lummox

wap. wml. xhtml. wtf? i been thinkin of gettin a gsm cellphone that can bro0wse and get email and shit. anybody got one? do they work good?

i got too much wood going on to write a caption. but this one is fukin funny:

i think the lasportiva mega is the only overtheankle climbing shoe made now.

grundens makes a pullover that is sorta fleecy on the inside and is stretchy and totally waterproof with neoprene cuffs. it is called the 'sund'.

I will not share the fate of Laika, but have instead returned to this world from a drifting capsule. The fishing season in San Diego is coming to a close. I'm back at my "home" for at least 10 days, and I may not have need to return to the boat. Like the Heisenberg Uncertainty Principle states, my position and momentum cannot be simultaneously known with certainty; I'm chillin now, but have no idea what inertia is driving me away to go fishing again. Which is too bad since during my last 10 day stretch on the boat I attained a whole other space-time. Oh yeah. Some kind of force harnessing shit heretofore only realized by select Shaolin priests, Catholic stigmatas, and Alexander Shulgin. Maybe. I mean, it's possible. You see, I went through three cycles of switching form Night Driver to Deckhand during that last stretch of work. Sleep deprivation ain't the half of it. I first noticed strangeness when everything slowed down. All action on the deck seemingly occured in slow motion. During hot bites (and there were many since the fishing was GOOD) I anticipated and responded to all the usual minor crises without effort or wasted motion. The schoolie yellowfin seemed to swim onto my gaff hook. Line tangles were trivial to unravel, and passengers were uniformly nice (sober, even). I drove the night of the full moon, and a group of porpoise lept clear of the water before the bow. They spoke to me; I'm not sure what they said since all I hear after the 20th daily cup of coffee is a high pitched whine, but they were definitely communicating. At the filet table, by knife retained its edge, slipping through skin, bone and flesh without pause. The cuts smoothly exposed pearlescent muscle and a complete spectrum of colors. The rainbow danced above the surface until I saw that everything was interconnected and comprised of a lacework of colored pixels. I saw the fabric of which everything and everybody are made. Objects --especially brightly colored ones-- left serial after-images that only slowly dissipated. I can't even begin to describe what the yellow-bristled deck brush looked like as I scrubbed. I began to be able to bend spoons without touching them. I began to perceive the genius of Jerry Garcia. I learned as much as I could on the boat this summer. And in the end, I snatched the pebbles. My kung-fu is strong. And the summer's work has prepared me well for public service on the off-season winter months. I have better people skills, and am more compassionate and caring. Perhaps I'll find work herding retarded kids, or something. I must now set out to find another dojo to enhance my mastery of the fishing wand of death. Excuse me while I have another slow motion flashback . . peace out, my friends

Post deleted by Ade

Post deleted by Ade

going to southeast asia huh? something dubya avoided. something cheney avoided.

anyone use these shoes? http://www.sportiva.com/products/climbing/rockjock.html ass or alright?

too drunk to drive in rural victoria australia after brawling outside a village pub. i curled under a hawthorn bush and shivered through the night while the wind howled.

'Guns and Liquor do mix': this is news to you?

it comes and goes nowadays. mostly gone. i figured out what was causing it and try to avoid that shit (basically doing curls palm down then lifting the hand) but lifting fish while they are still kickin still makes them sore sometimes.

are you fukin gay or what? cuz only a fag would even think of narcing out someone.

scott ayers?

do a net search for kayak fishing if you want to get way more info on rigging. but really all you need is a cheapie rodholder --some pvc pipe. you can even forego the rod and reel but i dont think you got the stuff to handline a dodo. one more thing: dodos go apeshit when you gaff them and bring them aboard. gaff when they turn on their side about 2 feet below the surface (if you gaff them at the surface they will fling themselves off almost every time). putting pressure on an eye will chill them the fuck out once on board. also holding them by a gill plate and tail to bend them in a 'u' shape will keep them in control until you can kill. otherwise you will find out why the 20-30 pounders are known as 'ballslappers'.

who was the climber?

stfu noob dorado also known as dolphinfish or mahi mahi or flatheads or dodo (the list goes on and on) is in the coryphaena genus. tuna are in the thunnus genus. not the fukin same at all. they suck as 'sushi' (but i think you meant sashimi). dorados are fukin badass generalist predators with such a high energy expenditure that they have oversized gill surface area. this requires them to have an extreme metabolism. they grow to ab out 4 feet and 20 pounds in their first year. they basically die after a couple years because they cant eat enough. learn to filet. they peel way easy and the skin makes a decent trolling skirt. but you wont be rowing fast enough for that i suggest taking a couple megabait lures and a krocodile or three along with a decent 30# rod and reel setup. just a cheapie seeker rod and penn jigmaster reel will do the trick. fukem up erden.

pamela anderson has begun to speak out against cruelty to -- now get this -- chickens. i recall a video of her torturing tommy lees chicken neck some years ago.

personally i would rather party with someone snooting the bolivian marching powder than someone inhaling the chronic.

maybe

most people i have met at the crags describe themselves as a 'kly-mer' but they should have pronounced it 'nan-see-boy-pill-oh-bye-ter'.

surfboard wax works better in warmish temps.

it is called 'starboard'.

I’ve started in on the fourth month of work on a sportfisher boat out of San Diego's Point Loma landing. I am the boat's Night Driver, and I work on deck. I used to be tired, but I’ve gotten beyond that. A lot of the time, on deck, I’m whipping out one-liners to deal with all the silliness that goes on under the guise of fishing. I have seen some strange shit go down. But that’s mighty close to sniveling. And sometimes –just sometimes—I set aside my sarcasm. There have been many profound scenes exposed to me this season: --An afternoon bite on a big school of albacore in which we put over 300 fish on board in less than an hour. 80 pound test line with a flylined sardine would get bit on dropping in on the corner, and ZING, you’re on. We (meaning the crew of four) had gaffs in hand pulling in fish, or were bent over spiking spinal cords and cutting gills while the scuppers ran with blood. Pretty much just simple atavistic bloodlust took over, and we were all giddy with the adrenaline. --A long night during which we processed fish for seven straight hours extending to 3:00AM to end a 27 hour workday, and we offered each other jokes and stories instead of complaint. I work with good people. As are many of the anglers we take fishing. --An eerily calm morning where from the crow’s nest I could easily see finback and minke whales feeding while simultaneously bait balls of anchovies were encircled by rolling yellowfin tuna gorging themselves (always circling counterclockwise). One finback exhaled before the bow to cover me with mist. --A clouded daybreak in which sky and water were a myriad of shades of steelblue. --A perfectly clear new moon night with porpoise jetting in front of the bow-wave to leave phosphorescent trails. --A sublimely massive thunderhead over land ringed with a halo of lenticular clouds. --A crisp green flash ending a day’s worth of sunshine. --Intersecting course with bluewhales which surfaced within gaffing distance to exhale and breath deeply before re-submerging. --Helping an exhausted warbler (you know, a little bird) to fresh water and food. The little dude perked up quickly, and decided he liked the place. He stayed on board for almost three days, being so at ease that he fed from our hands, and slept on the defunct Loran in the wheelhouse. He got the name “Deckster”, and we finally shooed him ashore at Harbor Island. Or just consider today: night driving until 4:00AM into thickening fog (the moist air being a remnant of a recent hurricane to the south) when I shut the boat down. I put a light over the side, and pulled up 30, or so, squid. Lots of squirts and laughs among the few who got up to join me. I cleaned and bagged before hitting the rack at 6:00AM when the rest of the crew got going to look for kelp paddies. Yells for “gaff” woke me at 9:00, and I stumbled from the bunkroom into a wide-open yellowfin bite. Oh yeah: we cooned em. So consider that I'm pretty much whacked while writing this, but sentimentality doesn't really need an excuse. What I do is better than any landjob I’ve ever had. I average 18-22 hour workdays. I’ve reached a sustained state of exhaustion to achieve near enlightenment. Really. Nirvana may be reached through a series of small epiphanies, and then BAM!: detachment, loss of self-importance, life without desire. And a strong sense that everything is connected. I miss y'all. I hope you're well. Peace out, my friends.

ah girl. you know you fine and be loved by many.