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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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That was a link to show a photo of a snake like the one that spent the night with me last night. She was adorable, named Bo Ball.
Made me shudder when George brought her by, but then she got attached and I kept her on my neck while we shot the moons down one by one in honor of my father.
And then we did the two bottles of red. And weed.
I'm on cruise control, Bo and George are gone, and the day is new.
What's new in your part of Middle Earth, Throwpie?
Post up a couple shots of the Third Gen Pie, I know you have dozens, Grandpa.
This thread could use some young Flames juju, know what I mean? Cuz the old Flames juju has been beat to hell this week.
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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And with the passing of the Da, the mouse scurried from view.
I may have to return.
I am going now.
I'll see how things go.
Go.
Went.
Gone.
Like a simile.
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zBrown
Ice climber
chingadero de chula vista
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Best of luck my friend.
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Kalimon
Trad climber
Ridgway, CO
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Peace Mouse!
Looks like Allen Pattie (B.A.T. shirt) in your 1990 Moab photo. Did you know Dave Bell?
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throwpie
Trad climber
Berkeley
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OK mouse...heres a recent shot. I couldn't find one without my sunglasses on, but imagine old, tired eyes underneath.
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throwpie
Trad climber
Berkeley
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...and of course, Peggy Lou
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throwpie
Trad climber
Berkeley
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And we still have the old GMC
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Got pride in the old ride.
Neat.
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throwpie
Trad climber
Berkeley
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Lots of famous butts have sat on it's tailgate. Including yours, mouseau.
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throwpie
Trad climber
Berkeley
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Serious Mouse and your cousin(?)
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throwpie
Trad climber
Berkeley
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Nice kneepads
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throwpie
Trad climber
Berkeley
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saddle up pardner
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neebee
Social climber
calif/texas
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hey there say, ... more nice shares... the truck, throwpie and peggy lou (did i get the name right)... will check...
say ron:
as to your quote:
I USed to play "the lizard" on another forum.. I sought the cover of the rocks in which i would scan the meadowhood. The meadowhood is where the critters gathered and i the LIZARD kept guard duty over the hood- watchin for skally-wags and giving warning to the members of the hood. The lizard now watches for the Mouse
fun way with words, as to your lizard share, :)
glad you are out in the open here on the ol' taco, so we can share with you...
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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The Nutcracker on the day the turd below shouted imprecations at the trio of turds above and they shouted maledictions and threatened him with fingers and butts bared in their turn and then things got ugly.
That is Dolores' brother Marc Irwin. He had the enviable job of running the Palo Alto Factory Outlet for the Face. He was a solid 5.8 leader and champion clay courts tennis player at one time. Back in Sandy-cane Land and brokering stocks, married, an old slave like y'all.
That is my right knee, so it's padded for the simple reason I had the ACL surgery in February. This must be 1979. I look dorky serious. But you wore that god-awful black helmet!
Nice photos. Dude.
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throwpie
Trad climber
Berkeley
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I only wore the helmet for a bit. It was so I would look like someone in Mountain Magazine. The brits looked so cool.
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Yeah, they were someone to look at if not up to. I like to think we could have beat them at softball...
What's on down to the bridge, guv? 'ow's Tom?
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Nov 12, 2012 - 04:14am PT
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I've just put on the counter a plateful of really awful food involving fried cheese. I'm disgusted. I'm usually better than that. It must be the Niners getting tied by the Rams today. It reminds me that I'm sick to death of watching old vids of awful jokes delivered by John Cleese.
It's time to tell of cuisine at Apathy House and in the Black Cave and other sites in Camp 4 in the years the Flames were smoldering therein.
Apathy was in the second block up on 16th St. in Pacific Grove. We were up the street from Nick the Chemist and across the street from some sourpuss long-haired doofus that fancied himself a hip New Age artist but cheapened himself in our eyes by exhibiting his crapola de crayola in the gallery of MPC, the community college. Where he took art classes. POSE!
We were so crassly superior that we exhibited our own "art" out on the front porch (which was glassed-in on three sides, facing the sunrise and Patrick's "studio" across 16th)in the form of a frame from a piano, strung and everything, hung from a beam, playable if we had mallets of any form. (Lost Arrows, Chouinard biners, Leeper, all had their own distinctive sound. It was our "indoors aeolian harp.")
This was when I made the fateful decision to inflict a wound on the wall of my own bedloom, in the form of a piton driven into the corner of two walls, and from which I hung my Granada, the $75 wonder-girl from SF. She had a hole and a neck and she was easy to play. What could be better? A guitar and sound-art?
Two girl friends, one to cook, one to play the harp unstrung.
I didn't know it then, but I was a pale imitation of Joe Fitschen, because I was too old for acne (never suffered it, in fact), and couldn't play any instrument except the universal skin flute. I was quietly good at that, as Manny Men will attest as to his own proficiency at the age of twenty-one, much less sixteen. Manny used to go with Rosey Palmas. He should know.
But this is about food. How crude.
Food and, ahem, are just too rude.
But the fact remains, the seeds have been sown of how we ate in the days of Jesus Freaks and no Carmel Hogs. We visited a shop in Carmel to buy organic, to stock up on bulgar (sounds good, but WTF is it?), and Jeff wanted to hit on the woman waiting on us, who didn't know what bulgar was either, it turned out, so we left after buying it anyway. The groats, same story. My five pounds of granola were to make sure we ate SOMETHING I could eat wihtout experimenting with.
The groats (buckwheat--whothef*#k knew?) proved digestible if cooked long enough and adulterated with brown sugar or molasses. The millet was not satisfying. But the home-made granola that Larry concocted from ingredients from the grocery store was the cat's ass! Much better than the boat anchors-in-the-skylight that we hung from fishing line. Better by far than the mobile of leaden sourdough pancakes that hung alongside. Apathy gourmet Gallery. The Pig's Lair. And we had no roaches, imagine!
Other than the monumental pile of garbage in the kitchen, Apathy's pride and the most hazardous pitch of the "Kitchen-Pathy Traverse" route on the four walls beneath that great old skylight, the kitchen was ordlnarily orderly, things were actually labelled--apothecary jars that clearly did actually, really contain something, but which were nonetheless stickered with contents identified, large bins with clearly-printed labels doing containment duty on oats and rice and barley and flour, and sourdough cultures, yoghurt cultures, under wraps but out on the stove for all to see, all had their places, largely the influence of the Rev. His dad had one of the most organized shops at home I've ever seen, surpassing my father's father's mania for "everything in its place."
And we were graced by the presence of not one, but two cooks of seelf-reput, Larry and Jeff.
"Division of labor decrees Mouse [and later Howard, who never cooked anyway] are dishwashers most of the time, especially if we cook."--joint communique by the Rev-and-Larry cooking combine
So I came up with vegetarian spaghetti sauce, which rocks, especially with Parmesan cheese. I got no love for it. "Veggies are too soggy, whats matta you?"
But the duumvirate of dining had sourdough down; they combinded on a turkey dinner with trimimmings all plain or fancy and planned with no parents invited over from Merced to object to oysters in the stuffing (PUKE!); and, honestly, I could not complain about cursory dishwashing (the Bermingham Swirl originated with my discovering how to wash silverware without getting your hands wet) or regret the fact that I didn't know chive from cheddar, so I got by, with a little help from my friends.
And the home-made granola? Jeff bagged it up and took it off for rats for that spring season in the Valley, leaving us with the commercial grade granola, but we still had the recipe and more Food Stamps.
"It was only Food Stamps, WTF. Let's go to the coffee shop."
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Nov 13, 2012 - 07:55am PT
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We are actual fair weather climbers! No sh#t, never have we toned it down because of weather gods. Straight ahead climbing, sun shining, clouds parting fair weather farers.
Lucky as hell, too!
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