Dr_Flash_Amazing

Trash, what'samatta? You're awfully PC today. Why don't you cut loose and tell us how you really feel?

Trask, you've backed so far into the closet, it's getting hard to see you in there, what with the piles of designer shoes and hangers of chic club-wear in the way. Polish up your penny loafers and mince your way out into the world like the sassy little queen that you know you are. GO, girl!

Huh ha ha ha haaaaaaa!! Quality entertainment, ladies and gentlemen; give the lad a round of applause!

Dr. Flash Amazing is opposed to all drilling except for bolts and two-finger pockets.

Don't worry, it'll stop hurting after a day or two.

So, it's a bunch of whiny, left-wing, liberal, trees-before-jobs environmentalist paranoia when we want, say, ANWR left un-fucked-with, but when the corporate greed disguised as environmental policy comes around to your playground, it's time to take a stand? Put a stop to that bullshit?

Dr. Flash Amazing now laughs. Several months back, the Doctor hypothetically presented the pro-extraction right-wingers with a similar scenario, and wondered which side of the fence they'd come down on. Well, boys, the chainsaws are coming to your favorite playground, bidden by your man in the whitehouse. Enjoy the uncluttered views, bitches.

Grazie.

You mean ... George Bush is not a champion of the African American and the Noble Fir?

Greg, please define "pentavrate." The usually infallible dictionary.com has no entry for such word.

Ha! There's another one of those Tami Knight t-shirts (dunno if they still have it) with a rather geeky-looking mouse/rat fellow on it, sporting taped-in-the-middle glasses, pocket protector, etc., with the caption "I used to be hard."

Raucous peals of laughter and thunderous applause filled the auditorium. A few hors d'ouvres were thrown, landing in wet lumps on the stage. A bit of foie gras spattered on Dwayner's pantleg, as he stood silently contemplating what his wanton Big Lou-ery had wrought. Dwayner's own awkward silence slowly dripped from the stage, flowed in rivulets out into the audience, slowly engulfing them, drowning the last pockets of laughter. Only Greg, the Great Heckler still stood proud, front row center, gleefully rejoicing in the softly-walked and big-sticked manner in which he had dealt the Dwayner such a humiliating and scathing blow. Sensing that the trouble was only just now beginning, that this was perhaps the calm before what was sure to be a very ugly storm indeed, feeling the slightly disconcerting ooze of foie gras sliding now into his sock, down the arch of his foot, coming to rest in his shiny leather loafer, sure that he had not seen the last finger-food fusillade, Dwayner slowly backed away from the podium towards the curtain. "Have to go, now," he muttered, mostly to himself, as he slid through the opening in the curtain and slunk into the cool darkness backstage, away from those gawdawful hot lights and all those jeering imbeciles. Hours later, Dwayner awoke bleary-eyed in his tidy, well-decorated but decidedly modest or even "low rent" apartment, the floor around him rather untidily littered with Mickey's Malt Liquor grenades, himself smelling not unlike the Mickey's bottling plant his father had taken him to visit on his eighth birthday. He dragged himself to his feet, stumbled down the hall, careening into one wall and knocking a few summit photos from some bygone year to the floor, uncaring, oblivious. He shoved open the bathroom door, too fast, knocking over the small side table and carefully arranged flowers for the nth time in as many days, and lunged for the toilet, wrenching open the lid like Arthur drawing Excalibur from the stone, and up came everything; all of the Mickey's (and how!), the Caesar salad from earlier, the lemon drop martini (oh, how good it had felt to be sipping such a popular, cutting-edge beverage, back in the green room, as he put a last few flourishes into his meticulously polished speech), all of his pride, and all the shame, fear, and humiliation he had suffered, again, at the hands of that bastard Greg W. "Never again," he groaned, silently cursing Greg, cursing Big Lou, the self-absorbed lout, as he slid back away from the big white porcelain toilet (3.5 gallon flush; they don't make them like that anymore, oh no), tracing a lazy arc down, down, his head coming to rest against the carefully organized basket of magazines between the toilet and the sink, all of which featured Big Lou's smiling mug beaming out from the cover, and he knew he'd never read them again.

Trask = ODB

"Hot."

Trask smokes elephant sausage.

Gargle piss, you no-dick two-sticker.

It took an epic-length sport climbing trip report for you to figure that out? Shite, you're thicker than a lead-filled donut, and about as bright. Toss off, bullet-head.

New Year's Eve; plans for a small, low-key gathering fall through, leaving Dr. and Mrs. Flash Amazing with nada que hacer for the usually celebratory eve. We spin a few platters on the hi-fi, nosh on some light comestibles, and lounge; nowhere to go and nothing to do. We quaff some winter ale (Maritime Pacific's outstanding Jolly Roger Ale from lovely Ballard, WA, for those keeping score at home), sip Mimosas, enjoy a delicious Tempranillo (Torres, on sale now for eight bucks at New Seasons market - a steal), and ponder what to do with the Doctor's fast-approaching day off. DFA casually and half-jokingly suggests Smith Rock, although it's probably miserable cold and, at nearly midnight, it's a little late to be packing. Knowing that we'd probably just laze the day away on the couch anyway, we decide to hit the Park. A visit to weather-dot-com portends temps in the low 40s and cloudy skies, and no precip, so it's on. The house is soon strewn with myriad cold-weather clothing; the bed disappears under a haphazard heap of down jackets, fleece, long underwear, hats, socks, gloves, tights, etc. The front room is dismantled in search of various climbing implements scattered in various corners, under the table, in the closet. Shoes paired up, chalk located, quickdraws accounted for, where's the rope?, here's a Gri-gri, harness is in the gym bag, approach shoes are around here somewhere, cram it all in the pack in some semblance of order. Ah, rope's out in the back room. Shove all available insulative clothing in on top, and it's ready. Meanwhile, the Mrs. rounds up provisions in the kitchen; here's some Clif Bars from who knows how long ago, how about some pasta salad for lunch? Sure, it's 12:30, why not? Steam fills the kitchen, veggies scattered about, a little white cheddar in there, and lunch is ready. A handful of fresh red onion for some zing, bring some salami to put in later, and that's that. Coffee supplies are readied for the a.m., gear is double-checked, hey, what should we climb? The Climber's Guide to Smith Rock is dug out of the bookshelf, looking a little dusty. What to climb on a freezing cold, short notice day trip? How 'bout all the routes .10a and easier between Shipwreck Wall and Asterisk Pass? Should be doable, most of them are 5.8 or easier, let's see, that's only ... 17 pitches. Could be done. That Florine character knocks off more pitches than that before breakfast. OK, everything's good to go, we've got a fine goal for the day, it's almost 1:30, rise and shine at 8:30. A shitty night's sleep brings morning and Bob Edwards yammering out of the radio at what feels like far too early an hour. Blah. Perhaps we should just sleep after all? Nahhh. Into the longjohns, brush teeth, water on the stove, toaster breakfast, mental gear check, still asleep, coffee in the Thermos, throw all that shit in the car, don't forget lunch, pop the cartridge in the CD changer and hit the fucking road! Hell yeah, traffic is practically nonexistent at 9:30 on New Year's Day, as the bulk of the population is contemplating whether to puke up all that Champagne or try to hold it down with salt and grease. The easy sounds of Chris Murray (one man ska band) give way to progressively louder and faster sonic accompaniment as the Subaru rockets us through the light snow at Government Camp and past various overly-cautious gapers intent on burning out their brake lights. Don't these fools know? We're going climbing; get the fuck out of the way! Go! Out of the hills, across the surprisingly windy high desert plains, a quick pit stop at Safeway in lovely Madras, where we encounter what must be the only two punx in town, festooned in spikes and patches, hopelessly out of place amidst the sparse crowd of Carhartt one-piece insulated worksuits, big belt buckles, and cowboy boots. Back on the road, and Screeching Weasel's frenetically snotty punk rock carries us to the Smith parking lot. The Sub's thermometer reads 43 degrees, and it's blowing outside like the opening scene of 'The Wizard of Oz'. No matter, we burrow into fleece and down, grab our packs, and depart the surprisingly full parking lot for some tuffage. We figure we'll start at Asterisk Pass and work back towards Morning Glory. Lots of hikers, more than we've ever seen here, and a couple folks with either llamas or alpacas coming down the river trail. We round Ship Rock expecting to see the usual queue at the base of 5-Gallon, posse on Magic Light, someone hanging on Churning, but we see no one. Nobody up at Shipwreck ... no hardmen huddled around propane heaters in Aggro ... no one tiptoeing up Vomit Launch in Cocaine ... not a soul to be seen from Churning to Cinnamon Slab. Could the park be empty of climbers? Nah. Further along, we head up the trail to the Dihedrals, where we spot no one edging up Watts Tots, no one plugging gear into Moonshine Dihedral, no crowd watching someone slap up Chain, no topropers at Bunny Face. Empty, empty, empty, all the way to the Phoenix Buttress. How about that? Fuck, it's chilly, and the wind keeps gusting bad cold through Asterisk Pass. Into the harness, grab 1 2 3 4 ... looks like seven draws plus anchors, unpack the rope, how's that DBBB knot go again? Out of the warm shoes and socks and into the downright unpleasant velcro slippers. Check, double-check; harnesses doubled back, locker is locked, knot looks OK, she's the hand DFA's the climber, chalk up and off we go. 5.7 was a lot easier when you could feel your fingers and toes! The foot looks like it's on the nubbin, cold cold, wind wind, slooowww, anchors. Take! Pull the rope, the Mrs. leads it, numb digits and slow progress as well, at the anchors, cleans the pitch, back to the dirt, and it's been ... 45 minutes since we set the packs down. As it's almost 2 p.m., this could put a dent in our planned 17 pitches. So it goes, and who gives a shit? It was this or the couch, eh? The sky spits a little rain, but it's gone as soon as it starts. At least we'll get another pitch it; hopefully the rain doesn't set in for good. On we go, fueled by small doses of hot coffee and cold Clif Bars, in and out of the haven of the down jacket, near-numb appendages scraping up tiny knobs, fumbling with draws, trying to see over the bulge of climbing shoes tucked inside the jacket to hook up the Gri-gri while belaying. Irreverence and Revelations are enjoyed, in slightly less time, but it still looks like we'll probably be lucky to make Bunny Face before it gets dark. More spatterings of rain, more coffee, drag the gear over to the dihedrals, marveling all the way at the silent emptiness of the park, save for the clatter of draws hanging on someone's project, the clatter of pigeons doddering about their ledges, and the occasional hiker hollering about something. A couple of climbers pass by sans gear, just checking out routes, wondering what's the matter with us climbing in decidedly less-than-ideal conditions. Just out having a good time. The Mrs. casts off up Captain Xenolith, cruising up the small nubbins; the pitch is far longer than expected, pushing the clock back a little farther. DFA cleans on TR and downclimbs over to the anchor on Helium Woman for what will be the last route of the day; basking in the frigid gusts falling like water from the jumbled summit above Go Dog Go. More coffee, another turn at belay duty, savoring the down jacket, then back on the TR for what the watch and the fading light confirm will be the last route of the day. Clean the anchor, back to the ground, cram everything back in the packs, and it's back to the car. Still no sign of anyone else with chalk-adorned frozen fingers. The trip back is marred upon arrival in Madras, where we discover that Martina's is not open. The dream of finishing off a fine day with carne asada tacos is dashed, so we finish off one last Clif Bar and hope that a brewery will be open in Portland. Thankfully, the Laurelwood is open when we get back, and meat and beer are gratefully consumed as we recall the fantastic and dodo-rare experience of being the sole climbers at Smith. A little cold, a bit of a hassle for just a few short hours of climbing, and damned if we didn't score less than 30% on hour 17 route goal, but it was an excellent day. We'll surely think of the wonderful emptiness next time we have to battle for parking, pass 50 people on the way down the trail, and take a number to get on whatever warm-up. Happy New Year.

Dwanus, just as a friendly FYI, you may want to consider sweater-vests instead. Legendary sit-starter Chris Sharma wears one in the bouldering video 'Rampage', and he gets lots of babes, plus people carry his crash pad for him. Prana probably makes them, perhaps in a latte-resistant natural fiber/Lycra blend for easy beta miming and autograph signing.

"Wealice?" Uh, since when do Asians type with an accent?

Trask, you're right. You know, maybe it's the stress of the holiday season; maybe it's the liquor talking; hell, maybe it's the weather. Whatever the reason, such rude comments are unacceptable, especially from such a well-heeled and sparklingly intelligent character as Dr. Flash Amazing. So, if you'll allow the Doctor to rephrase his previous regrettable statement, DFA will do his best to put everything right. Trask smells like Summer's Eve. There. Well, how about that? DFA feels better already!

Trask smells like funk-ass.

Are you just taping the injured digit? 'Cause DFA had a buggered A2 pulley for a while (not totally blown, but something was sure as shit wrong with it), and he had good luck buddy-taping to the adjoining digit. The best thing for it would be to take a month off, ice it, eat your anti-inflammatories, and see if that helps. Tweaking away on it ain't gonna move the healing process along. If you completely rupture the pulley in question (or any pulley, for that matter), you will get bowstringing. Basically, your tendons are attached to various parts of your hand and fingers with the pulleys, through which the tendons slide (yeah, kind of like a pulley). Blow out one of the pulleys, and the tendon is then unsupported between the two pulleys nearest the damaged one. In the case of the finger pulleys, if you blow the middle pulley, the tendon will only be attached at your hand and at the knuckle furthest from your hand (that'd be the DIP, or distal interphalangeal joint, in case you're keeping track), and when you load it up, it will stretch straight from the hand to the DIP joint, like a bowstring attached to each end of a bow. Yuck.

Before DFA pretty much quit backpacking and got his Camprest LE (at least as comfortable as the bed at home!), he had good results with a 3/4-length standard Thermarest on a full-length Ridge Rest. Sort of a lot to carry, but the Ridge Rest isn't too heavy, and if you use one o' them ultra-light Thermarest jobbies, you'd be in good shape. Could even trim the RR down a bit if need be, at least some at the corners or around the feet. Not a bad combo, and if the Therma goes flat, you at least still have something to sleep on. Otherwise, a Subaru is nice to sleep in, too.

Y'know, the Doctor fixed some expedition-weight Capilene bottoms that way a while back, and it worked pretty well, but it was just small areas where seams intersected and the fabric had torn away. Hard to say how well that'd work with a larger hole. And anyway, Greg is probably far too manly to willingly use something so historically effeminate as a sewing machine.