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Scary Larry
Trad climber
Las Vegas
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Apr 11, 2006 - 06:13pm PT
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Normally X avoided actually doing any hard climbs, but some bizarre metaphysical confluence put him at the base of a horror-show offwidth on a Sunday afternoon. The crack towered above him as flared as Jimi Hendrix bell-bottoms and more hung over than a Santa Monica wino. It was slick and smooth and there was no rest until he reached The Crystal, hopelessly far above his head. He cringed and whimpered and fished about for some kind of excuse. He probably would have passed, but the approach of the two cute German girls gave him an extra shot of courage.
He shouted down to me, "Watch me! I'm going to cast off!"
"Okay, I got you."
"I'm going to launch," he said. "I'm going to weigh anchor, put to sea."
"Right. Go for it."
He hesitated for another moment. "I'm going to set sail, unfurl the jib, break ground, unmoor and hoist the mainsail."
"Just climb the god damned crack!"
He thrashed and thrutched and his feet bicycled uselessly against the undercut granite. Finally, with a pathetic wail of anguish, he got a fingertip onto The Crystal. Sensing somehow that the German girls were stopping to look, he shouted dramatically, "Watch me! I'm going to have to yard on this Crystal!"
He unleashed a mighty heave and realized, too late, that his guns were empty. His troops were AWOL. His cupboards were bare. His forearms were missing in action. Elvis had left the building. He came off and described a graceful parabola that brought him crashing to the ground just a step in front of the horrified German girls. With a practiced moan and his sorrowful eyes beseeching sympathy, he looked up at the pulchritudinous pair. They were unimpressed, as the route was only 5.3 and his fall a mere two feet.
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Roger Breedlove
Trad climber
Cleveland Heights, Ohio
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Apr 12, 2006 - 12:12am PT
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Since Largo is so, well, large, in all respects, Ryan (Yo) and I teamed up, borrowed some of his words (and some other word masters) and updated the circumstances to pay him our respects. So to speak.
Scams, Blasphemies, and Yes
Or, The Stonemasters' fate
Only with reservations do I record the following story. First, it begins and ends with the classic folly of old men. Second, it’s self flagellating, exposing me to the ridicule of those who have reached great heights only to come crashing down.
“You are not as young as you once were!” Doc intones his cliché. He pointedly suggests that I get them checked.
I finally agree. As I am wheeled in with my open backed gown, I spy the pretty attending nurse whose looks grab me like an ugly girl in a tunnel of love with a carton of Velcro and four and a half rolls of duct tape. “Great Odin’s raven,” I cry. I let loose with ripened words to match her metaphors.
“Something could happen here,” I toss off with a leering look. She only smiles sweetly, and lets me know that in the position that I am about to assume, she won’t be in the mood.
I drift in and out, vaguely aware that I am being inflated, but not by the pretty nurse whose vision flits like a hummingbird in and out of my ego-libido. I had been prepared the day before as if I had eaten dozens of hot dogs that had scoured my insides on their way out. The plug keeps the pumped air in, straightening me out to a height of 12 feet, upper body sliding along the stainless steel table. As I gain height, my waist takes on the dimensions of a Baffin wall poop tube built for a team of eighteen.
Doc glassed the open passage from its far end. “It’s offset. Clean it up…a bit of snipping and we are home free.” He was on a roll, bagging gemstones at his leisure.
“Have a look,” he offers to the nurse.
Ho man, not the something-could-happen-here nurse looking where the sun don’t shine, where the gems are formed.
The final blasphemy.
She coos as she inspects the inner man on display. In the flush of her insight, she bumps the plug and a great whoosh begins.
“Dumb shit” Doc screams, “Grab the line!” He springs forward, catching the harness securing the plug with one hand and grabbing the air line with the other. The end of the pressured air line swings wildly like a physical incarnation of Largo’s best prose while the harness issues all manner of snapping sounds like a vine stretched into borrowed time. He tries to shove the accelerating plug back into place but nothing is keeping the whoosh from becoming a roar. “Watch me!” he cries, as the now freed air forces him back. But, by then he is alone in his task…like no metaphor can depict.
“I can’t hold on!” he screams. The nurse is heading for the door. I am shrinking to normal size, head accelerating towards my ass, hoping that some force will keep me from turning inside out, head forever between my legs, staring into the abyss. I clasped the table, pulled hard, and after a body length of futile effort, lunged for the nurse, who felt surprisingly solid.
Like all good women attracted to words, she kept me from consuming myself from the inside out. She held on tight, smothering me in her metaphors, remembering ‘I put my arms around him yes and drew him down to me so he could feel my breasts all perfume yes and his heart was going like mad and yes I said yes I will Yes.’
Later Doc told me that the procedure went just fine and I’d be back to writing in no time. I reckon it’ll be well into the next century before I repeat that.
And, something did happen. Nurse, who had instinctively understood that once you get past the crap, there is nothing left of old men but words, took a shine to me.
Having pulled royal scams and outlived the furies released by blasphemies, we spend long afternoons listlessly wandering through dark desert corridors, scouting for turtles, making garlands from wild flowers, relishing the skyscape.
TL,C
Ryan and Roger
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Lambone
Ice climber
Ashland, Or
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Apr 12, 2006 - 02:57am PT
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damn that sounds nasty...
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looking sketchy there...
Social climber
Latitute 33
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Topic Author's Reply - Apr 12, 2006 - 01:57pm PT
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Time is getting short folks. Lets see some more.
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Inner City
Trad climber
East Bay
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Apr 12, 2006 - 02:34pm PT
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This thread is great. Russ is a clear winner currently!
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pyro
Trad climber
stoney point,ca
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Apr 12, 2006 - 11:07pm PT
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hello!
"That ain't no friend at all"
cool! me thinks about okay! later..
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Jaybro
Social climber
The West
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Apr 12, 2006 - 11:10pm PT
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Does this sh#t make Largo blush?
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Ammon
Big Wall climber
El Cap
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Apr 12, 2006 - 11:37pm PT
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Yep, I’ve always liked JL’s writing. Here’s my submission which was actually inspired by his stories.
I’ve actually posted it here before. It doesn’t meet the rules. But, rules were meant to be broken (haa haa). He’s a hard act to follow so lower your expectations.
Cheers!!!
Itching for the Jungle-
It was our day off work.
I had been staying on the tenth floor of a hotel facing the tropical Atlantic Ocean in Isle Verde, Puerto Rico.
After six days of working on the new arena in San Juan we decided it was high time to have a day of adventure. My boss, Keith, had seen a huge cave hanging high on a jungle wall and was itching to explore it. Our intentions were to hack our way through the steep cliff side with a machete and fix a climbing rope when it became to shear to climb. Other than Keith and I, the five man party consisted of Brian McCray, Seth Dillass and Josh Wood.
Along the way we stopped at the Super K-Mart for a machete, everyone confident and in high spirits. As I watched Brian sharpen our tool to blaze a trail, I relayed a few stories that my friend Jose Pereyra had told me. Equalizing roots by grabbing many roots in one hand..... jamming your whole arm in mud to hold on to the base of small plants. We had to be prepared for the worst.
After many toll booths, we arrived in the small valley we were aiming for. We exited the vehicle and anxiously started surveying the path of least resistance. We all agreed that we would have to go through a band of steep rock and that I was elected for the job.
The jungle was thick. We thrashed our way through vines, branches and leaves of all sort. Brian led the first part, hacking at the greenery until he came to the band of rock. I inched my way ahead, squirming my way in front of the team of five. I lashed the rope around my waist and started off climbing up the wall. I held onto vines and roots until they would snap and then quickly go for another handful before my body would plummet.
This worked most of the way if I had a good foot hold. If not my feet would spit out from underneath me and I would do a wild looking dog-scratch until I was solid again. Then I would continue, slowly and methodically. It was pretty smooth until I cam to a lip on a sandy ledge. I found pockets in the limestone that made good hand holds.
The rock started to overhang, and I had to use the pockets, toeing in and pivoting my body into the face. I finally got my hand around a pretty good size tree, mantled and then tied the rope off. “Line’s fixed”, I yelled.
I sat down, pretty worked from the lead. I was actually free soloing because I knew after the first ten feet the rope wouldn’t do any good. That’s when I started to notice that my body was itching, pretty bad. I scratched like crazy at my arms, chest and stomach which seemed to get the worst of it. The rest of the party ascended the rope, hand over hand.
The itching continued and became worse. At one point I had to stop, sit down and try and zone out the terrible irritation that my body was experiencing. In fact, I had never even imagined this kind of pain was possible. Not your normal kind of pain. This was intolerable. It made you feel like you were losing your marbles.
When we arrived at the mouth of the cave, we ran around in circles, yelling and scratching like hell.
“When will it stop”, we kept yelling.
After a half an hour or so, Keith started exploring the mouth of the cave. He had a long sleeve t-shirt and avoided most of the dose of fibers. We wondered if it was stinging nettle but all agreed there was no such stinging nettle in the States that produced such a lashing. Keith came over a while later with a several chunks of pottery that was obviously old and could have dated back to an ancient tribe. Even though the mysterious itching didn’t fade too much, we all started exploring.
The floor was soft and thick with guano. Disease was the first conversation as we crept closer inside the cave. I was still semi-pacing and gripping my hair, ready to pull it out if the itching got any worse. I excused my behavior by the knowledge that I got the worst dose, being in the lead most of the way.
Stalactites and stalagmites popped out everywhere. I saw one that was neither a tight or a mite and they were both, as well. They grew together, forming a monomite.
We saw a petroglyph, confirming the ancient habitat that once dwelled here. A proud lizard, etched with coals over many years. Water drained down the side of the cave wall, forming a small pond with unknown creepy-crawlies. We saw lots of legs and a small head and then lots of squirming to get back under the mud of the pond
Next to that, crawling on the wall, was a crab. A crab unlike I had ever seen before. It seemed mutated to be able to exist in such a hostile environment. Bats became startled and a few started to fly around in circles in spastic movements.
A few of us scattered, not wanting them to come close enough to touch us. As I scrambled away I looked down to notice all of the “lacucuroches” scrambling as well. “Wow, this place has quite the array of excitement”, I thought.
I found a small vein and squirmed into the entrance. It went for thirty feet and then came to a squeeze smaller than I wanted. I backed out and told the others about it.
Keith was in there without hesitation. I looked over just in time to see his legs inching the rest of the way through, covered in mud.
It was only a few minutes later that he was calling for all kinds of things.
“I need my shirt”, I need the rope, hand me my headlamp”, he yelled. Fifteen minutes later he was squirming his way back, reporting that it was a dead end. Fine by me, I think I’m ready to get out of this place.
We got ready to descend. Everyone got worked up about going into the itching-fest again. Brian and I agreed that this place wasn’t exactly evil, but not a very nice place either. I tried using a plastic bag, to avoid the itching, but it only seemed to make it worse. We headed out.
I took the banzai approach and kicked it into full force and survival mode. It didn’t take long to get to the small road that we parked on. We drove to a small turnout.
We all ran to the river which didn’t give us much relief from the stinging, itching fibers that came from the jungle. A few locals were standing around, pointing fingers at us, while laughing.
We spent the rest of the day driving around the mountain roads, viewing the scenery from inside the vehicle, away from the local vegetation......
always remembering the “jungle itch”.
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Ammon
Big Wall climber
El Cap
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Apr 13, 2006 - 12:40am PT
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Ho man, I should have read the entire thread before posting. Russ is killin' IT!!
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the Fet
Trad climber
Loomis, CA
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Apr 13, 2006 - 12:41pm PT
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Ho man, the enormity of my task overwhelmed me before I even began. But I was as strong as a hormonally enhanced East German Athlete and experienced as a fishnet clad Santa Monica Blvd nightcrawler. Surely I could handle this. Still I secretly reeled with terror.
My only hope, I surmised, would be to get this over with quickly before my constitution gave out. I stepped up to the plate and prepared for the battle of my pitiful life.
At first it was reasonable. This wasn’t too bad, I began to think. Maybe I’ll actually get through this alive. I began to feel cocky. All those stories I had heard must have been exaggerated, or perhaps I could just deal with adversity better than those who padded the tales of their experience with an extra dose of pain and difficulty.
But then the next stage hit me like a ton of bricks soaked in the feces and vomit of a thousand drunks, polluted by years of cheap vodka and rotten food scrounged from trash cans. My body revolted. Stars filled my eyes.
Something is terribly wrong I thought. No one can possibly have done this before. It was all lies. A horrible joke played on me. Is this the way it was going to end? Did I finally get myself into something that I couldn’t escape from? I wanted to go home. Back to my warm bed. But I was in the middle of it now, no way to retreat, the only thing I could do was press on.
Suddenly the misery and enormity of my challenge doubled. This is a truly impossible task. Every inch, no every millimeter was an excruciating combat to fight tooth and nail for. I clawed like a wretched stray cat in an alley of rabid pit bulls fighting for every tiny sliver of advancement. Microscopic glimmers of hope at the end of a pitch-black tunnel, the only thing driving me on.
The excruciating pain of molten lava mixed with battery acid flowed through my body. My very soul being ripped from my once mighty chest.
I so wished this terrible ordeal would be over that I began to covet the peaceful, cool escape of death. Surely anything Beelezebub could torture me with had nothing on this. What would happen if I did simply give up? But the thought of being stuck in this position was too sickening to contemplate.
I mustered every last bit of strength I had and pushed on as hard as I could.
I longed for the carefree days of my youth. Eons before this sorry, poisoned sack of corpuscles was forced into this horrid spectacle.
It got worse and worse every eternal second. I cried and cursed and struggled to make any discernable progress.
Then all at once the heavens opened, shafts of golden light bathed me, and a glorious chorus of angels rang out. The weight of a billion worlds was lifted off my tawny shoulders. I did it. I passed the crux. A resounding tink of metal on stone assured me the worst was over. I looked down at that god-damn kidney stone in the metal pan and swore off dairy forever.
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G_Gnome
Social climber
Tendonitis City
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Apr 13, 2006 - 04:59pm PT
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HO MAN! That was excellent Fet!
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Russ Walling
Social climber
Same place as you, man...... (WB)
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Apr 13, 2006 - 07:39pm PT
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Ho Maaan!!! (last one)
Ho man....
The B loop is ground zero for Joshua Tree highjinks and tonight would be no exception. All manner of curs had assembled for the nightly warming of the bones and inflated tales of the days conquests. Around the fire men were fueled by intoxicants so wildly powerful that they actually thought that not only were they handsome, but that every woman found them irresistible. The standard issue of two women for every 300 hundred men at the crags had long ago decided that these men were neither handsome or irresistible. A nomadic leper had a better chance of a mohair sighting than any of them, even after a shower.
As the night dragged on and route grades were inflated to suit the gesticulations, Finn knew that a ranger patrol would be along shortly for the 10PM rounds. Finn always knew when the rangers were coming, especially since his new object of desire was Penelope Justice, the head ranger. Finn had brazenly asked Penelope out many times, and every advance was rebuffed vigorously.
Finn had been the loudest at the fire this night, and his talk was not of climbing, or imaginary mattress romps with the fairer sex... he was talking about weed. Not just a pinner between friends, not the scrapings from an upturned Frisbee, but lots of weed. Seems he had obtained a large stash, and was in no uncertain terms blabbing about it... maybe too much, and certainly too loud.
Like clockwork the ranger patrol arrived at 10PM, but with two cars on this night. Out jumps Penelope Justice and at her heels is the faithful hound Rudy, a dope sniffing dog. Anyone holding has at this point faded into the darkness as more officers spill out of the patrol cars. Finn stood his ground at the fire and tried not to move as Rudy made a beeline for his crotch.
Finn tried to act cool and blurted out, "He probably smells my dog".
Penelope watched as Rudy again and again nuzzled at Finns crotch, right up to the point of a few inspired love bites.
"Seems he smells more than just your dog" says Penelope. Rudy has now feveroushly flaked out his Revlon and is dry humping Finns' leg.
"Nope... just my dog" assures Finn between humps.
Penelope ain't buying it. She motions at his crotch with her nightstick, "you're going to need to show us what's in there".
Like a dream come true, Finn blushes and says, "I thought you'd never ask", and quickly starts to unbutton his britches. Rudy is forcibly restrained as the last button is about to pop.... Penelope leans in and shines all the beam a 16 D Cell MagLight can muster directly on the last button.... a bevy of Tools jostle for position....
Finn whips open the front of his pants and there it is for all to see.... 14oz of seasoned flank steak lashed to his member with 3mm perlon.
As they look on in horror, Finn asks of Penelope, "does this count as a first date??"
(Based on "Banzai Bob" (I think??))
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ron gomez
Trad climber
fallbrook,ca
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Apr 13, 2006 - 08:34pm PT
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Russ does this sooo good maybe John got ALL HIS stories from Russ, no one does it better! Keep em comin' Russ yer hellarious!
Peace
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Russ Walling
Social climber
Same place as you, man...... (WB)
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Apr 13, 2006 - 08:53pm PT
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Naw... Largo taught me everything I know.
Some of the best times were working with the king himself and dreaming up and writing down stuff just that nutty, for pay! Man we used to bust up all day long! Those were the days.
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James
Social climber
My Subconcious
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Apr 13, 2006 - 09:36pm PT
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Hunger in Yosemite
Our state of sub-Saharan squalor had left us too poor to afford batteries for our sundial let alone sustenance for our skeletal bodies. Our meager food supplies consisted of thirteen seasoning packets of Ramen, a half crystallized jar of honey, and one loaf of rye bread. Max was thick as a candle wick and often disappeared when turned sideways. Will had an alphabet of malnutrition from lack of vitamin A to a severe case of scurvy. I was doing little better with a head swollen to Hidenberg proportions from an excessive stay in Yosemite.
With our wallets emptied we had a total of two feet of 5mm cord and half a pound of pocket lint. The savagery of the rock climbing in Yosemite demanded that we replenish our emaciated bodies. A trip to the outside was necessary to procure provisions to so we could stay in the valley and climb a little longer as the rangers in Yosemite were a green Gestapo who didn’t take kindly to our scavenging of table scraps and illegal camping.
We borrowed a doubloon gold Impala and set sail for the nearest bountiful source of free food, a dumpster at the Trader Joes’ grocery store in Fresno.
The journey out of Yosemite had the curves of a supermodel and the topography to boot. We thundered over the granite of the Rostrum, tiptoed past the golf course in Wawona, and zipped past the meth labs in Oakhurst. The torturous drive finally ended when we entered the metropolis of Fresno, a neon labyrinth in the desert that Rand McNally should have forgotten.
We stationed the Impala in a bank parking lot and began our dumpster stake-out. A pear shaped guard, with a hirsute piece of flab perched above his mouth that appeared to be a rat slathered in Rogaine, made rounds about the building. The store hadn’t made their nightly dump of the day’s produce yet so we twiddled our thumbs and dreamed about El Capitan. Minutes passed, and then hours, as the guard squinted his mole sized eyes at the car full of derelicts. He stared at us bewilderingly, as though he was trying to solve a one-piece puzzle.
As the belled tolled midnight, a skinny teenager with oversized hands tossed the garbage into the dumpster. The guard waddled his portly frame around the corner and we swooped.
Max pole-vaulted into the dumpster with a gold medal arc while Will and I scurried to place the food into bread bins. Linguini and cartons of organic orange juice came careening towards my head. Artichoke hearts melted down the windows as we heaved the supplies into the running Impala.
The click of the guard’s boots began to come around the corner. We rushed to secure our cargo. I drummed on the dumpster and Max threw himself into the back seat, a portabella mushroom hanging doggedly from the nape of his neck.
We flew out of the grocery store lot to the Fresno streets. Will engaged the flux capacitor and we shot towards Yosemite at NASCAR speeds. Max pinballed between the bins of booty while Will and I dreamed of seven course meals that consisted of more than a six pack of Olde English and a potato.
“No more toast for breakfast in the café, no more Bali Shag for lunch, and no more passing out starving.” The pirates curled their lips upward shouting, “Fresno? Fres-yes!”
The car plummeted into the valley and then peeled into the orchard below Half Dome. We pulled the bins from the car and greedily sorted the food, kings about to banquet.
Will and I threw out anything that wouldn’t meet our discriminating tastes as Max husteled into the trees. We reached the end of the bins and found amongst the heaps of rotten vegetables and fuzz covered navel oranges our well earned prize, a package of spaghetti and a bile covered Max.
Disappointment coursed through our veins. The unforgiving granite would continue to gobi our hands and make our gaunt and scraggy bodies bow in submission.
Juicy nuggets of half chewed rye bread fell from Max’s mouth onto the ground. Finally Will looked down at the puddle of garbage and spoke up. “You gonna eat that?”
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Al Downie
climber
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Apr 14, 2006 - 04:05am PT
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Russ, dude, you're bubonically malarious! Thanks for the flashback...
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the Fet
Trad climber
Loomis, CA
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Apr 14, 2006 - 02:25pm PT
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Nice one James.
I think Russ might be too good, to win a "Bad" Largo contest. ;-)
"He had the requisite tooth brush, a dental pick, pencil eraser, two jewelers loupes, a chicken bone replete with scrimshaw and jar of fruit flys. After a arduous ritual involving all the superfluous accoutrements he was finally ready to slap some dermis to granite." Classic.
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susan peplow
climber
Winner of Diet Challenge!!!
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Apr 14, 2006 - 04:25pm PT
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Protege, Master, and Photog.
Todd Gordon party in ???? '92???
NOT REALLY SUSAN POSTING BUT SHE KEEPS USING MY DAMN MACHINE!!!!!
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Russ Walling
Social climber
Same place as you, man...... (WB)
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Apr 18, 2006 - 02:52am PT
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Ok mates... fossil party™™ is over, and the big rumble in Powell Town was that I was the winner.... Where is the podium, where is the winners circle, where is my faux Oscar???
Ho Maaaaaaaaaaaaan! Load me with some swag!!!!!!!
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Grug
Trad climber
Golden, Colorado
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Apr 18, 2006 - 08:39am PT
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My vote's fer Russ. Just read James' entry--good stuff!
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