as many of you know, my smokin' hawt wife accepted a job at the famed, historic Young Life's Frontier Ranch a while back. in fact, we moved to the quaint burgh of Buena Vista, CO almost 1 year ago to the day. this scenic town boasts a veritable wal-mart's load of opportunities for the budding adventurer, including mountain biking, backcountry skiing, mountaineering, and blowing some crap up in the woods. i immediately fell in love with the place... then spent 4 months on a friend's couch in a kind of career purgatory where "the view" suddenly becomes a concrete daily engagement and cultivating one's obesity becomes a kind of sick, legitimate hobby. jobs were about as abundant as unicorns named "robbie" who dressed like wizards.
then a friend of mine started a construction company.
then i remembered that my dad dabbles in woodwork like monet dabbled in water lillies... like the LAPD dabbles in beating people... like gary busey dabbles in being freakin' weird. my hope was that i somehow genetically inherited these mad skillz.
"i can do this," i thought. "the heavy end of the hammer hits things and saws are sharp and stuff." i considered starting my own competing company but decided that i'd be humble for a change.
my first day of work brought forth the realization that everything on a job site is heavy, sharp, awkward, and capable of killing me in some way. you'd think that after so long working with wood and tools that i'd be calloused/intelligent enough to avoid injuring myself or at least not destroying 50% of everything we build. you'd be wrong. so wrong.
here's a rundown of my last week at Snicklefritz* Construction (name changed to protect our stellar reputation):
monday: while installing hardwood floors, my co-worker MC somehow seamlessly married a "our boss drooled a lot as a child" joke with a poop joke. i wept from laughing. i simultaneously decided that this is a great time to pound this piece of hardwood flush with my hammer. i now am missing 1/4 of my middle finger on my left hand and there's a 6 inch wide puddle of blood beneath the floor boards.
still monday: same circumstances. mangled my left index finger.
tuesday: set a circular saw down next to me with the blade still spinning. reached for a board right next to the blade. yelped and shot blood all over the bathroom we were framing. minor flesh wound. major emotional reaction. the crying subisded 3 hours later.
wednesday: snow day. took a company field trip to the BLM land adjacent to Buena Vista. blew up a deer carcass. our fearless leader got so excited that he had to run behind some bushes and drop trow lest he poop himself. miraculously avoided hurting myself or destroying anything... probably because we didn't actually work.
thursday: dropped a 30 foot extension ladder onto a glass jar. shards of glass were later found in my tool bags, my pants, and the horse stalls. praying that seabiscuit never goes shoeless in our barn.
friday: almost fell off the roof while painting the barn. reached too far to paint the trim. laid on the roof after the panic attack subsided while mumbling "pound cake" over and over again. apparently i'm convinced that "pound cake" is a cussword.
after a respectable high school and college career, 3 years of professional ministry, and a year spent at one of the most celebrated mountaineering shops in the country, i now don't trust myself to do more than carry lumber and hold ladders for the people who do the real work. i look at job openings at subway and think, "i'm. not. qualified."
the good news? country music songs now make sense.
ear candy:
"behold the hurricane", by the horrible crowes
watch:
more jackass... appreciate stupidity as an art form.
read:
anything by jim harrison
Sunday, November 20, 2011
Thursday, May 26, 2011
Saturday, April 30, 2011
Mt. Columbia - 14073 Feet, None of Them Friendly
Living in the Rocky Mountains is an exercise in peer pressure. At first the scenery is so majestic that all you want to do is paint landscapes, write poetry, and talk about feelings. But eventually, you can feel the massive peaks looking down on you like it's your freshman year and the seniors are about to gently dip your head in the locker room toilet if you refuse to do what they say.
"Hey freshman. Climb this big effing hill or you'll never make varsity."
"Uh... ok," I say as my voice cracks, I hitch up my parachute pants, and sweat for no reason.
Saturday, April 9 was my second attempt at climbing one of Colorado's 14,000 foot peaks. My dear bro-brah Jason Fruh was to drive up to Buena Vista from Denver on Friday night and then we would climb and ski Mount Columbia in the morning. In my mind, I pictured us steadily climbing up a freshly powdered avalanche chute to the summit, where we would take pictures, celebrate how awesome we were, and then descend the mountain on our skis, carving perfect turns that would render us heavily sponsored and widely celebrated by the time we returned to our car. We'd be back home in time for a hero's lunch of Hot Pockets and RC Cola.
We woke up at about 4:30, which I enjoyed about as much as that colonoscopy video they showed us in my biology class. We packed the car, somehow convinced the dog that he was better off staying home and chewing on our TV remote, and said goodbye to my adorable, confused, and bleary-eyed wife.
We'd be taking the North Cottonwood Trail into Horn Fork Basin and then climbing the southwest couloir to the summit ridge. On paper, this route is pretty straightforward, and the whole trail is like 5 inches long with a bunch of squiggly lines in between. Please. I've been training for a marathon, I've seen pictures of Everest, and I've seen Vertical Limit like 4 times. Give me a challenge. I was almost praying for an avalanche so I could hurl myself across a crevasse and dig into the vertical wall of ice on the other side using only my ice axe and my Bear Grylls knife.
The North Cottonwood Trailhead starts at about 9,860 feet, but due to snow on the road we parked in a lot about a mile and 400 feet below the trailhead. No big deal... I'm all man. As we were putting on our ski boots, I realized I would be wearing these things all day. My ski boots are comfortable like Crystal Pepsi was a good idea. "Hey, how far is this trip?" I casually asked Fruh. "Uh... with the extra mile to the trailhead, I'd say about 15 miles round trip."
I glazed over.
I could suddenly hear my flannel sheets screaming for me to come home and go back to bed. Maybe I left the oven on or something... even though I haven't used the oven in like 3 weeks. Maybe my dog is throwing a rager at my house and I need to go regulate before someone lights my couch on fire. Either way, this is starting to seem like a BAD IDEA.
We attach climbing skins to the bottom of our skis and start schlepping. The snow is spotty for the first 3/4 of a mile, so we have to remove our skis and boot it about every 100 yards. Finally we hit the official trailhead and the snow fills in. I can't even see Columbia, but I know it's there to my right side, thinking that it's better than me. So we skin... and skin... and then we skin some more. The trail only rises about 1000 feet over the first 4 miles, so for a long time it feels like I'm skinning across Kansas instead of making a 14er approach. At about 11,000 feet the trail opens up into Horn Fork Basin and Columbia stands off to our right, looking especially angry. I can see spin drift coming off of the summit ridge even though it's calm and warm in the valley. Fruh shows me the couloir we'll be climbing. It's a steep wall of snow that shoots straight up the mountain. My neck hurts from looking at it.
"The Evergreen has breakfast specials if you get there before 8," I say, still looking at the mountain.
"It must have been hard when they cut you from the cheerleading squad," he replies.
I hang my head in shame. We climb.
The snow is bulletproof and icy in spots, and after about 500 vertical feet my skins lose their grip and we're forced to boot it. I duct tape my skis to my pack because I can't afford a $4.95 ski strap and we hike. Around 12,000 feet I have to stop every 30 steps to catch my breath. At 12,500, I forget what it's like to not feel pain. At 13,000 I can't remember what bread tastes like. At 13,500 things start getting dramatic and we say things like, "I don't care if I die on this mountain. We're summiting." At 13,700 we hit the summit ridge and I realize we have 3/4 of a mile to traverse along the ridgeline to the summit. Crap. The wind is gusting around 50mph. We're getting pelted with little chunks of ice. My cheeks feel like frostbite. I can't see any of the surrounding mountains. Fortunately Fruh can't hear me crying and yelling for my mom because of the wind.
Over one last rise, we reach the summit. Fruh taps the summit boulder with his trekking pole and retires to the side of the mountain that seems to be less windy. I collapse into a nook in the rock and eat a peanut butter sandwich while sobbing. I want to urinate but the wind keeps shifting directions and I'm pretty sure I'm too tired to dodge my own pee. We take two joyless summit photos and start the descent.
The snow is crusty and my legs feel like jell-o. My skis are unruly and keep trying to cross or separate at the worst possible moments, like when Fruh is taking a picture or I'm nuking toward a large rock outcropping. I'm reduced to pizza/french fry mode.
We reach the bottom of the couloir and realize we still have a relatively flat four mile slog until we get to the car. My Hot Pocket fantasies are replaced by the instinct to survive. I start to wonder what my backpack tastes like. I tell Fruh to eat me if I die first. He refuses. I'm slightly offended.
We get to the car at 4pm, 11 hours after we set out. My feet are bleeding and one of my toenails decided it wasn't worth it and turned black. Weak. When I weighed myself later that night after dinner, I had lost 6 pounds.
I'm seriously reevaluating my choice of hobbies. Nude beekeeping seems to be safer and less stressful.
Saturday, April 02, 2011
Woof Woof. What's that girl? Timmy's addicted to meth and is chasing cars on the highway? WOOF!
At the present time, I am without a few of the luxurious comforts that I typically enjoy. I have a car, but it smokes like a European and threatens to explode like a molotov cocktail every time I turn the key. I do not have internet access at my house. I have a television that weighs more than Snooki and shares the same warm orange glow... and also does not provide me with any channels.
I have books, chores, cooking, my forest fire of a wife...
...and the freakin' dog.
Guster came to us on a cold November evening, a small ball of nappy black fur with a slight tremble and a touch of what I perceived to be autism. He would often shimmy his way into a corner nose-first and stay there, seemingly convinced that if all he could see was the corner, the corner was all that existed. I loved him immediately, not only for his audacious theories on relative existence, but also because he was soft and I could snuggle him. I would fantasize about the days when he would climb mountains with me, effortlessly carrying a pack full of mountaineering gear and staring purposefully off to the horizon from the tops of great spires. We would reach the summit together, sit on a rock to enjoy the view, and he would sip expensive burbon while I read the diaries of John Muir. Just as we would silently share a knowing glance at one another and begin our descent, my fantasy would be shattered by a retching noise and the reality that Guster had just puked on my flip flops and was now debating whether or not this pile of vomit constituted another meal.
As he has aged, we have noted some stranged neuroses that surface from time to time in our beloved dog. He insists upon accompanying us into the bathroom. Regardless of our intended purpose for being there, he must come. It draws him. The several times I've denied him access to my biological necessities, he has retaliated by destroying something that is of value to us. The remote for our DVD player is now a twisted fray of plastic and wire. The battery cover for my cell phone is marred and pock-marked like a 14 year old boy. The leg of our only nice chair has been whittled to a shaky hourglass shape. And, inevitably, when we do come out of the bathroom, he is laying by the door, staring at us and wagging his tail as if to say, "Cross me again, ***hole. See what happens." I cower in fear.
He also smuggles foreign objects into the house following his routine bathroom breaks... and by foreign objects I mean massive nuggets of deer crap. Buena Vista is flooded with lazy, ambitionless mule deer. Along with causing car accidents, peeping into windows, and refusing to get jobs, they also poop on every square foot of this town... without exaggeration. Guster has decided that these deposits are delicious treasures that must be brought into our house and savored. Chandler has dubbed him "The Poop Smuggler". I have dubbed him shameless and undignified.
For all his faults, he is a pretty good dog. We haven't summited a peak together yet, but when we do, I like to imagine he'll pull out a bottle of Johnny Walker Blue, pour himself a glass, look off into the distance, nod, and then spit out the massive deer turd he's been chewing on for the last 3 hours.
"Good dog", I'll say. "Good dog."
Grip On:
Bayside's new album.
Stop What You're Doing and Watch:
some Mad Men. Then smoke a cigarette and put some bear grease in your hair. It's such a gas!
Hip Hop Gangster Shoutout To:
Jeremiah Dulaney. Tornado survivor. Loving father. Doting husband. Waterboarder of house cats.
I have books, chores, cooking, my forest fire of a wife...
...and the freakin' dog.
Guster came to us on a cold November evening, a small ball of nappy black fur with a slight tremble and a touch of what I perceived to be autism. He would often shimmy his way into a corner nose-first and stay there, seemingly convinced that if all he could see was the corner, the corner was all that existed. I loved him immediately, not only for his audacious theories on relative existence, but also because he was soft and I could snuggle him. I would fantasize about the days when he would climb mountains with me, effortlessly carrying a pack full of mountaineering gear and staring purposefully off to the horizon from the tops of great spires. We would reach the summit together, sit on a rock to enjoy the view, and he would sip expensive burbon while I read the diaries of John Muir. Just as we would silently share a knowing glance at one another and begin our descent, my fantasy would be shattered by a retching noise and the reality that Guster had just puked on my flip flops and was now debating whether or not this pile of vomit constituted another meal.
As he has aged, we have noted some stranged neuroses that surface from time to time in our beloved dog. He insists upon accompanying us into the bathroom. Regardless of our intended purpose for being there, he must come. It draws him. The several times I've denied him access to my biological necessities, he has retaliated by destroying something that is of value to us. The remote for our DVD player is now a twisted fray of plastic and wire. The battery cover for my cell phone is marred and pock-marked like a 14 year old boy. The leg of our only nice chair has been whittled to a shaky hourglass shape. And, inevitably, when we do come out of the bathroom, he is laying by the door, staring at us and wagging his tail as if to say, "Cross me again, ***hole. See what happens." I cower in fear.
He also smuggles foreign objects into the house following his routine bathroom breaks... and by foreign objects I mean massive nuggets of deer crap. Buena Vista is flooded with lazy, ambitionless mule deer. Along with causing car accidents, peeping into windows, and refusing to get jobs, they also poop on every square foot of this town... without exaggeration. Guster has decided that these deposits are delicious treasures that must be brought into our house and savored. Chandler has dubbed him "The Poop Smuggler". I have dubbed him shameless and undignified.
For all his faults, he is a pretty good dog. We haven't summited a peak together yet, but when we do, I like to imagine he'll pull out a bottle of Johnny Walker Blue, pour himself a glass, look off into the distance, nod, and then spit out the massive deer turd he's been chewing on for the last 3 hours.
"Good dog", I'll say. "Good dog."
Grip On:
Bayside's new album.
Stop What You're Doing and Watch:
some Mad Men. Then smoke a cigarette and put some bear grease in your hair. It's such a gas!
Hip Hop Gangster Shoutout To:
Jeremiah Dulaney. Tornado survivor. Loving father. Doting husband. Waterboarder of house cats.
Tuesday, March 22, 2011
them duke boys...
as a high school senior, my life up to that point had been marked by small rebellions. i was, by reputation, a good kid. however, on most friday nights, you could often find me choking down a warm beer that had been thoughtfully stashed under a rock by my hapless best friend some three months earlier in a vain attempt to establish myself as a "man's man" or "ben the party guy" or at least just straight. i indulged in the occasional cigar, but never forgot to strip off any unnecessary clothing beforehand and shower myself in adidas cologne afterwards lest my parents assume that i was smoking meth and driving bulldozers into elementary schools during my leisure time. options for true deviant behavior were limited in my small town. one could either drink even warmer and lower quality beer at the local beagle club with the farmer kids; urinate in, on, or off of interesting pieces of architecture; or hang out in someone's basement watching such cinematic classics as "dude, where's my car" or "tomcats".
none of these options satisfied my growing urge to push the boundaries of what was considered acceptable behavior in such a puritan culture.
then, one night, i went possum stompin.
the rules are simple:
1. find a possum
2. stomp the possum
3. rejoice
a few basic things are required in order to be properly prepared for a jovial evening of possum stompin. good sturdy boots are a must, as possums who are being stomped have a nasty habit of biting and thrashing when a 160 pound high school senior is standing on their nuts. a four wheel drive truck is desirable and allows the stompers to tear through corn fields and back yards hollerin' nonsense in southern accents... because why not. also, anything carhartt enhances the experience, because somehow it just feels right. cyclists wear spandex, basketball players wear mesh, pedophiles wear their polo shirts tucked in and buttoned to the top, and possum stompers wear carhartt. if anyoneone can grow a mustache, bonus points are administered.
accessories are allowed, so long as they are homemade. for example, a shovel handle with a circular saw blade attached to the business end can enhance an evening of possum stompin tenfold. so can moonshine, but only if it is stored in an old gatorade bottle and a tsunami of curse words and "yeehaws" flow forth after each hesitant sip.
my tenure as a possum stomper was short-lived, as i quickly realized i was neither southern nor mentally retarded. i don't regret the experience all that much, but i do still shiver occasionally when i see a marmot or a small deer in the yard of our apartment complex and my first instinct is to run outside screaming quotes from dukes of hazzard and flailing my arms wildly.
none of these options satisfied my growing urge to push the boundaries of what was considered acceptable behavior in such a puritan culture.
then, one night, i went possum stompin.
the rules are simple:
1. find a possum
2. stomp the possum
3. rejoice
a few basic things are required in order to be properly prepared for a jovial evening of possum stompin. good sturdy boots are a must, as possums who are being stomped have a nasty habit of biting and thrashing when a 160 pound high school senior is standing on their nuts. a four wheel drive truck is desirable and allows the stompers to tear through corn fields and back yards hollerin' nonsense in southern accents... because why not. also, anything carhartt enhances the experience, because somehow it just feels right. cyclists wear spandex, basketball players wear mesh, pedophiles wear their polo shirts tucked in and buttoned to the top, and possum stompers wear carhartt. if anyoneone can grow a mustache, bonus points are administered.
accessories are allowed, so long as they are homemade. for example, a shovel handle with a circular saw blade attached to the business end can enhance an evening of possum stompin tenfold. so can moonshine, but only if it is stored in an old gatorade bottle and a tsunami of curse words and "yeehaws" flow forth after each hesitant sip.
my tenure as a possum stomper was short-lived, as i quickly realized i was neither southern nor mentally retarded. i don't regret the experience all that much, but i do still shiver occasionally when i see a marmot or a small deer in the yard of our apartment complex and my first instinct is to run outside screaming quotes from dukes of hazzard and flailing my arms wildly.
Wednesday, December 01, 2010
The birth of our savior... celebrated with grenades.
let's say you're a terrorist. maybe you decide that it's a good idea to hold a skyscraper hostage/take over an airport/require an absurd ransom for some cheeky mischief that you've concocted. let's say the stakes are high, but so is the reward, and the plan is so flawless that nothing could possibly go wrong.
now let's say you decide to decide to do all this on a holiday... possibly a major holiday... just for funsies, let's say it's time to ruin christmas. let's make a statement about american consumerism. let's remind the world just who is really in control (clearly it's pointy-faced shady gentlemen with eastern european accents). let's pick a holiday that is all about love and comfort and joy and shake things up a bit... inject a little sass.
now let's say that somehow, by some strange coincidence, john freakin' mcclane is within 300 miles of your objective:
holy crap.
call your henchmen and cancel.
pretend you have a cold or diarrhea or something.
it's not worth it.
because you know that within 120 minutes he'll be in a wifebeater, bleeding profusely from multiple bullet holes, spouting spaghetti western cliches laced with profanity, and he'll be pissed.
your day just got ruined.
i do hereby proclaim that die hard and die hard 2 are the greatest christmas movies of all time. jimmy stewart can be folksy, likeable, and serial killer-ish all he wants. the grinch can steal christmas and nuke whoville. charlie brown can buy the stupidest tree ever, light it on fire, and beat linus with it. bruce willis will simply light a cigarette, squint at you, and reduce you all to a steaming pile of who-hash.
game over. make some hot chocolate. put on that wal-mart christmas sweater with the cross-stitched rudolf on it. melt into your couch while john mcclane celebrates the season by blowing up terrorists.
God bless us... everyone.
get noise-punched in your ear hole by:
"mystery of the brain", by a great big pile of leaves
hip hop gangster shoutout to:
guster, my new puppy. he craps on the floor, i just cuddle him harder.
now let's say you decide to decide to do all this on a holiday... possibly a major holiday... just for funsies, let's say it's time to ruin christmas. let's make a statement about american consumerism. let's remind the world just who is really in control (clearly it's pointy-faced shady gentlemen with eastern european accents). let's pick a holiday that is all about love and comfort and joy and shake things up a bit... inject a little sass.
now let's say that somehow, by some strange coincidence, john freakin' mcclane is within 300 miles of your objective:
holy crap.
call your henchmen and cancel.
pretend you have a cold or diarrhea or something.
it's not worth it.
because you know that within 120 minutes he'll be in a wifebeater, bleeding profusely from multiple bullet holes, spouting spaghetti western cliches laced with profanity, and he'll be pissed.
your day just got ruined.
i do hereby proclaim that die hard and die hard 2 are the greatest christmas movies of all time. jimmy stewart can be folksy, likeable, and serial killer-ish all he wants. the grinch can steal christmas and nuke whoville. charlie brown can buy the stupidest tree ever, light it on fire, and beat linus with it. bruce willis will simply light a cigarette, squint at you, and reduce you all to a steaming pile of who-hash.
game over. make some hot chocolate. put on that wal-mart christmas sweater with the cross-stitched rudolf on it. melt into your couch while john mcclane celebrates the season by blowing up terrorists.
God bless us... everyone.
get noise-punched in your ear hole by:
"mystery of the brain", by a great big pile of leaves
hip hop gangster shoutout to:
guster, my new puppy. he craps on the floor, i just cuddle him harder.
Sunday, October 31, 2010
Killer Got the Wrath... the wrath of the nunchucks yo.
I apologize for the gap in posts, my friends, but I have just recently awoken from a six month cotton candy bender which left me partially naked, covered in pink processed sugar, and lost in the middle of a Branson Missouri strip mall. It's not a good story, so I'm not going to write about it, but for your own satchel of wisdom let me just say that donkeys do not cope well with the rigors of a paintball reenactment of Gettysburg.
I will be writing again shortly, and here are a few topics that I've been noodling over:
- The experience of being shirtless at a country music festival
- That time I almost died on a glacier and then cried in front of a man with a beard
- Accessory dogs and their possible nutritional value... specifically in lunch meat form
- The cultural impact of Wes Broadhurst's "All I Do is Blob" video, seen here:
- Pittsburgh cuisine, and its similarities to narcotics, candy corn, and The O.C.
- My adventures as a mountaineering shop employee, and my complete loss of faith in humanity as a result
- Our impending move to Buena Vista and Chandler's budding career as a Frontier Ranch chef... and my budding career as an unemployed full time blogger
- Little Debbie snack cakes vs. Hostess snack cakes: The Final Showdown
- That time I thought I neutered myself on my mountain bike
- The classic truckin' movie Joyride and its impact on my ability to apprectiate any other cinema
- Punk rock as the Good Lord's favored form of music (speculation)
- Steve Kelly's new record label (www.sinkingshiprecords.com) and my hopes that he'll sign me based solely on my heartfelt rendition of "Land Down Under" by Men At Work
More to come, most likely as I settle into a daily routine of macaroni and cheese, The View, and pantslessness as an unemployed house-husband in Buena Vista. Cannot wait to catch up on Days of Our Lives.
Listen To: "Coffee and Cigarettes" by Jimmy Eat World
Watch: Dawn of the Dead... it's zombie season.
Hip Hop Gangster Shoutout To: Courtney Cox, Dad, Anthony Barlich, Sarah Wygant, and everyone else who yelled at me for not writing.
I will be writing again shortly, and here are a few topics that I've been noodling over:
- The experience of being shirtless at a country music festival
- That time I almost died on a glacier and then cried in front of a man with a beard
- Accessory dogs and their possible nutritional value... specifically in lunch meat form
- The cultural impact of Wes Broadhurst's "All I Do is Blob" video, seen here:
- Pittsburgh cuisine, and its similarities to narcotics, candy corn, and The O.C.
- My adventures as a mountaineering shop employee, and my complete loss of faith in humanity as a result
- Our impending move to Buena Vista and Chandler's budding career as a Frontier Ranch chef... and my budding career as an unemployed full time blogger
- Little Debbie snack cakes vs. Hostess snack cakes: The Final Showdown
- That time I thought I neutered myself on my mountain bike
- The classic truckin' movie Joyride and its impact on my ability to apprectiate any other cinema
- Punk rock as the Good Lord's favored form of music (speculation)
- Steve Kelly's new record label (www.sinkingshiprecords.com) and my hopes that he'll sign me based solely on my heartfelt rendition of "Land Down Under" by Men At Work
More to come, most likely as I settle into a daily routine of macaroni and cheese, The View, and pantslessness as an unemployed house-husband in Buena Vista. Cannot wait to catch up on Days of Our Lives.
Listen To: "Coffee and Cigarettes" by Jimmy Eat World
Watch: Dawn of the Dead... it's zombie season.
Hip Hop Gangster Shoutout To: Courtney Cox, Dad, Anthony Barlich, Sarah Wygant, and everyone else who yelled at me for not writing.
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