Yuppie Cunt Weekend!

Well the May Long, aka May Two-Four, was notable for our total lack of progress on our route, but that will not prevent me from talking shit.

The Driller succumbed to familial demands and took his charming brilliant beautiful girlfriend Jenn to Penticton, which is the epicenter of the romantic universe, for a yuppie cunt weekend involving wine, cheese, winery tours, discussions about which kind of granite to use to finish the countertops in the Whistler condo, and of course which colour the next BMW should be, the Driller's current model being a 2009 and somewhat long in the tooth.

Napoleon is incommunicado in the Valley, but Camp Four reports suggest that after an epic drinking session with the newly-single Steph Davis, Napoleon sent not only Davis but the Nose, which he feels does not warrant its current 5.13d grade but should be reduced to something along the lines of 12d. He apparently did not downgrade Davis.

As for your humble narrator, Butch Hillhurst, I spent Saturday in the Bluffs freesoloing the easiest things I could find and whondering why they don't grade things easier than 5.1, I mean, there should be rock-climbing that's say 4.13C, right?, and when I finally managed to tie a rope on, I promptly had my ass handed to me by a newish route that is immediately to the left of Electric Ball and to the right of one of those nice 5.8 cracks in Octopus Garden. Whimpering, I moved over and tried Electric Ball and managed to get up that, mostly because a foolhardy Albertan had placed the gear there for me.

Then it was time for Yuppie Cunt Weekend. My beautiful brilliant and charming girlfriend Lala and I took the ferry over to Salt Spring Island, where we rode our bikes to Steven and Steven's Super Gay Bed Bath-house and Breakfast. Our hosts at SSSGBBB were Steven and Steven (gay men never have one-syllable names). Steven was a refugee from the American real-estate corporate world and his partner, Steven, had been a keyboard player in the Fuzztones before joining Steven's real-estate outfit. Now gay men knwo from one thing for sure: things that are over-rated, and so the two of them sold their L.A. house in 2006 and bought the SSSGBBB before the market became like me in front of a hard trad climb: soft. Anyway I got the feeling the two had met at work, had probably had some heavy after-hours sex in the server room, and then developed a proper romantic relationship, which they consummated in Canada with marriage.

Anyway, SSSGBBB was immaculately appointed, with a really elegant, long-haired and utterly indifferent cat, magnificent furniture somewhere between Pennsylvania in 1803 and Thompson and Page, pumpkin and chocolate muffins a-baking, and bathrooms bursting with a staggering variety of oils, lotions, soaps, moisturisers, creams, poultices, rubs and washes, along with scented lavender towels (I'm saying lavender cos it sounds scented), all anally arranged and even the bolts anchoring the toilet to the floor were Calvin Klein. I think Driller and I should get some CK bolts for our route. A designer route. But I digress.

Anyway, where was I? Oh, yes, not talking about climbing. Anyway we rode our bikes around Salt Spring, which is a kind of enormous yuppie museum. You can buy Organic Aromatherapy Products. You can stop and visit Organic Artisanal Cheese farms, where the cheese grows in soil fed only vegetable compost, and it is harvested by lesbian Tibetan amputee refugees guaranteed a living fair-trade wage. You can visit galleries that sell both functional! and aesthetic! carving. You can have any kind of spa appointment you want, including aromatherapy, massage (Swedish, or any other nation that has some kind of exotic woman in its national image) and of course things like mud-baths, manure-rubs and most definitely yoga.

In the evening we met a few other SSSGBBB guests, mostly couples, none of which, oddly, we heard fucking that evening. In the morning we spent some time with Steven and Steven, who asked questions like "is everybody's breakfast ogay?" and "can I offer you some more rosemary and organic peach marmalade?" You gotta love gay couples: the older Steven was in his mid-fifties, and while he had a few wrinkles on him, he was hard as a rock, and ripped. Perhaps this is a source of homophobia: let's face it, boys-- gay guys look, dress and live better than their straight-boy counterparts. When I think mid-50s het, I think belly-donut and minivan.

Ok so no route last weekend but tomorrow, Sunday, we head up for what I hope will be our final construction day. Oh yea!