Reading the kitty’s tale of stacking wood reminded me of the winter I spent living in the woods. It was during the fall, I’m splitting logs, and after a day of sweat and sore arms I’ve got about two cords ready. Now, there happened to be an older fella living a few miles up the road from me, who had a great view of all the mountains and valleys around. I figured he would know a thing or two about predicting the oncoming weather, so I trudged up to see him. Knock on his door and ask, “So, what’s the winter gonna be like?” He looked around the valley, and said, “Hmm, could be kinda cold.”
So, I hike back home, and the next day chop and stack another two cords. Thinking it would be enough, but not too sure, I repeat the hike back to the old coot’s place, and ask the same question. “Yup, it’s gonna be a cold one, fer sure, fer sure.” I head back home and, just to be safe, prepare another three cords. Head back to the wise man–trust me, I’ve been hiking a lot by now–to get his advice.
“Oh, it’s gonna be brittle cold,” he avers. By now, I’m frustrated and tired. “How exactly do you know?” I inquire.
“Well,” he says and he points to my cabin far down the mountain, “look at all the wood that feller is stacking.” Hee.
On another note: Yeah, I admit it, I did my dance of delight to see my two favourite teams come in first and second. I hate the Christians, coat-tailing on Kim and Chip and then complaining that K&C tried to lose them. God was taking a bath, you freaks, and couldn’t be bothered to answer your prayers. Now go back to modeling for Sears. Oh, and Colin proposed to Christie this morning on the Early Show. I can do without that trend.
Yeah, it’s been stolen, even though you had it locked with a Kryptonite U lock. My guess is that some nerd with his Bic pen took it. And here’s how.
I’m sure we’ll all sleep better now, knowing that Jacques Parizeau has declared the health deal good for sovereignty. Yeah, nothing like transfer payments and shorter waiting lines in ER for us to think, “You know what? We really should split from this country.” Jesus, why does this guy still get coverage? It’s not as though he’s relevant anymore. Dude, go have another drink.
So, I dropped off the milliner last night at the airport. Poor thing, has to go to Europe on an all-expenses-paid trip for 10 days. All for the sole purpose of finding art and artisans for the Cirque. Ten days in Antwerp and Paris. I feel her pain. (Then again, she’s gonna miss the finale of The Amazing Race. Bwahaha!)
Honestly, though, I did feel a bit sorry for her last night; while we were at the Air France counter, it dawned on me that she was going to be confined in an enclosed airliner with, well, French people. Nothing against the French-from-France (heck, I dated one for nearly four years) but, I swear, those accents make me cringe.
Well, I didn’t actually. I know I should have, I know you guys were seminal, I know you guys pretty much hated each other by the end. (But, hey, I have gotten drunk at CBCGs, so that’s something.) Yeah, I’m sure I could have made a play on words from one of your songs, but can’t think of it. So, instead, Johnny Ramone Dies at 55.
Man, the folks who formedmy influences , directly or indirectly, are all kicking it.
Was on the ergocycle last night, with the World Cup final starting on the tube. It sure makes the monotony less, well, monotonous. So, blah blah blah, Ron MacLean is there, performing his usual sycophantic shtick, Kelly Hrudy has his I-peed-my-pants stupid grin, and Brian Burke is standing there, looking like he wants to hit Ron MacLean. Just another hockey night in Canada, folks across the country are having sex doggy-style (so they can both watch the game, dontcha know?), and I’m having my pudendal artery crush by the bike seat. Same old, same old. After five minutes of that drudge, it’s time for the national anthems. The cycle-ops is making a lot of noise, so I really can’t hear much, but I’ve got to say that that Roman Panokov (or whatever) guy looks like he’s smashed a few guitars and mike-stands in his time. Can you say ex-angry punk rocker?
But then? Horror of horrors, it’s Canada’s answer to Vitamin C, Sass Jordan herself, dressed in I-don’t-fucking-know-what, strides on to sing Canada’s song. Oy, from backup singer to the Box (remember them?), to regional-one-hit-wonder, to declared lesbian when her career was going nowhere (hey, it kinda worked for Sinead and more for kd), to now what? Riiight, she’s got a gig as one quarter of a bunch of nobodies paid to flatter a batch of upcoming never-weres on Canadian Idol. Make us proud there, luv. Anyhow… like I said, she comes on and does her downtown dirty rendition of the anthem. In English. Only in English. Wow. Classless.
I’m not political, and I’m not overly sensitive, but that just struck me as weird. I understand that learning five lines in French might have been asking a bit too much of the old hag, but still.
Oh, and would it be okay to admit that I heart Colin and Christie? And, yes, it’s a fixation, but Phil? When we said to put a sock in it, we were being figurative. Yowza!
Doing my laundry last night at the machines, got side-tracked by helping out with dinner (we’re on a tapas kick right now). Head down after supper, expecting my clothes to have been taken out of the dryer and piled on top of one of the machines. Instead, when I get there, they’ve all been folded by some sweet older lady. Geez, even I don’t fold my clothes. As well, this woman points out that two of my articles are still somewhat wet, and that I should probably hang them up for awhile. Um, thanks.
So, in the future, for me to get free laundry service, I should probably clean my loads on Sunday night. I’ve got to write that down.
Oh, sure, you exchange a couple of emails with another climber, make plans to hook up and do some high routes over the long weekend. You figure, her having a user name inspired by a flower and having only been climbing for a year, that it’ll be a nice, relaxing weekend. Some moderate link-ups, slight fear factor, but nothing overwhelming.
So, you drive out of the city on Friday night, head down to the relative wilderness of New Hampshire, park your car by the side of the road and throw down your sleeping bag in the woods. You wake up early the next morning and realise you only have 10 minutes before your meeting time. No coffee, no bagels, no nothing. You drive off, and meet. She’s a dainty thing, so you figure, “ah, relaxing weekend.” Um, no. She’s got her pack on in a split second and heading up the trail. The steep trail. (Have I mentioned no coffee?)
By the time we get to the cliff, she’s geared up: I’m sucking wind. Catch my breath, and wait for her to climb. She breezes through it, and I follow. Rappel back down, switch leads, and I start up another climb. This goes on from about 8 in the morning to 4 in the afternoon. In the sun. I’m dripping. I’m dehydrated. I’m still sucking wind. Can’t forget about the sucking wind. “Well, we’re done here,” she finally admits. I breathe a sign of relief.
We head off to a lake, dowse ourselves, and relax on the beach for a while. “Okay, let’s go climbing again,” she declares. “Aw fuck,” I say to myself. Back for another hike up to another cliff, and another difficult route. The day over, we set up camp, and I get the cooking duties. Stumble into my tent, but not before being told, “we should try to get an earlier start tomorrow.” Huh?
Roll out the next morning to a distant peak. No one around, it’s chilly. After hiking for a mile or so, head up a trail to the cliff. My turn to go first. Nothing too difficult, but a leg-breaking fall potential. She grabs the lead for the next part, pulls a roof and keeps hiking up this cliff. I follow and get the next lead, 190 feet of what amounts to free soloing. Okay, I was able to put in one piece of protection after about 120 feet, but besides that… Finish off with leading a slightly difficult pitch, again with major bone-breaking fall potential. We finish the climb, head down and I’m thinking that we’re probably done for the day. No such luck. This girl still wants to climb. Head back to another cliff. I’m dying. We do a few more climbs, I’m dead.
What have I gotten myself into? This was supposed to be an easy weekend. I could be back home, scoping out all the innocent young girls newly arrived in town for university. The milliner’s out of town, I could be sitting around in my underwear, drinking beer, belching, and scratching myself indiscriminately. But noooo. Instead, I’m lagging behind some unknown Ukranian dynamo who’s kicking my tired old ass. I’m hating her. And I’m hoping for rain. No such luck. After another day of the same sort of torture, I’m as beat as a rug. Two days later, and my legs are still screaming.
I would like to thank the Amazing Race and its contestants for the following advice on how to get out of doing a chore or a favour, or even having to stand up for the milliner:
milliner: Could you get me a glass of water?
me: Lord, get her a glass of water.
milliner: Could you help me with this weight?
me: Lord, help her with this weight.
milliner: Hey, that man is grabbing my ass!
me: Lord, could it only be me that grabs that ass?
Also, Phil’s been dressing right for the past few weeks. Very obvious in those white pants.