A Bowl of Stupid

Truth or Fiction? At This Point, It’s Really Just Too Close To Call.

Featured News of The Apocalypse:

More News of The Apocalypse:

My business here in San Francisco concluded (hopefully, only briefly), my schedule is now open for the remainder of this week.

In addition, in order to maintain the lifestyle to which I’ve become accustomed, I liquidated much of my stocks and other investments several weeks ago. As a result, after yesterday’s bloodbath on Wall Street, I am ironically one of the few people I know who can still afford both a coffee and a donut without having to panhandle for spare change beforehand — for the next few weeks, at least.

That being said, I am taking the advise of my good friends, TK over at Uncooked Meat, and Chez at Deus Ex Malcontent.

Allow me to explain.

For anyone following, both TK and Chez have, over what seems to be the past several decades, been discussing the horrible cold and snow that has been plaguing the Boston and New York metro areas, respectively. Therefore, in an attempt to bond with my blogging brothers in arms, I will be voluntarily subjecting myself to the same kind of weather conditions of which they have been complaining.

I’m going snowboarding in Lake Tahoe for the next 3 days.

Much love, my brothas. Much love.

As an aside, I’ve been getting inundated with spammer comments over the past 1-2 days — coincidentally, right when I haven’t the time to do much of anything about it.

So, for the moment, I’ve had to take the somewhat draconian measure (in my mind, at least) of requiring everyone who wants to post a comment to register on this site. My apologies for the both of you out there who may wish to comment about the mindless ramblings emanating from this sucking chest-wound of a blog, but otherwise just don’t feel like registering (“cough, cough – Votar, cough, cough*).

My further thanks to those whom instead may choose to register (thanks Lora!).

As soon as I get some time, I’ll address the matter in what I hope will be a somewhat less radical fashion.

That is all. Carry on.

UPDATE: I think I’ve corrected much of the issues surrounding the spamming issues and, as such, I’m removing the aforementioned blocking “features.”

TK, feel free to resume commenting … NOW.

In making any major life-altering decisions, one is always told to weigh the pros and cons of the situation.

Personally, I don’t particularly see the benefits of engaging in such a fruitless exercise. But in the interest of fairness to all the self-help gurus promoting this dribble (and to appease several of my Miamian friends questioning my decision to possibly leave the area), here are some of my “pros” and “cons” in connection with a potential departure from Miami:

Wow, I stand corrected. That exercise was very helpful. Thanks guys!

I’m going to be in San Francisco for the remainder of the week, but I’m still going to try posting a couple things over that time (including the next part of my narrative series — “Fall From Grace”).

Although I’ve tapped a couple of my friends for comments and suggestions in connection with my trip, I’ve been actively avoiding writing about any aspects in connection with the trip, let along the specifics of same, because I don’t want to screw things up. For all of you well-wishers out there, please feel free to wish me luck. As for the rest of you, please feel free to kiss my pasty-white ass (not really, though – the kissing part, my ass is actually kinda white).

In the meantime, I’m going to post the only video version of Josh Rouse performing the song “Directions,” off of his 2000 album “Home.” For anyone paying attention, this song was also prominently featured in one of the only “true-romance” stories to have ever successfully captured my attention — the Cameron Crowe film “Vanilla Sky” (an adaptation of the Spanish film “Abre Los Ojos”).

This particular clip is from a live performance, but don’t let the questionable sound quality distract you from Rouse’s music, which is a sweet, swelling, twang-tinged pop that will appeal to fans of Matthew Sweet, the Pernice Brothers, and Archer Prewitt alike.

Dearest Chez,

As you know, all of us here at “A Bowl of Stupid” greatly respect and admire your fine work. Indeed, we started this very blog in attempt to emulate your contributions to the world of blogging, as well as to raise the level of our own writing skills to ever greater heights.

With that caveat in place, please accept our humble apologies. You have just lost out to another the much-coveted position of “our hero.” This role must now be awarded to the other half of your now defunct radio show, Sir Votar S. Preston, Esq.

Please do not begrudge us, as we here at “A Bowl of Stupid” are still big fans of your work, as well as the achievements you have brought to the art of blogging. However, the gauntlet has been thrown. And despite all else, we must now throw in our lot in with the mind behind Votar News Network.

Indeed, if nothing else, Votar has been able to capture the essence of a digitalized blubbering ex-cabbie turned family court judge seeking his own daytime television show.

Bravo, sir. Bravo (not the network for women).

We look forward to hearing the next CD release from Votar Records.

Your friends at,

-A Bowl of Stupid

www.EndOfWorld.net

(Via Kang)

I know, I haven’t posted anything for a couple days. This has been a result of a couple things. (1) I’ve been a bit preoccupied with other matters; and (2) There’s nothing of substance that I’ve read or heard of in the news that warrants writing about.

To wit, CNN (“The Most Trusted Name In News”) is currently doing exposes on the Fort Lauderdale Family Court Judge in the Anna Nicole Smith DNA hearing/trial, the Paparazzi (“Chasing Angelina [Jolie]“), and “Fighting Back” against high cell phone bills.

Yes, I know you’re thinking, “Bowl, given this choice of such hard-hitting journalistic topics, there’s got to be an absolute plethora of fine material for you to write about.”

Yah, not so much.

Despite my deep and abiding respect for the great minds at work behind these hard-hitting news stories, I’m going to go read “The International Herald-Tribune” and “Le Monde” for a bit to rebuild some IQ points.

For now, chew on this creepy little bit of Video Mashup awesomeness, you mindless jackals.

Star Trek + Nine Inch Nails = Closer

I’ve posted a video from The Beta Band previously, but I think it’s time for another since this was probably one of the most over-talented, yet totally unappreciated, British bands to have come out in the past 10 years. As noted by Wikipedia, The Beta Band was a British group that received much critical acclaim and achieved cult status, but unfortunately failed to make much of a commercial impact on the popular music scene.

“Assessment” was the lead single off of their final 2004 album, “Heroes to Zeros.” While not my favorite Beta Band tune (which would be “Brokenupadingdong” from the “Igby Goes Down” Soundtrack), this is still a great song nonetheless. Moreover, I find the song’s lyrics particularly appropriate given the subject matter of my posts this week:

I think I cracked my skull on the way down
I think I lost my head when I lay down
The fear of facts presented in the cold light of day

And when I step back from all this I see that I’m fighting
I can’t help myself, there’s no reason for lying
Truth and fiction they all become one
Help me from the sea to the beach to the land

The Beta Band – Assessment

(Continued from Fall From Grace – Part I)

Luckily, the area of Papago Park where I fell was only several hundred meters from a paved road that carves its way through the park.

Even more fortuitously, out of the park’s 22,000 acres, a Park Ranger happened to drive past my exact position not 5 minutes after I fell. As a result, there was an ambulance on the scene within 10 minutes.

During that brief period, however, I was able to figure out to some extent that which would be confirmed by a cadre of doctors several hours later – I had shattered my pelvis, broken a number of ribs, torn several ligaments in my feet, and fractured my skull.

The doctors and I later deduced that I had essentially fallen in a modified sitting position. I fell feet first, which absorbed some of the initial shock of impact. But doing so twisted my feet backwards, tearing the ligaments in both.

Next to hit was my ass. And while the human buttocks is designed to absorb a certain amount of shock, the forces waged upon mine that day were just too excessive to handle. The result was that my pelvis absorbed the brunt of the entire impact, pushing it upwards in the middle and breaking it in five (5) places, thereby splitting my pelvis into two distinct “hemispheres.” That main impact also pushed my tailbone upwards and backwards, causing me to lose about an inch in height which I’ve never regained.

Next to hit as I fell backwards was my torso, breaking several ribs to the rear of my rib-cage.

As I had apparently turned to look left at some point, the next place to hit was the left-rear side of my head. By that time, however, the rest of my body had already absorbed much of the impact. Nonetheless, the resulting blow to the head was still enough to cause a concussion and some significant swelling to the side of my face and head. (Ironically, much of the attention paid by both myself and those initially attending to me centered on the obvious broken bones and such, not on any potential brain damage).

As a result of all this, I had the distinct feeling that someone had dropped a Mack truck directly onto my lap. The pain was crushing. Not so much a sharp pain, but more of a “heavy” pain akin to the feeling of someone standing on your gut.

Right about then, I was extremely grateful to possess what my parents have described as an absurdly high pain tolerance. It is an attribute which often borders on the comical. Indeed, at times of extreme pain, I tend to have debilitating giggle fits. From what I’ve been told, it’s a trait that can be a bit disconcerting to those around me, as I come off looking like a bigger psychopath than normal.

In this particular case, however, the laughter was appropriate – at least at the outset of my “rescue.” Indeed, the descent from the area where I landed was absolutely comical.

As I mentioned previously, there is a hiking path leading up to and around the base of the rock formation from which I fell. However, as you can see in the above picture, the path nearest to where I fell extends upwards along a slow incline.

As a result, in order to reach me, the Emergency Medical Technicians (EMT’s) had to hike up that sloping hill and around the rock formation, carrying a variety of medical supplies and a backboard onto which I would be strapped down, immobilized, for them to carry back down to the ambulance.

Given my situation, I paid little attention to the EMT’s progress as they made their way up the slope towards me. However, after they determined my condition and successfully loaded me onto the backboard, I was forced to pay somewhat closer attention.

It was about halfway back down the slope that one of the EMT’s carrying me lost his footing.

Needless to say, I felt more than a little like Wile E. Coyote at that moment. What’s next,” I thought, “rocket-powered skates?”

Thankfully, I had apparently used up most of my bad karma for the day. We stopped skidding down the slope after only a couple feet.

Whereas I was only able to muster “Oh Shit” when I actually fell, I was able to formulate several other expletives when I started skidding down that slope tied down atop a flat wooden board.

“Huh,” I thought, “so that’s what the downhill luge must be like? Ehh, that’s not so bad.”

The medics picked me up almost immediately.

“Oh my god! I’m so sorry about that,” said the culprit. “Are you okay?”

“Oh sure, sure,” I said. “Besides the fact that I just fell off the side of a fucking mountain, you mean?”

“Oh, he’s okay,” said the second. “He’s still got his sense of humor.”

Then to me, he added, “that’s good, you should stay positive.”

It’s ironic how roles can reverse so quickly. Just minutes earlier, I was eternally grateful to these gents for rescuing me so quickly after having suffered such a debilitating injury. But at that particular moment in time, I wanted nothing more than to beat that EMT motherfucker about the head and shoulders with a baseball bat.

After that, the actual trip to the hospital was somewhat of a blur. I mainly recall the siren and the speed of the ambulance, facts I took as both comforting and disconcerting at the same time. It meant that I would be cared for very soon, but it also meant that they still considered my condition significant enough to halt traffic.

Although there were no further mishaps before reaching the hospital, our arrival at my new home for the next week would bring with it a whole new set of issues.

I have never been what one would call a “cooperative” patient. Never was this more apparent, however, than during the initial diagnostic stage I underwent in the trauma ward at Scottsdale Memorial Hospital.

Obviously, the medical staff needed to diagnose the full extent of my injuries. I had fallen approximately 60 feet, I was bleeding profusely from various parts of my body, and I was unable to make any significant movements. This I completely understood.

So what better way to treat a patient in this condition than to assign a first year orderly to take x-rays. That part, I didn’t understand so much.

I was already pretty certain that my pelvis was in a shambles. Notwithstanding, this orderly placed me into positions atop the x-ray machine I STILL would not attempt even today.

I felt like I had stumbled into some deranged game of Twister.

“Okay, your turn, Mr. Kish – disjointed right foot on blue. Uh-oh, looks like somebody needs to take some yoga classes. Let me just move that leg for you.”

So again, for the second time in less than an hour after barely surviving this major calamity, I was in dire need of a baseball bat.

And then came “the cleaning.” Oh my, I will never forget “the cleaning.”

Allow me to explain.

During the fall, I had unconsciously attempted to slow myself by reaching out to grab the rock as it was falling upwards away from me. As a result, the palms of my hands were absolutely decimated.

Being left handed, much of the meat had been ripped from the palm of my left hand adjacent to my thumb. Similarly, the tips of the index and middle fingers on my left hand had been ground off down to the bone.

I also had accumulated a variety of other deep scrapes, abrasions and lacerations all over my body. The deepest of these wounds, however, were reserved to those parts of my body which had not been covered – my legs, my arms and my head.

But my hands were the worst.

My hands were also covered in all type of dirt and debris. Indeed, I actually had a small pebble lodged in between the flesh and the bone of my index fingertip. And all of that dirt needed to be cleaned out immediately in order to prevent infection.

The trauma staff, however, was not about to waste precious time picking out this dirt with tweezers. Instead, it was far easier to scrub down all of the wounds using a disinfectant and abrasive “sponge.”

After my ordeal with the x-ray technician, I thought it entirely possible they would simply hand me over to the maintenance staff: “Hey Jimmy, after you get finished with the toilets on the third floor, could you scrub down the patient in ICU 3?”

It was not the most pleasant of experiences.

By that time, several hours had passed. My roommates, having finished their finals, had already started partying. As a result, when they were alerted to my condition, my roommates were irrevocably stoned.

But god bless ‘em, they still made the trip to the hospital.

Ostensibly, they came to lend their emotional support. I was touched, truly. However, the very first thing I noticed upon their arrival was their encumbered condition.

In particular, I remember the look of utter astonishment in the eyes of my friend Stacey (a guy). Whenever Stacey was high and confronted with an amazing situation, his eyes grew to the size of platters, echoing the dimensions of his widely dilated pupils.

Because of his reaction, I realized immediately that Stacey was really wasted.

And that I must have looked absolutely horrific.

Until then, aesthetics were the last thing on my mind. Although I am fairly vain, I had not even considered asking for a mirror previously. That changed when I saw Stacey’s drug-induced reaction to my face.

I asked the nurse, “Excuse me, can I please see a mirror?”

“Uhh, you may want to wait until we’re done stabilizing your condition and getting you admitted into the hospital before …” she replied.

“Please?”

She relinquished, holding up a mirror.

For the second time that day, I was completely unprepared.

The entire left side of my head was swollen, bloody, and torn. My left eye was blackened and swollen shut, there were huge patches of skin along my hairline that had been scraped off, and my jawline was swollen beyond recognition.

“What a fucking mess,” I said to myself. “Jeez, you’re a dumbass.”

And then, of course, I started to laugh hysterically.

Concerned looks were traded between the nurses. I could tell what they were thinking: “Maybe we should get him checked for brain trauma.”

Sensing the nurses trepidations, my roommates chimed in. “No, he’s okay. He just does that sometimes when he gets hurt.”

Now it was my friends’ turn to receive the incredulous looks. I could almost hear the nurses thinking, “Err, maybe we should get his friends checked out for brain trauma.”

Upon receiving adequate confirmation that I was okay, the nurses apparently saw my laughing fit as a good opportunity to get back to work.

“If the patient is laughing,” I could see them thinking, “maybe he won’t mind if we start grinding down the remainder of the meat from his hands.”

So they broke out the cleaning kit, at which time I could have sworn I heard a German-accented voice in the background asking me, “Is it safe?”

That’s when the true fun began.

To this day, I really have no way to describe the exquisite pain associated with this particular nightmare. The nurse began digging and scrubbing into the exposed meat remaining on my hands, trying to remove any dirt particles from the injuries. Raw nerve-endings were being ground down by sterilized steel wool, over and over and over again.

And that’s when the cursing began. This beautiful young nurse who, in any other situation, I would have tried to bed, bore the brunt of one of the most vicious verbal attacks I have ever witnessed, let alone initiated.

As an aside, years later, watching “The 40 Year Old Virgin,” I had a flashback to that day. For a moment, I was unable to figure out just why that movie reminded me of the day I fell. And then it hit me. My experience in the trauma ward was almost exactly like the scene in that movie where Steve Carell curses out the attendant waxing his chest while his friends stand watching, mouths agape.

After the initial shock of the situation wore off, I naturally started giggling again. This, in turn, set off my stoner friends, who themselves started laughing hysterically. Which then re-ignited my giggle loop.

This was apparently too much for the nursing staff. My friends were unceremoniously booted from the ICU. Upon leaving, each of my roommates took their turn wishing me well.

From Mike, “Dude, if you need anything, you know we’re right here.”

“Matty, you’re gonna be fine,” said another. “I’m not worried.”

Then Stacey, looking around until the nurses were distracted, came closer. “Bro, take this.”

“Take what, Stac?” I asked. “I can’t use my fucking hands.”

“Shut up, just take it,” he said, shoving a can of Coors Light under my elbow.

I looked at the beer. Then back to him. Then the beer again. Then Stacey.

“Are you out of your fucking mind?” I asked. “Stac, I’m on about 25 different kinds of pain killers right now and you want me to drink a beer?”

Stacey nodded grinning ear to ear, “Yah dude. We were gonna bring the pipe too, but decided it might be a bad idea.”

“Ya’ think?!?”

The nurse returned to continue with the interrogation, at which point Stacey backed away.

“Thanks Stac,” I said, sighing. “I really do appreciate you guys coming down. I’ll see you in a while.”

They headed out, grinning like a bunch of school children who just snuck a frog into the teacher’s desk drawer. Ahh, my friends.

By then, the pain medication had begun to kick in. For anyone who has never taken a Demerol cocktail, it is a fantastic party drug – for about 30 seconds before you pass out.

I woke up some time later, all of my wounds mercifully cleaned and bandaged, in a private hospital room. Despite the fact that I was still of significant importance to warrant my own room for the time being, it was an encouraging sign.

I began to relax a bit. I was going to be okay.

By then, the doctors had figured out the majority of my injuries were apparently non-life threatening. They had pegged down the ligament damage and broken bones right away.

The main concern they had was with my pelvis. Remarkably, my gymnastics session with the x-ray technician notwithstanding, the various bone fragments that had once been my pelvis had not shifted much. As a result, there was a distinct possibility (which later proved to be correct) that I would not need to wear a full body cast while my pelvic bone repaired itself.

I had still received a serious concussion though. But I had made it through the first several hours with no apparent repercussions, and the doctors at the time were confident of a full recovery.

The next step after recouping for a couple days was physical therapy.

I had no idea just how much I would come to despise those two words – physical therapy, or PT for short.

(continued … in part, here).

Between the fact that I haven’t posted a music video for a couple days and the fact that I really, REALLY don’t want to see Britney’s sad, silly baldness every time I open up my site, the decision to post a new video just kinda made itself.

Moreover, I’m also really, REALLY jealous of Fred Wilson from over at A VC In NYC. Not only does the guy have a really informative and entertaining blog and an amazing job, but he just posted a music video from Snow Patrol that I’ve been looking for ever since I first heard the song last June in this Pete Tong podcast (“Tongcast”). Fred, in turn, picked up the video from yesterday’s VSL, from whom Fred quotes:

It’s actually one half of the cult 1976 short film, C’était un rendez-vous, in which the viewer’s P.O.V. is that of a driver racing through Paris at dawn, recklessly running red lights and generally cruising through the streets (sometimes the wrong way down one-ways) without ever once stopping — except at the very end. Legend has it that director Claude Lelouch (A Man and a Woman), who licensed the film to Snow Patrol, shot it in one take without getting a permit, and was arrested after its first screening.

Set to Snow Patrol’s pensive, anthemic music, it’s exhilarating, eerie, dreamlike.

I agree, although I also think the song is just as brilliant without the video.

Snow Patrol – Open Your Eyes

Nota bene: For anyone who might have visited this site earlier today and noticed that I changed the lead post to this video, my apologies. As noted above, I just came across this video on A VC In NYC, and given that I’ve been looking for it since I first started this blog, I felt the need to replace the “Beta Band” song I had up previously. That’s next – I promise.

We interrupt your regularly scheduled nonsense to bring you the “Trainwreck Of The Year” Award. And Ladies and gentlemen, this year the award goes to … Britney Spears.

She’s Cajun! She’s single! She’s fabulous! And tonight, she’ll be opening for “Sawyer Brown” down at The Sawmill!

Pictures of Brittney shaving her head made their way online over the weekend. Until now, I had refrained from mentioning anything about this redneck freak show for fear of compromising my journalistic integrity.

But at this point, an exception simply must be made. Upon returning from a stint at a rehab facility on the Caribbean island of Antigua last week, Britney immediately did what anyone in her situation would do — she got a tattoo, had an apparent emotional collapse, and shaved her head. Jesus H. Christ, who’s running that rehab facility, Baby Doc Duvalier?

I owe an apology to Kevin Federline for all the derogatory remarks I’ve made about him. Well no, not really. He’s still a fucking jackass. But bloody hell, who’d have ever believed that he was the stable one in the relationship? Since their divorce proceedings began, K-Fed has looked like a model citizen compared to Britney.

A cry for help? Maybe.

Surreal? You betcha.

Another lingering reminder of just why the South lost the Civil War? Abso-fucking-lutely.

“Oh Shit.”

That was all I could think as it was happening. There was no time for anything else.

You’d be surprised. The time it takes to fall 60 feet goes by in the blink of an eye.

To be sure, many movies show people falling in slow motion, making it seem as if an entire conversation could take place during the time it takes to fall 10 stories. But it’s really not like that. Not at all.

It goes by in an instant.

After “oh shit,” the very next thing I remember was wiggling my toes.

I could feel my feet. And I could wiggle my toes. And at the time, nothing else seemed to matter quite so much. Not even the excruciating pain that was otherwise dominating my world.

In my mind, the concept of being reduced to the role of a paraplegic, or god-forbid a quadriplegic, was utterly intolerable. At the time, I would probably have preferred death. I had no conception of anything that could possibly be as horrific as losing the permanent use of my limbs.

That concept is still a dark one for me, and it still haunts me. But for better or worse, I’ve since learned there are many various shades of gray when it comes to chronic debilitation.

I’m in my mid-30′s now. And despite everything I’ve been through in my life, I still unfortunately have a bit of an invincibility complex. It was, however, much worse 20 years ago when I first started college. Indeed, I spent far too much time doing things that, in today’s world, probably could have landed me a gig in a “Jackass” movie. Or in the hospital. Or both.

There was not much I wouldn’t try at least once. And very little I wouldn’t do on a dare.

Trust me, I have the scars, and my mother has the gray hair, to prove it.

It was during this initial stage of “invincibility” that I first explored the sport of climbing rocks – ostensibly for fun and fitness. However, I truly started rock climbing in earnest because of the danger factor associated with the sport. It was also an easy pastime to pursue where I went to college at Arizona State University.

In the Tempe/Phoenix area (the “Valley of the Sun”), there are a number of full-fledged mountain ranges on all sides, guarding the region like citadels. Moreover, there are dozens of minor sandstone outcroppings, remnants of a long vanished underwater landscape, scattered throughout the valley only minutes from campus. For me, these rocky outcroppings became a easy way to get a good workout, and a quick adrenaline fix.

I’ve mentioned in prior writings that I had two (2) distinct sets of friends in college – my roommates whom I first met during my first year in the dorms, and those friends whom I met from attending classes or via ROTC. Given that my roommates were not much into outdoor sports at the time, most of my adventurous spirit was, by necessity, satiated during outings with my ROTC friends.

It was with them that I first started rock climbing. And it was with them who I went climbing on May 6, 1990.

That particular day was special. It was the beginning of summer break. The last day of finals during my Junior year at Arizona State. On that day, my two ROTC friends and I had finished our finals by 1:00 p.m. And while we intended to go party later that day, it seemed somewhat overindulgent (and, frankly, impractical for picking up girls) to start partying so early in the day.

So instead we went to the nearby Papago Park to do some free-climbing on relatively low-lying outcroppings. Papago is a 1500 acre park located right in the middle of the metro-Phoenix/Tempe area, known for its distinctive red sandstone geological formations.

However, the particular rock formation we chose to climb that day, pictured above, only has peaks of 100-200 feet. As an added benefit, it also has several passes along the northern face which allow for relative ease of access on and off the formation’s peak, if so desired.

But the south side is somewhat more treacherous.

Don’t get me wrong, a trained professional would likely have little trouble easily scaling and returning down the south face. However, I was, and still am, nowhere close to being a trained professional.

Nonetheless, I was 20 years old and invincible. So I thought nothing of attempting a descent down that south side.

I was entirely unprepared.

By the time I made the decision to make that descent I had already lost track of my friends, who were on the opposite side of the formation. So I started climbing down the south side alone. Along the high ridge-line, it was a fairly unspectacular angle of descent and I had an easy time making my way down very quickly. But then I reached a point where the rock face edged inward beneath me into a slight overhang.

At that point, I was unable to see beneath me. Nonetheless, I continued despite the fact there was no visible route down that part of the rock face.

It took only a minute for me to realize I would be unable to continue. But by then, I had already lost track of the path I had used to reach that point in the first place.

I stopped for a moment to gauge my surroundings. It was only then I realized that I was unable to continue either up or down.

Simply speaking, I was fucked.

I tried to remain calm and do the responsible thing. Frankly, that was the only thing I could think to do at the time. There was a small indentation in the side of the rock-face about 10 feet to my left. It appeared, and ultimately was, large enough to house me briefly while I attempted to figure out a way either up or down the rock. I stayed there for what seemed to be hours but was, in all likelihood, probably no longer than a minute or two.

In that brief period, however, my presence was enough to attract the attention of a hiker walking along the base of the formation some 60 feet below.

“Hey! You! Are you okay up there?” I heard someone yell.

I said nothing, collecting my thoughts.

Then again, “Hey! Are you okay? Can you get down okay?”

“I’m not sure,” I said, looking down. “I can’t see directly beneath this overhang. Is there a route I can take to get down on this side?”

Silence for a moment. Then, “No. Not really.”

“You need to either go back up the way you came or rappel down,” he said. “Oh wait, you don’t have any gear, do you?”

“No,” I replied.

“Oh. Shit.”

“Yeah,” I remember thinking, “I’m way ahead of you on that one, but thanks anyway. Great talking to you.”

This was about the time I started to worry. Seriously started to worry. For the first time, I began to see another, grimmer, option present itself.

There was a distinct possibility that I could get hurt. Badly. Very badly.

And that’s when I started to panic.

Ironically, it was at this point that I overloaded on what I had initially been seeking – adrenaline.

The initial adrenaline shock was overwhelming. In particular, I distinctly remember that sharp bitter taste in my mouth, like touching your tongue to the top of a live 9-volt battery. That stinging, tangy, electrical taste.

To be sure, it was not quite what I had initially intended.

After several more minutes, I realized that I couldn’t stay up there forever. Something needed to be done.

So I finally started away from my little “cave.”

More adrenaline.

I made it only several feet back out onto the rock face before my hands starting sweating profusely. Then, my left hand started to tremble uncontrollably. Not so much at first, but it was noticeable enough. It was also sufficient to trigger the next phase of panic. My other hand began to tremble, which in turn then caused my knees to start trembling.

In only a matter of seconds, I was clinging to the side of a vertical rock-face, 60 feet above safe and solid ground, shaking uncontrollably.

Even now, as I write this nearly 20 years out, my eyes water and my heart skips as I recall the unhinged terror of that moment.

That single defining moment. My god. I will never forget that, ever.

It was in that moment I realized the only way I was going to make it down that rock-face was by falling.

By then, I was both physically and mentally unable to move. I could still hear the hiker from below trying to coax and guide me towards what he thought may have been a safe route of descent. But it was no use. I was unable see what he saw, and even if I could, I would still have been unable to go there.

I was just too panic stricken.

So I let go.

I was barely holding on anyway. And as I’ve told myself many times over the last 15 years, it was only a matter of time before my shaking would have caused me to become dislodged from my tenuous perch. However, I obviously don’t know that for a fact because I let go before I couldn’t hold on any further. Regardless, I let go.

This is the first time I’ve ever mentioned this. To anyone.

But Eddie’s death, and Kang’s related comments, got me thinking. Apparently I have been to that point where I believed I could hold on no further.

In retrospect, it’s probably the one moment in my life that I truly and utterly despise.

I gave up. My desire to live – hell, my survival instinct – gave way to expediency. How fucked up is that?

And all I can remember thinking at that moment when I let go was, “Oh shit!”

Then impact.

The words barely had time to echo through my head before I hit the ground.

Although I’ve since been told that I never lost consciousness, the only thing I remember next is lying there stunned, with an overwhelming pain emanating from my nether regions. A pain so uniquely powerful that I actually though my legs themselves had been torn asunder.

I tried to move my feet. “Thank god! I can feel my feet.” From seemingly miles beneath the crushing pain, I sensed the weight of my legs still intact.

“My toes. If I can move my toes, that means I’ll still be able to walk,” I thought. And they worked. I could feel my toes wiggling, brushing against the interior walls of my shoes.

Again, the only thought I could muster was, “thank god!”

Despite the raging tempest of pain, I was in absolute ecstasy. Not that I believe in god, but the only phrase I was able to muster, again and again, was “thank god, I can still walk.”

Everything else, anything else was simply icing on the cake. So long as I wasn’t crippled, any part of my body that may have broken or torn was entirely irrelevant.

I later found out it wasn’t that simple.

In yet another ironic twist, I was to wind up being the recipient of that same bitter, electrical, adrenaline taste in my mouth far more often than I ever thought possible – or ever intended.

(continued … Fall From Grace – Part II)

Via The Onion:

Bush Cuts Off Diplomatic Relations With Congress
WASHINGTON, DC—President Bush announced Monday that his administration will permanently sever ties with the democratically controlled United States Congress, ending a nearly 220-year-old alliance between the two governmental branches.

Read the full story here.