Friday was horrible. Everything about it was a mess. Mitch andd I wandered aimlessly with nothing to shoot. Appherantly, we were not in the right search modes to pick up rice burners. I'm trying to get my head around this story. I think the best thing for me to do is to write somethign or other about it after this rock climbing story is over. I'm constipated on it, frankly...
But Saturday was terrific, and Sunday is too, so far. Yesterday, the kids were racing up the walls of Pipeworks were crawling with little wriggling bodies, all of them completely unaware of the fact that every single eye in the room is on them. They're little sex symbols, and they have no idea. You can see it in the sweat on the brows of dads who are staring at the ground uncomfortably, or absentmindedly fixating on someone else's ddaughter. Humbert Humbert's head would implode at the sight of this place.
Later that night, we discussed the way that guns are little tools that are designed to impose your will upon someone else. Things mostly went downhill from there, though this is a case where downhill is a subjectively good thing. There was one purpose to the massive BBQ last night, and that purpose is best articulated in that singular phrase so beloved by Father Jack. I went to bed at about 1 AM, and arose and drove to Sac so I could see the finals take place. They started at 8:45, and I made it with about an hour to spare. Of course, Scott didn't even climb until the very end of the day. But that was about 10 AM. The runs were incredibly difficult. Large swaths of the wall were completely barren of objects, or packed full os marble-sized circles that required hands with microscopic fibers alikened to Spider-Man, and like that box-office phenominon, there is lots of money to be made here.
But you know what?
No one here is being exploited.