guest blogger: Mark Seelos

Oh curious people of the the intraweb: I bring to you a revolution; a beautiful narration of my previous day and a message of hope for every man and child. Women too. Sometimes.
The brilliant rays of the Winter sun had entered the foggy windows of the vehicle in which I had slept the night previous. Another day in Bishop. Another Day in paradise. I rolled out of the warmth of my sleeping bag into the brisk mountain air. I looked at my watch: 12:45. Fuck. Another tequila sunrise. I glanced to my left only to find Brett, wearing nothing but a tattered mariachi dress, beside me. It was a beautiful dress, with brilliant accents of red and yellow sequin amongst a canvas blacker than Bishop's night sky.
"What exactly happened last night?" I thought.
With a cold slap to the face, Brett is awakened and Tiffany, with her pimp hand stronger than ever, is ready for some bouldering.
"The boulders are calling," she said, "and we must go."
It's on. Brett rambles about his stack of expenses associated with this cursed Bishop trip. He's kinda the average Jew and a Southern girl at heart. Ah well.
We drive to the Buttermilks and are greeted with near perfect conditions. Clear skies, a gentle breeze, and a crisp but enjoyable 56 degree air. Sending temps. In what seemed to be an instant, our clear skies were covered with a thick layer of fog and softball-sized hail balls began to bludgeon us. Brett and I sought refuge under the Birthday boulder and anxiously looked into the tempest before us. Hail fell upon the Buttermilks like bombs on a foggy afternoon.
"Jesucristo," Brett said, "Tiff is out there!"
As we contemplated our options and planned our heroic rescue attempt, Tiffany emerged above the fog, tenuously grasping the crimps of Fly Boy! She let out a ear shattering yell as a large hail ball struck her forehead. Bloody and determined, she threw to the lip, her feet cut, and her right hand popped off of the crimp. Legs failing and hail raining blows upon her, she matched the hold, threw a heel hook on the top, and rolled over. Standing up in ecstasy, she unleashed a roar that was surely heard in the highest level of heaven and inversely, the lowest depths of hell. The fog retreated and the sun once again shined over the Buttermilks. The wind died off and she sat on that boulder, gazing at the picturesque Winter wonderland before her. Never had it looked so beautiful. The world was silent.