Does Everyone Else Have an Innate Sense of Direction?

The business world discriminates against me, and I think I know why.

Everywhere I turn there are signs explaining how to find something or other based on cardinal directions:

"Please use the west door."

"The automatic hand dryer is located on the south wall."

The first I can somewhat understand. Outside a building, one can rely on the position of the sun or knowledge of the layout of surrounding streets to determine which way west is. But the second example -- c'mon, I'm inside a freakin' bathroom, for crying out loud! I can't see the streets, and I'm dealing with a place where the sun don't shine, literally and figuratively. Why not tell me the dryer is behind me? (Further, why not say it's hidden behind the bathroom stall door?) Why not say, "Please use the door to your left"?

I'm convinced it's because everyone who didn't have a tummyache on the one day they covered cardinal directions in elementary school wants to maintain their hegemony over me. I should grab a big fat permanent marker to edit all those offending signs hither and yon -- but I might not get the directions right.

Flatlands to Face Climbing in Fifty-Eight Hours

Last weekend I and 30 flatlanders from that outdoor-climbing Gehenna of the United States -- Lincoln, Nebraska -- took the classic weekend trip to Colorado. You know, the one where you beg your boss or professor to leave early on Friday, then get back so late Sunday night you're a zombie til Tuesday.

The way too wise Kate pointed out correctly that trips like this are more about the people than the climbing. So in that spirit, this climbing journal talks very little about the climbing that went on (though it was excellent), and focuses instead on the fun times had along the way. For easy reference I use the tried and true "Five F's of Climbing Journals" -- Food, Falls, Funnies, Flippin' Cookies and Fotos. Enjoy.

Food:

After climbing all Saturday at Shelf Road the whole gang went to Pizza Madness in downtown Canon City, where the cheese is so greasy you could stick a wick in it and light it. (That means it was the best pizza cheese many had ever eaten.) The joint's name probably derives from the wall murals, which feature three-dimensional renderings of: a) aliens crashing their UFO through the wall; b) various and sundry odd and scary-looking people, including a demonic-looking cat, feeding each other pizza; and c) gigantic bugs eating pizza.

Great fun was had by all except the staff, who must have recently angered the gods. Our group of 30 (one person didn't come) was closely followed by another group of 30. No kidding. To make matters worse (for them), we seem to have taken the tables set for the other group, by virtue of our early arrival for our reservation. This caused quite the pitter-pattering of managerial feet. Lucky the place had plenty of open tables available for shoving into place while the other group stared at us.

Pizza Madness also offered the day's first access to running water, so the line ran out the door as all the guys took sink showers. Later that night Jami may or may not have paid $3 to get her hair washed and styled at the Super Wal-Mart's beauty shop; if John, Tim or Nate told you, they'd have to kill you.

Sharon made some delicious Rice Krispies bars and, displaying the same attention to detail that keeps her glued to the tiniest toe chip, wrapped them individually in waxed paper. On Saturday she graciously shared them with Jon, Tim, Jami and John, but as her supply dwindled her protectiveness increased. When she was attempting to simultaneously perform a difficult camping-related task and eat a Rice Krispies bar, Tim offered to hold the latter for her. Wisely realizing the bar's mass would be significantly diminished upon its return, Sharon declined Tim's assistance.

Falls:

A Nebraska-like wind blast blew Nate off a Garden of the Gods face climb, his first outdoor lead and his first attempt at placing his own quickdraws on lead. Nate was 10 feet above his protection and about to clip the next draw when the wind knocked him off and almost knocked his belayer, Sharon, down. Nate's left leg caught the rope and flipped him, but he suffered only two jammed fingers on his first outdoor fall. Jami, a nurse, provided half-melted ice in a Wal-Mart sack while John contributed a (clean) sock in which to wrap the whole mess.

Funnies:

Jon achieved a one hour and three-minute telling of the Groovy Little Monks story which, believe it or not, is not his personal record. Bing, bing, BONG!

Flippin' Cookies:

Kevin forgot that altitude triples alcohol's effects so he, after imbibing a quantity of drinks appropriate for Nebraska's elevation, decorated the Colorado elevation with pink piles o' puke. Light sleeper John enjoyed a bit of the hurling before inserting his handy-dandy earplugs and drifting away in comfort thanks to the fine folks at the ThermaRest corporation.

Fotos:

Later on the road to the Garden of the Gods John, leading the way, noticed Ann pulling abruptly to the shoulder. John pulled over to render assistance (well, honestly, he would have stood around while the more mechanically aptituded Nate assisted). He ended up pulling out his camera as Kevin stumbled from Ann's gorgeous late-model SUV to flip some more cookies. John's car erupted in laughter as he snapped three photos of the flippage, then sped away.

Notes:
1. Last names have been omitted to protect the guilty.
2. Written from one person's perspective, this journal can't hope to cover more than a tiny fraction of all the fun that was had. If you were on this trip, please add to the account by posting comments with additional stories or links to stories elsewhere.

Why I Love /.

Two reasons I love Slashdot, known to (some of) the geek cognoscenti by the more efficient moniker /. :

1. I'm a hopeless geek.
2. Quotes like this about a replica of the Back to the Future Delorean time machine: "This thing is clearly a chick magnet, and if you can't get them on the first pass, you can always crank it up to 88 mph and go back in time to try it again!"

Slow Boat to China

Dearest seven readers, you may have noticed johnfulwider.com loading slower than a new climber rapelling off a 100-foot overhanging cliff. Turns out there's a reason for it. I just found out today that I'm hosted on a server in ... drum roll, please ... Hong Kong!

My hosting provider, ICDSoft, would be pleased as punch to move me to a U.S. server on request. That's cool, but wouldn't your hosting service sales script include a little function that puts U.S. customers on U.S. servers? :-)

I'm not dogging on ICDSoft. They've been good to me, answering support tickets in under two minutes, or faster than an experienced climber whacked out on Red Bull and about to do an Australian rappel. Whee!

Can I Achieve 176 Pounds?

Just found out, to my dismay, that I exceed the "average climber" weight the Union Internationale Des Associations D'Alpinisme (UIAA) uses to test climbing gear. The UIAA attaches 80-kilogram weights to climbing ropes, for example, and drops the weights. That's 176 pounds, a full 14 pounds under my present weight. I've lost 20 pounds in a year of rock climbing, but I seem to have plateaued at 190.

Anybody out there measure 6'2" and weigh 176 pounds without looking like a tall, hairy Ally McBeal?

Kill Comment Spam, Upgrade Your MT-Blacklist

Those of you having problems with comment spam should remember, as I did not, to upgrade your MT-Blacklist script and download the latest blacklist. I had a mountain of spam waiting for me yesterday upon returning from a Colorado climbing trip. My frustration drove me to the MT-Blacklist home page, where I discovered I was quite behind on the whole new version thing.

The latest version lets you search your blog for comment spams you may have missed; my search yesterday found 11 spams. Now I don't have to worry about closing comments on my old entries.

Jay Allen, the guy behind this indispensable tool, is asking for donations. I'm seriously considering it.

Happy Birthday, Tucker

My cute little niece just made a birthday present for my cat, Tucker, and sang him "Happy Birthday." The present, a sculpture made from a book, a wad of orange Play-Doh and one of Mr. Potato Head's arms, is just about the best gift anyone could get.

She's speaking in short sentences now, but phrases most statements about herself in the form of questions. Need to get her on Toddler Jeopardy.

Minor Commenting Policy Change

I get about four comment spams a day, so I've upgraded to Movable Type 2.661 to take advantage of its comment spam controls. What this means to you is after you post a comment, you have to wait 60 seconds to post the next one. If you want to comment more often than that, dear readers, you might consider acquiring other interests. :-)

Foolproof Eggs Over Easy

I used to murder eggs over easy before inventing (?) a technique that only dirties two more dishes and produces consistent results. I'd been making them, I suppose, the traditional way: Crack an egg in a pan, fry till the white just gets opaque, then flip ever-so-carefully so the yolk doesn't break. You want the yolk runny to provide both a handy bacteria vector and dip for your toast. (For the record, I make eggs over easy for others, and don't eat them myself. But raw cookie dough -- that's the stuff.)

So I could never flip ever-so-carefully and would always break the yolk. I needed something I could pick up with tongs, but even in my snazzy omelette pan the white spread out too thin to be gripped. Enter my handy-dandy 10-oz Pyrex glass ingredient bowls, without which no kitchen should be. (Ending a sentence with a preposition is something up with which I will not put.) Crack an egg in each of two Pyrex bowls and nuke the eggs on high for 35-45 seconds, or until you hear the first pop of the whites exploding and coating your microwave's interior with tough goo. Use a knife to slide the eggs out of the bowls into your frying pan and fry on the non-yolk side for a bit, then grab the egg with your tongs, flip it, and fry a bit longer. Voila! Perfect (and pleasingly compact) eggs over easy.