My advice to anyone who takes a rock-climbing class -- trust your shoes. Special rock-climbing shoes, which are like slippers with a rubber sole and are uncomfortably tight, can adhere to any gap. crack or nub found on a rocky face. Trust me. When you are roughly 50 feet up and are at about an 80-degree angle, and both hands are pinching tiny granite bumps for support, you must have faith in the shoes, since all that's keeping you up are your big toes purchased upon a couple of rocky protruberances that feel as firm as a three-foot ledge (and that is what you tell yourself as you cling precariously).

My son and I took a day-long course from REI, scaling rocks in the McDowell Mountains in far north Scottsdale. After about an hour of learning techniques and scaling a boulder, we were ready to challenge Headsmacker (or Headclobber or Headwhacker -- it was aptly named as we would discover later), a climb to the top of a granite slab.

The first part was easy, a scramble up a short boulder to an overhang (where, yes, you inevitably would smack your head). Then the tricky part: Hoisting your leg over to wedge your left foot into a crack, then twisting your body while swinging your right leg as your left hand sought a grip, any grip, at the top of the crack where it slimmed to a very narrow crevice. One the left hand was set, attention was focused to the right foot which needed to find, well, anything.

This is where the rubber really came through. (A note on the shoes -- worn without socks, they were like a second skin and damned uncomfortable, squeezing your toes into the kind of point that only the high-heel warriors of the fashion runways could endure for more than 10 minutes.) On my first of two climbs, my right foot scraped rock as I removed my left foot from the crack, thus slipping about four inches before coming to a stop about a half-foot from the drop-off created by the overhang. Yes, I was tied in and belayed by Megan, climbing professional, but still ...

Had I stopped there, where the slab was "thin" as Megan had warned earlier (that meant very few available holds, and I really wish she had not told us that), I would have frozen. Megan and colleague Jason shared many wonderful stories later about climber who refused to budge, becoming so scared that they had to be physically removed from the rock, fingernail scraping as they were lifted. But even when petrified, bad things can happen. As Jason said, "I've seen something come out of every orifice. Yes, even that."

So I focused on the next handhold, scanning the granite for anything and, as I stepped up, put full trust in the shoes to stick to any protrubance no matter how slight (and all were slight, save for a three-inch-long bump about halfway up that was the perfect resting point -- at the time it seemed so generous you could do jumping jacks on it).

Once past the thin area, it was relatively easy with enough bumps and indentations to successfully maneuver to the top (you can see what I saw in the photo looking down at the people looking up).

As happy as I was to make the climb twice, Bryson would ascend four times, the last two taking more difficult routes (rather than using the tilted boulder as a starting point, one climb started on a steeper, smoother rock face, while his last involved a difficult climb up a narrow crack, leading to an overhang that required precise hand and leg movements -- it was impressive).

I would recommend rock-climbing to anyone. Just make sure you have the right shoes.

 
Bryson won his first match as wreslter this year. OK, this is just a test of the Picasa add-a-photo blogging system. If this had been a real blog entry, it would have been way more interesting.

There is very little reason to engage in a baseless discussion of a meaningless TV show. Particularly when that show devolves into the most ludicrous situations even as it touts the “gritty realism” of modern-day terrorist-inspired warfare.

But the fact there is very little reason to engage in such a debate only fuels the fire because there is nothing like focusing a passionate argument around made-up stuff, defending your position with logic and example (as I did), or ridiculous patter that falls apart after just a few seconds of examination (as my friend Monty did).

Here is our recent e-mail debate on the merits of the Fox show 24:

Me: speaking of sucky, did you ever watch 24 this year?

Monty: yes, i've been watching "24." i actually am really into it. if you expect plausibility, it destroys the experience. i mean, in the world of "24," this is now the seventh crisis to hit the u.s., almost like having a 9/11 every other year. if you let the stupidness wash over and envelop you, it makes the show a lot better.

Me: dude, i was a pretty decent 24 fan, and i could even put up with the totally outrageous stuff (as when the female fbi agent, rather than describe the ugly yellow utility van used as a getaway car, waits to get its plate and of course is caught before then; or when she finds the most wanted man in america holed up with a small invading force -- how'd he get thru immigration anyway? -- and the fbi dude in charge tells her it will be 15 minutes which is pretty horrible response time given the fictional equivalent of saddam hussein has just shown up). But when the general and his cronies are able to swim to the white house via the potomac, well, you know, maybe i could go along with that. but when they broke down the first wall to get in -- i can just imagine the conversation that took place among those who may have renovated the white house many years ago:
"so everything is up to code now, but i gotta tell ya, i'm still a little bothered by that possible entrance off the potomac. i mean, everyone can break down that wall, there's no rebar or anything."
"well, first of all, how is anyone gonna find it?"
"we did file those blueprints at the public library. that pretty much spells it out.'
"sure, but no one's going to see those. whoever goes into the public documents section?"
"maybe, but i still wish the first page wasn't a big drawing of the white house. really brings attention to it."
"ok, how about this. let's place a bunch of laser beams across the hole. if anyone crosses them, a bunch of alarms will go off."
"that seems pretty good. and we can run power from that junction box right in that same room."
"yeah, that will work. we'll just have to label it 'laser security' or something on the panel so no one switches if off by mistake."
"perfect. problem solved."
so as soon as the general cleared the laser array, marched in and started shooting secret service officers, who merely stood as attention as they were gunned down, i switched it off. 24 is -30-.

Monty: anyway, "24." you do realize that if you've watched it this long, you've given up any claim to being outraged. to attack the latest plot twist as "just too unbelievable" is to admit that you've been ok with every other preposterous turn of events the show has thrown at you. at this point, complaining about the unbelievable is like watching a porno and saying, "you know, i was ok when the super hot chick greeted the pizza delivery man at her door wearing nothing but a bathrobe. i was fine when she pulled him into her apartment, threw the pizza to the side and started sucking his dick, which happened to be abnormally large. i also felt it was quite possible that he would then fuck her in a variety of positions for roughly 20 minutes without his manager or other employees wondering where he was. but when he came on her face and she pretended to like it, i just felt that was too unrealistic and, frankly, ruined the whole experience for me."

Me: while i agree that 24 is preposterous and has been since its inception, there is a line you still can't cross (not gonna go into your porn argument because a) it's invalid and b) no one watches for plot). Even in the most outlandish of shows, they stick with rhe reality they have established. in lost, even with time travel and moving islands and shit, not once have they introduced a parallel universe, or that john locke is in a coma and all of this is in  his mind. because that shit would not fly in a world where certain parameters have been established. in the terminator chronicles, the terminators have not yet sent a robot back to the 15th century to kill the defenseless squire who's progeny eventually would result in john connor; nor have they sent back an army of terminators to the first century where they could easily wipe out humans in about 20 minutes. because none of that fits into the established reality.
i can give 24 miles of leeway, as when it takes 15 minutes to reach the world's most wanted man ("hey, i just stumbled across osama at a burger king in terre haute -- 15 minutes? well, ok, but it looks like his order is coming up now so you might want to send in a few local cops even though you and i know they will be nothing but bullet fodder"). i can forgive how bad guys fire 349 bullets at jack and miss, then he pops up and gets 5 kills in 5 shots. i can even allow for how you can get anywhere in DC (or los angeles) in 3 minutes. but a back door to the white house? with laser beams guarding a gap between two walls? from the potomac? no. not even close.

Monty: my porn argument is totally valid. you say that no one watches porn for plot, but in the next breath you suggest that people watch "24" for realism? i mean, that's my point right there: complaining about the lack of realism in "24" is like lamenting the poor structural narrative of "pump friction." basically, you're mad because you just wanted to see fucking and sucking, and then they snuck in a chick getting two dicks in her ass, and you were like, "hey, i didn't sign up for this! no way! they crossed my arbitrary line!" we're talking about a show where, for an entire season, a president was holed up in an underground bunker -- which, for some reason, is now totally unneeded, even when DC is under attack and the president's own life is in danger. the only "parameters" of "24" are these: chloe can hack into anything; major events occur only at the top of the hour, give or take one or two minutes; and if you want to make it out of here alive, you're going to have to do exactly what jack bauer says.

Me: also, your last attempt at a 24 argument makes it clear that your knowledge of the intricacies of the prn film is rather alarming. dude, you know more than most porn directors. did you write one at some point? if not, you should. seriously, you just might have a career in the porn industry. behind the camera, of course.  we do happen to agree on the essential truths of 24, though i would add one more; you get romantic with jack, you signed your death warrant. but as far as plotting, your porn argument still falls apart (and please don't send another porn scenario -- i get it). because you watch a porn for maybe 5 minutes. then you lose all interest. you just don't care anymore how it turns out, or who's involved, or what is going to happen. until your interest is rekindled in another hour or so, and that has nothing to do with the porn plot. 24, however, is based somewhat on our reality as it established during its first season (which i think is still the best). i was even willing to really give the series some leeway when people were hacking into valuable US targets via some device that kinda looked like a PSP. but really, writing in a secret entrance to the white house to let terrorists inside was weak and lazy. that is directly from the george lucas school of writing, when luke sent a torpedo down the air vent of the death star ("what, they blew up the death star? it wasn't even paid for yet .. uh huh, a vent? are you shitting me? a fucking vent? it was a goddamned mini-planet, what the hell did it need a vent for? ... oh, EPA regulations, fine, but did you think maybe it shouldn't have led directly to the core? maybe a couple of kinks or something?")

Monty: the porn scenarios come from the howard stern show. he has these porn stars on, and since it's on satellite radio, they can get as graphic as they want (and no, mailee is not in the car when stern is on). there's stuff i don't even want to hear about, much less see. anyway, i'll probably keep watching "24," if only because i don't know when to quit.

So that was it, an obvious end to the discussion, pretty much a victory for me as Monty admits he watches 24 for no discernible reasons other than it's on. And while the debate was meaningless, it was cathartic. And thus very worth the time.

VOID



“Goddamn it, Vince, get in here, these corns ain't gonna scrape themselves.”

No, they sure weren't, Vince knew. Nor did her toenails cut themselves. Or her eyebrows pluck themselves. Or tampons buy themselves.

No sir, they sure didn't, no matter how hard Vince wished for it.

“Sorry, hon, I was just-”

“Just nothing, like usual, now get your fat ass in here, Jeezus, how many times do I ...”

Vince let her voice go to Jello in his head, this spongy mass of words that globbed together in a kind of nothingness that made it all tolerable.

He went into the bathroom, caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror. Wrinkles deeper under his eyes, hair higher on his forehead, and his jowls sank low enough to create a narrow chasm just underneath his chin.

Not always like this, no sir. Up until 10 years ago he was in pretty good shape. Not quite the kind of guy people would mistake for being captain of the football team when he was in high school, but he could walk up a couple of flights of stairs without gasping like a fish out of water.

He opened the cabinet below the sink and thrust his hand into the cleaners, the brushes, the stained clothes, all the crap that usually takes refuge in areas rarely seen during the week.

It was somewhere here, the new pumice stone. Damn, he's just bought it a few weeks ago, knowing how the last one was wearing down to the nub, Glenda's corns winning the weekly battle of flesh vs. abrasive.

Words burst through the Jello.

“Kee-rist, Vincent, I ask you one simple goddamn thing, please, they're done soaking and you know how they'll get in another few-”

The words again vanished into the amorphous black void he kept within his brain for moments as this. Survival mechanism, his therapist said. Well, when he went to a therapist. Until Glenda said she wasn't paying for advice for any free-thinking holier-than-thou sonuvabitch making more in an hour than most people make in a week.

As if he were spending any of his wife's money. She hadn't held a job in 15 years. And if there were any spare money Vince was making between two jobs, it went to a bed, or a clawing post, or another case of canned tuna for Bubbles, Glenda's cat.

Where the hell was that pumice stone? His hand swept the back of the cabinet, knocking aside cans of air freshener and stain removers.

Nothing.

“Hon,” he called. “I can't find the, at least I was pretty sure that a couple weeks ago, I swore I picked one up, but I think-”

“Vincent, you never freakin' think, that's your problem. Spit it out, what the hell is wrong? And you better not tell me we ain't got a goddamn stone cause I told you about that just the other day, make sure it's in decent shape because this has been a real bad week and I was gonna-”

Vince balled up the words again and shoved them into the void, a move so natural that he never really thought about it anymore. If he had, he might realize it was quite a talent, to make bad things disappear like that, shoving everything into some sort of soupy glop and draining slowly away.

He withdrew his hand from the cabinet, knowing he could search all day and never find what was not there. He closed the door, stood and took a deep breath.

Glenda was not going to be happy about this.

He entered the hallway, took a right and paused, looking through the doorway of her bedroom --which used to be our bedroom, he thought, but that was, what, four years ago? Five? He would wake her coming home late from his second job, she said, and she needed her nine hours. Never asked if he would mind. Came home one night to find the bedroom door closed and a note on it – “I left a pillow and sheets for you in the den.”

And she did just that, in a tidy little pile on the couch. Where he's spent nights ever since. Which was fine, since he hadn't been attracted to her for, well, long before moving to the den.

Something about removing a woman's corns kills any romantic notions that may try to rise from the dead every now and then.

Taking a deep breath, he walked into her bedroom where she reclined, as usual, in the leather chair he picked from a catalog at work, rewarding him for 15 years. She stroked Bubbles, who was curled in her lap, her pale blue frock pulled above her knees.

“Hon, I couldn't find the pumice stone, but I'll go get one-”

“You damn sure will, Vincent G. Wurrbach, you dumbass, not that it's gonna help me a whole lot since I gotta do a resoak now, and you know damn well the water's cold ...”

Void. Done.

Vince turned, left, made sure he was out of sight before checking his watch. 9:30. And he had to be up in six hours for work. And it was going to take 30 minutes to get to the CVS because they lived in the middle of nowhere, the only place they could afford on his two salaries. And of course the builder went belly-up less than a year after they moved in, so the seven homes on their street now faced an expansive weed-choked lot where, if you looked closely, you could pick out the ribboned stakes that marked out nothing more than the vision of a neighborhood.

Vince opened the door to the garage, patting his back pocket to make sure his wallet was there. Yup, and should have a few bucks, if he remembered right.

He opened the door of the Volvo, its hinge letting loose a creaky protest. Settling into the driver's seat, the vinyl snapping as it accepted his full weight, Vince closed the door and backed down the drive, crimping the wheels as he entered the street. Clutch down, he forced the gear shift into first, pressed the gas and waited for the engine to catch up.

As the Volvo inched ahead, he turned to the left to see if it was still there. But he wasn't even sure it qualified as an “it.”

He'd noticed it maybe two weeks ago, leaving for work in the pre-dawn darkness. That morning, he was encouraged by this new look, thinking it signaled some new construction (which he realized was incredibly stupid, it was not as if they could erect a wall overnight without anyone every knowing.

The sky wasn't right. Looking across the field, he noticed the stars disappeared, well, too soon, as if the horizon had been raised 10 feet.

A trick of the darkness, perhaps, but he noticed it again the next night, and the next. Only the horizon was rising more and more, the blackness getting taller.

As Vince reached the corner and turned right, heading toward the parkway into town. The clerk at CVS said nothing when he dropped the pumice stone on the counter, since he added some cold medicine to “justify” a late-night run (the one thing he would never run out of was cold medicine).

After pahying, he grabbed the bag and headed back home. It was after 10, and sleep was likely another hour away, once he was done with his chore.

Turning onto the street, his right foot slammed down the brake pedal.

He finally realized what was happening,

The darkness wasn't getting taller.

It was coming closer. That black line of, something, was advancing.

As he turned, his headlights panned an inky wall of nothingness. Looking down his street, it seemed the homes were facing the edge of the world. To the left, normalcy. To the right, a void.

A void, Vince thought.

He suddenly felt comforted.

Minutes later, as Vince bent over his wife's feet, pumice stone in hand, he could honestly say he was not surprised by the deep, hollow and thunderous knock at the door. Once, twice, three times, each echoing in the night.

Vince's voice was calm as he looked into his wife's startled eyes.

“It's for you.”