great weather this week.  a good friend returns to the fold.  and i’m feeling pretty strong.

just glad there isn’t an economic summit in Slade.

i expect worse over the next decade.

this is not me; and i have no idea WTF he is doing at the crux

from the desk of my press officer:

Although many sorta-fit climbers and out-of-shape ropeguns have onsighted and flashed Ro  over the past decade (including some 11 year old kid from Texas, dozens of pregnant women, and at least one person who was “totally frying [his] ass off” on LSD), none have been able to make the 976th Ascent. Before today.  I am also the first person living in my house to climb an established 5.11d/5.12a on American soil.  As I clipped one at the anchors, I let out a victory explanation that could be heard all around: “You can get an armbar to clip!”

j/k.. it’s too swampy to climb right now….

-tt

no this post isn’t about how we should pal up on ye old facebook.  i’ve got plenty of friends.  and by friends i mean people who are barely acquaintances; a group which dwindles with each and every status update/status flame I deliver.  i’m like the Santa Claus for people who thrive on well-written hostility.

no, dear reader.  this post isn’t about how bold i am on the interwebs.  how tough i am in cyberspace.  nope, it’s all about noobs.  i’ll explain.

see, i’ve been interwebbing for over a decade.  flames.  trolls.  WTF???!!!  telling people to go “f/k themselves with their stupid f/king mouse” since about 1999.  now it’s not like i’m the only one.  clearly there had to be – at the very least – one other person for me to vent on.  in fact, thanks to sci-fi novels and dungeons and dragons there were a TON of people to vent on.  point is, this whole mess has been going on for awhile.

fast forward to right now:

is it just me or do other long-time interwebbers get the feeling that Facebook people are f/king noobs at this whole virtual communications game?  can’t flame someone on FB without someone pulling the entire thread.  explain to someone why they’re wrong?  the snub you IRL (that’s ‘in real life’  noob).  ZOMG WTFLOLBBQ!!!!!  IT”S LIKE THEY JUST ARRIVED ON EARTH.  JUST NOW.

i dunno about you, but i liked the interwebbage better when it was just me and the other nerds who knew what an URL was.

yours in rockclimbing splendor,

-t

hey folks.  i hate to use this blog to discuss anything other than 1) the #!*@*$ turd that is rockclimbings culture, 2) how skilled i am at analyzing turd residue, and 3) how i plan to win at rockclimbing, BUT i’m so syyyyykkkked on this batch of music (that I WROTE WITH MY MIND) i cannot help but spoil the sanctity of icftg.com.

may the climbing gods forgive us all.  yes, i’m talking about you Sherma.  forgiveness brah, forgiveness.

the style is sorta garage-glitchy dubstep.  so, yeah, it’s kinda not in a ’style’ per se.  but you should check it out anyhow.

cheers.

-t

2012

seriously.  wtf.

all finger strength – all the time = broke ass fingers.

all endurance – all the time = weaksauce.

all power endurance – all the time = exhausted.

all power – all the time = broke ass shoulders.

despite having read about training in cycles, it never struck me as something i should maybe consider.  like abstinence as a means to magically avoid STD’s (shazam!), cyclical training seemed like a horrendous way to get “some”.  and by some i mean rockclimbing fun.  look, if i want to campus on jugs, then it’s jug campusin’ time.  if i want to do mono one arm pullups with a punching bag strapped to my waist, then i’m gonna do it.  because that’s what me and my ridiculously enormous forearms are in the mood for.  that’s how i eat.  that’s how i drink.  that’s how i climb.

i’m basically like the Hemingway of mundane activity doing.

so instead of heeding the sage advice of training book writers and the magazine writer-people who plagiarize borrow from them, i opted for a much more belligerent strategy:

climb ’til it breaks.  then play video games until you get fat.  then climb ’til it breaks.  and so on and so forth until i’ve got a ton of points on my Xbox 360 and my total grade progression since 2000 comes out to be something like -1.

this cycle of idiocy continued for over a decade until now.  because like a ‘roid junkie – i’m cycling.

3 weeks of power/strength

3 weeks of power endurance

1 week of just sitting around being totally kick ass

that’s right.  consider all the chains “clipped” and all the problems “ticked”.

rampage time.

j/k

-tt

"h" stands for hardcore awesome post bra!

the internet works!  someone told me otherwise weeks ago and – silly me – i believed them.  i’d blame the mushrooms, but that seems a lot like passing the buck.

and if there’s one thing i’ve learned from living in america, it’s that passing is okay (TOUCHDOWN BITCHEZ!), but buck passing is reserved for the super-wealthy peeps/brahs/and yos.  makes sense.  i mean, who could better pass a buck than someone with 1.3 billion of them?

-tt

the above title is so good i almost forgot what i was doing, but then i (re)read the title and remembered:  i can read.  and then i i remembered this post is about love, rockclimbers, and a showdown of epic proportions.

if you’re keeping track at home: that’s two birds and only a single stone.  efficiency; welcome to america.  we came up with it.

indeed.  this post is about the ultimate climbingsman entanglement: chris “zen crusher” sharma and adam “i don’t know anything about him other than he climbs real good” ondra.  and i gotta be honest here, i’m not sure who is going to win:

Hair: both have an interesting mane.  curly vs.  straight.  from a guy’s perspective it is an obvious tie.  the math was simple:  hair = hair.  but i talked to a few ladies and they suggest this one goes to sharma because they want to “bury [their] faces in [it].”  f’in gross.  sharma +1

Clothes: tie.  they wear the same prana suit to work everyday.  earth tones.  year round.  count on it.  i

Visual Acuity: sharma.  the ondra kid wears glasses.  sharma is a visionary.  this is true because i heard it on a video.  i mean, dude, sharma was in a fucking helicopter looking for lines.  if that’s not visionary practice then, well, there is no such thing.   sharma +1

Fighting: no way to know.  rockclimbers are mentally incapable of violence.  except when someone 1) climbs “their” proj, 2) talks shit about them on a message board, 3) climbs a line in any way not sorted out by the FA party, 4) sleeps with their girlfriend/boyfriend.

Dancing: i’ve got a feeling sharma probably does that whole phish-fan white-seizure thing.  it’s like wiggling, but worse.  add that to ondra being a “euro” and what you have is some points for the kid.   ondra +5.

add ‘em up.

-tt

look how much i've aged. scareeeee.

you know what really gets me amped to write about rockclimbing.  besides winning world cup events, putting up mind blowing first ascents, and designing my own line of climbing pants/shorts/jackets?

stats.

not climbing stats (5.12c/v8).  no.  i don’t care about achievement on rock anymore because i’m into enlightenment.  and i’m like WAAAAYYY good at it too.  i’d explain, but you probably wouldn’t understand.

no, when i say stats i mean important stuff like interweb hits and offsite links.  you know, business.  anyhow, i just looked at my numerical graph thingy and apparently i’m looking into the statistical barrel of my worst month of hits since early 2008.  and the only thing i hate worse than getting shot in the face is – you guessed it – getting shot with my own failure.  in the face.  fiery hot data packets of fail right in the kisser.

so, yeah.  clearly i’m not cool with this development.  in fact, i’m so uncool with it that i’m gonna try to change things.  not anything important, like, say, racism, health care, or the weird confluence of racism/health care chatter that keeps popping up every time i leave my house.

no.  i can’t change the world people.  i’m only one blogger.  but with my intense focus and these two rockcrushing (but still very charming) hands, i’m pretty sure i can get my numbers up.

so tell your friends.  i’m back.  and i’m willing to write for their attention.  as long as said attention doesn’t require:

1) stories about doing things.  i don’t do those.  things, i mean.  i just don’t.

2) stories about winning.  i do them, but they’re all lies.  clever self-serving lies.

3) stories about climbing culture.  because 15k people in brown pants don’t deserve analysis.

4) posts without a list.  because:

a) it’s my writing crutch y’all.

b) how will you know it was me?

c) because i can’t do this alone.

nice to see you again.

-tt

buckskin y'all!

britches is a word i didn’t make up.  it means pants in grandma talk.  it’s like “cap”, but it goes on your legs.  your old, leathery, saggy legs.  climbing, on the other hand, is a word i made up…. just now while you were working through the very unfortunate “elderly leg situation”.  i’ll explain climbing in what i’m calling leighmhein’s terms.  it’s german for “i tell you slowly”:

climbing: the act of intentionally not falling whilst trying very hard to do just that.  falling i mean.  intentionally not, but trying to.  and with a vigor.

if this were a film, i’d arrange a voice-over here.  i’d have john cusack read his line.  it would say: “paradox movement”.  or maybe “paradox movement?”  ooh.  i like it as a query.  not sold on john cusack, but this isn’t really a film so i guess it doesn’t matter.

“paradox movement”.

“line?”

‘does climbing need bigger britches?’

“oh, right.”

apparently it might? wardrobe!

discuss.  topic?  climbing + popularity + capitalism + effects + me.  here are some prompts:

1) if climbing is rendered “gloryful” to all the people i hate *you know who you are*, will it make them like me?

2) will them liking me make me hate myself?

3) will my self-loathing make me like climbing even more?

4) do i look good in my green harness?

5) …

tommy “yes mom.  that’s right.  a rockclimbing blog.  no.  no.  what?  why would i be embarrassed?  I KNOW I’M NOT A DOCTOR!!!!” wilson

LIC is an acronym i came up with.  it stands for “Like I Care”.  it’s useful for when you care about something just enough to be an asshole but not enough to type the extra 6 letters.  a new standard in douchebag efficiency.  example interlogue:

“sent 12c.  3 go.  shkdng!”  txts your friend Sally Mcwhinesalot.

“lic what ur doing when im not there.  pls stop txting me from crags and bars.”  txts you.

“heh.  lic.  nice.”

the lesson here?  brevity + ambivalence = friendship.

oh, speaking of not giving a shit.  the interwebs are still reeling from the news of michael jackson’s heart failure/death havingness.  if you’re even half as connected as i am (like a human battery in the year 2167) you’ve probably witnessed your very own sloshy avalanche of misplaced pop cultural mourning.  it’s almost like people have been waiting desperately for something not-clearly-trivial to throw themselves at since spring sweeps week.  apparently the lack of television shows forms a void that can only be filled with dead formerly black soloists from failed attempts to save humanity. (“We are the World” reference!  zing!)

or not.  whatever.

either way it must have hit some sort of emotional g-spot because like lemmings to the cliff they go….  to weep.  but, like i said, i’m sure you’ve seen this.  no?  ok.  here’s a tiny taste:

“I’m bummed too… An American icon, definitely.”

“He will always be the King of Pop. God bless you Michael Jackson. “

really?  blessings?  bummerd?  icon?  king?  god?  ?

now i don’t wanna be a dick people.  seriously.  but this is fucking ridiculous.  i liked Thriller and Off-the-Wall as much as the next guy; take out the ballads and what you’ve got is funky beats, sweet vocals, and a dancing machine in a white suit.  what’s not to like?   but somewhere between hugging baby tigers and cardiac arrest michael jackson got hijacked by a parade of suck.  and from the looks of it, it seems people are somehow mashing up the tiger-loving michael (meow) and the dude who named his kid Blanket (no offense son.  but technically “Comforter” isn’t really the same.).  coincidentally, this is also the mistake soon-to-be-dead people tend to make in horror films:

“i know you love me deep down, and don’t really wanna do th” *splurtgurgleincapacitytoshrugshouldersdead*.

so to avoid any unnecessary blood/tearshed, i’ve sorted this out for you.

it’s brief, but that’s how i get my sort on:  

michael #1: an exploited child star with some serious dance skills grows up to write a handful of good songs (most of his tracks were written and produced by Quincy Jones) and become a cultural icon in a decade when people were too hopped up on blow cool to realize they were being ironic 20 years in advance.

michael #2: stops making music, makes his face into “face”, and retires into narnia-esque world of monkeys, ferris wheels, and alleged child rape.

and so?

let the sobbing commence.  and by sobbing i mean non-stop MJ radio play for weeks.

LIC

-tt