is it possible to look MORE bald with a goofy helmet?

(Apologies to my facebook friends, who may already have seen the photos I posted there.)

Our last full day in Bend, Sam and I went off with dear friend and wonderful hostess Tiffany and her son to climb a rock.  Of the four of us, I was the only one without any time in a climbing harness.  Sam had completed his Climbing merit badge at boy scout camp.  Suffice to say, I was excited and nervous.

We set off for Smith Rock, about 40 minutes north of Bend, Oregon.  This is a gorgeous river gorge and huge upthrust of stone in the middle of the high desert of east-central Oregon.  From the outside, it merely looks like a setting for one of those old Western movies where everyone dies of dehydration.  Then you get up on top and into the gorge, and my god it's beautiful and dramatic.

From the parking lot, hiking off into Smith Rock State Park.

From a switchback along the trail into the park.  The river gorge is simply spectacular.

This was taken from the base of our climb, across the river.

We hiked in about a half mile.  It starts with switchbacks to descend into the gorge valley, then a pleasant hike along the river and an ascent up various steps to the base of the route our guide had picked out.  Did I mention our guide?  Aaron, from Chockstone Climbing Guides, was our mentor and guide for the day. He'd picked out two routes for us, spanning 2 p.m. to 7 p.m.  The first, Cinnamon Slab, is a 5.6 climb. The second, Ginger Snap, is a 5.8.  I had some idea of what this meant because Big Bro had explained this to me the week before.  5.6 sounded OK but tough.  5.8... we would see.

Long story short:  Climbing was fun but much, much harder than it looks from the ground.  The Cinnamon Slab climb looks like an easy jaunt up a sloped surface, but when you're fifty feet off the ground and have a 14 inch wide surface you're clinging to at a 75 degree pitch with no footholds, it takes a little focus to keep your cool.  On top of it all, you're wearing this really goofy helmet that, you're thinking at the moment, will only serve to keep your scalp from getting lacerated as every bone in your body breaks as you bounce down the rocks to the bottom.

But then you remember you're on belay, and if the person on the ground likes you and your guide has properly anchored the rope at the top of the climb, you're pretty safe.  So you carry on to the top, sweating like a cold beer on the tar in a Las Vegas parking lot in August.

Here are some photos from the Cinnamon Slab (5.6) portion of our day.

Aaron, our guide, setting up the route.  Relax, ladies.  He's married.

Sam belaying, with Aaron as backup.

Sam nearing the top of Cinnamon Slab.  The point he's climbing in this shot has a surface only about a foot wide.  There are holds on the outside of the rock, too, but I found those not as tempting as maybe they should be.

Me at the bottom of Cinnamon Slab, taking my first steps up any climbing route ever.  I look pretty manly in this, don't I?  Except for the dorky helmet, of course.

Me about halfway up Cinnamon Slab.  Here it's about two feet wide, maybe a little more.

When we had just all finished on Cinnamon Slab, a group of 7,000 experienced climbers arrived and started loitering about six feet away from us.  OK, maybe it was more like 12 people in climbing gear, and I don't know how experienced they were.  The way they hovered, though, it appeared they intended to climb the routes we'd set up already.

No matter what they were there for, I was certain of one thing:  I was not excited to have an audience.  I knew I would make a total fool of myself.  43 year old doofus in a goofy helmet slipping off the rock and ending up dangling upside down from one foot caught in a tangled mess of rope.  I was sure that was my future:  a future filled with laughter from below and blood rushing to my head.

I did go up the Ginger Snap route.  It starts with a little scrambling up some boulders until you get to the flat part.  I stood on that last ledge for maybe five minutes trying to figure out how the hell I was going to go up even one more inch.  I sortied and retreated a number of times, frequently thinking I had made it as far as I could for my first day.  But Tiffany, the evil slave driving torture dragon lady, "urged" me on from below.  And up I went.  And damn, was it HARD.

Tiffany used a zoom for this one.  You can see my right foot is on a solid ledge, but tell me where the hell I'm going to put it next when I hoist up onto my left foot?

Another zoomed shot, as I step up off that ledge on my way to the top.

Sam struggled a little with this route, too, but he made it all the way.  You can get a sense of the route here.  Sam is roped in, by the way--it's just hard to see the rope in this shot.

After we were all done, we headed off to the Terrabonne Depot for cold beers and dinner.  Highly recommended after an exertion like climbing or a long hike.  The black ale was outstanding and the service very friendly.

It's funny how, that day, I thought I enjoyed climbing but never really felt a need to do it again.  As I get farther from the event, though, I begin to think about how I'd love to go out and challenge myself again.  I learned a lot on Ginger Snap as I found or missed footholds, held my body close to the rock, used one or two fingers for balance as I stepped up.  Clearly this won't be a lifestyle sport for me, but I would not be surprised to find myself on another wall sometime in the future.

Especially since Sam seems to love it so dearly.

Beer Labels!

I thought when I pitched a competition, I'd have a ball seeing all the entries.  But I guess the kickoff was weak so only two friends took a shot.  Still, the goal was achieved, and two strong entries finished in a tie, which means only one thing:  a shootout to determine the winner!  I'll line up the shots and then drink them, and I'll declare myself the winner and hoist the cup in the end.

Here are the two entries, both of which will grace the bottles of my new brew in time for the opening game broadcast of the World Cup.  First, only because I received it first, is Gene's entry.

It's based on the FIFA World Cup 2010 logo, cleverly updated for the topic at hand.  I've modified it further to include the only thing that's clearly missing:

Then there is Jen's entry.  You may recall that she originally suggested Dudley's Old Peculiar as the name of the batch, but that turned into Dudley's Old & Peculiar.  I'm not sure if I'm supposed to take that as an insult or not.  In any case, the label is definitely good enough to put on the bottles, and it probably describes both the beer and the brewer.

So there you have it.  Inbounds Ale and Old & Peculiar.

Beer! Brewing! Need a name and label!

In keeping with my new years resolutions for 2010, I brewed a new batch of beer yesterday.  It's an Irish Red Ale, which they say is a lot like a Scotch ale but not quite so Scottish.

I had to start by buying a new stopper and air lock because I broke the old one with the last batch.  Turns out if that rubber stoppers get hard and dry as they get old, and if you push too hard, they actually slip down into the carboy.  We managed to work it out, but we broke the airlock during bottling.  So anyway, with the new equipment in place and a fresh ingredient kit from Beer, Beer, & More Beer, we brewed.

The beer looks great.  It now ferments and settles for two weeks, then I'll bottle it.  Two weeks later, just days before the opening game of the World Cup, it will be ready to drink.

The only problem is, I need a name and a label for it.  Normally I'd do this myself, but I'm turning to you, all my friends, to do it for me.  This is probably as close to a blog contest as I'll ever come, so you better jump on this opportunity before it expires.

The task:  Name the beer and create a label that can be printed on Avery 5264 labels, which are a great size for both the 22 ounce and the 12 ounce bottles.  These are 3-1/3" by 4" with rounded corners, and you need to be aware that I am not very good at printing bleeds unless you also provide me a six-up version that can be printed on my Mac Mini.

The context:  This beer will be consumed mostly in a hot tub with the World Cup on the big screen.  Some will be given away to friends, probably.  Children may be present, so no X rated labels.  (Actually, feel free to send X-rated labels.  I just won't pick them as winners.)

Submissions:  Email the name and artwork to me at dudleypj@gmail.com, no later than May 23, 2010.

The prize:  I dunno.  Maybe, like, I'll say thank you.  And you'll get the thrill of having your work displayed on beer bottles in my home.

Mini Minion Meet

Almost a year ago, I traveled halfway around the world to meet Robin in person, along with a few other wonderful EE minions.  Today, I had the great pleasure of seeing Robin again, this time on her home turf, or very nearly, in Alexandria, Virginia.  I also met her husband for the first time (yes, lads, sorry, but Robin is married) and liked him a lot despite his being Welsh.  Or possibly because he is Welsh.  I've only known one other openly Welsh person, and he's a good guy.  So maybe that's it.

This mini minion meet--or, better put, a minion mini meet although neither Robin nor I is what anyone would call "NBA height"--occurred at an Irish pub because, I suppose, it is Saint Patrick's Eve.  Which sounds vaguely like a the name of a very bad idea from a feminine products company.  And also because Robin is Irish.  Or, Irish German.  Depending on whose facts you believe.

In any case, much fun was had by all even though not one of us drank Guinness, which surprised even me.  Robin and I talked about writing and many other things.  More important, since Robin's Day Job is actually related to my line of work, we discussed business.  In fact, we discussed business for a number of minutes, during which the waiter conveniently delivered the check.  And it should be noted that if I had ordered a room service dinner on this business trip, which undoubtedly I would have done had I not met Robin and her husband, the bill would have been far higher.

It is a pleasantly odd feeling to be meeting a person for only the second time in your life yet fall instantly into a comfortable banter as if you grew up together.

Unfortunately, Chris was unable to leave her Things unsupervised and make the 90 minute drive to join us.  Which I don't quite understand since her facebook status seems always to imply that the supervision she provides is not always relevant to their activities anyway.

Finally, a note to all reading this:  We must do this again soon, with a larger contingent.  Fellow minions, what say ye?

Winter Olympics: guns, bikinis, and really cool sunglasses

I was shocked--shocked, I tell you!--last night when my younger son declared that the Biathlon was the least exciting winter Olympics sport to watch.  Considering that my two boys have more airsoft weaponry than most third world countries have actual guns, this declaration woke me up.  (I had fallen asleep, you see, because "ice dancing" was on the TV.)

I figured that anything involving shooting would keep my boys rapt.  Skiing and shooting.  Skating and shooting.  Hot dog eating and shooting.  Lawnmowing and shooting.  What could be more exciting, apart from maybe watching someone strap on skis and fling himself sixty feet skyward in a windmill tornado tumbling exhibition?  (OK, possibly if the skier were in fact doing this jump behind the biathlon shooting targets.)

So my boys eschewed the manliest of winter sports, the one involving the gun.  (By the way, I think women's biathlon should be moved to the summer games, and moved to the beach. It'd be like women's beach volleyball, only with bullets instead of a ball.  Girls, guns, and bikinis.  The IOC is missing a major ratings opportunity here.  But I digress.)

It got me thinking about other Olympic sports, though.

Curling.  OK, I kind of like it in the way I like ping pong and lawn bowling.  All three are well designed for the integration of beer.  But that whole broom thing... kinda girly, doncha think?  I mean, manly men don't do competitive sweeping.  When have you seen a Swiffer ad with a man doing the housework?  All they need is to add a guy at the end to pick up the stone, rinse it off, and put it in a dishwasher.  Emasculation complete.

Ice dancing.  Do we even need to go there?  This is the rhythmic gymnastics of winter.  This is figure skating for men who can't jump, and for women who are too big and fat to be thrown in the air like a high school cheerleader.  They should change this sport to incorporate some of the rules of the dance marathons of the 1930s.  Have all the couples on the ice at the same time.  Instead of sitting off in safety writing down random scores, judges would have to be on the ice, too, and tap the dancers on the shoulder when they've been eliminated.  And it would be a 12 hour marathon; if after 12 hours, more than one couple was still dancing, the judges could award style points to declare the winner.

Doubles luge.  WTF?  I mean, seriously?

I actually do enjoy watching some of the sports, if I've got nothing better to do like pick lint out of my navel or draw lines on the whiskey bottle to make sure the 10 year old isn't mooching.  Somehow I missed the US vs Canada hockey game, which is probably the one thing I would have sat down to watch in its entirety.  The downhill ski races are a bit like NASCAR in that there's almost certainly going to be a spectacular wipeout at some point, and that's OK because NBC in prime time tape delay won't show any actual serious injuries.  Cross country skiing is unfortunately like long distance running--truly an athletic competition, but fundamentally awful television.  I can allow figure skating because there's a manliness to tossing a petite girl into the air while zooming around on miniature swords strapped to your feet.  And speed skating--the one activity in all of humanity where a woman benefits from having enormous thighs.  Plus, as my son who is bored by the biathlon said, they get to wear really cool sunglasses.

So I guess the winter Olympics isn't all bad.  It's got guns, spectacular wipeouts, and really cool sunglasses.  The only thing it's missing is bikinis.

Making a to-do about 2010

I'm not even sure I'll get today's to-do list completed. So, in the grand, self-centered tradition of making annual to-do lists that are not likely to get to-done, I hereby document my resolutions commitments objectives aspirations for 2010.

(I actually like my Day Job, but if you want my Day Job objectives, ya hafta go aks my boss. You won't read them here, even though they're a huge part of what my 2010 will be.)

• Finish my revision of Andie's Gold, then query in earnest. Don't stop until someone sees it for the work of brilliance it is.
  
• Post at least one new poem every week to my private blog. Mid year, figure out if it's possible to sell an anthology of light verse for kids.
  
• Shore up the Unlucky 26 and look for any small, quirky publishers who might like it.
  
• Complete my training for Scouting and become more actively involved in the troop. Make sure Sam bridges and Ethan achieves at least First Class.
  
• NOT sign up as a soccer coach again unless Sam really really really REALLY wants me to.
  
• Do something fun and different for our 20th wedding anniversary. about.com says I should do something Chinese because china is the traditional 20th anniversary gift. Huh?
• Read at least six novels.
• Attend my high school 25th reunion.
• Brew one batch of beer each quarter and try some new recipes.
  
• Random other things: Submit to Jason Evans' contests and a couple other things through the year. Volunteer at the San Francisco Writers Conference. Keep up with friends' blogs, and cultivate existing non-virtual friendships. Try to get over to EE's place more often. More consistently hit the gym. Journal more often. Take a couple of interesting vacations (possibly Hawaii?) and visit family.
  

Typical schlock, right? But hey, it's my typical schlock. You want someone else's typical schlock, go visit their blog.

it's the most useless anything ever

So someone I know (I won't mention names) started watching the "hit" show The Bachelor a couple of weeks ago. It's mental bubblegum after a hard Monday, so I get it. It's the woman's version of Monday Night Football, only the cheerleaders are the contestants, and instead of beer commercials we get... something else. I don't know because I don't watch and it's on DVR which means the commercials scream by while we look away.

Anyway, a week or two ago this person asked me to google Deanna, a dramatic character with a dramatic past that was going to make a dramatic re-entry into the drama. I came across a quote from the show's producer:

It's the most dramatic anything ever. (story here includes quote)

This, I had to see.

So I sat down and watched a little bit of the final episode, and the "after the rose" show in which the bachelor dumped his chosen one in favor for the one he spurned. On national TV. What a loser. I think the dumpee, who is a 25 year old hottie, will one day be counting her lucky stars.

Anyway, it turns out the show was the most boring anything ever. It was like a badly acted soap opera, a real-life dumping by an immature and overly emotive boy. It wasn't even edited very well. It looked like they pieced together sound bites out of order to pump up the drama and add intrigue to a straightforward "I made a mistake and want you back" scene.

It also turns out that the producer, Mike Fleiss (I wonder if he's any relation to Heidi since they're in similar businesses), had more to say than the most dramatic anything ever. He added, "Just when you think the show is going to end, it doesn't." Boy, I'll say. I kept hoping it would end, but it didn't.

This show would be so much better with cheerleaders and beer commercials.

Wells Fargo free hot dogs!

Imagine the pleasant surprise when I went to Wells Fargo in Bend, OR to get cash at the ATM. The evening was gorgeous--75 degrees, beautiful sky, just amazing. And there were my team mates from my company giving away free hot dogs, soda, and beer! I was so thrilled that I forgot to get cash out of the ATM.

beer labels

Someone was talking about saloons and home brewing the other day (ok, it was Christine), and it reminded me that it's time for me to make another batch of something, maybe an English ale this time. Anyway, I thought I'd share a few of the private labels I've made in the past few years. I hope you enjoy. Sorry, there's no more beer available, but if you want to request a batch, I'll consider making one up.

The Bunny Brew was a pale ale and was a big hit. I think my mom may actually have an unopened bottle still. (Note the 2003 vintage.)

Every year my soccer club (men's over-30 league, our club has four teams in the league) has a raucous dinner-dance with a raffle and auction to raise a little extra money for the club. For several years I brewed something special for the auction. Since many of the club members are British, Irish, or Scottish (and at least one Welshman), there's a lot of beer drinking after the games. My team for the past ten years has been the Clayton Town. Thus, the "town drink."

The Royal Oaks are also in our club, but they're an over-40 team full of crusty, grumpy old men. The younger guys tend to drink Gatorade or other energy drinks at halftime, but I would not be surprised if some of these old goats have an agreement with the local pub for their halftime boost.

I was a member of a terrific writing group in 2006 that folded when two of the members had irreconcilable political differences which created a rift among the writers. It's too bad, really, because it was, I thought, one of those very rare things: A group with several talented writers who all had a great rapport for honest and useful critique. We met at a cafe called "Yellow Wood Cafe" and so called ourselves the Yellow Wood Writers. This beer I brewed and labeled in honor of my first short story sale. First "draft." Get it? Get it?

I have others, but I figure you weren't interested in these so why should I post any more?

Cheers.