Nick's been wanting me to come rock climbing for a while. We finally went last night with two other friends to Planet Granite in Belmont.

I haven't climbed for a while. I used to climb a bit in high school and a few times in college, but I've never been a regular. We got to the gym a few minutes too late to take the belaying class, so Nick was the only one who could technically belay for the other three of us. So, while the other three bouldered (climbed close to the ground horizontally), I memorized the belaying instructions on the wall. I summoned all the knowledge I had from high school and that sheet on wall and, amazingly, passed the belaying test. With two of us belaying, we could belay for the other two in the group and then each other.

I did a number of climbs. I'm told that you can be easily be sore the next day from climbing when you haven't been climbing regularly. Today I haven't been so much sore as getting random, quite painful shooting pains in my left arm. A lot of it's due to the fact that the tendons in my arm are exhausted from the combination of climbing and coding up a storm lately. My officemates were really confused when, every once in a while, I'd grimace, clutch my arm, and swear.

I think I'll be okay, though. Suck it up and plow through it--that's my motto.

Still, my arms were really weak today. The Beta Bowlers (okay, so we're not an official team) made our weekly bowling gig tonight. I bowled horribly. I had to drop down to a 12-pound ball and I felt like I couldn't put any power behind it. So many straight-on rolls left one pin standing (often right in the middle. Nick said it was the lane giving me the finger).

Anyway, it's late. Need to sleep.

For the record, I've been obsessed with my recent purchase, Nashville Skyline. Since watching the Scorsese documentary, I've been revisiting my Dylan albums, moving through chronologically. But I've never really been much past 1966's Blonde on Blonde--really, anything past the 1966 motorcycle crash. Scorsese's film takes four hours just to get to the motorcycle haitus. At the end of the film, the camera lamely pans up during concert footage and then text comes up that reads something along the lines of "and then Bob was in a motorcycle crash and got hurt real bad and he took some time off and didn't perform live for a while and that's pretty much it. We've run out of time. Oh well."

Damn, I really should have explored further years ago. I really loved John Wesley Harding and am similarly enamored with Nashville Skyline. In popular music, there's not as much of an appreciation of post-accident, pre-80's-wasteland Dylan. Maybe it's the country influence that turns off the rock and pop worlds' interest.

Alex's decision to drag me to a Robbie Fulks concert a year an a half ago has affected me musically more that he could have imagined. I've developed, through Fulks, an appreciation of (traditional and neo-traditional) country (for heaven's sake, not contemporary country). This has pushed me into exploring more country and country-rock acts--specifically (and with no respect to time period, obviously) The Band, Johnny Cash, and Wilco. Exploring Dylan's post-pop-stardom work really gives me an better understanding of the development of country rock, and a much better appreciation of Dylan as a Bowie-like genre bender. Next up to explore is through Blood on the Tracks and more into The Band's discography.

Man, I should sleep. I'm gushing like a fanboy. I'll stop now. Night, kids.