Saturday, December 31, 2005

Tango in NYC: The Final Action

Tango in NYC: The Final Action

Greetings Earthlings!

As my Final Chapter in the Epic Work "Worldwide Tango Trails of Devastation: A Chronicle by El Senor De Rotacion" I went to the Thursday Milonga Dec 29, at La Nacional in Manhattan. I must have been commandeered by space aliens because I showed up at 11, after a swell dinner with friends down in Little Italy. I stayed until they kicked everybody out at 2am.

The room was way nicer than the Bungalow Club here in Los Angeles, the floor having gentle waves instead of a sudden crater. It was packed solid, probably 150 people or so. All my moves got a lot more conservative, but there were some in the room who insisted on running into people. At one point one of the MCs got up and lectured everybody about line of dance, passing, cutting in and all the rest. Things improved after that.

All levels were in evidence, as well as a busload of Canadians. Their leader appeared to be a gangly gent wearing a Mr Rogers sweater vest. Fortunately the ladies in his outfit did not use him as their style guide.

I had a dance with a gal where I knew in 10 seconds that when the song ended I'd be kicked to the curb. In evolutionary terms I was the amphibian 3 places behind the gent carrying the spear. Fortunately I'd packed my chute carefully and had a soft landing. I spent the balance of the evening in most pleasant company, simply working my Native Charm and Impeckerable Manners in the tango Arts.

As the night wore on, the floor began to thin out. Finally at 2AM they called time and that was it. I rode the express subway back to Penn Station, missing my 0219 Pt Washington train by 2 minutes. Waiting at Penn Station 25 yrs ago used to be an exercise in urban terror and damnation, but is now the brightly lit holding pen with multiple feeding locations for drunken adolescents who seem to hail from Ronkonkoma.

I then managed to catch the 0320 train [so far so good] but nodded off until whoa! 2 stops past mine! Damn! Great Neck at 0400 and in the high 30s, no trains in sight until 0500. It was a brisk 4mile hike all buttoned up in a light coat because it had been nearly 55 earlier, snow melted and almost steamy. Finally hit the sack at 0515. Upside--made the flight back tolerable, I slept the whole way.


Peace Out For All My Euro-Homiez,

eL-dawG
M*F*W*I*C

Friday, September 23, 2005

Wedding Vows: The Guy View

Wedding Vows: The Guy View

A friend got married a while ago. Here are some ideas I had for his wedding vows.

Let's see...since I don't have the laptop for the PowerPoint Presentation, I'll just write down a few "talking points". Yep! That
sounds right. Cover my ass, make points, and have time left over for a big honkin liplock.

BIG IDEAS
Sketch out some Big Ideas, then get to particulars. First get through the "have and hold, sickness and health part". Don't mumble. Then I go for the gusto.

1] Honey, your ass will NEVER look big. Ever. It'll only look BETTER than it is if you strap on these Manolos.

2] Vacations: Paris, France, or Perris, CA...aaah, what the hell! I'm with you, and I love Le Quarter Midget stock car races.

3] When asked to choose in a Galactic Battle for World Domination Between Yanni and Kenny G, I'll ask you for the current odds in Vegas, then bet double down on the white guy.

4] The remote control. It'll never get lost in the sofa or under the covers when you want to watch ice-skating or synchronized swimming while "Cops" or "Nature Gone WIld" is on. Who's Paris Hilton?

5] You'll think of something.

6] Hey, I don't like broccoli either.

...And with that, I take thee, for my lawful wedded wife. Gentlemen, start your engines!

Mr Trail Safety

Wednesday, September 21, 2005

2005 Angeles Crest 100: Upending It All


Guillermo Medina, 2005 winner. AC100 finish line. Johnson's Field, Altadena CA.
050925_9079_01
Angeles Crest has never failed to amaze and surprise. What is canonical received wisdom at 30 miles was turned inside out and abandoned at the finish line. Everything you thought you knew was wrong.

Guillermo Medina won it in a personal best of 19:33. By carefully picking and choosing his races for this last year, he saved his mojo for the Big Show.

In front of him was Jorge Pacheco, three-time winner. Behind him were two of the fiercest no-brakes downhill runners this race has seen in the last ten years, Tom Nielsen and Andy Jones-Wilkins.

Tom's won it twice before. The first time was a remarkable come-from-behind assault on Scott Jurek's  "unassailable" lead in 1999 where he caught Jurek at 83 miles in the black hole that is IdleHour. By the way, that lead was nearly an hour. That was also the year Ann Trason had her head handed to her, and she dropped at Chantry.

This year, Andy delivered a fierce no-holds-barred 2nd place finish at Western States, 24 minutes after winner Scott Jurek's seventh win of 16:40:46.

But back to the beginning. Jorge was leading, with Guilermo, Andy and Tom in hot pursuit. Jorge's race began to unravel at Mt Hillyer [49mi] The first inkling that things were changing was when Guillermo came into Chilao. Then Andy, followed by Tommy.

By Mile 75 Andy was within 15 minutes of Guillermo. In the IdleHour-Sam Merrill section, which is technical downhill, a wilderness creekbottom thanks to the winter pounding, then a grinding uphill section, Andy closed the gap to less than 10 minutes. By the finish he'd narrowed it down to seven minutes.

I wonder how things might have turned out if Andy hadn't done the Where's Waldo 100k less than a month earlier.

I'll bet Jorge began to wonder if his win at the Bulldog 50k in the 102-degree heat was worth it. His guts blew up at Western. Note to self: race smarter.

This race, Jorge struggled, falling behind. When he arrived at Idle Hour [83miles] he put his feet up, laid down, and took a 6 1/2 hour nap. It was possibly the smartest thing he'd done. When he woke up, he felt way better, and showing all of us what real men are made of, finished out the race just before noon.

He got a standing ovation.

Friday, August 12, 2005

Stairway To Leadville

Team graphic for the 1997 Leadville effort.
Originally posted in 1999. I did LT100 2.5 times, which was sufficient.

The schlong remains the same, for those about to depart etc etc ...

Stairway To Leadville

There's a Kansas femme who's been sold,
that all that buckles are gold
And she's buying a stairway to Leadville
When she gets there she knows,
if the entries are all closed
With a word she can get what she came for

Ooh - ooh
And she's buying a stairway to Leadville

There's a pile on the trail,
but she don't want to fail,
'Cause you know DNF's have two meanings
In a latrine by the dam there's a squirrel who scams
Sometimes all of our jogbras are misshapen

Ooh, and I watch you blunder
Ooh, and I watch you blunder

There's a feeling I get when when my shoes are all wet
And my spirit is crying for Bag-Balm
Thru my brown-eye I've seen rings of fire through my knees
And the voices of those who are standing just looking

Ooh, and I watch you blunder
Ooh, and it rhymes with thunder

And ducks quack that that soon, if we all go for poon,
Then a lead-pipe will lead us to reason
And a new load in bong for those who bang gongs
And the aid-tents will echo with laughter

Oh oh oh oh oh oh

If there's a scuffling at the Boat Ramp, don't be alarmed now
It's just your taxi out of May Queen
Yes, there are two trails you can go by, but in the schlong run
There's still a ride on the road you're on

And I watch you blunder, Oh, oh, oh

Your head is hammering and it won't go,
in case you don't know
The Koach's calling you to join him
Dear lady, can you hear the Yo blow and did you know
Your th-tairway lies on the whithpering wind

And as we lay down on the road
Our asses taller than our soul
There struts a lady we want to "know"
Who juggles flashlights and wants to show
How all your buckles turned to gold
And while you're pissin' really hard
The truth will come to you at last
When all are one and one is all, Jah,
To be a rock and not to roll

And she's buying a stairway....to Leadville

--Bone Regards, Mr Trail Safety

Monday, June 27, 2005

Eulogy for John Davis

The memorial service for John Davis was yesterday in Claremont. I had written the following, and then Stan Davis asked if I'd read this at the service. I was honored, and said so.

There was a large turnout, I was sitting with Andy Roth & Liz Boyd on one side, Kenny Hamada & "Uncle" Hal Winton on the other.

There were 5 speakers. In relay terms, I was the anchor.

Earlier that day Andy & I had taken a memory loop over the top of Baldy, where we covered all matters sacred and profane. We took the short route up the mountain, using the Helen Klein Memorial Offramp up to the Sierra Club Hut. The streams were running full, and the Bighorns were smoking Pall Mall straights and shitting in them, despite the wails of the Sierra Club dorks who were doing their first solo unaided summit bids.

I hope you are doing well!



Eulogy for John Davis


This eulogy is for John Davis, from a man who met him late and knew him not well enough. This tribute is seen through the prism of ultrarunning, and makes no claims beyond that narrow scope.

John Davis died this past Sunday June 20 after a short, fierce battle with cancer. The specifics are mercifully brief, and he died proud and upright, with his wife Carolyn, and sons Stan and Ken in attendance. He is preceded in death by Phyllis, mother of Stan and Ken. He was 71 years old.

I last saw John on June 11, appropriately enough at a birthday run at Claremont’s Wilderness Park. I knew he had cancer, and was touched to see him stride to the start line in his inimitable gangly stride. After he finished, he began to quote the finer points of standard deviance in statistical analysis with piercing logic and comedy. I knew right then that the meds had not gotten the better of him.

John came to running in the early 1970s, while he was one of many harried, overworked aerospace engineers working on manned and unmanned space projects. The demands of the job were making him a cranky customer at home. One day his wife Phyllis went to Big 5, bought him a pair of “jogging shoes”, gave them to John, told him in her inimitable soft Tulsa voice to put them on, and come back when he felt better. And he did.

He began to trace the running arc from the 5k and 10k, through the marathon, and arrived at the ultra portal. I don’t know where and how, but there he was. I know that by the time I met him in 1989, he was an iconic figure in California Ultra circles; one of the First Generation Old Timers like Norm Klein, Baz Hawley, Ken Hamada, and Bob Holtel.

Baldy Peaks 50k was one of his legacies. The Inaugural "Zero-eth" Baldy Peaks was run as a trial effort in December 1988. There was no snow that month on top of Baldy. When the day was ended they all came home and Phyllis Davis made the lads dinner. Phyllis was a key element of the race that ended only with her sudden and untimely death in December 2000. She was missed by all of us.

This race is a blend of the artistry, precision and eye to maximal sensory overload that can only come from the mind of an aerospace engineer (John) and a classically-trained musician (Ken). Stan (the computer guy) provided SysOps support.

Joe Franko, a long-time family friend added "...as I recall, the credit should go to John's son Ken, who laid out the course as part of a college project at Cal Poly, Pomona. We were students together then. He was an undergraduate in mathematics and I a graduate student." So who said that science, math and pain don't mix?

Baldy Peaks became a rite of passage for many runners including Scott Jurek, Gabriel Flores, Karl Meltzer, Brandon Sybrowsky, Ian Torrence, Ben Hian, Jim O’Brien and Tom Nielsen for starters. The amazing women who’ve come and made their names include Sherry Johns Mahieu, Krissy Moehl Sybrowsky, Julie Arter, and Lorraine Gersitz, to name several.

The race was always a family affair, with a civic focus. It was a benefit for charities like the Pomona Valley Dental Clinic, which brought elementary dental care to the underserved working poor.

John decided to retire the race after 2000. At this point Andy Roth and Larry Gassan took it over. Both had run Baldy as their first ultra.

John was one of the founding members of the Southern California Ultra Series, back when there were only eight races on the calendar.

John was a fast friend to many others in ultras. He was a hard-working friend to the Western States 100, Angeles Crest 100, Javelina 100, and numerous other 50s and 50ks here on the west coast. When he didn’t drive, he flew his own plane up to Auburn, for instance, worked the HAM radios, then turned around and flew home.

Any more on the business of running becomes a cascade of numbers, splits, and statistical drizzle. Let’s pull back and look at the real man.

The world is generally unkind to men who are tall, gangly, and don’t settle matters with mendacity and blunt force. John was a stand up man in a bent world. He was a true friend to the people in his life. He knew that some took advantage of it, but refused to think small.

I knew John as a complex, multi-faceted man who did things his own way. Sometimes the very things that made him unique were maddening, and yet endearing to the people around him. His training and viewpoints as an engineer sometimes made the sociology of his decisions “interesting”, but his intentions were good and his heart was in the right place when he made these calls.

Finally, John once told me that when he was fifteen, he was on a train, and saw his flickering reflection in the window. He wondered who he really was—there was an awkward boy’s face with glasses was staring back at him. In that instant, I really knew who he was. He was a deeply caring man who shared his heart with his family and friends the best way he knew how; which was to let them discover all that they could do, which was what they never thought they could. That moment of awareness stayed with him to the end of his life.

God keep you, JED.

Saturday, June 25, 2005

A Beginner's Guide To Western States


A Beginner's Guide To Western States

Yes, it's that time of year again, when Young Ultrarunners Everywhere Like You®™ turn their fond attentions and deficit-disorders to Western States 100. You've been to Kamp n0Rm, you've sat thru the Blister Show, and been anointed in Knowledge. But to help you along in your Epic VisionKwest®™, I have compiled some of the Ancient Secrets that will help You and You Alone. These are cryptic and hermeutic. As Don Juan Castaneda once said, "This will put the plomo in your Lapiz".

THE START
It will be dark and cold. Your nipples will be very perky. This is a good time to be a detached bystander, but you arent, so there. You'll have past-life memories flooding your consciousness, and be incredibly desirous of taking a leak in the bushes.

The gun goes off. Maybe its a howitzer. In any event, the shell goes long, and a hidden meth lab over the next ridge gets buried in an avalanche. You're Off! Most of you love-guns will FLY out of Squaw!

Relax! Don't do it. Stroll up and over Emigrant Pass. You've got 5 miles of a leisurely climb. Have a Pall Mall Straight. Drift along in someone else's flashlight beam. Have that stick of butter with the pickle juice you've saved. It'll come in handy later.

SNOW AT THE TOP
Yes, we've had a spectacular winter. There will be snow. Think of it in a new light: Mr Snow is giving Mr Trail Dust a big butt-hug. It'll keep your sox from getting dirty. This will go on for a while. Make sure not to eat any yellow snow. Unless it's some you brought with you from home.

THE CANYONS
By now you are in a panic that you've lost all that time slipping around. "Wee-wax", says Emer Fudd. Now it's getting warm. Guess what? It'll stay that way for the rest of your natural-born WS100 Kareer. You may have noticed that the canyons run in a WSW direction. The net effect of this handiwork is that it focusses Mr Sun's Rayz as effectively as parabolic mirrors and heating coils. This was all by Gawd's Hand. Its all for you. Be at One with this.

Here's a fact: it'll be at least 1000 degrees Celsius. Now is the time to wear those Ice Pants you bought at the WS Gear Expo at Squaw. Fill them with 20lbs of ice, and they'll keep you in fine form until you get to Devil's Thumb. If you forgot to buy them, you'll be able to strip them from the carcass of an expired WS runner. Be sure to swap bib numbers.

DEVIL'S THUMB AND MICHIGAN BLUFF
This is where you really find out some fun things about ultrarunners, and your training. Despite everything you may have inhaled on or off the List, utlrarunners are not your family or friends. This thesis is best tested in the following manner. Be dehydrated. Feel your quads locking up and that pounding in your kidneys, as if squirrels are standing on your back and swinging tiny 5-lb mauls. In cadence. There is a roaring in your ears. You are doubled over. Count the number of people running past you, even though its uphill, like you had Ebola. Its One Big Happy Fambly after all.

The good news about Michigan Bluff is that this is the first Epic Trail Betty View Point. All the Trail Betties within a 200-mile radius are gathered here. The bad news is, they are hooked up with Someone Else, and are definitely not interested in a dust-covered, snot-stained, proto-delerious Loser like yourself. Maybe with a shower, possibly. Enjoy the sights and keep moving.

FORESTHILL, PACERS AND U
Many fond memories flood through my Fragile Eggshell Mind when I think of Foresthill. They devolve around lithe and lovely young women in hula skirts and halter-tops. One friend of mine, experienced a similar vision, only it was a large shaggy man in a similar outfit. Maybe it was a bear on a day pass. In any event, This is the point Where Many Dreams Die. The sun is beginning to set, you've shot yr wad in the Canyons, and the Siren Call of Motel is luring you into a Life of Vice. If it comes with an MGL Guarantee, go for it. Otherwise, calorie up and be off.

You may have picked up your pacer here. Oh joy. They might be fired up and full of piss-n-vinegar. Or they may be terrified because this is their first Night Run Ever. They've got their tasers and crocodile guns at the ready, and be loaded down with a full pharmacopia they found on ebay. In some instances they might be carrying a tow rope. They most likely will NOT have jumper cables. And they'll be staring at your hairy ass for the next 14 hours. What's not to like!

ON TO RUCKY-CHUCKY
This particular stretch of trail may have anywhere from 3-9 aid stations, named Cal 3, 5, , or 4.5. Some of them may have The Haunting Melodies of Aulde Native American Skin Flute wafting thru the poison oak. This is designed to soothe the Angry Chi of some of you, others it may induce a fatal Yanni-esque Coma from which Ther Is No Recovery. Stumble Away! Take me to the River!

RIVER CROSSING
You arrive at the River. In your mind you'll be doing the Epic Crossing. But you'll be holding on to a steel cable, held by 41 upright neoprened Chorus Manly Men. You make it to the Other Side. Climb! Climb up to Greengate. Observe the barf-splats in the dust! You might see pacers holding flashlights scrutinizing the urine streams of their hapless runners. Usually this is a misdemeanor offense in some municipalities, but is waived for the duration of the WS100.

ON TO THE FINISH.
The alert monkey mind at this point has begun to notice that the trail is less rocky, more smooth, and the terrain more gentle than what has transpired earlier. This is the Kosmic Joke of WS. You've humped and pumped like a horny sailor on the wham-bang downhill sections. Now your quads are shot. Foolish squirrel! This is where you get to let your freak flag fly! Pass all those smart ass losers who busted out of Emigrant! Smoke 'em! Show them the true meaning of sportsmanship. Here is some sample dialog to try out:

"Damn! Your dick *really* is in the dirt!"
"You look really shitty! Maybe you oughta drop!"

And so forth. Improvise! Be Creative!

I mentioned pacers earlier. You'll be seeing and hearing a lot of really interesting interactions which cover the full range of Honesty and Emotion [ie Dr Phil to Montel]. Take notes, and use it on your next Marriage Encounter Weekend.

YOU FINISHED!
You have just cashed in every last IOU. Your family, friends, SO's, fuck-buddies owe you NOTHING. They are not interested in how much you hurt. Promise. YOU are in their mortal debt for as long as they can make it swing. Lip off to your spouse/whatever--start looking for a dumpster to live in. Be sure it has a Dish so you can watch low-grade porn while sipping your Vintage Lady Lee Vodka.

And with that my little chickadees, you're off to the races!


--Bone Regards,
Mr Trail Safety

"Tanned, rested and ready
from his Secure, Undisclosed Location"

<<>>

Listen up!

This message is being sent by or on behalf of Mr Trail Safety. It is intended exclusively for the individual or entity to which it is addressed, excluding non-specific incarnations and bardo-state entities. It contains concepts that may challenge you. You will adjust. This communication may contain information that is proprietary, privileged or confidential or otherwise legally exempt from disclosure, certain to cause cerebral flatulence and conceptual infarctions among the simple-minded and comedy-challenged. If you are not the named addressee, you are not authorized to read, print, retain, copy or disseminate this message or any part of it, including channelling the aforementioned to spirit-bodies, Taiwanese Dream-Catchers, Heritage Barbie Dolls or Dale Earnhardt Collector plates. But go ahead, live dangerously, drive left-of-center and give it your best shot. If you have received this message in error, you are SOL and deserve it--you'll have subsequent incarnations to work out the kinks.

Here, have some salt.

Sunday, May 08, 2005

Mr Trail Safety's Favorite UltraList Things

Mr Trail Safety's Favorite UltraList Things

Sunburn on noses and black flies that’ve bitten
Bottles run dry and woods that I’ve shit in,
Rattlers coiled up and ready to sing
These are a few of my favorite things

Comments on salt and trail-head poodles
Hairballs and GU-packs and DNFs that are noodled,
Lo-mileage coaches that fly on your wings
These are a few of my favorite things

Long tortured debates on mountain money,
Why LEDs and flashlights are so gosh-darn funny!
Early departures from motel bed-springs
These are a few of my favorite things

When the dog bites
When the bee stings
When I'm feeling sad
I simply channel my favorite UltraList things
And then I don't feel so bad

Sunday, March 20, 2005

J-Lo's "Trail-of-Tears" AC100 Training Run

CHANTRY FLATS
Angeles Nat Forest, above Sierra Madre CA, hothouse of Rose Bowl Queens

Sunday dawned clear and warm. This was the first calendar day of autumn and yet was alive with hundreds of eager, ready and willing tiny bugs that wanted to homestead in any available nostril. That's the glory of love.

Meanwhile, J-Lo was making her final tearful preparations. Bennifer was in the bathroom sulking. Her Inflatable Trail Companions in the form of Dr Casino Bingo, Draw Poker and MC Stumpy-D [shout out to all his homies in the HP!] had gathered at Chantry Flats.

They were to run a short 22 miles to Millard Campground. A three-hour cruise. Butt-kickers and high-knees the whole way. Enough time to review the contents of the latest JoggersWhirld, and then get back to the mall for a smoothie. Ask Dave, I've forgotten her name already.

The climb up Mt Wilson-Phillips passed in a blizzard of splits and statistics. Stumpy-D and Dr Bingo traded whiffleball headers. Draw Poker's head snored inside his special mesh bug-burkha. It had the stylish seam up the back, but no garter belt. Everytime he sneezed, a little green friend expired. The mesh also diffused the view of how big Stumpy-D's ass was getting over the last several months. J-Lo was sniffling and whining about why we weren't paying any attention to her caboose.

Heidi Klum made her conversational debut, and Draw Poker woke up. He'd been having a dream about what his youth was like during the Harding administration. At the top of the Mt WIlson-Phillips Toll Road, the cities were spread out before us. It was a balmy 85 at 9:30 AM.

The next stretch down to IdleHour was sunny, then turned into shade. We were studly, once were fab. The sight of next week's IdleHour Aid Station was silent and expectant of staggering shuffling pre-dawn mutants. We crossed the Winton Bridge and made the first climb before the Descent into The Canyon of Despond.

The alert traveller would have noticed that Mt Rob Lowe was a blinding white massif, which only hinted at the delights ahead. But we were still young and foolish. We passed Idlehour Campground before we realized that the creek trailcrossing was bone-dry. We doubled back to the campground, found the creek and began to pump. Both Bingo and Stumpy-D had their bladders out, hefting them and taking their measure. The party member with the most developed right arm was delegated to pump, and pump he did. J-Lo was petulant that her cel-phone dropped Ben's FU calls in the canyon.

Matters improved when a witless HikerBetty decided to go wading with her doggy just upstream of our pumping. Nothing like stirred up sediments to clear the air. We departed, we could hear Rover's excitement as he buried a bone.

Leaving behind the majority of the Rush Limbaugh Experimental Forest, we began to climb out of the canyon. We left behind the morally debilitating effete low 80s temperatures, and into the manly character-building mid 90's. I regretted not wearing tights and polypro.

Stumpy-D ran ahead up to Sam Merrill. He promised he'd keep an eye out for the glacier, and if not that, Mallory. That left Bingo, Poker, and J-Lo. J-Lo ordered a pizza, but no word on sharing it.

Sam Merrill was waiting for us when we arrived. Stumpy-D had taken a restorative nap. He decided he was having more fun than was possible, and elected to descend to Millard via the Mt Lowe Road. Bingo and Poker, sensing an opportunity for Calvinist Redemption, maintained the One True Course down Echo Mountain. J-Lo's phone came alive, and her hoop earrings flashed in the sunlight at the sound of lies. Thank god for nationwide calling plans.

Bingo and Poker were able to determine that the parabolic mirrors and heating coils embedded in the trail work just fine. It was probably about 100 out there, give or take. A raccoon-skin coat began to sound pretty good. Poker pined for his mukluks. J-Lo whimpered under a white sunhat with a 48" brim. News copters hovered overhead.

The Sunset trail down to Millard was partially shaded. Our lads skipped and danced in the best traditions of Morris Dancers everywhere. Both lads resolutely banished decadent images of cool shimmering supermarkets, walk-in freezers, plunging feet into motel cocktail ice machines, Hawaiian waterfalls, Anna Kournikova stumbling out of a Fijian lagoon, Heidi Klum on a slip-n-slide and any number of other debilitating distractions.

At the finish recovery was enabled by large restorative doses of pickle brine, and a stick of butter.

Such was the day as it was spent yesterday.

Tuesday, March 08, 2005

KCRW Pledge-Drive Premium Modest Proposal

We all know about KCRW's infamous Pledge Drives. Yabbering sincerity. Auntie Ruth hectoring YOU about reading other people's NYT, especially since its available only in translation here in LA.

Its hard work being a cutting style-leader, having the latest murmured Brit-pop and shoe-gazer geek chic loaded up on your iPod. And frankly, most of you are guilted into it. You, humble KCRW listener, want something more to show for it. And Aunt Ruth wants a better bottom line.

Enter the KCRW Pledge-Drive Premium Modest Proposal. I propose the following Donor Level--The Double Golden BareBack Angel CD Special. If you're a guy, you give $30k, and you get a weekend suite at Shutters, unlimited mini-bar & room service, and the lissome 15 year old girl of your choice.

The Enquiring Mind might ask "Where's the CD in this?"

O ye of little faith. That's the 15 year old girl, and whatever it takes to get you thru the nite, all right, all right.

And for the ladies, we're still working on that one. Maybe something along the lines of a Gigolo Spa Experience, with the male element to be determined from a spectrum of Billy Corgan on one end to Brad Pitt on the other, with scenic byways including Carrot-top, Jonathan Pryce, and Dick Cheney for those so inclined.

Act now, before Bill O'Reilly gets his loofah into a twist, and co-opts it for his own purposes.

this is in or around west of the 405 Curtain

Friday, March 04, 2005

My Poem 4 Dusty Mountains, By Lady G-Spot

My Poem 4 Dusty Mountains, By Lady G-Spot

I live up here in the Sierra Nevadas,
Where rocks and trees, suck up lotsa water.
The breezes blow strong into my sheltered lair,
Whereupon dust, is an all day affair.

Above my living room,
Blankets hang over railing,
Their near-pristine state,
Confess none of my failings.

They, like I, suffered no consequences.
When I indulge, in Harlequin Romances.
I whisper to you, that I always come clean,
As my Auld Forest Prince, loads my washing machine.
--
Blushingly, Crushingly

....Lady G-spot

Sunday, February 06, 2005

Hollywood Knightz On Mt Baldy

Shit blows up, especially when you're smug and clueless.

(Updated Jan 5, 2013)

I love it when Hollywood assholes get lost in the mountains. It's right in line with "I HEART the planet" bumperstickers you see on their SUVs. Note: I also love seeing GOP lobbyists and Christian Taliban getting popped on morals and corruption charges too. There is no free lunch here.

Back to the main point. This was too rich to ignore, from the February 8, 2005 LA Times. The Talmudic Annotations are in CAPS, for your conceptual pleasures.

============
February 8, 2005
CALIFORNIA

2 Hikers' Return Ends Search

I READ THE NEWS TODAY, OH BOY...

Crews weary from four rescues are relieved to see the pair walk down from Mt. Baldy.
LOOKING FOR WUV, IN ALL THE WRONG PLACES
--------
By Lance Pugmire and Janet Wilson, Times Staff Writers
--------
Two hikers - a Hollywood screenwriter and the son of "Designing Women" actress Annie Potts
STRIKE TEAM DELTA, STRIKE TEAM DELTA!

walked down from Mt. Baldy on Monday afternoon, 18 hours after they were reported missing.
A 3-HOUR TOUR...

Jonathan Lemkin, 43, and Clay Senechal, 23, both of Los Angeles, walked into the Mount Baldy firehouse unharmed and said, "We're here," stunning rescuers gathered there.
CUT TO: "THERE WENT OUR FUCKING WEEKEND, LOSERS!"

Their arrival was a relief to the weary rescuers, who had set out at dawn Monday after making four high-mountain rescues in the previous 48 hours.
NOW WE CAN HOLD YOU UPSIDE DOWN AND SEE WHAT FALLS OUT OF YOUR WALLET?

"It's just been the hardest day of my life, but it's a happy ending.
NEXT TO BEING DROPPED ON OUR HEADS...

I'm just thankful my son is back," a teary-eyed Potts said after being reunited with Senechal, her son with director B. Scott Senechal.
A STORY CONFERENCE THAT RAN LONG


"I guess this is what you get for teaching your children to be independent and brave."
NOT TO MENTION A.D.D AND "SITUATIONALLY OBLIVIOUS"


The pair told friends they intended to hike Mt. Baldy's icy peaks,
SET IPOD TO STYX IN HEAVY ROTATION


about 40 miles northeast of downtown Los Angeles, for a few hours Sunday. When they didn't return by 7 p.m., family members notified authorities.
"WE'RE CONCERNED FOR THE CHILDREN, AS WELL AS THE 'LITTLE PEOPLE' THAT THEY MAY HAVE TAKEN AN ENCHANTED SIDE TRIP DOWN LYTLE CREEK"


Senechal tried to make a cellphone call about 6 p.m. Sunday, but the call didn't go through because of the limited cell range
UNLIMITED NITE AND WEEKEND MINUTES, FER SURE


on Mt. Baldy, which at 10,064 feet is the tallest peak in the San Gabriel Mountains.
NEVER MIND THE BIGHORN THAT WAS WRASSLIN' WITH HIS TROU


On Monday morning, a friend of the pair who had recently hiked in the same area with Lemkin set out on the trail in search of them. Kyle Millsap, 41, of Los Angeles said he was concerned because of the "steep, dangerous, icy" conditions he and Lemkin had encountered two weeks earlier.
"ALL THAT ICE, AND NO MRS T'S, NO SALT, NO CUERVO!"


"I just kept hollering for them, and then I saw them hiking back in," Millsap said.
I SEE STUPID PEOPLE


"They were very happy to see me.
HE WAS UNARMED


They said they had seen two helicopters earlier and started waving, but the guys couldn't see them."
NOW IF THEY'D BEEN 400LBS AND BLEEDING, MAYBE THINGS WOULDA BEEN DIFFERENT


Millsap said the two men became stranded on a steep, ice-covered peak in heavy fog and snow early Sunday evening.
"GOSH, THE FLYER SAID THE RAVE WAS UP HERE...SOMEWHERE!"


"They got up there, around the 8,500-foot mark,
THE CONTOUR LINES WERE OBSCURED


and pretty much got lost because of the conditions of the fog, the snow and the dark," Millsap said.
MALLORY'S BLEACHED ARM POINTED TOWARDS THE SUMMIT


"They were stranded and didn't want to start walking around when they couldn't see the trail.
OH BEHAVE!


So they just strapped themselves in,
PITCHER, CATCHER...AH...WHAT THE HELL!


and even slept a little until dawn."
THE KILLER AWOKE BEFORE DAWN, HE PUT HIS BIGHORN HAT ON...


Lemkin and Senechal told authorities they had been "very cold," said San Bernardino County sheriff's spokeswoman Cindy Beavers.
"ONE WISE-CRACK AND IT'S MR TASER FOR YOU, YOUNG MAN!"


For the most part, the pair declined to comment about their adventure.
UNLESS YOU'RE WILLING TO COME UP WITH THE FUNDING, THEN ITS 2 POINTS ON THE BACK END.


Lemkin hopped in his green Range Rover,
WHICH ELICITS MY DEEPEST SYMPATHIES


which was left at the base of the Baldy trail, and said, "Now everything's good."
"YEP, HAD A BUNCHA REGULAR GUYS OUT THERE LOOKIN' FOR MY HOLLYWOOD ASS"


Lemkin, whose writing credits include the films "The Devil's Advocate"
REMEMBER "MEET THE DUMBFUCKERS"


and "Lethal Weapon 4,"
"PASSION OF THE FLEISS"


has also written for the TV series "Beverly Hills 90210,"
WHERE SHANNON DOHERTY "GOES OFF BELAY"


"21 Jump Street"
GOING UNDERCOVER AT ONTARIO MILLS


and "Hill Street Blues."
OH, THE HAUNTING REFRAIN OF THE CAUCASIAN BONAFONE


This year started out in far less deadly fashion than last year on the area's major peaks,
A GOOD YEAR FOR ADVANCING UP THE SIERRA CLUB GROUP-LEADER LADDER!


with no reported hiking fatalities so far.
LESS EXCITING THAN A GOOD FREEWAY CAR CHASE

Seven hikers on the peaks died in January 2004,
ALL THOSE XMAS GIFTS, UNUSED, FORLORN....


including two on Mt. Baldy.
"I AM THE KING OF THE WORLD!"


Last month, three people died after falling into Mt. Baldy's roaring San Antonio Creek, swollen by torrential rains and rapid snowmelt.
CHEAPER THAN GOING TO "RAGING WATERS"


"It's all ice up there right now. It's just frozen solid," said sheriff's Sgt. Dennis Shaffer.
"HOW COME I NEVER GET TO RESCUE THE STARLETS? JUST THESE DUMBFUCK GUYS?"

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