE.

I've been juggling a piss load of activities lately... The tumultuous schedule of nursing, working, and gym ratting(due to rain) has left me with a good five hours of sleep per night.

Two A: Life is all about balance. I don't want too know too much or too little. Don't be too rich or too poor. I don't want too much power, nor be a slave. The g'ment needs to protect my person without seizing my natural rights. The process of disease is solely based on the fact that homeostasis is compromised, and your body is trying to compensate. We're all on a sliding scale. Everything is subjective. Move your bar. Balance it out.

Two B: Balance in climbing however??? not so much. Sure, my endurance is up; I have gymnastic power; I can heel hook well... but these are all physicalities that are soooo superficial in climbing. I don't know my body. I don't understand its reach or its limits. AND I'm constantly surprised at some of the moves that I do.
These are things that I do not have in common with the BA'sses. They never seem impressed or surprised at a physical achievement, be it a 14d or a one armed, one fingered pullup, whereas me, even if I don't show it, I'm proud, as I never envisioned myself doing physical things that another human couldn't do. (I've historically been a small feller in my circle of friends.)

Back to the point: When it comes to reading a problem, some guys can just see exactly how their body will move to be successful. Its never really a finger issue, or strength issue. They look past that. You know when Patch Adams holds four fingers up, and he says, "how many fingers am I holding up?" And the girl is like, "four". "No, look past the fingers" he says. So she does, and she sees eight fingers...
This is what I'm talking about. Climbing needs to be challengingly obvious in that this peon needs to look past the physical realm, and go third eye helicopter view on this beast.

Then again, in the South, we're all thugs, and Frenchies are gay... wut wut... BAWSE!
(I'm sooo not a thug... just can't pull off the hoodie... smell what I'm steppin in?)

I'm starting to sound like Dave Grahm.... not good.

bablingbroox

Put this in your pipe and smoke it ya hooligan!

2009-10-08T16:13:00.008-05:00

HOUND EARS 09

First of all, I have no idea why Hound Ears is called Hound Ears.

HP40? They have horses... and forty something militia men waiting to take the White House if Obama tries to take away the right to bear arms (climbers have bear arms).

LRC/Stone Fort? Self explanatory, but they should call it "Stone Castle", because I'm sick of not knowing what to call it. A city plus a fort equals a castle... duh, so "STONE CASTLE" it is... no more of this LRC or Stone Fort BS.

The etiology of the name Hound Ears is much more difficult to pinpoint. It was most likely the only one of the three named by a climber, as the name has nothing to do with the place, and I don't think Native Americans raised hound dogs. In any case I like it... Its like the Hamunaptra(Egyption city of the dead) climbing destination of the US. Its guarded year round by the undead golf course gait keepers; its only open once a year when certain celestial objects align (Chad and Jim); and its surrounded by a Kingdom of uninhabited expensive real estate. Hound Ears might as well be centered in the Nile's delta.

Before I go on, I wonder how hard Chris Sharma could climb if he used La Sportivas... hmmmm.
[SIDE NOTE: I'm sooooo submitting this to La Sportiva.]

For the first time in a couple years, homecoming for Appalachian State and the local high school was not going on the same weekend as the competition. That was a plus.

The weather was good... another plus.

The competition was stacked... ehhh, I'll give that a plus.

The entertainment was off the chain.

The night following the hard day of bouldering was as puzzling as the name Hound Ears. Where's the "TRIPLE CROWN!" guy?! Who is this band?! How are these white people spitting mad rhymes? Needless to say, I was vexed.

Due to the fact that I have not done my research, I'm going to speculate on some things.

I know for sure that the "TRIPLE CROWN!" guy was having bilateral knee surgery... ouch, and therefore we were left without the infamous triple crown techno junkie music we've become so accustomed to.
In place of the techno though was a band that seemed to practice mostly via Guitar Hero. The case is still out on whether or not they were meant to be received comically or musically.... either way, they were hilarious. The lead singer's microphone kept muting, and he just kept singing, which was pretty impressive. He then proceeded to throw the defective microphone across the stage. The next logical step was to scream into the vacuum cleaner that was mysteriously placed in front of the band (another Hound Ears mystery). To top off his performance, he started hitting himself in the head with a filled chalk pot. Chalk was stuck to his face and flying everywhere! It was classic, and I would not have missed this performance for a pair of Five-Ten shoes... maybe La Sportiva's though. [side note: suckin Satin's pecker]

The performance did not end though. An Alabama boy got up on stage at the encouragement of his friends and took the house down with his vast knowledge of Eminem and Snoop Dogg lyrics. This was followed by the Mastodon man, Lee Means's (another Bama boy) free style which was siiick (draw the "i" out). While we're on Bama boys, I heard one of those hooligans broke the second hold on Fuc Yo. Alabama is also the number two state in terms of percentage of residents with obesity... just the facts. Its science.

So that covers the highlights. I might write more or I might just wait till HP to continue this post..

Peace blog,
bablingbroox

More to come.

Haterade...

2009-10-05T14:25:00.000-05:00

busy week... need to breathe... will write soon.

Bucket List

2009-09-24T14:13:00.000-05:00

1. See Lava
2. To be announced
3.
4.
5.

Here's a thoughtful blog...

2009-09-24T13:43:00.002-05:00

www.klimb.com

two good articles I found on gravsports blogspot

2009-09-24T09:59:00.001-05:00

The Power of Youth

I've been paddling and climbing more than normally with youth of late. I've also been watching videos, reading blogs, and somehow "exposed" to a lot more youth than normal (not counting the two-year old that normally terrorizes my house).

And you know what? I like 'em, especially in contrast to some of my generation. My generation was too dark, too pissy, too steeped in nonsensical holdover Victorian ideals, and over-read in Nietzsche and Sartre (plus a few others). I'm going to write more on this 'cause I think it's time to take a hard look at the dark motivations of so many climbers and paddlers in my generation.

I'm going to give one example to illustrate the point: When we ran class V back in the 80s we ran the drop once, and called it done. We would never have enough to run it again, why bother? We had survived, we had triumphed, we had overcome our fears, and running it again would mean maybe it wasn't so bad-ass. Kids today? They run laps on class hard V drops just for grins. They set good safety that might actually do something, and they take the drops seriously, but they go up and run stuff again and again. Because it's fun. And that is the difference between light and dark, running out of fear and running for the joy of paddling moving water. Cool, the kids are better than alright, they're inspiring the hell out of me.

Ah, one more example. My generation starved ourselves to climb hard. Today's kids smoke (not all, and not Nicotine), eat organic burgers, drink microbrews and send way harder than we ever did. Who do you think is having more fun? Yeah, I'm going to bet Sharma has had a hell of a lot more fun than Karn (no disrespect to Jim--I modeled a large amount of my early climbing life off of him, surely the greatest compliment one can give, and still think of his climbing regularly).

Now I gotta go train, 'cause I'm not a kid, and 'cause I like it. Hell, I'm going to do an extra set just for the sheer joy of it. Bring it. The lightness of youth.

Three Rules for Tough Trips

We've all been on outdoor trips where the whole situation gets a bit sideways, or at least requires operating at a high output level for longer than is comfortable. Here are three rules for these kinds of trips:

1. Move the team forward. If you're sitting on your ass or standing around blankly you're doing something wrong. Figure out what will keep the team and yourself moving forward, even if a very small amount, and do it. Multiple one to ten minute slow-downs add up to hours and days very rapidly when on a long climb or trip.

2. See and accept the situation as it is. Improve it. If it's really bad think of Shackleton. See, not so bad.

3. You can complain, but it's gotta be funny or it's just whining.

I remember reading a story years ago about a friend, Barry Blanchard, suffering on a climbing trip where he wasn't up to the climbing standard. He cooked more, dug more caves, stacked ropes, did whatever he possibly could to move the group forward. That story stuck in my mind as a standard to try and follow--Barry is normally one of the best alpine climbers going, but on that trip he wasn't. He was still a very valuable part of the team. My best climbing and adventure partnerships have all broadly followed the three "rules" above. A fourth rule is that sometimes you can't live up to the first three; try and do better when you can.

The previous post would totally win the Reel Rock Film for funniness..

2009-09-19T13:49:00.002-05:00

I'm going to start writing again....

2009-09-19T12:58:00.002-05:00

Yello blog! (caution: much espresso + sugar has been consumed; potential for tangential segways of irrelevance)

So, I've been feeling Noah's pain lately. The rain won't stop. I haven't climbed outside in a biblical millinea, and it's eating at my soul... oh well, so I'm back writing to read myself think... hmmm....

WRITING TO READ MYSELF THINK (I could probly publish that under Mark Twain)

Climbing, nursing, a bit of work.... that's what I've been up to, and its keeping me busy, but I don't even want to hear about any of that.

Fast forward to the funny stuff.

1. A good way to stay awake on 30 minute drives to clinicals at 5am is to map out funny climbing movies. This works anytime. If I had a nickel for every night I've stared at my ceiling because the idea machine wouldn't take a sojourn, I would have close to twenty dollars. Back to the story: I was thinking of an episode at the Concave when the Blake Rast was hanging all over one of the climbs there; he was "in direct" as we say in the biz, and he made a move, "SLACK! SLACK! SLACK!" he yelled, as he tried to pull off a slight crimp and of course he was in direct, so this made for a comical scene. Blake was furious at his belayer (can't recall who), and he was spitting nails until he noticed the draw on his crotch was intimately tethered to the effing rock... he laughed and that was that. So I was thinking of this the other day, and I came up with a hillarious spoof of this scenario:

A. Time Child (Tommy Caldwell)... TC
B. As a neonate (that a newborn)
C. Climbing out of the womb of his mother
D$. While pulling on his umbiblical cord, he's screaming at the top of his lungs "SLACK! SLACK! SLACK!"
E. hahahahahahahah

2. Next scene: Time child going for the big dynamic move on a route quietly asks his belayer to pay out some rope. So, the belayer pays out what looks to be a good bit of slack... looks around... everyone nods and agrees that the amount of rope looks sufficient for the move on the sharp end.
"Okay! you're good to go!" the belayer says confidently.
Then, Time Child starts to launch, but ALAS! he was not gunning for the assumed hold, he was going for the jug at the anchors... 30ft away!
The belayer frantically tries to pay out slack, but to no avail, THE GRIGRI IS LOCKED UP!
(Imagine this)$ Instead of TC being short roped by his unexpecting belayer, he just keeps flying through the air. He has so much power on this throw that he lifts/yanks the belayer to the first bolt (think: Space Jam, Micheal Jordan's slam dunk at the end).
Now screaming as he catches the hold, he matches and does a pullup effectively ripping the first bolt out of the wall and pulling his dangling belayer to the second bolt. He clips the shuts; his belayer lowers, and all is well..... but that was a close one.
He never wanted to experience being birthed again.... as it was the only time he'd ever shed a tear.

Thanks Blake for the inspiration for this piece...

Off work and to the gym... might write more later.
Peace blog,
bablingbroox

I'm posting this because I don't want to lose it, and I could use it (I'm a rhyming machine!)

2009-09-19T12:54:00.002-05:00

For us only children that get bored easily..... girly stuff to do.

-Back massage
-Play Ive Never (if you cant think of anything just say stuff you have done, your sure for a laugh)
-Make up a dance, try to recreate one from online
-Play make believe again like when you were little, (be a news reporter and film it..its probley more useful then the 9 oclock news anyways)
-People watch (this can be done solo...tends to be more fun with a friend)
-Sing
-Do art ( put on some jams and use what you have...dont stop til you fill the entire page)-Play in a water hose
-Dress up (go to a store and dont buy anything, just play)-Staring Contest
-Thumb War-Teach a little kid something (appropriate LOL...like what Multiplication really means or how to tell time)
-Arm Wrestle-Build a Fire-Wrestle in General
-Plan a Party (raise money and raise hell)-Play a Sport (got a frisbe? football? soccor?)
-Play a Prank (try not to get a ticket)Solo?
-Watch How I met your mother online for free http://www.diziport.com/ (its got weird subtitles, but hey its free) They have plenty of other shows-take your pics and make a tribute video to a special day, friend, bday use windows movie maker (its already on your computer)
-take care of a kid for free, they liven the spirit and bring a little enthusiam if your lacking some..plus good karma from the parent that is in need of a break-
-do art ( put on some jams and use what you have...dont stop til you fill the entire page)-count your blessing, literally-try something new with your hair-read my blog bahaha-watch old eddie murphy stand up on youtube (raw)
-take a bubble bath-see how long you can be present (no thoughts)
-write down your favorite day from start to finish-write down a story you want to share with your future kids about who you are
-write down your love story
-Try to get in contact with someone that has your dream job
-Take a walk and photograph strangers-Make friends with a bartender...they are pretty friendly..wait thats not free ... ahh you get the idea

SOOOOOO BUSY WITH SCOOL!!!

2009-08-26T18:03:00.001-05:00

Super busy..

If you want an education that's worth more than you paid for, go to UAB for nursing school.... JFC! they stack your mind..

bablingbroox

Gumby Wordsworth

2009-08-20T16:43:00.003-05:00

Cocked, locked, and ready to rock with the need for speed,
to feed the demons that are biting at me,
at the head, the neck, the shoulders and knees.
So Please excuse me,
when I say,
that the only way to put my mind at ease,
is to treat this disease,
with a toxic concoction of pain and humility,
and I'll do a good deed and bury my greed,
encouraging a kid who's no more than a seed.
Gimme a break; I'll crush the impossibility,
with a gleam in my eye and a smirk on my chin.
Just gimme that chance to unleash the beast that's within,
that has no limits.
And fuels the psyche that has no gimmicks.
Finish him.
Finish me.
Finish it.
He is Finnish.
Finished.
Flashed, flapped, and flabbergasted.
Wrought with a hyper inflated ego to dominate the "lates and greats",
with no need to imitate,
but to exacerbate at a rate that will eventually communicate,
the good cop, bad cop, branium, insanium, controlling influence
that we seek to eradicate.

To each his own,
and to own his each,
trying to teach and preach to a leach,
who's only wanting to breach,
the intercranium so he can see how he eats,
and walks, balks, curses, and speaks.
Sorry, but eff that.

It would be such a tragedy,
that you could get mad at me,
purely out of envy,
that I can be me, the way I am,
outside of your society,
that lies to me,
and treats me inferiorly.
So let me be,
to never be a deity and have anyone worship me,
climbing freely,
to the beat of my own drum,

ho hum,
to the haters that knock or chop
the competent work of a bolt and a gun.
Spun out,
and strung out,
on all the flying done,
to keep big heads in the clouds,
looking down,
on all of the ones having fun,
being a dumb, climbing bum,
always weary of the setting sun.
But the day has just begun,
so no worries.
There's time for stories,
free from the juries,
of haters and inflaters,
who get off to seeing someone flail, bail, and never exhale,
and to no avail,
this is nobody's trail,
Soon, projects will be for sale.
And its a lame shame,
that so much pride is in a name,
a search for fame,
which is not the same,
as the game I play,
................................
so climb on that.

HILLARIOUS !!!!!!!

2009-08-19T16:33:00.002-05:00

BLOG!!

Check out pimpinandcrimpin.com, and go to the article about "Time Child" aka Tommy Caldwell. Don't forget to read all the comments. I'm sitting here at the DRIP laughing my arse off, and my customers think I'm crazy. Seriously, go read it now.

Nursing school is busy, but I think I'll manage.

Climbing is always in the back of my head... feeling strong, but my right middle finger tweakyness still increases whenever I climb hard on it.... SOB! I wish that would go away!

I was surprised today to see that Jimmy Webb signed up for the Triple Crown.

PEACE BISHES,
bablingbroox

New doo...

2009-08-15T15:46:00.002-05:00

Yo blog,

I'm on a new philosophy for climbing..... one day on/one day off... except for weekends. I was reading Carlo Traversi's blog post on DPM, and I'm pretty sure he's suffered the same finger mess as me, plus he has the same lack of discipline for staying clear of pulling on anything when injured. NO MORE. Climbing is addictive. So, in lieu of this observation, my days off will be spent running (or some kind of cardio). GOAL: half marathon (13 miles) by 2010. I suck at running, so this is a good challenge for me.

Well, I'm 23 now. Its the age Coolio was when he wrote Gangsta's Paradise. "I'm 23 now, but will I live to see 24; the way things is goin, I don't know!"..... Psyched about that.

Nursing school starts in two days. Psyched about that. I think I might have Fridays off, which would be freakin awesome.

Anyways blog, I'll stop boring you now.

Later,
bablingbroox

The Future....

2009-08-10T12:18:00.003-05:00

This blog originally started out as a summer project, and now that the summer is coming to an end, I don't feel as though my work is finished. This is more of a journal anyhow, and I was never writing for an audience (excluding myself). Point: I'll keep on blogging. Summer blogs are boring anyways.... I mean, seriously, the Southern climbing season hasn't even started yet. Plus, I'll be busy with nursing school, serving coffee, and smuggling freed hops out of bars and into my belly.... underground railroad style.

Blog Future:

1. Rant about route names...
2. TICK LIST FOR THE FALL!!!!
3. I broke my C2, so I can put that story down.
4. OF course, climbing updates.

More to come,
bablingbroox

Say no to JUGS.....

2009-08-06T15:28:00.002-05:00

Yello blog,

Kentucky was a blast, and I've been putting off posting about it for whatever lazy reason I can think of, and I'm still not sure if I can make a post giving any kind of justice to the good times we had at the Red.......................... but I'll try.

Weather:
Hurricane force winds + torrential rain on no less than two nights with at least some rain every day. Magically, the rock stayed dry, and we were able to send most things we touched. The temps were LOW, as in we regretted not having sleeping bags at night.... 50's/night; 70's/day.

Abode:
We camped out under a tin roof at Lago Linda's campground, which was hella nice, because my tent would have been blown around like a seven year old at Neverland Ranch. We had power too. Even better, we had good company, minus one run-in with a frustrated father. Apparently screaming "treasure trove of dicks!" keeps children up at night..... who knew? The tally for alcohol consumption was pretty heroic at 7 bottles of wine, 2 fifths of Jim and Jack, countless beers, and a fifth of vodka with blue martini mix. That being said..............

MOST NIGHTS WERE BLACKOUT EPISODES WHERE WE WOKE UP IN THE MIDDLE OF FIELDS WITH NOTHING ON BUT A SMILE........

but not really. Like I said. CRAZY STORMS ON MOST NIGHTS, which ended most nights a bit early, as the tin roof was louder than the numerous exploding meth labs that Kentucky is so famous for.... a.k.a. its difficult to talk when you can't hear anyone, plus we climbed a shite ton, and we were pretty tired every night.

FOOD:
Tyler and I put quite a dent in Kentucky's chicken production, as we ate like 20lbs between us..... plus pasta.... That was most dinners. PBJbanana-marshmellow sandwiches for lunch, and a wine/beer/bourbon/vodka martini spritzer for cocktails. I lost five pounds... so I'm back down to 125. FML.
The girls mostly ate brockley and tuna. YUCK!!!
Miguels is super fire.... go there for pizza.
Ale8one is very good.... who knew?

Climbing:
Tyler flashed almost every 12 he got on... impressive.
I did my first 13... triple sec.... yeahh!
Nat started leading and almost sending 12's.... In one week, she went from only TRing 10's to taking 20ft whippers on steep 12s..... "a whole new beast"
When Rachel wasn't tracking down lost shoes or phones, she was working some 12s and crushing as well.... go her.

The good stuff:
Tyler walks with the strength of a hundred men and has blood dripping from his canine.... like a fountain pen. (Blade Trinity Soundtrack)

I busted a cap on the vodka bottle and destroyed two bottles of wine in the process... ARG!! (literally the worst thing that happened on the trip)

Some of our new compadres showed us a new bar trick: Try to pick up a beer bottle from the bottom by pinching the edge with two fingers............

We're pretty much going to win next years REEL ROCK FILM TOUR with our Monty Python climbing spoof.

Todd can rodeo clip the anchors on most steep 40 meter routes.

Adam Henry can do 25 one arm pull-ups.... on each arm according to our Indiana friends. (Edit: Adam says the video that sparked this rumor is actually a doctored film of James Litz)

Rachel can track people by their pubes... haha. She loses stuff everywhere, and she can apparently sleep in a hammock during a cyclone.

Natalie is a hillbilly jig dancer at heart....

CONCLUSION:
I had no idea the Red is as good as it is. It's worst areas are better than most of our best areas. All ranges of climbing. The hikes in are not too bad. You will never want to boulder again.

Good trip.

Later blog,
bablingbroox

Perhaps I'll.............

2009-07-21T15:22:00.001-05:00

Hey blog,

1. I'm going to be a gumby today and watch the Mammut bouldering championships live on the web...... Its a rest day anyways.

2. I'm going to the Red for nine days on Friday.

Cyu when I get back.

Lata blog,
bablingbroox

July flowers

2009-07-17T12:23:00.002-05:00

Yo YO YO,

So, we have lows in the 60's until Tuesday... woop, woop! Oh, and there's no rain either. GO JULY!

Cya Tuesday blog,
bablingbroox

CLIMB SOFTER!!!!!!!

2009-07-16T13:54:00.003-05:00

Engage ramble fest blog,

In the grand scheme of life, "We're all dying!" in a Silvia Platt sort of way. I'm quoting a quote from a quote again, via Edward Norton on Fight Club, via Silvia Platt, the suicide poet.

Likewise.............. we're all short when in comparison to the mountains and walls we love. We're all small, small to the waves, the peaks, the valleys, and the paths that get us there. So what kind of excuse is "I'm too small"? Its like saying, "I'm dying!".... well yeah, we're all dying. How much of a difference can inches make on a 20 meter climb; 60 meters; 1000 meters? A confidant of mine speculated that "it all evens out in the end." I'm inclined to agree with that statement, but with that being said, it's funny how much 2 inches of height, not to mention a foot or more, effects the beta of a climb.

ASIDE: Nobody can honestly say that they don't do some measuring and comparisons when climbing socially. It's called stereotyping, and its as innate as picking your nose with your pointer finger. REMEDY: Climb alone (and some people do).

Halt!

Let't take this monologue in another direction, and cover genetic variations among climbers.

Some physical things we all notice and secretly compare:

1. Height
2. Ape
3. Finger length
4. Endurance
5. Power
6. Style or movement (drop knees, knee bars, heel hooks, campusing, etc.)
7. Coolness of strategically placed tattoos (joking)
8. Tendon threshold resistance (to be specific)

Some non-physical things we all notice and secretly compare:

1. Commitment
2. Cajones (balls)
3. Vision
4. Organic abyssal hardrives of beta retention (route memorization)
5. Psyche

What's inherited and what's learned or adaptive? From my experience, I'm going to speculate that most all of this is learned or adaptive...... yes, even Adam Ondra has had 7+ years to adapt to his lifestyle, which is more than most crushers I know. On the other side of the argument is ole Dave Grahm. He started climbing at like 16, and he did his first 14a at 17.... or something like that. This only provides evidence that there is some genetic variation in tendon capabilities; however, even his fingers have been injured). I don't think slopy climbing came at such a fast pace for him either.

I think there is a philosophical gap betwixt the peons (me) and the crushers (crushers), and unfortunately it does have something to do with ego. I think many of us peon class of climbers are physically able to climb harder than we expect, and that's the key: expectations! What do you expect from yourself? Short or tall, you have to look at a climb and think, "I can do this, but how?"

Crushers never seem surprised at the hard moves they pull.

POINT:

The real variation is in your head. I should just expect myself to do difficult things. NIKE got it right a hundred years ago "JUST DO IT". That was lame... don't care.

Peace blog,
bablingbroox

PS. Sorry this was so out of focus, but I was kinda goin "stream of conscious" here.

Marvin's Gardens in the house!!

2009-07-13T14:02:00.002-05:00

Blog,

Vegetable Garden:

So how bout those storms yesterday? There was an UNREAL amount of lightning bouncing around Red Mountain, which threatened to harm my new babies. Wha? babies? oh yeah. I'm a farmer now, as I have planted some peppers, squash, zuccini, and various herbs. I made some dank soil by mixing about 35 lbs of coffee grounds with the same amount of organic compost soil (black gold), and hopefully in two months, I'll have some fresh produce for my world famous pasta dishes.... EFF yeah!

Zen Garden:

What started looking like an antique trash pile actually turned out looking pretty cool. I was surprised by Nat's vision for seamingly useless metal rods and ornaments reawakened as a metallic ensemble of mystery, flow, and curiosity. There may be some meaning there as well.... pics up soon.

Weight:

I've weighed in at 128 for two nights in a row, but I'm not sure if that is stable or not, so I'm just going to keep on eating till the cows come home. Last night, I made a whole wheat pasta/chicken/turkey bacon/sweet onion/mixed vegetable dish that was out of this world.... Same tonight. At the moment, I'm chugging a double espresso, double caramel, 56 gram protein, whole milk, macciato shake. Its dogone delicious. Tonight, I'm going to start eating egg whites, even though they are gross.

Climbing:

Ohh man, so now that I'm semi back to health, I'm going to lay waste to my body in hopes that it can recover doubly by next week..... and beyond. Yesterday, I just wanted to climb and since we started a garden, we stayed in Bham, hitherto, I just bouldered hard at the gym... bouldered pretty hard. The other short guy with all the tats is mega strong on the more vertical walls at FAR, and we pushed each other pretty well I thought. Today, I will warm up on a bit of plastic for about half an hour and send all the things we put up yesterday>ten one arms on each arm>ten power pull ups>act like I can do an iron cross>crazy amount of front levers>Joe's ultimate pump routine>????? I might also act like I can do campus rung workouts.... we'll see how it goes.

climb for power tomorrow... (totally forgot that its Monday!) hmmmm, I might change all this up....

Last thoughts:

I'm going to the Red River Gorge this next week for one week, and we have an extra seat, so if anyone wants to ride or "go super crew on that crag", then hit me up, and we can organize something. If not, no worries.

Peace blog,
bablingbroox

Dem Cowntrah boyas!!

2009-07-10T15:09:00.002-05:00

Whad up blog,

Argh! Despite my best efforts, I am still maintaining a 125 lb body weight.... oh well, but I'll keep trying. Either way, I'm feeling a bit stronger which is the ultimate goal in the first place. The future of this weekend looks drab, as I have to work today and tomorrow, so no outdoor climbing will be had, unless I get some gumption to go Sunday... if the weather holds out, then I'll probably go, plus I have like four draws strewn up at random locals throughout the canyon which need retrieving. I know... Ethics police "Pull over!"

Funny posts on pimpinandcrimpin.com

Goin to the Red in two weeks.

School starts in five weeks.

Starts gettin cold in ten weeks...

GUUUUUUUUU!

Later blog,
bablingbroox

Dive! Dive! Dive!

2009-07-08T11:34:00.008-05:00

Blog,

So, I've been thinking about the limits I placed on you about not going too deep and/or just treading water, and I've come to the conclusion that restrictions are bad. Go Ayn Rand! What does this mean for you blog? Well, today, we're gonna go deep. Set the course for 30 degree down bubble, full throttle... give me comms.... damnit Lou, I need those comms! Brace for impact, because today...... today we're hittin the bottom [Gregorian chant looms in the background].

First, lets brainstorm for a moment..... let's name some climbers who are single that crush: hmmm..... Dave Grahm and his crew. That's sums it up nicely me thinks. Now think about the climbers who are in a relationship that crush...... hmmmm..... Sharma, Kinder, Kehl, Traversi, Woods, P-Rob, and almost everyone else I can think of at the moment. Is there something there? Or is is simply a matter of stone crushers having more mojo? Even in the small circle of Bham crew, it seems like many of the upper level climbers are in relationships, but as every good researcher knows: correlation does not prove causality.

Case Study: Me

Introduction:

As a wandering gumby nancy in the days of yore, my philosophy towards myself was based on excuses often centered on my genetics: too short, weak tendons, short arms, whatever. My default mode for living was self destructive meaning that if you left me to my own devices, I would seek instant gratification; nothing was long term; carpe diem; nothing mattered. I didn't realize it at the time, but the term for this way of thought would turn out to be an extreme form of existentialism (meaning: all I know for sure is that "I" exist and nothing more). FYI, your body won't allow you to have a good time killing yourself, and I suffered for it. The company I kept, the way I studied, how well I climbed.... all suffered. It's funny how you're just so sure that you somehow were dealt a bad hand in the genetics factory that you sprouted from, but it's not the case. I was just scared of the real world... scared to actually put effort into something.... scared of failure... scared of accomplishment.

History:

So, what happened? I had spent the summer in Alaska working on a salmon fishery in order to cleanse my brain of the influences it had become accustomed to. From my entire freshman and sophomore year in college, there were no social links that I held onto. I moved into a house in Auburn with a bunch of climbers that I really didn't know at the time. I saw what a "real" student did; I saw how real climbers trained, and I saw my future if I stopped either activity (no offense). I was inspired.... not to excel quite yet, but to be on par. [aside: With all this hoopla about the integrity of my new roommates, it has to be stated that the first outing I had with this crew was a tequila driven stripper party. Who were the dancers? Who choreographed the dance to Bombs Over Baghdad? Us....... call it team building.] So my real climbing history really begins here at Eagle's landing, unit #89, or the house with the "rock wall" in it.

Fast forward a couple months, and I begin another relationship, a monogamous relationship, a much more personal relationship. Now, don't misunderstand this as some fanatical love story. I'd been in love before, but it was different. A sense of self worth and purpose snuck up on me out of left field so fast that my brain didn't even have time to react in the usual manner: cut ties and run. I was hooked. I am hooked; hooked on her; hooked on myself; hooked on this life. I wonder if Daila or Collette had the same effect on their beaux's establishing 15b's or 14d's respectively. All things being equal, I suppose v10 is my 15b, as I never climbed above v5 in the Southeast before last October. It helps to have someone see you as being capable of things that you yourself never imagined were possible. Simply put, climbing is an abstract game of fetch between you and the top, and it helps to have someone you love and trust throw the ball for a change.... no leash jokes please... haha.

Nowadays:

I feel like I represent a community at large when I say I hike the middle path ("hike" in the climber sense, as in "I hiked that thing") My wildest dreams are my new norms, and pushing my limits feels common-place. I'm not going to go for the big paycheck if it over stresses me and takes away from the things I hold dear, likewise I won't simply sit around and do nothing.
I'm pretty sure that most climbers have some sort of ethics/morals/philosophy such as this. I suppose its "middle path existentialism"... or something like that: not too hot and not too cold... The Goldy lox Lifestyle.

Climbing at your limit, doing well in school, maintaining your health is all about thinking in the long term, and in reality, the long term is the short term. In the latest TIME, there's a statistic that 15% of high schoolers don't believe they will live past 35. I overheard someone this weekend saying he doesn't worry about dying from cancer because he won't live past 40, to which a seasoned 57 yr old climber responded, "I used to say the same thing", and then he looked at the sky and laughed. The happy truth is that its difficult to be bold and step off the middle path to do something truly dangerous. As climbers, very few of us are truly reckless with our lives and well being. Climbing is as inherently dangerous as you want it to be.

The point:

Whatever relationship gives you the foresight to see longterm, hold on to that. Its not just your genetics or luck of the draw that shapes the things you will achieve. Be inspired by the people who work hard to find the Goldy lox lifestyle. I know I was, am, and always will be.

The real point:

Dave Grahm would crush v21 if Daila was his GF.

All for now blog,
bablingbroox

Shibading! booo yah!

2009-07-07T15:48:00.002-05:00

Yo blog,

Last night, I tipped 130. This morning, I'm at 126.... moving on. Tonight, I think I'll do some weight training or something like that at FAR, so my hands can have a rest. The energy of a crowd just seems to suck me into climbing, so we'll see how that goes.

I'm trying to come up with some quality posts, but they keep escaping me. I don't want to get to deep and introspective, and at the same time, I don't want plain old boring blab, so I'm holding out for some good perspectives and inspiration.

To write about.......

1. Single case profiles: Rob Dobson
2. Existential nature of climbers
3. Being single v.s. being double (pun) in climbing
4. Still need climbing sticker comparable to scuba symbol
5. [please recite in best zombie voice] MUST TAKE PICTURES
6. Praise: how much is too much?
7. Starting garden: update.
8. Weight gain: update.
9. Random event and/or product reviews
10. Sam Jackson on the sharp end..... that would be funny.

Tootles blog,
bablingbroox

Whew....

2009-07-01T17:30:00.002-05:00

Arghhh! blog!

Update on weight gain...

Status: Juxtaposing my massive caloric increase over the past week, I have actually lost half a pound. I am now at a (before bed) weight of 124.5

My physical activity is almost zero, except for commuter biking and a little dancing over the weekend..... that's it.

Still trudging...

Keep ya posted blog,
bablingbroox

Going Coastal on this Beach!! (I should pun professionally)

2009-06-25T15:38:00.008-05:00

Hey blog,

I'm a day walking ginger (ginger=red hair and pale skin.... I'm close to this). Wha?! I know. Surprise! The sun is a foe of mine, but unlike full bloods, I am still mobile with direct ultra violet radiation exposure. I know what you're thinking: Blade. Well, you're right. Like Blade, I walk amongst you people unassumingly, and then at night fall, when the gingers come out, I hunt them down. This is a long winded way of saying that I am in fact NOT Brazilian, and my skin burns faster than the American Flag in Afghanistan (maybe the secret service will read my blog now.... doubt it).

With that being said, guess who's goin to the beach this weekend? Me. I wish I could put into words the adoration I posses for sand and salt. I'll try. Sand is a vermin to my being. Its like chiggers, as it lodges in between my skin and anything elastic, so it can chafe me to pieces. It makes my burger/chicken/hot dog into a crunchy game of "did I swallow that effing rock yet?!" No, that piece of sand will hide in my toothbrush for weeks waiting for the best time to dislodge itself from the forest of nylon bristles to wreak havoc on the burger I just bought from Hardees, leaving me like WTF mate?

Salt burns my skin. It ruins the paint on my car, and it degrades my sunglasses. It hurts my open wounds. Most importantly though, as a hypertonic solvent, salt water makes my skin prune up like your 118 year old great aunt's elbow skin (that would be the wenus... not to get technical though), in turn, making me a poster boy for lepper colonies (my skin falls off).

So my genes were not selected for surf and sun exposure... oh well. I love the beach, and I'm gonna sit on my towel, adjusting my sun shade, and reapplying my sunscreen. And at the end of the day when all the sand has caked onto the tar layer of sunscreen dripping off my pale skin, I'll count my freckles, and pass out... [sigh]

TTYL blog,
bablingbroox

And it stoned me to my soul.... stoned me just like a jelly role.

2009-06-24T15:09:00.002-05:00

Hey blog,

I swear to bob, if I have to explain to one more person why they would not enjoy an iced cappuccino, I'm going to lose it. IT IS FOAM AND ESPRESSO PEOPLE!!! Do you really want that over ice???? NO. You want an iced vanilla latte, which would be the closest thing, gustatorily speaking (taste receptors), to your coveted instant iced cappuccino mix that you bought from Wallmart in hopes of boosting your coffee IQ. Now get off my plane!

My goal for the summer is to gain five solid pounds of mass. I can consume ten pounds at a time and then defecate it at my earliest convenience, but that is not good enough. I need to dip my entire body in a vat of strong sauce (as opposed to weak sauce), and keep it from dripping off. Last year, prior to bouldering season, I was a meager 120 lbs, now, post bouldering season, I am a healthy 125 lbs, and hopefully by August, I will be standing at a portly 130 lbs. This gives me about 6 weeks to fulfill my dream of breaking the 130 mark. As far back as I can remember, I always wanted to weight 130+. Sometimes after large meals, I can stare down at the biofeedback meter (read: scales), and it reads 132, 133, or even 136; hours later though, that number falls one pound at a time along with the temporary feelings of elation that accompanied the fulfillment of my wildest fantasy. Where does this weight go? Ruling out parasites as a culprit, I'm pretty sure that I may have a bit of anti-matter residing in my stomach.... more research will have to be done to confirm this hypothesis.

How will achieve this goal?

I'm going to bring a 5 lbs tub of protein powder to the DRIP (my coffee shop), and attempt to consume 2000 calories just at work. Then I will climb. Then I will eat two lbs of chicken, rice, and veggies. I don't like big breakfasts, so I usually just eat a bowl of cereal.... sandwiches for lunch. So that'll be like 4000 or so calories a day. That should work. The problem is keeping the weight. It takes a fair amount of gumption to consume that much food a day, but we'll see.

GUUUUUUUUUUU! !!! I'm psyched to crush some shite!!!
Peace blog,
bablingbroox

I'm FREEZING!!!

2009-06-19T14:05:00.002-05:00

(teeth chattering) I just drank a 24oz caramel frappacino, and now I am shivering in 95 degree heat.... Its part of my new training regimen to cool my core by way of frozen drinks instead of the much disputed palm freezing technique which is costly, not to mention it ties up your hands. I'm futuristic.

Ahhh man, my freakin leg itches! Why? Good question blog. Poison mutha flippin Ivy. All this time, I was convinced that I somehow had been one of the lucky one in a million persons on Earth "naturally selected" to be immune to the oils that have plagued the Forrest since the dawn of man. Alas, I am not one of the fortunate few, which JUST means that my ancestors were not a bunch of nancies and didn't die off when they noticed a rash. Go ancestors.

On a side note, I suppose height wasn't an issue for my past DNA donors either... I'm still trying to figure out where being short is an advantageous trait on this planet. Possibilities: famine, mining, not getting shot (low profile... think oddjob in N64 oo7), moving vertically (strength/weight). Now, applying this theory, what kind of car would I be? Hmmmmm....(lightly whisper) efficient, low profile, agile, low maintenance, limited reach. AHA!! I'm a toyota Prius with Humvee tires, a brush guard, an extra gas tank, 250 hp, tighter suspension, a roof rack, Honda element interior, and good brakes (I'm a talented down hill walker).

So, there you have it. My evolution. What car are you blog?

bablingbroox

LOGO"S

2009-06-19T11:54:00.004-05:00

Quickie blog,

So, now that I'm looking at these spicy logo's I came up with via the 1993 Microsoft paint program, I feel like the first one is a bit "globo gym-ish". The second one is too "prana-ish", but the last one is okay. Think: anatomical...... and work in progress.

More later,
bablingbroox

Stay Glad, be a NOMAD.

2009-06-15T17:31:00.008-05:00

Sup blog?

As I sit here in my small barista hut doing yoga poses, I am perplexed. Who the hell owns a black Xterra (not Raj) with Blue Water and Misty stickers? They are getting their car cleaned right next to me... Hmmmm, they must be somewhat "cool" due to the small number/high quality stickers on the back of their car, so you know they climb, but they understand the sticker ethics of the industry: two is company and three is a crowd. I have zero, which means I'm not a climber.... or something like that. Anyways.... trying to get warmed up here.

I have to rant about a couple of things for a moment.

1. Climber blogs are boring!!!! Never describe your movement over the rock. Its like quoting Rage in that you might think it sounds good, but everyone just glosses over you and whatever you're saying.

2. A certain climber I talked to this weekend thinks that Donna on "That 70's Show" is hot; not only hot, but hotter than Jackie. Furthermore, he believes that "Rock Superstar" song is not in the same "I can listen to this stuff every day" boat as early Eminem, Snoop Dog, and Dr. Dre. Lastly, he does not like warm cookies. WHA??? These statements are so far from true that they cannot be understood in the form of an opinion, because no one on this earth should think these things, and no one on earth should have these opinions, hitherto making these statements false and erroneous on all accounts (Gee I love the word erroneous).
SIR, I disagree with you as strongly as possible without getting physical. Haha, please don't take any of this seriously blog, even though he is completely wrong.

More on hypothetical climbing company:

As a subsidiary of NOMAD Equipment Inc., there will be a food and beverage division called: People Food (work in progress).

Items:

1. Crevasierre (KR-e-VAH-see-eh) as in "pass the Crevasierre" a smoothie/protein combo for climbers.

2. Super Exposed Energy Drink (not sure why nobody has taken this one).

Okay, so sticker ethics...... In one camp you have Adam Henry, a self proclaimed conservative on the sticker initiatives, condoning the abolition of all things sticky unless it has the First Ave bar code attached to it (speaking of which, has anyone thought to scan that thing yet??? just out of curiosity). And in the other camp, we have Tyler Timberlake et al. youngsters (et al. = "and others" in latin) who sacrifice the safety of themselves and others on the road for the sake of showing what they're all about in terms of company logos.

Before I go further, let it be known that I have only one sticker on my car, and its not a climbing sticker..... its a sea turtle, because that's the spirit animal that found me when I was eating peyote cactus in the foothills of Amadablam on the Tibetan Plateau..... nope, fooled you again blog. My girlfriend gave me that sticker, and me being the proud boyfriend that I am stuck that wandering, sea faring turtle right onto the car, so everyone would think that I'm some hippy, prius driving, fart smelling, vegan that owns a large stake in Google (which is a good thing now days). There's also an Auburn sticker that my dad gave me, but it is super cool..... along with the turtle sticker:)

I don't believe that any of us knowledgeable climbers have the sticker question correct, but ya know who does have the sticker thing figured out????? SCUBA DIVERS!!!!!! The freakin red rectangle with a white diagonal stripe is a obvious sign that someone on board this four wheel drive mega rig has breathed through a self contained underwater breathing apparatus, and most likely has an additional deep water certification tacked onto that adventurer's badge of pride, just so he stands out as a true Magellan from all the other divers who are most definitely weekend divers at best.

The solution is simple, climbers need a sort of scuba symbol, simple and visible, that tells others on the road what we do and not who we do (or are done by a.k.a. sponsored athletes... HATERADE in the house!!). I'll ask around.

Thanks for listening blog,
bablingbroox

Its the year 3040, and everybody wants to be an MC... (BB&S 2K9)

2009-06-09T14:21:00.007-05:00

Great googly moogly blog!

I had this fantastic dream last night that I went to Alaska on a whim this summer to work on the Kenai river.... It was a story book dream. Argh!! wish I was doing something super classic this summer.

WEH, WEH, WEH... I know...

Ok, so I've inspired myself to write by drinking a double caramel latte, reading a bit of the new TIME mag, some DISCOVER mag, and listening to Beth Rodden whisper sweet nothings made up of grunts streaming from Dosage III playing behind me, all while serving coffee to the wonderful people of Homewood.

This past weekend was a bambalam blamtastical good time. Imagine if you will: Everything goes according to plan. That's it. No death, famine, AIDS, or protests. The weekend was like a dejavu of a dream we dreamt up three weeks prior.

This all started with a Email entitled "A call to arms" written by Sir Paul Morley in the wee hours of the morning from the fortress of solitude(I believe that's Superman's home). It outlined a need for us Birminham folk to "bring it back to the bottom of the map". Do it quickly and do it in style. Who comes to mind when you think of style? Oh yeah: Adam Henry, the quintisential mason of style and ethics for southeastern climbing. His property has slowly become a camp 4 for the Souph, and his property is where BB&S 2k9 takes place. [Cue the beats>>>> blurr screen]

Natalie, Tyler Timberlake, and I were entrusted to make this event something to talk about, and as much as we would like to take credit for all the activities of Saturday..... scratch that, we will take credit for the activities, but we were influenced by the New River Rendezvous just a few weeks prior, which we all attended.

The day starts out with climbing and merryment. Hi, how are you? Your name is wah? You stayin tonight? Yada yada yada. Fastforward to the night, kegs are tapped, food is eaten, Nate's trying to catch the sky on fire, and here we are!!!!
Sumo crashpad wrastlin almost didn't happen, as the exhaustion of the day was apparent, but alas! three brave souls decided they would fight it out: Donny, Scotty, and Will Hightower. When that was announced, the competing spirit of the mob manifested as an "I wanna go first" line leader war of third graders trapped in the bodies of 6ft+ climber dudes that were as ferocious as they were jolly. In other words, I would have died had I participated. One brave girl did participate, Stephanie, and the guy that knocked her down is a mean spirited chauvinist pig that gets off by pushing lighter people around... joking Donny, or was it Mike... whoever it was, I'm joking. The rules were basic, survival of the fittest, winner takes all, ALL being a $200 BD crashpad from AO. After dismantling numerous opponents, Donny, master of the spin move (as he was once an amateur ice ballerina... haha), brushed Hunter to the dirt in a long heated battle. Go Donny.

Then we raffled off some good stuff from AO and our own stashes. Thanks guys. Then beer pong ensued, followed by action bat jousting, as mega spartan Scott showed everyone who was Leonidas and who was Princess Peach. Funny stuff.

Per usual, the girl to guy ratio has to be reported. From my count, it appeared to be 1:2 ratio on Saturday, and it was probably a near even 1:1 ratio on Sunday. That's pretty good I would say. Happy to say that in many cases, the girls were stronger than the guys, and they were humble, happy, and despite the embarrassing efforts of some of our patrons, the girls seemed to be enjoying themselves. Southern Hospitality [again cue the beats, fade out].

Food! BBQ from JIM&NICKS is faya!!! Thanks Chris!!

Bugs! At the end of the weekend, Tyler looked like he caught the plague... haha! We also learned that Casey is a skilled etymologist (if that's someone who studies bugs).... not afraid to pick up spiders... yowsers!!

Deer! Apparently a deer decided the Earth was being flooded and Leslie's car looked like the Ark, consequently making Leslie Noah, and furthermore the deer found out the hard way that Leslie's car was in fact........ NOT the Ark. Sorry to said Noah, said Ark, and poop on shoe (you'll have to ask him).

Beer! Killed two kegs. Go us...

Weather! I called it three weeks ago..... clear skies. Just so you know that I'm not in any way a prophet, I'll go ahead and predict the rest of the summer: Always dry, breezy, with a slight mist in the afternoon. Jee yeah...

If you didn't go, you pretty much missed out bigtime.... nough said. I wish I could of let all you OG's know in advance that this was going to be a fun one, but ya snooze ya looze. Maybe we'll do it again sometime..... all we need is an excuse.

Final tally: about 60 folks showed up.... about 25 stayed the night and climbed on Sunday. At the end there was about 8 beers left in the kegs, half a boston butt, a few red bulls, two muffins, a banana, a set of crampons that no one bid on in the silent auction, $1400for Steele, lots of fun, and that's about it....

Peace blog,
bablingbroox

CORRECTION: We also need PERMISSION from Adam and Lea..... not just an excuse to throw down..... we also need permission... just to clarify. Thanks Adam and Lea for letting us show off your homestead.

I'll write later.... not awake still... what a weekend.

2009-06-08T13:52:00.000-05:00

Gyoga!!!

2009-06-03T13:33:00.003-05:00

(write for myself, think for myself, bathe by myself, by my gosh dern self; for real?; by my gosh dern self; for real)

Hey blog,

Its real easy to be demotivated to post, but you just have to tell yourself that blogs aren't written for an audience, well mine isn't, otherwise it becomes a performance where you're trying to constantly top yourself. Don't do that. Blogging in like climbing... selfish.

Anyways, shit talk.... what is it? benefits? drawbacks? who's good at it? who's not? WHERE'S THE LINE?

Definition:
1. Trash-talk is a form of boast or insult commonly heard in competitive situations (such as sports events). It is often used to intimidate the opposition, but can also be used in a humorous spirit. Trash-talk is often characterized by hyperbolic, figurative language, e.g., "Your team can't run! ...en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Trash-talk

2. To make disparaging or comical insults to a sporting oppositionen.wiktionary.org/wiki/trash-talk

To me, trash talk is motivating and personal. Its not personal in an insulting way, its personal in way that says I see eye to eye with you, and I can say these fun falsities or facts to your face without fear of absolving a relationship. In other words, you can't respect a suckup...

All I gots for now blog,
bablingbroox

Gastro intestinal nuclear bomb.....

2009-05-26T16:07:00.002-05:00

Blog,

So, it turns out that the amaretto + steamed half and half + shots of espresso = GUT BOMB!!! My stomach is destroyed in all ways possible. Never again...... never.

Heed my warning blog,
bablingbroox

Unpatented Super Classic Ideas for the hypothetical climbing company, NOMAD!!!

2009-05-26T15:16:00.003-05:00

Check it Blog,

I'll do my best to describe these ideas in words.

1. As an appetizer/advertiser for the company, we would develop a condom+wet wipe package. Hear me out. It will look as if two condoms are stuck together on the edge of the wrappers, but upon closer inspection, it will be revealed that one side is a condom and the other side is a wet wipe (this is targeted at the outdoorsy, messy individuals... or just plain messy).

2. Work in progress. If you have any ideas blog.... then comment.

Later blog,
bablingbroox

Who drinks this stuff?!

2009-05-26T15:08:00.002-05:00

Oh gawd blog,

At the moment, I am sipping on a 12oz amaretto breve latte... what is that? These guys always order it in the 24oz with a double shot of amaretto, and I just had to try it. A breve is analogous to a latte, except for the fact that it is steamed half and half instead of milk..... much thicker and heartier. With the amaretto and 5 shots in those guys drinks, I will bestow upon them the manliest flavored espresso drink on earth award (the manliest drink being a quadruple shot of espresso..... yikes!). Its probably 1500 calories, and it leaves a film in your mouth... .reminds me of prison life. Anyways................................

Lata blog,
bablingbroox

Saving the Nation....

2009-05-23T14:02:00.003-05:00

BLOG!!!!!

God I hate when people quote Rage Against the Machine in any context. It's good intentioned, but empty when it comes to really describing how you feel about something, unless you are Blind Melon singing Flagpole Sitter... classic.
Well, enough with the "retrintrospection" (cool made-up word) about Rage, so let's get down to business... hah. A couple weeks back, I wrote a piece on how stressed I was with finals, family, and the future, but now that I have nothing on my calender except for work, I am more stressed than ever. I have no short term goals, nothing to accomplish; I'm just walking different paths to self destruction. I'm reverting back to the intense only child boredom that I used to be a victim of, and the only difference between now and then is the fact that I am able to legally purchase "ennui reducers" (read: boredom reducers, EtOH (alcohol)). I wrote a paper on this subject this past semester that turned out pretty well. It was more pointed towards fear reduction via curiosity: tomato, tomahto. I need to find what I'm curious about and dive head first into it, otherwise I'm doomed to sleep the summer away, awash in a puddle of self inspection which is not a good place for me to go.

Goals for Summer:

1. Nursing stuff; loose ends.... boring.
2. Beg, Borrow, and STEELE!!! Fun, but only so much can be done at a time.
3. CLIMB!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! GD Fn SOB, I wish that First Ave would open soon, as I am barred from UAB gym on account that I am not taking summer classes (wish I was). Work keeps me from getting outside as much as I'd like, not to mention Nat has my car all the time, and apparently her schedule is more important than mine.... which it is, but still.

Past summers have been spent in:

05 California
06 Crested Butte, CO
07 Alaska
08 Auburn, but I was in transition to Bham + taking classes, so I had to stay in the SE
09 Bham.... future unknown... need to get involved.

I think I'll tempt myself and look up Bonaroo.....

What do you think Blog?

Raising the Dead.... I mean fundraising.

2009-05-21T12:31:00.002-05:00

So after all this time of feeding my tip money into raffles and bribing my way through event fees, I finally have the opportunity to be on the other side of the mess: the coordinator.... sort of. I am completely flying by the seat of my pants on this one in true "Yes Man" style. If the idea sounds good, then YES!

However, now that I am on the collecting side of this business, I am losing my ability to think like a donor. Out with the greed and in with the stinginess I say. So, would I pay $15 to hang out at Adam's with good beer, climbing, and scenery.... The answer is: I think I would. So that doesn't seem so bad, but again, the empty pocketed donor mentality has quickly escaped me as I have become a collector. Any suggestions Blog?