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hooblie
climber
from out where the anecdotes roam
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zBrown
Ice climber
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2,500,635
Some folks who should just give it a rest are still firing away.
They seem to shun the flames, which I appreciate.
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Bushman
climber
The state of quantum flux
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Borrowing on Footfalls/Profound Deceptions
In only fooling the innocents
while being sustained by them
the real estate moguls maintain that
they’ve earned these rights
through crafty shell game leverage
Many original North Americans
never believed that land should be owned
Their stewardship of the earth
was about about moving through it
not overseeing the world
Sometimes I see that
the laws we adhere to
aren’t worth the paper their written on
Thank the founding fathers
those slave owners and slave traders
Enslaved by such dependence
at the very least regarding all this
in that arrogant manner
so many of us are ignorant of the fact
these are concepts of manifest destiny
Nobody owns anything
We don’t even own our physical selves
not land or personal property
Good luck holding onto all that
after we’re deceased
-bushman
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Topic Author's Reply - Apr 6, 2018 - 07:54am PT
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https://www.nytimes.com/2018/04/06/arts/television/jimmy-kimmel-sean-hannity.html
White House Shake Up
"Trump just keeps moving staffers around.
It’s like he’s rearranging deck chairs on the Titanic, after it already sunk.
He moved John Kelly to chief of staff, Ronny Jackson to veteran affairs, now he wants to move Pruitt to attorney general.
Our only hope is that he gets carried away and accidentally replaces himself."
--SETH MEYERS
Maybe it is a trap — but in fairness, it’s not too hard to trap Donald Trump.
He seems like a guy who would put out mousetraps and then 30 seconds later go,
‘Oh, wow, free cheese! Oww!’
--SETH MYERS
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Topic Author's Reply - Apr 6, 2018 - 08:03am PT
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We have had a lot of rain already this morning with more coming and the Park is closing down.
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Topic Author's Reply - Apr 6, 2018 - 08:15am PT
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Topic Author's Reply - Apr 6, 2018 - 08:24am PT
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I climb the road to Cold Mountain,
the road to Cold Mountain that never ends.
The valleys are long and strewn with stones;
The streams broad and banked with thick grass.
Moss is slippery though no rain has fallen;
Pines sigh but it isn't the wind.
Who can break from the snares of the world,
and sit with me among the white clouds?
--from a poem by Han Shan
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Topic Author's Reply - Apr 6, 2018 - 05:59pm PT
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The Ghost of Saddlebag Lake
Kenneth left the ranch in August to go with Sissie up to Saddlebag Lake. They had gone there several times as kids with their dad, Kenny Senior and their stepmom, Daisy. Once they had arrived, over ten thousand feet higher than where their ranch sat, Kenny had an appetite for fresh trout. He went out in a rented boat for four hours that afternoon, casting spoons, trolling spoons, and getting skunked.
Instead of trout, he bought some Spam and some canned Dennison’s and ketchup and some Vanilla Wafers in the bait shop, as well as a six-pack of Cokes. Sissie cheered up when he showed her the Vanilla Wafers, but she hardly touched her bowl of chili-Spam. "Well, not everyone likes it with ketchup," he laughed. "I’ll knock ‘em dead tomorrow with some Power Bait or some canned corn." He held up a half-full can of Green Giant niblets he’d found in the bottom of the boat rental.
"I want you to come along in the boat so you can be my good luck charm, though. You always used to," he said.
"I don’t think it’s luck when you catch a fish. It’s just fate. You can say you’re lucky and the fish isn’t. But it doesn’t matter to the fish. He’d rather be left alone, I’m sure...that is, if he could even understand the concept of free will. Though, if you put it to him, he’d probably go with the idea that you’re totally in the wrong by not releasing him. I mean, he’s not gonna try and eat you, is he? It’s just so not fair from the start. You can survive on beans and weenies. He has only a few years on the planet to enjoy. So, no, you go out and fish, but I’m going for a walk. And I can live on Vanilla Wafers and milk. I’m fine."
So that’s why Sissie wasn’t around when Kenneth (apparently) found the candy bar lying on the beach--a Baby Ruth, of all things, his favorite from his boyhood--which he probably had tasted last at the movies in grammar school in Quincy. It is known (or surmised, really) that he found the candy bar and unwrapped it right there where he stopped.
His tracks, according to the sheriff’s report, were made by the same boot bottoms as were used in his size ten Cabela neoprene waders, the ones with the cammy pattern and the reinforced knees but without the Thinsulate insulation in the boots. And they came out of the water, circled around, then headed back into the water.
Right there, on the water’s edge, the bottom of the lake was disturbed. It looked like skid marks on the slick river rocks, the layer of silty slime on them etched into two ski tracks heading into deeper water. What searchers read into these marks no one has suggested or mentioned, except to point out the fact that they appear to have been made by the same shoe soles as on those Cabela waders of Kenny’s.
No careful searching, high and low, upstream from the lake and down, had revealed that any tracks ever came out of the water. Dragging the lake for two days discovered nothing. His car was parked just a few rods away, one door ajar, his tackle box opened, and a Playmate with four cans of Budweiser in a pool of warm water. And the candy wrapper down by the beach, next to his custom Fenwick rod and reel and a half-empty can of niblets corn smeared with Power Bait.
Sheriff Jerry said to this reporter, "I fail to see why he couldn't catch anything using power bait and corn on this dun pattern. That, to me is the real mystery." I believe the sheriff was being cute or facetious, as his deputy smirked rather loudly after hearing this.
August passed into September, the trout season ended, and Sissie had not heard anything new from the sheriff’s people, who always assured her the case was still open and would remain so. But she knew.
She knew it was some bizarre form of karma, she held, and that was that. Nature had righted herself. She was not too concerned, for Kenny’s will provided for her with ample money for as many boxes of Vanilla Wafers as she cared to eat and as many cases of Coke as she could drink. He had been a good brother, just a really poor angler.
And each year until she died, she always made sure to honor Kenny’s memory at McDonald’s with a fish sandwich or at least a Baby Ruth if she wasn’t feeling like fish.
--MFM
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Topic Author's Reply - Apr 6, 2018 - 07:03pm PT
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Topic Author's Reply - Apr 6, 2018 - 07:05pm PT
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zBrown
Ice climber
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Why noit?
Couldn't' think of a name for the club.
Prowlers, Warblers, WagonWheels, Coachmen ? ...
How 'bout The Nomadz?
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Topic Author's Reply - Apr 6, 2018 - 07:54pm PT
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Fun at camp for kids of all ages.
And don't forget the poison oak.
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Topic Author's Reply - Apr 6, 2018 - 08:58pm PT
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From Oscar Wilde's "The Importance of Being Earnest"
JACK: When one is placed in the position of guardian, one has to adopt a very high moral tone
on all subjects.
It's one's duty to do so. And as a high moral tone can hardly be said to conduce very much to either
one's health or one's happiness,
in order to get up to town I have always pretended to have a younger brother of the name of Ernest,
who lives in the Albany, and gets into the most dreadful scrapes. That, my dear Algy,
is the whole truth pure and simple.
ALGERNON: The truth is rarely pure and never simple. Modern life would be very tedious if it were either,
and modern literature a complete impossibility!
JACK: That wouldn't be at all a bad thing.
Sometimes telling the truth really is the easiest way to go. Maybe it's just liars...who want us to believe that the truth is oh-so strange and complex.
Truth is a Nomad who manages by adapting to local circumstances and opinion as he passes through the world.
Nomadz...
A real sleeper, here. Great project!
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zBrown
Ice climber
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Every picture tells part of a story
This is Willie Clarks 1927 T roadster at the Electric Building Car Show venue in Balboa Park in San Diego. The picture was taken 60 years ago. A little contrast adjustment showes a couple nice trophies on the running board. The car was purchased from Willie by Oakley O’Strander who later sold it to his uncle. Prowler Mike Hemus bought it from Oakley's uncle and owned it in the 70s and then Roger Honey in Santee, Ca. bought it from him. As a kid walking the streets Roger saw this car a lot and remembers dropping in at least once a week at Red Watson’s Body Shop on 8th street in National City to watch employee Willie put the chromed Caddy engine together
I remember walking five houses up the block to watch Oakley wash it. [Ostrander]. He never offered me a ride.
What became of his mom and dad? That's a different part of the story
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Bushman
climber
The state of quantum flux
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Bopsy, Tipsy, and Woozy
Once upon a time there were three thirsty race planes named Bopsy, Tipsy, and Woozy.
Bopsy sucked so much fuel and was so tail heavy, he bopped along the ground as he flew. On lap one he hit the pylon and broke his little crown. His little tail didn't bopping so good anymore sticking up out of the garbage can.
Tipsy drank fuel until he felt bold and brave, he snapped every turn and won his first heat. But on landing he got cocky, ran out of fuel, and tip stalled on the runway. He too busted his little crown and was out for the day.
Woozy ran fast and smooth, sucking just enough fuel for every heat, he used minimal control, and he greased every landing. On the final A main heat he ran neck and neck against Big Smoke, a mean fast warbird who’d never been beat. But Woozy got sleepy, flew through Big Smoke’s tail, and won the heat as Big Smoke spiraled down into oblivion.
So that just goes to show you, if your Woozy you’re snoozy, but you ain’t always loozy!
-bushman
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hooblie
climber
from out where the anecdotes roam
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