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zBrown
Ice climber
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Aug 18, 2018 - 07:55am PT
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Get down with Brown
"She said that one time her father Rev. Franklin was robbed at his church in Detroit," says Brown. But the Godfather of Soul who was in Detroit at the time took matters into his own hands.
"I don't know what my daddy did, who he got in contact with. But he got everything back for Mr. Franklin," she says.
Was it December? i don't know.
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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 - Aug 18, 2018 - 11:39am PT
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Yeah, good mornin', too, and thanks for the beta.
Vern and I drove to Tim's Place (not Tom's Place) already today.
One more load, scheduled for Sunday a.m., and the move will be complete.
JS and I in our (may I say "epic?") quest for Lyell the Hard Way.
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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 - Aug 18, 2018 - 11:46am PT
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Now, THIS is hard...
A tisket, a tasket, but no rubber biscuit.
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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 - Aug 18, 2018 - 02:41pm PT
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Way-back 45 years.
Thanks to Steve Grossman.
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Gnome Ofthe Diabase
climber
Out Of Bed
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Aug 18, 2018 - 02:52pm PT
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Been lost all day
Following rabbit holes that that
Super Taco devotee, has lept down,
finding my way through warrens, passing an odd assortment
stopping at stranger one off threads, bridging even deeper
Then, there to I went for a few deep burrowing efforts
to come away with some good ones, seem that aught nine
weren't nothig then agian I gnow. you have to see. . .
oh, I just went to Steve Grossman's Tom Frost thread and read ,"rgold"
http://www.supertopo.com/climbing/thread.php?topic_id=3115975&msg=3116166#msg3116166
to tack it down - right ? as dry as it is righteous writing from rgold
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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 - Aug 18, 2018 - 04:18pm PT
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Yes, you are right, you name-dropping gnome-dropping ignomramus. Richie is solid gold.
"Another Late Night Snack's Dream"
One day while wandering and pondering on isolated thoughts down an isolated trail
the cliffsides echo my silent ruminances and occasional footish noise.
I am talking to myself but am only paying half my attention—
the rest is taken up by my attempts to maintain my balance—
while I am beginning to worry about the oncome of nightfall.
I can’t remember what I was saying to myself, but I remember having
that one-sided conversation.
I do remember the shadows lengthening. The tangled wood got dark fast.
I came out into twilight and a fresh but very warm breeze.
As I made my careful way along the darkening trail under a gradually filling night sky a lama came up the trail…leading a llama!
That’s right. One wore a saffron-colored robe and one had lots of hair.
I stood aside politely.
“Namaste.”
“Lama-speak” (for lack of an exact translation).
“Sayonara.”
And as the lama with the llama moved up the trail, he began singing:
“Click clack. Click clack. Next time I’m a train.”
A little over an hour later I saw from above it the lights of the village.
I knew Quito was a day’s bus ride away.
And when I got to Quito, I hoped I might find that long-awaited cure for Quitoacidosis, the bane of my existence.
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zBrown
Ice climber
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Aug 18, 2018 - 05:32pm PT
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Don Lauria
Trad climber
Bishop, CA
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Aug 18, 2018 - 05:39pm PT
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Yeah, Bear Creek Spire.
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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 - Aug 18, 2018 - 05:51pm PT
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Hiya, Don! Thanks.
One hot afternoon Tim and I walked uphill from his property (Tim's Property as opposed to Tim's Place--not to be confused with Tom's Place, though it could happen).
You know how it gets in the foothills in the summertime in the undergrowth of the oak and buckeye belt where the brush grows lush on the north side of steep hills and trying to find your way turns into really nasty bushwhacking and you sweat like criminal in the line-up (unless you're a really hardened sob) and you keep tripping and catching clothing and double-checking where you are going and...well, you probably know or have a good idea 'bout what I'm describing.
If not, then here are some pictures.
No stranger to danger, the dangerous stranger found himself becoming weird, stranger even than the Lone Ranger, yet not so angst-ridden or full of tsuris as Cisco.
With hardly any hesitation, he walked into the gloom, leading his mount, industriously brushing away the deer flies, the black flies, the flying ants, the tiny-tiny stinging gnats, the ever-present, cursed midges, and the meat bees, too.
And then he realized...what, exactly?
Stay tuned...
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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 - Aug 18, 2018 - 07:02pm PT
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"Writer's block is all in your mind."
--some forgotten genius
Sonnets include a dedication to one "Mr. W.H.". The identity of this person remains a mystery and, since the 19th century, has provoked a great deal of speculation.
The dedication reads:
“ TO.THE.ONLIE.BEGETTER.OF.
THESE.INSUING.SONNETS.
Mr.W.H. ALL.HAPPINESSE.
AND.THAT.ETERNITIE.
PROMISED.
BY.
OUR.EVER-LIVING.POET.
WISHETH.
THE.WELL-WISHING.
ADVENTURER.IN.
SETTING.
FORTH.
T.T. ”
Its oblique nature has led Colin Burrow to describe it as a "dank pit in which speculation wallows and founders".[5] Don Foster concludes that the result of all the speculation has yielded only two "facts", which themselves have been the object of much debate: First, that the form of address (Mr.) suggests that W.H. was an untitled gentleman, and second, that W.H., whoever he was, is identified as "the only begetter" of Shakespeare's Sonnets (whatever the word "begetter" is taken to mean).[6]
A Reprint of an Article found in the files of I’m Wondering magazine, V.33, No. 4, April, 2110.
MEDITATIONS IN GREENJEANS: The Dedication to bushman’s Summits
by MFM from Merced
The Summits include a dedication to one “Mr.E”. I feel it is safe to say that I may have discovered the answer to the question, “Who is Mr.E?”
The Dedication reads thus:
“To the only begetter of these ensuing songlets, Mr.E.
All happyness and that eternity promised by our ever-living poet wishes the well-wishing adventurer in setting forth.
TTR.”
The identity of this mystery person remains questionable; and, since the 21st century, has provoked a great deal of argument and speculation and even an indictment for libel of one scholar, Professor Felonius Mentirosa, for his vicious and unsubstantiated remarks in an article in Higher Times which criticized a rival, Dr. Rocky Raconteur of the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame in Cleveland.
Dr. Rocky suggested in a work titled Mystery Climber that the person was a rock climber from Bishop who was known for nothing more than being the spouse of the much-acclaimed stained-glass artist usually known as Justine Skip. He lived at the exact moment in literary history to have been the publisher. His name is Eric Wolframite.
Wolframite wrote under several pseudonyms, Mr.E being his avatar on line at supertopo.com, a climbing website with one of the most active forums on the subject, with hundreds of thousands of registered members. That is one of his alter egos, actually. He was diagnosed by a psychologist before he died with schizophrenia.
Those are some of the facts in the matter. But who inspired bushman to write his opus, really?
This dank pit of speculation where one wallows and flounders in libel, contradiction, and calumny is a relatively well-known story. Infighing over this is spotty, but now and then someone fans the flames of the fire. Dr. Rocky’s revival of this ancient (by today’s standards, at any rate, when EVERY DAMN THING IS TRENDING) literary brouhaha, is important. We won’t know how important or what it means to climbers, anyway, until it’s all been nattered over on supertopo.
It is interesting to note the similarity between supertopo and this Tempest in a Billy Can (nod to the Bard, Shakespeare, that is, not Phil, nor Dale nor Allen). Nobody decides anything, “it’s all” rude comments spiced with some personal experience totally unrelated to the topic, dire warnings of impending death (plus never enough photos to satisfy me) mixed in with meaningful discussion and the occasional thoughtful insight.
Not meaning to digress, but unable to resist, I must say that it is interesting to note that none of the Bard Boys wrote poetry, at least that I personally know about. But, Ho, Man! If they HAD versified—Ho, Man!
In researching this in-depth online article (How oxymoronic do you have to be to get a laugh?), I happened on a topic on the supertopo forum called The Flames. I began reading (took for fecking ever!) and found Mr.E had responded to a poem published by bushman.
He didn’t like it and said it sucked. (That still means it sucked—some words are perfect and never change meaning over time.) Then he called him a closet Trumpie and all hell broke loose. It took weeks to repair the breach, but they remained friendly. Part of bushman’s fame is that he loved to forgive others who had once pissed him off or pissed on him. He’s legendary, in fact. All the slander and innuendo about sheep is perhaps left for later discussion, since it’s off-topic.
From further interaction between the two, on other topics on other threads, the differences between bushman and Mr.E faded and were forgotten/forgiven, whatever.
Not that peace reigned over supertopo (that would take all the fun out of it), but at least this gives credence to the idea that Mr.E was a begetter, whatever that means.
Many of the works in The Summits first appeared there on that Flames thread, I found. They are mostly the same versions as appear in The Summits, but there are also many revisions and other changes. This is to be expected from such a master of the craft. Nonetheless, it gives perspective to read the virgin copies. Know what I mean? Or in the vernacular of the supertopo forum of the day, “Nawmean?” Wink wink, nudge nudge.
Mr.E’s response to the poem was such that I must conclude that he was an untitled everyman. He also suggests that he is “the only begetter” of bushman’s The Summits.
So there you have it. I think this may prove that Mr.E was an average man of his times except for his love of risky ventures like rock climbing, which he shared with his redoubtable wife, Justine Skip, who went with the avatar JTM on line. It was said she climbed better than he, but you didn’t hear that from me.
I’m not sure what is meant, specifically, by the term “begetter.” Choose a meaning and get back to me in the morning.
Songlet 66, “You didn’t lock the sheepfold gate, my darling,” is one of my personal favorites of all the songlets in The Summits. There are 1,554 songlets total.
This is prolific output and likely demanded much of bushman’s time. He in fact says so in My Last Poem #99, “Recidivist.”
“My lunch-time is prime time to wander the trails
Stolen moment in the shade of the reverie tree
But never enough to satisfy me.”
bushman-10-10-2020
The Summits, consisting of Songlets and Last Poems, is as entertaining as poetry ever gets. And the sheer volume of poems is staggering.
Thank the Muse that bushman bothers to number his works. What genius!
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zBrown
Ice climber
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Aug 18, 2018 - 07:36pm PT
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Quote Here If you’re a fan of The Twilight Zone, then you might be interested in knowing that it might never have been created if Rod Serling was never injured in WWII. The future writer was eager to enroll in the war to help fight the Nazis, but he was instead sent to the Philippines to fight the Japanese. He was put into one of the most dangerous platoons in the area, nicknamed “the death squad” for the high number of casualties suffered in the group. Serling was lucky enough not to be killed in combat, but he hardly came out unscathed. He was injured a few times in battle, but more dramatic was the severe trauma he experienced by serving in such a violent area. As a result, he was plagued by nightmares and flashbacks for the rest of his life.[/quote
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Tamara Robbins
climber
not a climber, just related...
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Aug 18, 2018 - 10:16pm PT
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holy cow, just saw your post, Mouse.... can't possibly look through 15k or whatever but yours cracked me up! And i'd say to you that I wish you were HERE to assist with this ball python ;)
Cheers, and I presume I'll see you in Sept and Oct.....
T
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Gnome Ofthe Diabase
climber
Out Of Bed
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Aug 19, 2018 - 01:24am PT
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Ha Ha for sure I thought I scared you away
glad to see that isn't so!
that was a Trip,
hope to see more ...Your welcome to pull up a spot ,
start any where,
then come back and report if you find any thing worthy
or that needs explanation,
Glad to have crossed the gulf...
Whats most wierd that just now ,
and this never happens a very large mouse,
my wife just crawled
down the hall. It is 4 :20 am, the coffee is pre -set
I have to go check
She always sleeps through
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zBrown
Ice climber
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Aug 19, 2018 - 08:25am PT
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Used to know a nephew of Rod Serling.
Pelota. The fastest projectile speed in any moving ball game is c. 302km/h 188mph in Jai-Alai The most lethal ball of any sport, the pelota is 3/4 the size of a baseball and harder than a golf ball. It is made from constructed or hand wound Brazilian rubber with two handsown goatskin covers.
Panigale
skip to about five and a half if just want to see how fast it is.
[Click to View YouTube Video]
[Click to View YouTube Video]
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