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Ice climber
BrujÚ de la Playa
Feb 9, 2015 - 02:03pm PT
For official purposes, a ghost settlement or town is recognized by whether it had a USPO.

Shouldn't it also include something like whether or not there are ghosts there? I know it gets complicated, e.g. what if there were ghosts there?

It might also be fair to include places where ghost dances were performed (yes, and are performed).

Gnome Ofthe Diabase

Out Of Bed
Feb 9, 2015 - 03:08pm PT
I was sure that some time ago you mentioned that, you were not following me, that it's crystal,
and that I sir, always Follow you.
To avoid flaming by the General population, I avoid posting mostly till seven post after you.
That seventh, it is the arbitrary number, and some time no number or post follows but I doread your posts in history and yesterday.

The very informative and well crafted thoughts give rise to hope for me here among so many rough characters.

Some of whom do not respect, the musings of mfm, But and infact read you all the time!
I have caught the fellow, "at the hiest' point" disparaging you!

To do so he must have followed along closely, then out of context, squews the view.
Where there is smoke the flames seem to be the root,
Not every one loves the mouse!. . .wtf ., I do.
(That I was, questioning Why psychedelic Boyd got his wingz twisted, led to that revaluation)
Out of respect for your mentoring I have had no contact with Said traveler.
I wonder what his tic is? and if I should ask him ? not for you, although I would share, but for me to clear the air.

Boyd people must, by nature, or by ignoring nature, be a sad lot,and sad a lot of the time.
It comes from having friends that talk to you, live very long, caged lives,
and have the gift of flight shorn off,by thier benefactor and feeder.(not all birds survive having tier flight wings clipped)
Then out of the blue these complexe creatures up and die often for no reason that any human can define. me thinks the entire industry has good intentions, but comes from evil roots.

I have been on this kick and the periphery of sharing my life with 'dirbs' dis lexicon the rigatoni
Since my roomy went a smuggling eggz, Got caught, put in lock up down under, then traded his crew in to save his very genius self from near life imprisonment. Long story that!

going forward,.

The death in the Ditch on Idependance day, 2013 was a gruesome (Gerund?) Flight to the death. Witnesses said the person flew straight and true to the tree line where an audible thud twas heard All the way from there to the alcove, swing spot.

WBraun and the clean up crew had just gotten over the Boulder strike onEl Cap, 7/2/13
(that killed a climber too.)

then the sight of a. . . Failed Base Jump?. . . Not.

The Duck was adamant that it was not That and no chute or 'squirrel suit, were present, Werner included that the impact was taken to the face, indicating that the bitter son got his wish when not dear ol' dad Augered in.

The concept was variously mentioned, What A way to go!
To hold the flight trajectory all the way to the end!
The seconds tic slowly by as the end draws nigh,
What a staunch self determined way to do that
What Camus said. . .(I want to quote him correctly)

another one bites his own dust. Thank you z For finding more from the abandoned son.
mouse from merced

Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
Feb 9, 2015 - 04:26pm PT
Is that a cotton sheet, percale, twin, full, or what?
What is the fabric of YOUR life: denim, lycra, sack cloth?[Click to View YouTube Video]

Cotton Growing Man
Sitting in your chair
You think you're a winner
You don't have a care
All you do is sit and drink all day
Yes you don't do nothing
Cotton Growing Man

Cotton Growing Man
Drink away your sin
Forget all the slavery
It got lost in gin
All you do is sit and drink all day
Yes you don't do nothing
Cotton Growing Man

You got all the cotton that you need
You got all the money with your greed

You got all the cotton that you need
You got all the money with your greed

Cotton Growing Man
Pass away your time
Forget all your troubles
Drown them deep in wine
All you do is sit and drink all day
Yes you don't do nothing

bonus lyrics

Azzhat! Aspirins like you
Anacin and Bufferin, too.
Heinrich Boll warned of your ilk
Raised on rich butter made of cream
Far from feeling safe as milk
I C U I wannna scream

How much water is in them clouds?
He who don't like, hear, see, understand,
Mr. T and me gonna pity-Patey the poor soul.
Free Willys and all that Camp 4WD stuff.

I can take myself or leave myself, myself.
I grew up looking at cotton tails.[Click to View YouTube Video]

Send In the Clowns/Barbara Raimondi/accopiamendi Giudiziosi

Gnome Ofthe Diabase

Out Of Bed
Feb 9, 2015 - 04:38pm PT
not really gonna do any thing and. agree it is zest of life we share not petty oils or lube that is grossed by camp slime and sands of time. That your not using enough is prolly why she screams a opposed to say a prodigious sized member put to a dwarf or happy cunile, a better way to lube unless a cancker, is detected!

eewu, that is the gross that gats me banned from bed. so oh well happy is as you do what ever makes you happy! Do!

sans prompting from you I'll make no move, seems a shame, his pics are gone all over too.
mouse from merced

Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
Feb 9, 2015 - 04:49pm PT
A genuine article from neebee to me be greatly appreciated.

I shall pin it on the collar of my Patagonia fleece jacket opposit the Flag of Canada pin.
You should receive dated material today or tomorrow, shaddokiddo.

Ice climber
BrujÚ de la Playa
Feb 9, 2015 - 05:48pm PT
'scuse me while I gin something up for ya!

-Eli (don't call me mount) Whitney

[Click to View YouTube Video]

Did anyone ever see Sinatra and Garland in the same room?

[Click to View YouTube Video][Click to View YouTube Video]

Ice climber
BrujÚ de la Playa
Feb 9, 2015 - 05:54pm PT
Paint your wagon. Why? Did somebody write grafitti on it?

[Click to View YouTube Video]

Ice climber
BrujÚ de la Playa
Feb 9, 2015 - 06:52pm PT
Be sure to wear some flowers in your hair.


By Allen Ginsberg

For Carl Solomon


I saw the best minds of my generation destroyed by madness, starving hysterical naked,

dragging themselves through the negro streets at dawn looking for an angry fix,

angelheaded hipsters burning for the ancient heavenly connection to the starry dynamo in the machinery of night,

who poverty and tatters and hollow-eyed and high sat up smoking in the supernatural darkness of cold-water flats floating across the tops of cities contemplating jazz,

who bared their brains to Heaven under the El and saw Mohammedan angels staggering on tenement roofs illuminated,

who passed through universities with radiant cool eyes hallucinating Arkansas and Blake-light tragedy among the scholars of war,

who were expelled from the academies for crazy & publishing obscene odes on the windows of the skull,

who cowered in unshaven rooms in underwear, burning their money in wastebaskets and listening to the Terror through the wall,

who got busted in their pubic beards returning through Laredo with a belt of marijuana for New York,

who ate fire in paint hotels or drank turpentine in Paradise Alley, death, or purgatoried their torsos night after night

with dreams, with drugs, with waking nightmares, alcohol and c*#k and endless balls,

incomparable blind streets of shuddering cloud and lightning in the mind leaping toward poles of Canada & Paterson, illuminating all the motionless world of Time between,

Peyote solidities of halls, backyard green tree cemetery dawns, wine drunkenness over the rooftops, storefront boroughs of teahead joyride neon blinking traffic light, sun and moon and tree vibrations in the roaring winter dusks of Brooklyn, ashcan rantings and kind king light of mind,

who chained themselves to subways for the endless ride from Battery to holy Bronx on benzedrine until the noise of wheels and children brought them down shuddering mouth-wracked and battered bleak of brain all drained of brilliance in the drear light of Zoo,

who sank all night in submarine light of Bickfordís floated out and sat through the stale beer afternoon in desolate Fugazziís, listening to the crack of doom on the hydrogen jukebox,

who talked continuously seventy hours from park to pad to bar to Bellevue to museum to the Brooklyn Bridge,

a lost battalion of platonic conversationalists jumping down the stoops off fire escapes off windowsills off Empire State out of the moon,

yacketayakking screaming vomiting whispering facts and memories and anecdotes and eyeball kicks and shocks of hospitals and jails and wars,

whole intellects disgorged in total recall for seven days and nights with brilliant eyes, meat for the Synagogue cast on the pavement,

who vanished into nowhere Zen New Jersey leaving a trail of ambiguous picture postcards of Atlantic City Hall,

suffering Eastern sweats and Tangerian bone-grindings and migraines of China under junk-withdrawal in Newarkís bleak furnished room,

who wandered around and around at midnight in the railroad yard wondering where to go, and went, leaving no broken hearts,

who lit cigarettes in boxcars boxcars boxcars racketing through snow toward lonesome farms in grandfather night,

who studied Plotinus Poe St. John of the Cross telepathy and bop kabbalah because the cosmos instinctively vibrated at their feet in Kansas,

who loned it through the streets of Idaho seeking visionary indian angels who were visionary indian angels,

who thought they were only mad when Baltimore gleamed in supernatural ecstasy,

who jumped in limousines with the Chinaman of Oklahoma on the impulse of winter midnight streetlight smalltown rain,

who lounged hungry and lonesome through Houston seeking jazz or sex or soup, and followed the brilliant Spaniard to converse about America and Eternity, a hopeless task, and so took ship to Africa,

who disappeared into the volcanoes of Mexico leaving behind nothing but the shadow of dungarees and the lava and ash of poetry scattered in fireplace Chicago,

who reappeared on the West Coast investigating the FBI in beards and shorts with big pacifist eyes sexy in their dark skin passing out incomprehensible leaflets,

who burned cigarette holes in their arms protesting the narcotic tobacco haze of Capitalism,

who distributed Supercommunist pamphlets in Union Square weeping and undressing while the sirens of Los Alamos wailed them down, and wailed down Wall, and the Staten Island ferry also wailed,

who broke down crying in white gymnasiums naked and trembling before the machinery of other skeletons,

who bit detectives in the neck and shrieked with delight in policecars for committing no crime but their own wild cooking pederasty and intoxication,

who howled on their knees in the subway and were dragged off the roof waving genitals and manuscripts,

who let themselves be f*#ked in the ass by saintly motorcyclists, and screamed with joy,

who blew and were blown by those human seraphim, the sailors, caresses of Atlantic and Caribbean love,

who balled in the morning in the evenings in rosegardens and the grass of public parks and cemeteries scattering their semen freely to whomever come who may,

who hiccuped endlessly trying to giggle but wound up with a sob behind a partition in a Turkish Bath when the blond & naked angel came to pierce them with a sword,

who lost their loveboys to the three old shrews of fate the one eyed shrew of the heterosexual dollar the one eyed shrew that winks out of the womb and the one eyed shrew that does nothing but sit on her ass and snip the intellectual golden threads of the craftsmanís loom,

who copulated ecstatic and insatiate with a bottle of beer a sweetheart a package of cigarettes a candle and fell off the bed, and continued along the floor and down the hall and ended fainting on the wall with a vision of ultimate c#&% and come eluding the last gyzym of consciousness,

who sweetened the snatches of a million girls trembling in the sunset, and were red eyed in the morning but prepared to sweeten the snatch of the sunrise, flashing buttocks under barns and naked in the lake,

who went out whoring through Colorado in myriad stolen night-cars, N.C., secret hero of these poems, cocksman and Adonis of Denverójoy to the memory of his innumerable lays of girls in empty lots & diner backyards, moviehousesí rickety rows, on mountaintops in caves or with gaunt waitresses in familiar roadside lonely petticoat upliftings & especially secret gas-station solipsisms of johns, & hometown alleys too,

who faded out in vast sordid movies, were shifted in dreams, woke on a sudden Manhattan, and picked themselves up out of basements hung-over with heartless Tokay and horrors of Third Avenue iron dreams & stumbled to unemployment offices,

who walked all night with their shoes full of blood on the snowbank docks waiting for a door in the East River to open to a room full of steam-heat and opium,

who created great suicidal dramas on the apartment cliff-banks of the Hudson under the wartime blur floodlight of the moon & their heads shall be crowned with laurel in oblivion,

who ate the lamb stew of the imagination or digested the crab at the muddy bottom of the rivers of Bowery,

who wept at the romance of the streets with their pushcarts full of onions and bad music,

who sat in boxes breathing in the darkness under the bridge, and rose up to build harpsichords in their lofts,

who coughed on the sixth floor of Harlem crowned with flame under the tubercular sky surrounded by orange crates of theology,

who scribbled all night rocking and rolling over lofty incantations which in the yellow morning were stanzas of gibberish,

who cooked rotten animals lung heart feet tail borsht & tortillas dreaming of the pure vegetable kingdom,

who plunged themselves under meat trucks looking for an egg,

who threw their watches off the roof to cast their ballot for Eternity outside of Time, & alarm clocks fell on their heads every day for the next decade,

who cut their wrists three times successively unsuccessfully, gave up and were forced to open antique stores where they thought they were growing old and cried,

who were burned alive in their innocent flannel suits on Madison Avenue amid blasts of leaden verse & the tanked-up clatter of the iron regiments of fashion & the nitroglycerine shrieks of the fairies of advertising & the mustard gas of sinister intelligent editors, or were run down by the drunken taxicabs of Absolute Reality,

who jumped off the Brooklyn Bridge this actually happened and walked away unknown and forgotten into the ghostly daze of Chinatown soup alleyways & firetrucks, not even one free beer,

who sang out of their windows in despair, fell out of the subway window, jumped in the filthy Passaic, leaped on negroes, cried all over the street, danced on broken wineglasses barefoot smashed phonograph records of nostalgic European 1930s German jazz finished the whiskey and threw up groaning into the bloody toilet, moans in their ears and the blast of colossal steamwhistles,

who barreled down the highways of the past journeying to each otherís hotrod-Golgotha jail-solitude watch or Birmingham jazz incarnation,

who drove crosscountry seventytwo hours to find out if I had a vision or you had a vision or he had a vision to find out Eternity,

who journeyed to Denver, who died in Denver, who came back to Denver & waited in vain, who watched over Denver & brooded & loned in Denver and finally went away to find out the Time, & now Denver is lonesome for her heroes,

who fell on their knees in hopeless cathedrals praying for each otherís salvation and light and breasts, until the soul illuminated its hair for a second,

who crashed through their minds in jail waiting for impossible criminals with golden heads and the charm of reality in their hearts who sang sweet blues to Alcatraz,

who retired to Mexico to cultivate a habit, or Rocky Mount to tender Buddha or Tangiers to boys or Southern Pacific to the black locomotive or Harvard to Narcissus to Woodlawn to the daisychain or grave,

who demanded sanity trials accusing the radio of hypnotism & were left with their insanity & their hands & a hung jury,

who threw potato salad at CCNY lecturers on Dadaism and subsequently presented themselves on the granite steps of the madhouse with shaven heads and harlequin speech of suicide, demanding instantaneous lobotomy,

and who were given instead the concrete void of insulin Metrazol electricity hydrotherapy psychotherapy occupational therapy pingpong & amnesia,

who in humorless protest overturned only one symbolic pingpong table, resting briefly in catatonia,

returning years later truly bald except for a wig of blood, and tears and fingers, to the visible madman doom of the wards of the madtowns of the East,

Pilgrim Stateís Rocklandís and Greystoneís foetid halls, bickering with the echoes of the soul, rocking and rolling in the midnight solitude-bench dolmen-realms of love, dream of life a nightmare, bodies turned to stone as heavy as the moon,

with mother finally **, and the last fantastic book flung out of the tenement window, and the last door closed at 4 A.M. and the last telephone slammed at the wall in reply and the last furnished room emptied down to the last piece of mental furniture, a yellow paper rose twisted on a wire hanger in the closet, and even that imaginary, nothing but a hopeful little bit of hallucinationó

ah, Carl, while you are not safe I am not safe, and now youíre really in the total animal soup of timeó

and who therefore ran through the icy streets obsessed with a sudden flash of the alchemy of the use of the ellipsis catalogue a variable measure and the vibrating plane,

who dreamt and made incarnate gaps in Time & Space through images juxtaposed, and trapped the archangel of the soul between 2 visual images and joined the elemental verbs and set the noun and dash of consciousness together jumping with sensation of Pater Omnipotens Aeterna Deus

to recreate the syntax and measure of poor human prose and stand before you speechless and intelligent and shaking with shame, rejected yet confessing out the soul to conform to the rhythm of thought in his naked and endless head,

the madman bum and angel beat in Time, unknown, yet putting down here what might be left to say in time come after death,

and rose reincarnate in the ghostly clothes of jazz in the goldhorn shadow of the band and blew the suffering of Americaís naked mind for love into an eli eli lamma lamma sabacthani saxophone cry that shivered the cities down to the last radio

with the absolute heart of the poem of life butchered out of their own bodies good to eat a thousand years.


What sphinx of cement and aluminum bashed open their skulls and ate up their brains and imagination?

Moloch! Solitude! Filth! Ugliness! Ashcans and unobtainable dollars! Children screaming under the stairways! Boys sobbing in armies! Old men weeping in the parks!

Moloch! Moloch! Nightmare of Moloch! Moloch the loveless! Mental Moloch! Moloch the heavy judger of men!

Moloch the incomprehensible prison! Moloch the crossbone soulless jailhouse and Congress of sorrows! Moloch whose buildings are judgment! Moloch the vast stone of war! Moloch the stunned governments!

Moloch whose mind is pure machinery! Moloch whose blood is running money! Moloch whose fingers are ten armies! Moloch whose breast is a cannibal dynamo! Moloch whose ear is a smoking tomb!

Moloch whose eyes are a thousand blind windows! Moloch whose skyscrapers stand in the long streets like endless Jehovahs! Moloch whose factories dream and croak in the fog! Moloch whose smoke-stacks and antennae crown the cities!

Moloch whose love is endless oil and stone! Moloch whose soul is electricity and banks! Moloch whose poverty is the specter of genius! Moloch whose fate is a cloud of sexless hydrogen! Moloch whose name is the Mind!

Moloch in whom I sit lonely! Moloch in whom I dream Angels! Crazy in Moloch! C*#ks@cker in Moloch! Lacklove and manless in Moloch!

Moloch who entered my soul early! Moloch in whom I am a consciousness without a body! Moloch who frightened me out of my natural ecstasy! Moloch whom I abandon! Wake up in Moloch! Light streaming out of the sky!

Moloch! Moloch! Robot apartments! invisible suburbs! skeleton treasuries! blind capitals! demonic industries! spectral nations! invincible madhouses! granite cocks! monstrous bombs!

They broke their backs lifting Moloch to Heaven! Pavements, trees, radios, tons! lifting the city to Heaven which exists and is everywhere about us!

Visions! omens! hallucinations! miracles! ecstasies! gone down the American river!

Dreams! adorations! illuminations! religions! the whole boatload of sensitive bullshit!

Breakthroughs! over the river! flips and crucifixions! gone down the flood! Highs! Epiphanies! Despairs! Ten yearsí animal screams and suicides! Minds! New loves! Mad generation! down on the rocks of Time!

Real holy laughter in the river! They saw it all! the wild eyes! the holy yells! They bade farewell! They jumped off the roof! to solitude! waving! carrying flowers! Down to the river! into the street!


Carl Solomon! Iím with you in Rockland

where youíre madder than I am

Iím with you in Rockland

where you must feel very strange

Iím with you in Rockland

where you imitate the shade of my mother

Iím with you in Rockland

where youíve murdered your twelve secretaries

Iím with you in Rockland

where you laugh at this invisible humor

Iím with you in Rockland

where we are great writers on the same dreadful typewriter

Iím with you in Rockland

where your condition has become serious and is reported on the radio

Iím with you in Rockland

where the faculties of the skull no longer admit the worms of the senses

I'm with you in Rockland

where you drink the tea of the breasts of the spinsters of Utica

Iím with you in Rockland

where you pun on the bodies of your nurses the harpies of the Bronx

Iím with you in Rockland

where you scream in a straightjacket that youíre losing the game of the actual pingpong of the abyss

Iím with you in Rockland

where you bang on the catatonic piano the soul is innocent and immortal it should never die ungodly in an armed madhouse

Iím with you in Rockland

where fifty more shocks will never return your soul to its body again from its pilgrimage to a cross in the void

Iím with you in Rockland

where you accuse your doctors of insanity and plot the Hebrew socialist revolution against the fascist national Golgotha

Iím with you in Rockland

where you will split the heavens of Long Island and resurrect your living human Jesus from the superhuman tomb

Iím with you in Rockland

where there are twentyfive thousand mad comrades all together singing the final stanzas of the Internationale

Iím with you in Rockland

where we hug and kiss the United States under our bedsheets the United States that coughs all night and wonít let us sleep

Iím with you in Rockland

where we wake up electrified out of the coma by our own soulsí airplanes roaring over the roof theyíve come to drop angelic bombs the hospital illuminates itself imaginary walls collapse O skinny legions run outside O starry-spangled shock of mercy the eternal war is here O victory forget your underwear weíre free

Iím with you in Rockland

in my dreams you walk dripping from a sea-journey on the highway across America in tears to the door of my cottage in the Western night

San Francisco, 1955ó1956
mouse from merced

Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
Feb 9, 2015 - 06:55pm PT
I said, "2701 N. Sepulveda, L.A., S.A."

Good times!
[Click to View YouTube Video]

Behemoth for Bumper!
[Click to View YouTube Video]

Dear Miss Stewart:
If I'd kept this bad-ass, how should I have cooked it?
Should I have made her walk the plank?
Or how about fillets on the deck with Barbie?
I enjoyed the sesame seed-raisin cupcakes so much, by the way.
Good times!

Ice climber
BrujÚ de la Playa
Feb 9, 2015 - 07:10pm PT
^Ain't that something. I used to work right up the hill from Skirball at the Mountaingate Country Club. There was very little grafitti and Cosby's son was murdered right across the street (freeway). I was so much older then.

mouse from merced

Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
Feb 9, 2015 - 09:28pm PT
Re the cigarettes ranting--
he sat back panting,
wishing he were done
and cremated.
Ashes to ashes,
dust to dust.
All due to addiction,
and cigarette lust.

difficult or labored breathing.

This is the first one I read. It's very technical.

Walking around with tombstones in my eyes (Steppenwolf)
and too much mucosa in my head and lungs and airways nowadays.

It's gross and disgusting.
And no one to blame but me.

If I seem a bit morbid on occasion, here's why.

By the year 2030 it is scheduled to be the third-leading cause of death on the planet.

Right now, it only takes @ 200 million people a year.

Sit on your kids and teach them the hazards of smoking. Zero tolerance.

If you do nothing else successfully as a parent, to keep them smoke-free is perhaps the biggest favor you can do for them.

donini, MooseDrool, Grippa, Angela, Fritz, Rodger, and Heidi, all can tell you how I just could not get going at COR. Either I stopped, coughed until I could go on climbing (and who knew how long that would be?) or just get lowered and save everyone the embarrassing moment with some grace.

Frankly, I wanted to hang my head and die right then and there, both times this happened. Lung function steadily decreases and it goes never to return.

Be wise, please, and cease your smoking today.

I'm all done with smoke and it is so hard,
but now I'm fixin' to die, it's not,
and that's part of the human comedy.

I will get off my hobby horse now.

mouse from merced

Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
Feb 10, 2015 - 02:56am PT
When a golfer misses the first swing on the first tee, most gentlemen offer what is politely called a Mulligan, a do-over at no never happened, no one saw it.

This practice has other names, depending on the ethnicities involved.

Ginsberg is one of these alternate names.

Presenting a condensed HOWL,
where there is no harm there is no foul,
here on Shell's World of Golf.


In a filthy Passaic bloody toilet

filled with jazz or sex or soup

Moloch retired to Mexico

and sang sweet blues to heroes.

In Rockland the American River streaming out of the sky

a thousand years crowned with flame

closed at 4 a.m.

You are not safe in Time & Space.

The meaning of life is in death.

Nice putt, Mulligan.


Social climber
Feb 10, 2015 - 03:22am PT
hey there, say, mouse! just got the surprise...
and SAY, so did you!!!

will make a fun WORD play, with all this later this eve...
so the flames may enjoy the dated material in a mousey way...

am up early, and need to help a friend, in a few hours... :)
mouse from merced

Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
Feb 10, 2015 - 06:31am PT

mouse from merced

Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
Feb 10, 2015 - 06:38am PT

Ice climber
BrujÚ de la Playa
Feb 10, 2015 - 07:11am PT
NOT enough bad can be said about COPD and smoking. My mom went through the whole thing: inhalers, oxygen tanks, worthless visits to doctors who really could do nothing.

Jenner accident:

Brooks said Jenner was photographed holding a cellphone -- or perhaps a cigarette -- but it was unclear when the photo was taken. He noted there's no law against smoking and driving.


That's the ghost of zBrown next to the trash can. He used to run out there a lot. It's a very dangerous place.

mouse from merced

Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
Feb 10, 2015 - 07:27am PT
Will the real Merced Courthouse please stand up?

Ice climber
BrujÚ de la Playa
Feb 10, 2015 - 07:28am PT

That's my entry in the contest and I'm sure it's a winner.

Elvis and a bunch Imposters

[Click to View YouTube Video]

Gnome Ofthe Diabase

Out Of Bed
Feb 10, 2015 - 09:12am PT
The deceased in the crash was Kim Howl? or the background to my reding was the news. . .

and nice Toy there.

Here is mine now, I had hoped to creep in, in the same frame above. . .as in the Walleye shot.

HO MAN we here lost inter web conection for the last , what is it 2:30, @my last that is
3.5 hours!

So much that was on my mind is gone and i'mnot gonna try to think it back i hope that some things return ,

mouse from merced

Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
Feb 10, 2015 - 02:03pm PT
The domafier.In no-namey dome-maney san doheny, san donini, et St. Eulittle Doolitle Weenie.

And remember Mama Cabrini.
I remember old Kim and howl!

Kim Il Kong, we'd likely call 'im today.

Risin' above the rest like a jewel on the breast of North Dome.

Slavin' away on the walls,

Cookin' artichokes in a pressure cooker on a Coleman,

Complainin' how Marty out-climbed him on 5.7 that day.

Angus tells me his situation is dire,

He ain't climbin' no higher.

Kim and Patrick, God be with you both.

I wish there were somethin' I could do,

Besides this PUBLIC NOTICE

To center you both back in your lotus,

But as the blue singer once sang,

First take a look at yourself.

I'm in the same bucket,

The one with all the holes in it.

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