Lets just say, mouse, you type with a unique voice. That email conveyed a sense of familiarity I found puzzling. I was a genuine question not intended to put off but rather clarify. I opened up in due course?
Btw I was a founding member of Dave Boger's Stonehenge climbing gym in Modesto. I enjoyed climbing on plastic at first, surprising myself. Then I gradually realized how destructive it co use be on the joints of someone as undisciplined as myself... The tool was dangerous in my hands.
Then over time I came to understand that without my friends? Climbing was a masterbation I preferred out of doors and out of sight. For years you would not have got sight of me... I hid in plain sight.
I like my climbing much more, now.
:-)
Took me several debilitating injuries to learn some of that on-going lesson.
Totally with ya, Dingus. Yer a mad Dingo dog, but not very English, a pit bull and a terror mutt, to my mind. Your bark is worse than your write. I appreciate your candor, your joie de reverie here is cause to celebrate a new friend. Not sending a friend request, however. Just putting you on notice. We'll get together and down some beers, and that is something to look forward to, in my estimation. Maybe even get to share a rope, que no?
Were it possible, I'd send you the song which T Hocking and his band, Jane Jones, put on their CD (last cut, lasting impact), called "Cool Friends."
The Sun'll Come Out Tomorrow, Little Orpheus Annie.
Q: Whither wander with no love?
A: All four points of the compass, under and over the earth, into my mind and the minds of others: Bob Dylan, for starters.
Just a thought after coming home with this flyer from the drumming circle/collaborative art venue at Coffee Bandits.
If you take the fifties and tell me the history of R 'n' R spins around an axis of young black men striving to make their way in a world which had scorned them,
then please accept the hypothesis that virtually the same could be said of a generation of youthful non-heterosexuals or ambisexuials (Boy George, George Michael, and Ricky Martin come to mind first).
Then I got my ass kicked in Risk by Geo LaF and Tonya LaF. Pink was not the right color tonight. I left them engaged in a duel to the death.
This is a genuinely gifted individual, regardless of his S.O.
I wass expecting to get mooned there at the end.
COKE SPOON MEDICATIONS
for Kelly Laakso, my partner on that one
Coke spoon in June, anyone?
Who is Trent Moon?
What or who was Pywiack?
When is the stagecoach due in?
Why did I leave my heart on the Left Side of the Hourglass instead of Long Ledge?
I’ll never get back to either, or will I?
Which is more potent, love or fear?
Which is more absolute, truth or darkness?
And the corollary, is it "Could It happen?"
For that matter, could I do it again, "falling in love?"
What happens after death supposedly stays in the afterlife, but does it?
I haven’t the Vegas idea of how to begin climbing that one, or do I?
I left my winnings in the Mustang Ranch, or was it in the Sidewinder?
Where is that gal of mine?
She O’Promised me, until death drew us apart, didn't she?
How much is that doggie in the window for this widow?
And where has all the money gone?
It’s gone into a hole in your daddy’s nose, or was it the Midnight Cowgirl instead of the Mustang or the Sidewinder, or was it his arm?
Hey say there, my darling, where have I been?
I hucked myself off the Big Sandy Ledges,
I drowned myself good in Pywiack’s dark waters,
I confronted the truth and found myself desperate,
I held up the nine o’clock stage from El Nido,
I ran up the Hourglass and came down After Seven,
I went to a gay bar because I was curious,
I slept in the arms of Pebbles Shining in the Waters,
I went cruising with Kesey--"We’ve come for your daughters;"
And after all that I find I’m not such a hard man,
No way,
After all.
Mai, certainement pas. Je suis libre en Juin, cependant.
Credit: mouse from merced
Actually, I do climb best in the fall months.
September, the ninth month, is the finest weather possible in the Sierra Nevada.
Word.
The Thursday evening drum circle got me all jacked up and I remembered zBrown has a very rhythmic bent. Drums mean noise. I worked in a plant making 55-gallon drums and even some for a Caribbean group who played steel.
I smoked Drum RYO cancer sticks for years.
And?
Well, I mean, like, uh, "What a noble function serves the conjunction!" Icht es nicht?
"STickin' together like amigos do.
You hit me, then I hit you.
We bleed so much it's much like glue,
Yours sticks to me, mine sticks to you."
--Blind "Lemonade" Lembertson
In keeping with the tradition of the International Rope, the little-known tradition of the International Long Woody Object is even more venerable, for obvious reasons. Sax.
Largo? Anyone? Hit me with your brilliant schtick.
Thoughts? Observations? PERSONAL EXPERIENCES PREFERRED!
Lyrics to
HIT ME WITH YOUR RHYTHM STICK
In the deserts of Sudan
And the gardens of Japan
From Milan to Yucatan
Every woman, every man
Hit me with your rhythm stick
Hit me, hit me
Je t'adore, ich liebe dich
Hit me, hit me, hit me
Hit me with your rhythm stick
Hit me slowly, hit me quick
Hit me, hit me, hit me
In the wilds of Borneo
And the vineyards of Bordeaux
Eskimo, Arapaho
Move their body to and fro
Hit me with your rhythm stick
Hit me, hit me
Das ist gut! C'est fantastique
Hit me, hit me, hit me
Hit me with your rhythm stick
It's nice to be a lunatic
Hit me, hit me, hit me
Hit me, hit me, hit me
In the dock of Tiger Bay
On the road to Mandalay
From Bombay to Santa Fe
Over hills and far away
Hit me with your rhythm stick
Hit me, hit me
C'est si bon, mm? Ist es nicht?
Hit me, hit me, hit me
Hit me with your rhythm stick
Two fat persons, click, click, click
Hit me, hit me, hit me
Hit me, hit me, hit me
Hit me, hit me, hit me, oww
Hit me, hit me, hit me, hit me
Hit me, hit me, hit me, hit me, hit me
Hit me, hit me, hit me, hit me
Let us know!