The Count

The Case of the Crate and Barrel Bird

2009-02-03T14:57:00.000-08:00

I returned home from school happy and hungry. This is not unusual. In fact, nothing was unusual about my return--a bit of rain, a wet bicycle, a couple close calls with automobiles, a wave here and there, etc. I entered through my door, checked my ant situation (ants tend to dominate my kitchen area at times--they find a speck of sugar and fight to the death for a chance to feed), and set my bag down in my room. Then I went into my kitchen, grabbed a piece of bread, and filled my empty belly. Nothing unusual until a glance at the bird. "The bird" is actually an ornament my sister gave me which I brought down to Honduras mistakenly. It's hard to explain why it's in my kitchen window...I have beers and other man things here so I believe it balances out. Anyway, my masculinity is not what's important. The bird was no longer in my window, shining with the brilliance of the sun, but hanging out on my sponge. How could this have happened? Lets check the photos:Archive Photo: View of bird in window

Bird on Sponge--as was when I returned

View from outside apartment--note bird hanging from barsBird in window. Note sponge, screen.

The question is: how did the bird make it from outside my apartment, through my screen and finally at rest on my sponge? It is not easy to undo the bird from it's spot from outside--one must hold themselves up with one arm with figuring out my complicated hanging system. This might sound harsh, but I'm not sure that Hondurans are capable of such hard work for so little payoff. The mastermind behind this knows that I will not rest until I find the answer. Help me solve the mystery!

AIG, Lehman Bros., Citibank, Alpinist Magazine…

2008-10-21T21:18:00.000-07:00

Although I’ve been indirectly witnessing the spiraling downfall of the global economy from the mouth of wolf blitzer through the lights and sounds of my 1980s Panasonic, I‘ve still felt close to the situation. It has been a rather frightening reality to be living in such fragile times, especially as I am in a country far removed from the securities of home. Even so, I haven’t felt the crisis really hit me until I this past Sunday when I received an email from my somber brother-in-law alerting me of the closing of Alpinist Magazine. “Holy crap,” I probably whispered to myself as the tears dammed up inside my eyes. I can’t be sure if any single tear escaped, but I’m sure that I do not regret it if it did. $2.4 trillion dollars of losses in two weeks? Swept to the side of my mind. Giant portfolio losses among the blue hairs? Sad, I guess. Loss of thousands of jobs worldwide? I do feel sorry for their families….but for some reason I’m most pissed (so far) about Alpinist. Alpinist has brought me so much joy the past couple years that has not been matched by any amount of Halo, Simpsons, Batman, ESPN, New York Times, JBU Advocate, Wes Anderson, Andrew Bird or any other media in the world. Why was it so important? First, it provided the one outlet for adventure dreaming without the corporate BS of other publications. There are other climbing magazines, but none so purely captivated the essence and purity of the mountain like Alpinist.

The other magazines are chock full of advertising, littering every other page and turning the beautiful, pure, simple sport into a greedy commercial enterprise. Alpinist stayed away from this bastardizing endeavor and gave their loyal readers exactly what they wanted - a pure magazine that felt tantalizingly close to the purity of the mountain. The publishing world has lost a beautiful piece of its tapestry, and it’s all your fault AIG. Not totally, just mostly. - Micah

Lusting Seasons

2008-10-08T19:53:00.000-07:00

After almost 22 complete years, my psyche has grown accustomed to certain life staples. Indeed, every night I scrub my teeth, when my nails become obscene (or hopefully before), I trim them to desired length. I eat often; sometimes four times per day, and as I've become more of a man, I've had to shave the hairs on my chin with some regularity. One thing, however, of which I had not realized the cyclical importance, is the changing of the seasons. For almost 22 years I have witnessed the summer green slowly fade into the colors of the fiery fall and have felt the summer's gentle breeze take on a sharper, harsher nature. The evenings are punctuated by brilliant tapestries of deep reds, fading purples, and suprising oranges--both on the ground and in the heavens. People shed their short pants for more substantial clothing; a soft and durable hoodie becomes the desired choice for day after day of trodding under the falling leaves, which have lost their summer grip to the biting breeze. Sandals can still be worn, though one runs the risk of cold, wet toes, thus needing a spray to unattach the leave particles which will undoubtedly cling to the skin. Coffee at sunup, tea at sundown, Sigur Ros, a good book, and tossing the pigskin in between. I'm not sure if one can lust after a season, though I find myself desperately close to that reality. Indeed, the transient seasons (especially fall) have always given me something I didn't know I needed, an unknown cyclical necessity, providing inspiration in change. All for now.

Getting Robbed/Honduran BBall

2008-09-21T13:17:00.000-07:00

The P.E. coach at Brassavola, Suazo, invited me to play a little bball last Friday with his team. Apparently he saw me embarrassing some 5th grade girls on the court at school and decided that display proved my talent enough to play for his team. Naturally I obliged--I never turn down the opportunity to ball. At about 7:00pm I began lacing up my kicks, downing some Aguazul (Honduran bottled water), and getting pumped up by blasting Jay-Z's "Dirt off your Shoulder" (though I accidentally had iTunes on shuffle and the subsequent song was Bing Crosby's heart-warming version of "Silent Night," which certainly killed the mood but made me smile).

I left my house at about 7:15pm with nothing but pocket-less shorts, a simple grey tee, my house keys and my cell. By that time it was completely dark in La Ceiba, though the roads I planned to walk were mostly well-lit. I made my way out of my secure apartment, down my stairs, around the corner and to the main stretch which heads to my school. The road to the gym passes right next to my school and was recently paved; thus, it still receives very little traffic from the main road. However, I have walked this stretch numerous times en route to Emily's apartment complex and have always felt confident and safe. I began trekking the lonely piece of pavement behind an older couple who moved with surprising grace and swiftness, hands firmly locked together as they glided ahead. I was probably whistling Jay-Z while trying to remember some And1 moves to impress the guys when a big-boned kid on a bmx bike pulled up next to me, moved ahead, stopped his bike, turned to me and said,
"Dame tu celular" (means "give me your cellphone")
"No" (means "no")
As he pulled a gun out from under his shirt, he responded, "Damelo ahorita." ("give it to me now")I lifted my hands and told him I didn't have any other money. This kid couldn't have been more than 16 or 17 and surely didn't have bullets in the weapon, though I wasn't going to take chances with some desperate and scared kid. As I handed over the phone, I asked, "Por favor, puedo tener el chip?" ("please can I have the chip"). He didn't answer--he seemed scared that someone had seen him and kept looking around nervously as he rode away. Luckily, I didn't have any other money or anything truly valuable with me. Annoyed, slightly scared, and certainly pensive, I walked the remaining three minutes to the gym. This is life in a third world country--I have to count my blessings instead of being upset about the minor incidents.

Once I arrived at the gym, completely distracted but ready to ball, Suazo introduced me to a gruff middle aged man who asked me in a tone that would've made Mussolini nervous if I could really play ball. I told him, "Claro que si!" I figured he was just joking around with the whole serious bit, but realized later that he was dead serious. Our pregame warmups were more intense than those in high school, with a distinct absence of attractive high school sweethearts cheering my name. After we warmed up, the team grouped up and I introduced myself to everyone. The two captains took a moment to welcome me to the team, saying that they expected good things from me. I felt as though I was a part of recent million-dollar trade. As the lone white guy on the team, I told them to expect a Larry Bird-type player. I can't remember if anyone laughed, though I do remember I haven't had such a tough audience since El Pomar Foundation. The game itself was fairly disastrous-turnovers, fouls, and terrible shot selection galore. I didn't play until late in the 3rd quarter; when I entered we were losing 27-24. I played for most of the 4th and we ended up winning 49-33. At the end of the game, we were blasted by our "coach," who screamed as he told us he'd rather be home mopping his floor than watching us win by such a small margin. His teams apparently had never scored less than 50 points and he was embarrassed more than he ever had been in his life. As he ferosiously yelled and threw his hands flailing in the air, I couldn't help but laugh on the inside at the humerous irony of the situation. Here we were, a bunch of amateur ball players listening to this guy maniacally bash us after some insignificant game against insignificant opponents in an insignificant gym in Honduras. Nobody cares about basketball in Honduras and that, I believe, is what makes this guy insane. His hilarious antics went on for 10 to 15 minutes until finally he left in a tantrum. I'll certainly be playing with this team in the future if not only for our coach, whose passion and fury are to be admired.

-Micah

A Story of Ascent

2007-07-24T14:40:00.000-07:00

Early Saturday morning, by the light of a bright crescent moon and a few alkaline-powered LEDs, my buddy Nicholas and I departed from the Lupine Meadows trailhead in Grand Teton National Park. We were stocked with a full rack of cams and nuts, a few liters of water, enough Clif Bars to feed a small tribe, and unwavering ambition. Our plan was an ascent of the Complete (or Direct) Exum Ridge ( IV, 5.7/8, 10 pitches). This uber-classic, known around the world as one of the finest moderate climbs in North America, has stalked me since my arrival in Jackson. Note: This climb, first completed in 1936 by Jack Durrance and Ken Henderson, connects the Lower Exum with the Upper Exum. The upper Exum is named after the famous Tetons mountaineer, Glen Exum. He soloed the Upper ( 5.4) wearing football cleats (see picture of the guy here) in July of 1931. He made a famous leap over what is now called "Wall Street," a ledge that traverses from the original route called the Owen-Spalding (cool picture of what he, and I, had to cross to get to the Upper Exum here ).

We departed at 2:30am, and I was satisfied with my 1.5 hours of intermittent sleep (Nicholas, on the other hand, went to a Harry Potter release party, and slept not even a wink). I desired more, but like a wide-eyed child on the night of December 24th, I only envisioned the gifts and surprises the following day would bring. I have done little big-mountain climbs, and this is a challenging climb, especially in one-day, even for experienced mountaineers. We cruised the hike to the lower saddle (see picture here the saddle is between the two peaks), stopping only a couple times for breaks to gossip about Alpinist office politics. We arrived sluggishly, however, feeling a bit the effects of a poor nights' sleep at 6am. The lower saddle is a base camp for the Exum Mountain Guides (one of the most famous mountain guide agencies in the world - co-founded by Glen Exum and Paul Petzoldt in 1931), as well as climbers who lazily need more than one day to bag over 20 miles and 7000' of vertical gain (actually the vast majority of climbers who ascend via the Upper Exum, an easier route than our chosen one, usually camp and take 2-3 days to summit and return.) Another note: Exum Guides charges almost $900/person for the climb we were preparing to do. Nicholas was not feeling great at this point, thinking he left the catfish out a bit long before inhaling it as I stepped into his apartment that morning at 1:30am. After a while resting and making sure Nicholas would survive, we headed out. The air was freezing cold up there, and the sharp wind pierced our sweaty skin. We both put on all of our layers, including long johns, gloves, and hats. The climb begins along the base of the Grand, and starts from a long traverse that does not require roping up. I had brought along a picture of each of the pitches, so that our climbing would always be on-route, thereby reducing the unnecessary stress of analyzing the ambiguous guidebook/topo description with the reality of a huge, meandering rock face.

We began the climb up a large, chockstone-filled chimney at 8:30am. The climbing went smoothly, with Nicholas confidently and aptly leading the pitches, and I following behind with a pack full of extra layers, water, Clif Bars, gloves, hats, headlamps, a med kit, approach shoes, a couple Werther Originals, some climbing beta, a Teton climbing book, and a fragmented rock that looked eerily like the fabled "Triangle Rock," from the glory days of "The Triangle Club" (Luke and my infamously exclusive childhood organization). Although I possibly could have led some sections of the climb, the Grand isn't the best place to learn how to place trad gear. Each of the pitches were unique, and it was exciting getting to each belay ledge, high above the Jackson "skyline." The fifth pitch, called the "Black Face," is a beautiful 80 ° face of smooth black rock that is hugely exposed but very well protected (meaning it is easy to place gear and protect yourself from falls). It was far and away my favorite pitch, and I had a huge perma-grin the whole way up. Look for it in the pics. After our final pitch, we reached the Wall Street step across (which is that picture from earlier). I had my pack on, and attempted to hand-traverse the famed step. But fear grabbed me as I pinched the slippery boulder, and I could not muster the courage to do the tricky step with the pack (and rope) on my back. My eyes watered with uncertainty as Nicholas counseled my steps to a wider ledge below. I unstrapped the pack, and tied a couple pieces of rope to the handle. After Nicholas slyly slipped around, in good alpine style, I tossed him the rope and he pulled the bag across. Finally, I managed to place my feet on the inches of rock that protected me from the 1000s of feet below and moved around to the ledge. It was freaking scary; the most intimidating move of the day.

After that scary shiz we arrived at the Upper Exum ridge at 2:10. This section of the Grand is easy enough for good, headstrong climbers to free-solo, so I coiled the rope and strapped it to my back as we ascended some beautiful 5.4 golden Teton granite. Although not too technically difficult, the Upper Exum is highly exposed at points and even the easy stuff felt insane when there was 4000' below my fragile body. We had run out of water, but were still fairly well hydrated from the mornings' climb. Many parties climb the route roped-up for the three hardest pitches, but because we were feeling good, we decided to go unroped for the entire Upper Exum. My bag was heavy with the gear and rope, and because of that everything felt a bit more stiff. The crux, called the "Friction Pitch" is a slab of granite, with almost no protection, that has tiny crimps as hand-holds. It is nicely sloped though, and we traversed it like sea-crabs, only more scared and less accustomed to moving our bodies like crustaceans. A slip can be a dangerous mistake, as it is highly exposed above an intimidating boulder field. We managed it, and after that pitch, the climb was a breeze. Maybe a strong breeze though, because I was dead tired and my feet were aching from the multiple hours in rock shoes.

We summited at 4:15, 7.5 hours after we began the climb. We were psyched that we did the Upper so fast, and made it to the summit in good time. On the summit were some dudes we saw in the parking lot that morning who had climbed the North Face ( 5.8); a sketchy, flaky climb that I have no interest in ever doing because the high amount of rockfall. They were a welcome site, and even more so because we had no idea how to descend, and they had summited before. Our fallout was the lack of knowledge of the descent, and the entire climb we hoped to find someone on the summit.

It was hot up there with almost no wind, and the view was stunning. We looked upon the Teton Crest Trail to our west that we had hiked a couple weekends before, as well as the surrounding valley that gives the area its name. We stood atop the beautiful 360 summit, like nothing I had stood on before, high above the world. We were blown away (not literally) by the weather that day. Many people turn around, get into trouble, and even die from the storms that can quickly approach the range. But we received perfect weather: just wide, blue Wyoming sky and a bright sun heating our tired, but extremely happy faces. We hung out on the summit for almost 45 minutes because of how awesome it felt up there, and because sitting was equally as awesome. The guys up there told us about their day, and it was fun to exchange stories while they passed around a joint, laughing and talking as though the summit was their dorm room. They were cool and fun, and obviously good mountaineers in their mid 20s.

After a "kick - a" 120' rappel (which they helped us find) from a couple slings, we descended the mountain via the old Owen-Spalding route (originally climbed in the late 1890s by a Coloardo reverend and a Jackson surveyor). The descent from there was brutal: slippery dirt and rock combination, a lot of down-climbing and a very meandering trail. Finally, at about 6:30pm, we reached the lower saddle. I had left my pack there that morning, and had filled up a camelback of 3 liters of water for our descent. We slumped down and looked up at our accomplishment shining in the evening like a proud father smiling down at his sons. We chilled for about 25 minutes at the lower saddle, choking down Clif Bars, slurping some much-needed water, and talking about how awesome the climb turned out to be.

The last four hours are a blur. Our legs had been pounded, our arms tested and strained. Our hands were chalky and dry, healing themselves slowly from the hand jams that had given them cuts and scrapes. I uncomfortably slung one foot out at a time, landing un-athletically and painfully with every step. The hike that morning seemed easy, but now it was like hiking the brutal Turkey Pin at age 4, but without loving parents to give me a carry whenever I felt tired. We laid ourselves down at "The Meadows", a beautiful alpine meadow about 3 hours from the car. The meadow is gorgeous, complete with a picturesque waterfall cascading fiercely down a smooth granite ledge. Nicholas and I had camped here before our attempt of Irene's Arete a few weeks earlier. We both remember falling asleep for like 3 minutes, and neither of us can remember how we ever woke ourselves up to continue. But somehow, we pushed forth through the boulder fields, the rocky slopes and eventually the soft, groomed trail. The dirt felt like a plush pillow beneath my feat compared with everything else we had traveled through that day, and we pushed ourselves hard to finally get off the mountain once on this seemingly soft terrain. I received calls from Cami and the Rents during our push, which helped me keep my mind off the shaking pain in my feet and legs. We arrived back to his Saab at 11:05, which had been resting there happily/lazily since our departure that morning. It welcomed us to its sloping frame, in all its Euro-ness, and we accepted its invitation to toss our bags off of our own sloping frames into its spacious trunk, 21 hours after our start. Nicholas drove us back to his house, where we cooked up some Annie's mac and cheese and slogged root beers in celebration (we both wanted an actual beer, but knew that one sip would make us instantly drunk due to our famine and sleep-deprivation, so we opted for the second-best). After the well-deserved meal, I drove to the golden arches and got myself a hot-fudge sundae with a few quarters and plenty of gusto.

Across the Pond

2007-03-20T11:34:00.000-07:00

After doing a lot of thinking lately about my blogging life, I have decided to make a change. Although its true that when it comes to blogging, writing, staying in touch, or anything in life, I generally have the follow-thru of Ichiro, but without the OBP (for those of you who can’t understand complex baseball references, or have any concept of common sense—I am terrible at writing blogs continually). However, it is never too late to make a change, and that begins now.

A few weeks ago…

As a school, we took a trip to Córdoba, a city southeast of Sevilla. Since we are studying Islamic architecture, and because it is the principal site in Córdoba, we visited the famous Mezquita. It was built in the 8^th, 9^th, and 10^th centuries by Muslims, but after the reconquest by the Christians it was converted to a ‘cathedral.’ Really the Christians just came in, killed people, built a chapel in the center of the mezquita and called it their own. It really is beautiful though, and very, very large.

As far as really interesting places go, Córdoba is not my favorite, though it has plenty of historical significance.

My entire school went (52 crazy Christians), so it was a good time, albeit annoying at times.

In other news, the new Arcade Fire is out, but I’m not sure how I like it. Give it a listen and let me know. However, the new Andrew Bird is great stuff, getting me though passing through the streets hearing nothing but euro techno or flamenco guitar bumping from one of these cars:

Each day this week is a new entry. Excited?

A Broken Bone, A Healed Mind

2007-01-23T08:09:00.000-08:00

As you may or may not know, I am across the pond in Spain. This means that my communication has been more infrequent than my usual paucity. Thus, I will have to indulge everything that has happened from early January until this very second. I understand that it sounds horribly boring, but I am awesome so I will continue. Prego.

I spent a wonderful Christmas break in Colorado with my family; mostly working and snowboarding. We laughed, we sang, we played charades.

Like I said before, I also went snowboarding often. With el niño blowing snow into Colorado with hurricane ferocity, the snow was great. Tourists were kept at bay (in Texas, mostly) by the Denver storms, and the champagne powder was everywhere. I made it up (and down) the slopes seven times, enough to make any boy smile. Here is a picture of my girl friend and I on a perfect blue bird day.

My last day, however, was the best. The snow sprayed my face at every turn and I only met one overall-clad Texan on the slopes. I bounced and carved through perfect turns in and out of the trees with a perma-grin on my face and a twinkle in my eye. Everything that was good in the world was in Winter Park that day. My last run was the highlight; a beautiful tree run along timberline down through the trees, ending finally in a stretch of VW-sized moguls. It was 3:30 at that time, and I called it a day. As I made my way down the final stretch, I could see the parking lot in the distance. I had made it through seven days snowboarding, injury-free. But the angel of darkness, dressed in pink overalls wearing a pigtail, stopped me (but mostly my shoulder) in my tracks. (In other words, I was flying down a “green” trail and caught an edge trying to get out of the way of some girl who was sitting down beneath a small, hidden dropoff, successfully breaking the tip of my clavicle). Here I am, sling and all, sad as can be.

After a day of crying (honestly…I was an emotional rollercoaster…think pregnant woman), I visited the orthopedist. If I had to have surgery, there is no way I could go to Spain. Obviously, the fracture was aligned so that everything will heal on its own in about six weeks.

After the long, arduous trip across the Atlantic, I stayed in Sevilla for one night before heading to Rome with Carine. With a sling in one arm and a backpack in the other, I boarded the Ryanair 747. Rome was incredible in every way—beautiful architecture, delicious food, and every other good thing one could say about a place.

I won’t go into detail about my adventures in Rome entirely because three more pages explaining every unique aspect and element of every church I visited would be about as fun as reading my blog about the kayaks. Just know that I loved Rome, and reciprocally, Rome loved me. Here are some photos from our three full days there:

Next, Carine and I traveled to Athens, where we were greeted by words that looked more like mathematical equations than sentences. After a few extremely funny jokes I made about sigma, alpha, beta, etc., we saw the sites. Athens is not as intrinsically beautiful as Rome, but is nevertheless an incredible city. The acropolis was obviously one of the highlights of the trip.

After another day of history classes, we decided to venture outside of Athens to a city called Naplio. It is a beautiful coastal town about 2.5 hours from Athens. Atop the city lies an enormous Venetian castle, built in the 17^th century to guard from people I think (whaaat?). Anyway, it was a beautiful place, even in the middle of winter:

Now is the end...more to come.

Musings

2006-11-29T23:18:00.000-08:00

First of all, I hate WordArt. Why do people making powerpoints think that WordArt is so tight to use? "Maybe I will put a gray, pixalated shadow behind this title," you think to yourself. But you shouldn't be thinking! Anyone who thinks shadows/WordArt in PowerPoints looks good knows nothing about anything.

Secondly, after watching ol' Michael Richards completely ruin his "career" at that comedy club, I am sure that being a comedian is not easy. However, I also am sure that the comments he said made the Imperial Wizard blush. I'm not sure the Klan could keep up.

Finally, right now is a great time to be alive.

Church Signs

2006-10-05T18:20:00.000-07:00

20 years of cringing. 20 years of uncomfortable side smiles. 20 years of reading church signs.

As a general rule, I have nothing against church signs. Inherently, they are fine. Put a message on them, thats what they're for. Invite people to come in, let them know the times of the services and so on. But don't put some flagrant, pithy one-liner on signs. Does it propel the kingdom to write "Get saved or burn in Hell" on signs? Does it change peoples lives to write "Dusty bibles lead to dirty lives?" Does "Church parking tresspassers get baptised" make people burst out in laughter and run inside? I want this inner-competion of church signage to stop.

Hilarious!!! Larry the Cable Guy is so relevant right now!

Circular reference?

Hours in the boardroom?

I'm embarrassed for thinking that baby Jesus was wrapped in clothes.

Hmmm....

As the lowest form of humor, puns have no right being anywhere.

Christians should be like this little guy!

Kayaking and Such

2006-09-24T00:46:00.000-07:00

A story....

Josh and Micah were good friends.

Micah owned a car.

One day, Micah and Josh decided to go on an adventure.

They decided to go ride on boats in water.

Josh was happy about the highness of the water in the river.

Micah and Josh were so excited!

They traveled miles and miles on the river.

Micah got out to rest from all of the paddling.

Although he was tired, Micah managed to smile at Josh, who was his friend.

However, Josh hated Micah, and wanted to kill him.

Micah, the true friend, did not know of Josh's plan.

When Josh got out, he did not smile.

Josh scorned because he hated Micah.

Josh wanted Micah to see tha......

Wow. I just cannot continue writing this completely crappy story. I wanted to write about kayaking with Josh tonight using only a first-graders vocabulary and sentence structure. However, this is truly a horrible way of presenting anything. Thus, I have come to a conclusion--a person who writes stories like this for children must have fallen on their head, dropped out of school, smoked tons of dope, laughed at Tidbits, watched Seinfeld and did not understand so instead watched Elimidate, eaten batteries, lost all of their money, constantly been confounded at the "rubber pencil" trick, realized they could draw lines to form letters and letters to form words and words to form sentences and sentences to form stories, and finally, after living a terribly useless life, wrote similar stories.*

The end.

*Don't get me wrong, I love children's book geniuses (such as Dr. Seuss, Roald Dahl, and Faulkner), I just don't love people who write books like my story above. I guess kids have to learn how to read somehow...

Bombastic Egocentrics

2006-09-04T14:45:00.000-07:00

In this age where bombastic egocentrics and hollow elitists are the norm, I have decided to hop onboard. No more quotidian lifestyle devoid of materialistic arousal. No more stark phrases and vapid calmness. Finally, I can be associated with something great, something pure, something timelessly unique. I have become a water connoisseur, and I will raise my nose in disgust at your Dasani or Aquafina. I am into glass bottles with delicate lines, stylish lettering, and foil seals. I am into the rara avis from Norway and Patagonia. Lauquen, VOSS, 10 Thousand BC, and Elsenham are a few of my favourite brands. Never heard of them? Typical of the bourgeois. Very few can be so dignified in their choice of liquid replenishment. Below is a five dollar bottle of splendid Lauquen. Can't afford it? You are not alone.

Here I am thinking about drinking the purest from Norway, VOSS.

This is a fellow lover of VOSS, a close colleague and friend.
I've found that only the purest water optimally hydrates the body, reduces anxiety, heightens brain functions and stimulates sex drive. Do yourself a favor - drink untapped, unpolluted, unblemished H2O, or don't drink at all.

Mer

2006-09-04T13:56:00.000-07:00

This is Meredith. She is amazing.

Parkour Night

2006-09-04T00:00:00.000-07:00

Sunday Night is Parkour Night

Under a thick, hazy Arkansas sky, we went out and did it. Jump, run, swing, grab, hang, climb, roll. Without a moon as a guide, we tore up the city. Sweat beading down our cheeks, we swang from ledges and flipped off bars. We jumped off rooftops and spun off fences. Our legs felt constricted by the heavy wet denim, but we were protected from scrapes and scratches usually recieved from springy wall jumps and building drops. Our hands were slick with the humid air, but we did not concede. We tirelessly swang and jumped. What is this parkour? Why does it entertain? Where does life end and parkour begin?

2006-09-03T11:02:00.000-07:00

Welcome to instant gratification