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mouse from merced

Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
Nov 1, 2012 - 01:57am PT
The Rev in his present iteration.
Jeff Mathis.
Jeff Mathis.
Credit: BooDawg

'Let my people work for a damn living. I don't care if Yvon is The Boss.'--The Rev
mouse from merced

Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
Nov 1, 2012 - 04:43pm PT

Join Gypsy.

Social climber
Nov 2, 2012 - 05:49am PT
Marcie bowcups for the poem and the announcement.

Wow, the Rev--where has all that red hair gone?

To Bedlam my dear

where all the bonnie boys go

So drink to Tom of Bedlam, he'll fill the seas in barrels
I'll drink it all, all brewed with gall, with Mad Maudlin I will travel.
mouse from merced

Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
Nov 3, 2012 - 07:37am PT
It's a bad time to get in front of news like leukemia or pneumonia, and we won't mention el muerto, will we, Gypsy, especially if you're a hardman-in-you-own-mind and a Flame by the name of the mouse or the rev, both humbled by time's reaching out.

It's not bedlam, as I have said otherwhere.

sung in the key of tranquility
with the passion reserved for Ruler of My Heart

I have my poetry.
The key is tranquility.
Just ask miss neebee
sha she'll tell ya

I would write this bad god dang news
Some sad old natural blues

If I could play the ivories
Instead of these keys

When you are gone I'll not wish you would come back
I'll wait patiently
Maybe go to sleep at the wheel
Of this semi-load of blues

I'm so tired and I hate to be alone

I'd give you a call on the telephone
But you seemed like you want to be alone
Feel like death-dog chewing on my bone

Oh, I feel like howling at the moon
I feel dogged-down just like a coon
Told me you're going away real real soon

Too dang soon

three months left
the doctors say
nothing left
gone away
just like

"snap your finger"

Just how I don't feel--Snappy Sammy

I'm just kind of glad that I think this might be happening--it's what my Dad wants me to believe, anyway:


Social climber
Nov 3, 2012 - 08:04am PT
Credit: Gypsy

Social climber
Nov 3, 2012 - 09:40am PT
hey there say, mouse... to you, from my house:

just saw the other post...
made me sad, over here, aways from calif's coast...

i myself had a good daddy-cry today...
but mine is still here, and i'm praying for his longer-stay...

though i know the day will come, for those older folks that we love...
so we must continually seek strength from our creator above...

we are like seeds, you see...
we spout and grow, and give fruit, to others that be...

when folks die and pass on, there is a trigger from their 'ways...
and it sparks the fruit that been LEFT to continue their 'past day's stay'...

entrusted to you, then will come...
a new job, to be done...

keep your dad's works alive through you...
by love, in all you do...

it's the higher way of life, when death seems to steal...
and eternity, will boast, of fine dessert, after the earthy meal...

a hidden joy, shut away by this body's frame...
is the end-result, for when we park, after earth's life-game...

reunions will be far above here-and-now sweetness, as to what we've lost, 'tis true...
as long as we've tended to our souls, proper--and not been wicked to others, nor been hurting folks, by being 'askew'...

though--it may be long time in coming, to see, my friend...
but we will know more, come whenever 'this eartly time', does end...

TODAYS note--just now wrote:
(your buddies are all here, for this such time, you'll find...
reach out for them, here, so you'll not be trapped in your mind)

may this days sun rise, to find you with an anchor,
growing each day, as a soft surprise...

Credit: neebee

(stock photo)

mouse from merced

Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
Nov 5, 2012 - 06:22am PT
Here. A chapter of a story. A story based untirely on another belated chapter in my lives. Dedicated to confident n00bs everywhere.

B Lay and the Cap-Rock Cowhands.

Chapter the First: The hardmen arrive, as yet un-chastened.

Our intrepid cap-rock campers arrive in the Valley. Their sights are set on the Tilted Kitten, Tilt, and Mumís Word. They gaze in awe at the Incontrovertible Buttress, easily the South Side equivalent of the mighty Rhombus, which just barely defeated their combined assault just last month. With all their bad luck, weather in the nineties, and lack of energy as a result of having to carry their pigs to the base, then carry them back when the jugs broke their taped tops and soaked the food, the down and the topo-binder., itís no wonder the Rhombus won that round.

And so they begin the arduous quarter-mile to the base of the imposingly prepossessing pillar, buttress, more of a pile of pillars, buttresses, and chimney-looking cracks, really. Faceplant leads the way, f Stop walks behind, and B Lay is in his accustomed place, the third man.

B Layís attention is riveted on the gray-greenish-ashes color of their unquestioned quest. She is a thing of beauty, grace, and speed, in slow motion; heís ambling again, the one prone to day-dreaming. But he knows his way around a gri-gri. He should, heís a gym member going on nine or ten tough months. But he better Pick up the Pace, yuck, yuck. New York City? Gawd, Iíd die if I had to go there, or my nameís Joe Buck, maím. Iím new to theÖWhatís that smell? Slowly he turns around. Was that really sh#t and sh#t-paper he just stepped in? Oh, f*#k yeah, it was! Iím gonna check that Facelift out next fall, I think. This donít even happen at My Tanks! People know better down home. Sh#t, hell, Sh#t-heel. You better watch yer step here on out.

He dashes after Faceplant and f Stop, catching up as they come to the base. They dump the hardware, ropes, canteen, the topo-binder, the photography crap, the Go Pro and the cooler. They each light up a cigarette, a cigar, and a joint in celebration of having done the approach without trauma. They share some of the ice in the cooler, all three managing to wet their smokes, but f Stop just calmly re-lights his cigar and comments how nice it is with no Gila Monsters, little clouds of flies, diamondbacks, and hemorrhoids. Heís a Dallas fan, you can tell. Heís a hemorrhoid sufferer. Add to that the sh#t he smells in spite of the cigar, and he looks around carefully, and discovers the source. They decide to send the offensive shity-shoe-sufferer back to the ragtop for his ancient Fires. They may smell like his momís old tampon, but not like sh#t.

Over half-an-hour later B Lay comes back into the clearing at the base of the ďwall.ď Faceplant sees that heís limping. His Fires are held in his hand. He is wearing woolen socks filled with pine straw. Heís playing it safe. Good team player, gotta say that. He has a gallon of water. What? The coolerís full of Lone Star and Brew 102. With some Steam Bear Beer in for good measure. Some boys just gotta play the voice of reason card, but you canít B Lame him. Heís only the third man, anyway. He does have a way around that belay plate, though.

They are tripping out on IB, their ďpet nameĒ for this ogre. The buttress is less wide than the Rombo, as theyĎve begun calling that North-Facing feature. No, wait, itĎs South-facing and on the North Side. Got it, says Faceplant to himself. Now just STFU and donít let them know you forgot your rappel figure-8. The Rhombus seems now like an old friend who just likes his privacy, so he tries to shoot over your head to tell you heís not up for visitors. And this buttress is without question far less square. The Rombohedron. The Rhom-meister. Tony Rhomo. Homoromo. Semirhombis. And mossy, and lichecy, and colder. Other than that, itís on good quality rock, only decomp graniteís on the odd-numbered pitches and weíll flip for the belays. Wish I hadnít decided to agree to that, thinks Faceplant. ďYou want to belay the whole way, Face, itís OK by me. I wonít mind. What do yÖĒ

ďOh, hell, yeah! Leave it to me. Iím your number-one Number Two, old pard! Shoí nuf.Ē

ďCool jeans, Jelly Beans. What we have here, weíve the failure to authenticate, communicating our commitment to show our commitment. My case rests on the summit. We got here but three pitches, six at the most. Or maybe more, but if we get that high then we will have gone all the way to the approach to the gullies that lead only another thousand eight-hundred feet to the South Rim. Should be a piece of cake for West Texans who go for the dough on Broncho Billy Goatís Bluff.Ē

All of twenty-five feet high and overhung the last three feet all the way across the caprock. Must be at least two more TRís, not to mention the high traverse on the Blue Line. The Yellow Lineís only five feet off the deck. But thereís a rattlesnake den down the draw and it makes the approach iffy and too dangerous in climbing boots. Small hands only. Big hands, get the f*#k out of there, give it a wide birth. Itís not for you. You will only be tempted to face climb (p-tui, knock on wood).

After they climbed the Great White Thrown, the Bullís Balls, and Boy Howdyís Pilgrimage at Facerock, Faceplantís find in Waste Land down to the Maybellines (south of Red Riverís close enough for the un-initiated--itís kinda under development still), they figure they got these virgin Yosemite cracks and chimneys already in the bag. How hard can they be? Bullís Balls is so hard they had to almost fall leading it the first time and B Lay actually got sewing machine legs on the 5.8! Alice!

Faceplantís got so much going for him, man. Itís his momís Le Baron convertible. Itís his rack. Or mostly. All the hexes and stoppers are his, the two Friends still work, and the webbingís rated for twenty -five. Thatís what they said. Twenty-five hasnít even been done yet. Except the Austin climbers. I think they go to that high in their system Maybe he meant 5.25 and I got no clue? Itís enough to get a FA, even if itís only 5.8. Or Iíd settle for 5.7 d. That would be a first of a FA--first 5.7d inYosemite. We already got íem at Facerock, but weíll have to climb a 5.7b and a 5.7 c here in the Valley first--heck, gee, how hard could that be?

Well, here we are, the base of our future climbing futures, right here. Time to put up a FA or shut up. Never up, never in. If it looks hard, look harder. When the crack narrows, focus.

What would Pratt say? What would Royal write? Where would Roper take a piss?

mouse from merced

Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
Nov 6, 2012 - 04:54am PT
mouse from merced

Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
Nov 6, 2012 - 12:57pm PT
That was a link to show a photo of a snake like the one that spent the night with me last night. She was adorable, named Bo Ball.

Made me shudder when George brought her by, but then she got attached and I kept her on my neck while we shot the moons down one by one in honor of my father.
Credit: mouse from merced

And then we did the two bottles of red. And weed.

I'm on cruise control, Bo and George are gone, and the day is new.

What's new in your part of Middle Earth, Throwpie?

Post up a couple shots of the Third Gen Pie, I know you have dozens, Grandpa.

This thread could use some young Flames juju, know what I mean? Cuz the old Flames juju has been beat to hell this week.

Social climber
Nov 6, 2012 - 06:15pm PT
For your dad, Mr Mouse, who has gone over to the other side
mouse from merced

Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
Nov 7, 2012 - 08:15pm PT
And with the passing of the Da, the mouse scurried from view.

I may have to return.

I am going now.

I'll see how things go.




Like a simile.

Ice climber
chingadero de chula vista
Nov 7, 2012 - 08:16pm PT
Best of luck my friend.

Trad climber
Ridgway, CO
Nov 7, 2012 - 10:06pm PT
Peace Mouse!

Looks like Allen Pattie (B.A.T. shirt) in your 1990 Moab photo. Did you know Dave Bell?

Trad climber
Nov 8, 2012 - 11:01am PT
OK mouse...heres a recent shot. I couldn't find one without my sunglasses on, but imagine old, tired eyes underneath.
Credit: throwpie

Trad climber
Nov 8, 2012 - 11:02am PT
...and of course, Peggy Lou
Credit: throwpie
Ron Anderson

Trad climber
USA Moundhouse Nev. and land o da SLEDS!
Nov 8, 2012 - 11:07am PT
I USed to play "the lizard" on another forum.. I sought the cover of the rocks in which i would scan the meadowhood. The meadowhood is where the critters gathered and i the LIZARD kept guard duty over the hood- watchin for skally-wags and giving warning to the members of the hood. The lizard now watches for the Mouse.

Trad climber
Nov 8, 2012 - 11:15am PT
And we still have the old GMC
Credit: throwpie
mouse from merced

Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
Nov 8, 2012 - 03:17pm PT
Got pride in the old ride.


Trad climber
Nov 8, 2012 - 03:21pm PT
Lots of famous butts have sat on it's tailgate. Including yours, mouseau.

Trad climber
Nov 8, 2012 - 03:45pm PT
Serious Mouse and your cousin(?)
Credit: throwpie
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