Neal Young's Top Secret Plans to Take Over the World

Launch Party!

2007-09-26T12:07:00.000-07:00

Thanks for visiting the land of the tall.

Please find me at my new domicile:

NealYoungCreative.com

GETSOME!blog

2007-07-19T11:38:00.000-07:00

So I’ve decided to give my new blog, on my new and unpublished (got the domain names - just trying to find the right hosing service) site, a new name.

“6foot6” was kind of a half panic-half dismissive move when I rushed through the blogspot registration process, so eager was I to start a blog I wouldn’t ever keep up. When I was prompted to enter a name for my blog, I thought, “well, what defines who I am, and what am i passionate about?” “PizzaAndBoobs.blogspot.com” was already taken, so I just threw down a name representing my height, not taking into account that I’d really want to change that later. (Don’t think that my height doesn’t define me, or it isn’t something I’m passionate about. Oh no. It goes beyond passion and into “conspiracy.” Alas, for future posts...)

As for the new name, well, unless you’re blind to the oh-so-soothing color of tealish/powderish/skyish blue, you’ve already seen it in the title. Ladies and gentlemen, I give you the GETSOME! blog.

Why GETSOME!? Well, first of all, it’s probably one of the greatest rallying cries in history and I can’t believe it isn’t yelled with more frequency. It can be used to fire you up to do anything. When it’s time to jump out of a plane, to offer up encouragement, demands and sushi, to challenge someone to a round of croquet or hand-to-hand combat, to drop in on a wave, to shoot tequila at a bar or water buffalo from a huey, to demolish a wall or a plate of nachos, and to instantly start a speedy car chase (scientifically proven to work 5 out of 10 times - the other five chases are instigated by the equally exciting but limited “step on it!”). When it’s time to embrace the moment and live stupidly. That state of mind is easy to attain; all you have to do is tell yourself and anyone who’s listening to GETSOME!.

It also nicely captures a little bit about me. I couldn’t think of a good name for my old blog because there wasn’t one thing that defined me or I felt passionately about so much more than anything else. There are a lot of things I’m into that define me. As long as it feels good, tastes good, sounds good or looks awesome, I’m probably going to dig it - not too hard to please. And that’s my life - getting into a lot of bitchin’ hobbies, people, movements, gadgets, styles and situations. And when you feel like reading about some of that - any of that - you can come here and GETSOME!, too.

Life is out there. GETSOME! blog.

(And get it at www.nealyoungcreative.com/getsomeblog/getsomeblog.html)

Creationism

2007-07-14T21:22:00.002-07:00

On the first day, Neal created a template.

I woke up this morning, went to grab some coffee, and decided, “I need to change my life forever. Hmmmm. How ‘bout a website?”

How ‘bout a website! So i cracked open the ol’ MacBook, opened up iWeb, and waited for it to scan my brain and create a manifestation of my website ideas. Turns out, it’s not that easy. But almost that easy.

A day later and I’ve got the basics set. I still need to load the thing with content and, oh yeah, get it live, but I figured I had to commemorate the day of conception. I can see it now; years down the road I’ll embarass my website with stories about where and how it was conceived.

Here are rough drafts of the tentatively titled, "DayOfCreationMedia.com" (story about the name coming soon).

Click to see the enlarged view:

From the Retro Files - No Sleep 'til Denver

2007-07-02T14:15:00.000-07:00

Last weekend Abby and I loaded up most of our belongings into a moving truck and drove it from Denver to Colfax, CA (long story - details to come in a later post): the exact opposite route I took a year ago almost to the day. Anyway, it reminded me of the little diary entry I wrote after that fateful trip but never posted. From the Retro Files...

----------------------------------------------------

Tales From The Road: No Sleep ‘Til Denver

It was Wednesday morning and I had until Friday afternoon to pack everything I owned (including my Jeep), everything my girlfriend owned, fit it into a 10 ft moving truck, and wagon train it from California to Colorado. It was a straightforward mission – I had a checklist of things to do and a deadline by which to do them.

As I look back on that morning, the last morning I would ever wake up in that bed in Berkeley, remembering my ignorant, optimistic state of mind as I lay there casually planning my attack, it’s clear to me now that I had, without a doubt, no clue what I was about to get myself into.

I drove an hour east to Davis to pick up the moving truck, because it’s $300 cheaper to pick up in Davis than in Berkeley. Okaaaayyy. (This would be the first of many signs I encountered that Moving Half Way Across The Country Requires A Belief In Another Dimension In Which Things Make Sense.) They were 2 1/2 hours late with it. I decided to leave the Love Tractor (my trusty’n’rusty Jeep – see The Love Tractor post) in Davis with the intention of picking her up on the way back after getting packed. No sense in towing the girl any more than necessary.

Back in Berkeley four and a half hours into my day, I’d already driven 150 miles and wasn’t one inch closer to Denver. I was minus one Jeep, plus one moving truck which had anyone told me had one cylinder and 7 horsepower, I wouldn’t have argued. I commissioned Fatty, Manny and HipHop for Crap Load duty before saying goodbye to the San Francisco Bay.

Back to Davis to hook the Love Tractor up to the trailer. Only by chance did I notice the ridiculously small print on the side of the trailer wheel well that stated "disengage drive train of all four wheel drive vehicles." Hey, thanks for the heads up on that Budget Truck Rental guy! Slightly important detail that would be nice to include in the "here's your truck and trailer and I'm an idiot by the way" talk, not to mention a bigger god damn font on the side of the wheel well. So under the Love Tractor I went, SCALDING hot Davis summer pavement underneath me, to work through the built up grime and leaked oil that had caked the ol' Tractor's underside.

It was then that I realized I had NO IDEA how to disengage a drive train. Conveniently, a Jeep dealership is located right down the road, and I popped my head in to ask for a little advice. Not surprisingly, I got very little (Thanks, Jeep service guys!). So I ran back to the car, trying to decipher in my head what the redneck douchebag Jeep monkey mumbled through his hot dog. Under the oven again, and this time, success! My euphoria was short-lived, however, for as I was taking off the rear axl yolk I failed to realize that as you do that, the front axl yolk actually does come off! And sometimes, when your head is right underneath it, the entire drive shaft comes right off and onto your head! YAAAYY!!

Things were blurry after that. Could've been the heat, could've been the frustration clouding my head, or it could have been the CONCUSSION FROM THE THICK METAL SHAFT
LANDING ON MY DOME.

(I love my car, I really do.)

Time a wasting, I floored it up to Colfax. Zooming along at a steady 45 mph (woooo!), I made another realization - 1000 miles to Denver from Tahoe, drive time about 15 hours. In a car. In a fully loaded shitty truck towing a Jeep Cherokee at a max speed of maybe 55? Thaaaaat's going to tack on a few minutes. By my concussed calculations, I figured it would take at least a "god damn long time." (Once the head swelling went down, that figure got coverted into 23 hours). With my deadline in Denver being 4pm on Friday (to sign the lease so we could move in over the weekend)...let's see...carry the one...fuck a duck, I had to leave Thursday morning. And probably not stop. It was already Wednesday night and I hadn't even gotten to Colfax, where I had to pack all of Abby's belongings. Just to clarify, she is a female. Make your own "how many freakin' pairs of shoes do you NEED!?" conclusions.

A few boring hours and mundane details later, I arrived at my folks house in Tahoe late Wednesday night.

Thursday morning, I ran last second errands and hit the road, with the same attitude that I imagine the 101st airborne had. "WHAT THE FUCK AM I ABOUT TO DO!?" Nevada, Utah and Wyoming. Yup. I stopped for an hour of sleep somewhere in WY, got up with the sun and made my assault on Denver.

And THAT was a beautiful drive - really. Coming down from Laramie into northern Colorado, along the bottom of the Rockies rising to my right...it put me in the mood - I was PSYCHED!

I steered the Insane Train into Denver at exactly 24 hours running time, PLENTY of time to spare! It was great to finally see Abby - we even got over the brief moment of simultaneous realization of what we're doing: "Oh my god, we just moved to Denver together." We headed over to our building, and I can only imagine what they thought of me. Not only was I past the point of exhaustion and pretty much drooling on the lease as I was signing it, but I also like to think that I probably looked like Chevy Chase coming out of the desert in Vacation - dirty, hair sticking straight up, wide, wild look in my eyes. They gave us the keys, and we went upstairs to find our KICK ASS loft in downtown Denver! The neighborhood is perfect - walking
distance to everything cool in this town: LoDo district (very Seattle/Portlandy), the 16th street mall, downtown district, all the stadiums, a flagship REI that would make Fatty foam at the mouth AND...(wait for it)....YES - the Six Flags located smack dab in the middle of downtown!!! (How cool is that?!) Seeing the Denver skyline - tall highrises, stadiums, Rockies in the background (30 minutes away - sweeeet), amusement park (still laughing about that)...it was a great moment.

The loft is fucking ridiculous. It's nicer than anything I ever thought I'd live in, and HUGE (read - come visit there's room). We're stoked.

So that's where we are now in the story. Unpacking and getting settled, figuring crap out, and slowly realizing that there just might be more to do here than we can fit in a year. And I know what you're probably wondering. "Wait, what happened to the LOVE TRACTOR!?!?"

Well, I'll tell you.

She's going to live out the rest of eternity sitting proudly on top of a tall random hill in the middle of rural Wyoming.

No, she's not. (Although that is a beautiful image). After re-installing the drive shaft (no shots to the dome this time, ha haaaa!), jumping the battery and refilling it with gas, all in the pouring rain, I've got her up and running, purring like the ol' emphyzemic and retarded kitten that we all know and love.

----------------------------------------------------

The drive back west passed smoothly without incident, and we flew back to Denver shortly after unpacking in Colfax (again, this will make sense soon, I promise). I even managed to sleep for a few hours along the way. I enjoy looking back at how optimistic we were about Denver...ahh, to be young and naive. Well, I'll be moving to Boulder next month, so hopefully we'll find better things...

Shooter

2007-06-26T13:34:00.001-07:00

I'm not that big of a big baseball person. I used to be an obsessed Mets fan, so maybe that's why I'm no longer into the sport.

I enjoy going to the occasional game, but I'll never watch one on TV unless it's a pivotal playoff game. In fact, I'd go as far as to say that I pay more attention to the backstory of the game than I do the actual playing of it. I find things like the steroid issue, team dynamics, individual characters, the A's and Moneyball, and insane fans who storm the field to beat up an umpire to be more interesting. You could say that the sociological study of the game is more my bag of chew.

I think a lot of my lost interest when it comes to following specific teams or players on a regular basis has to do with a loss of innocence in regards to professional athletes. I'm forming a jaded opinion of them, and it's not a pretty one. My reasons are fairly cliched, naively generalized, and definitely don't take into account the fact that no rational person alive would turn down the opportunity to be paid millions to play a game, so I won't rehash them.

On that note, a few days ago, a former professional baseball player died in his home, for as-of-yet-to-be-determined causes. Rod "Shooter" Beck seemed to epitomize the exact opposite of my ignorant opinions. My friend Alan summed it up much better than I ever could, so to quote him:

"A guy like this will probably never come along in baseball again. For starters his nickname was 'Shooter.' He had a mullet, and handle bar mustache, and the build of a Harley mechanic. He looked like the hood ornament of a Mack truck, but had a high pitched squeaky voice. He was kind to everyone, even the media. After games he would often sit around in the clubhouse with a few other players smoking cigarettes, drinking beer and talking baseball. I guess you could say he had a bit of John Daly in him, and, really, what's wrong with that?"

Not to mention that he was an incredible pitcher. Sounds like a guy I would want as my little league coach, and a guy who makes me wish there were more of, so I could enjoy the professional game as much as other people do.

I hope Alan's wrong.

Oops I crapped my pants!

2007-06-21T12:18:00.000-07:00

I plan on having to say that often from now on. Why? Because while I was gone from the blog...I turned 30.

That means I basically wake up every morning wondering if today is the day I start crapping my pants, buying tapioca pudding in bulk, and mixing myself an Ensure and vodka as a way to wind down in the evening. Evening being 2 or 3 in the afternoon.

Overreaction aside, one needs to look no further for proof of my rapid decline than the differences in birthday celebrations between 29 and 30 (which someone actually tried to tell me was the "new 20." I can see how some would like to believe that 50 is the new 40, or that 40 is even the new 30...but please. I now actually wear underwear, eat vegetables and can remember where I took off my pants the night before. As far as you know. So don't tell me that I "might as well be 20!").

Last year? I celebrated another meaningless year on the calendar by jumping out of a functioning airplane.

This year, to commemorate "the new 20," I got called a "great big American pussy" while in Amsterdam by my Mom's cousin - a 54 year old married doctor with two kids who drank my ass under the table - because he was pissed I didn't want to continue partying. (It was 4am.)

New 20 my old ass.

From the Retro Files - The J Word

2007-06-19T13:49:00.000-07:00

In an effort to make up for my lack of posting this past year, I'll occasionally hop in Doc Brown's Delorean and insert updates about my whereabouts in a retroactive fashion, starting today.

Our first blog pulled from the Retro Files has a lot to do with my disappearance from the webernet: my job. When I uprooted from California and blindly arrived in Colorado, two of my goals were to not only keep this blog current as a way to keep myself in the writing habit, but to also start dipping my feet into the freelance writing realm. In regards to both, I pulled a Munson. But only because I began spending the majority of my days in Boulder working for the Enthusiast Group.

Instead of risking the freedom, riches and fame that a freelance writing career might lead to, I decided to instead sign up for some stable indentured servitude as the Content Manager for their grassroots sports communities: YourClimbing.com, YourMTB.com, YourCycling.com, YourRunning.com, etc. My responsibilities range from general community oversight and website development to writing content and producing videos.

It's a start up with a lot of potential sparked from a great idea (I won't go into details - if interested just check out the website). It is the outdoor industry, though, so while I get to work within my passions everyday, the market is frustratingly thin and fickle. And sooooo behind the eight ball when it comes to web utilization. (The industry's manufacturers, NOT the users.)

So that's been the target of my focus, long hours, mental energy and the reason behind having time for little else. I'll post more of the work I've produced here and there in the future. In the meantime, enjoy this funny anecdote and video from a climbing competition I entered last month:

Competition round up at the USA Regionals in Boulder, CO

YourClimbing.com sent Brett Merlin and Neal Young to the USA Climbing Regional Championships at the Boulder Rock Club in Boulder, Colorado. This is their story...

Commemoration

2007-06-18T15:57:00.000-07:00

I would now like to commemorate my return to the sweetest smelling blog on the internet with a new, self-made header! (Look up.) Nice? Nice!

(Amazing what an art-tard can do with Microsoft Word, huh?)

I'm back, baby! (a.k.a I'm so lame.)

2007-06-18T14:14:00.000-07:00

Within three days of one another, two events prompted me to become self-aware of my lameness, and eventually come crawling back to the blogosphere.

The first was an email I wrote to the two people outside of my family that I've known the longest. I can't remember a time before I knew Jim and Steve. We've somehow kept in touch with each other for decades, always making an effort to meet somewhere in person every few years or more. Well since I embarked on the Pointless Endeavor (readers of the blog will note that any endeavor of pointless focus is an endeavor bordering on godliness) of moving to Denver last summer (when unfulfilled blogging promises were made), I've been incommunicado with either of them. When I sadly realized this gross error in upkeep, I began taking stock of the things I have and haven't accomplished since moving here. One glaring neglect? This pointless blog. Indeed, I'm so lame.

The second was an email from a great friend and (bless his heart) one of the few previous readers of my even fewer blog entries. He asked me why I hadn't even attempted to keep this up, and when I was going to get my act together. Well Kev, I'm back baby!

I'm not one for excuses, oh who am I kidding. I love excuses. Coupled with a glass of scotch, they help me sleep at night. There are reasons for the neglect; too many to mention now. But with some retro-active entries to follow, I'll fill you in on the busy goings on of my life in Colorado.

It's been a long, white, harsh winter of hibernation. But with the hopeful rebirth of blooming flowers, my writing too shall once again rise from the rejuvinat-oh barf. I'm going to try writing this blog again. If only for Kevin.

Meet The New Boss - Taller and Drunker

2006-09-20T08:22:00.000-07:00

Every now and then stories regarding tall people (who I like to call "The New Ruling Class") and their genetic superiority fly under the collective public's radar without notice. Well short stack, you better start making note. For while these stories don't come out every day, they're coming out with more regularity. Viewed singularly, they're merely amusing anecdotes. Viewed as a whole, they become undeniable Proof of Genetic Superiority. Hence, I'll be posting this evidence when it surfaces.

Exhibit A:

http://www.slate.com/id/2148759/?GT1=8592

As an added bonus to today's Proof of Genetic Superiority, for those bean stalks wondering why their height alone isn't resulting in instant riches and fame, it's probably because you've got some short genes in there somewhere. Maybe your great great great great uncle was a hobbit, or perhaps your Dad is a soccer player. Regardless, try adding mass quantities of alcohol to your daily diet:

http://news.yahoo.com/s/afp/20060914/hl_afp/afplifestylehealthalcohol

"In elementary school, in case of fire you have to line up quietly in a
single file line from smallest to tallest. What is the logic?  Do tall
people burn slower?"
--Warren Hutcherson

(Probably, Warren, probably.)

The Angry Dragon and The Fine Line Between Comedy and A Call for Therapy

2006-09-20T08:13:00.000-07:00

The images started to form in my mind before I could even attempt to block them out. It was too late to turn my mind around, and so I dove headfirst into the imagery that had been created from a description of “The Angry Dragon,” a lewd sex act from the same ridiculous, fantastic realm as the “Dirty Sanchez.” That realm? The realm of sexual encounters joked about a multitude of times more than actually practiced. Do you know anyone who’s ever performed one? Do you know anyone capable, who you truly believe has the gall, guts and glory hound attitude to even try?

The Angry Dragon.

I titled my head back, smiled, and quietly chuckled a genuine moment. Not at the joke as much as at the fact that someone had the imagination and lack of childhood therapy to construct its basis. Had I spent any more time wondering about the joke’s origin, I might have been slightly distrubed by it as well as my delight in its delivery. Alas, that wafer-thin line between joyous absurdity and the dark circumstances that drive it wasn’t crossed.

(The Angry Dragon? Hahahahaha…)

THE LOVE TRACTOR

2006-09-01T07:41:00.000-07:00

My First and Only Car, My Immortal Steel Chunk of Enlightenment

Remember that goldfish you had in college? No matter how much you neglected it, no matter how infrequently you changed the water, no matter how many Thanksgiving/Winter/Spring breaks you left it unattended and unfed…it would never die. Not that you wanted it to, God no. You were completely amazed by the little guy’s resilience and immortal powers. “Dude, I think my fish is a Highlander.”

No, you were never disappointed after coming home from, say, summer break to see him cutting through the Swamp Thing Housing Project his tank had become. Quite the opposite – you were SO impressed with and convinced of his higher power, you started seeing just how far you could push it. It became a little game you two played. And he always, ALWAYS won, much to your dorm’s amusement and worship. (Note – his death, in fact, has never been fully explained. Forensic experts claim it was at the hands of my irritable Russian roommate. But that’s for another post.)

That’s the Love Tractor. A maroon, four wheel drivin’ resilient steel Buddha that like Keith Richards I’m convinced can never be destroyed.

They called her the Jeep Cherokee. I called her the Love Tractor. She came to me as a family hand-me-down – a “please, take it” kind of transaction from an older brother who couldn’t wait to get rid of her and move on to something less “kickable.” I couldn’t have been giddier.

She hasn’t left my side since, and neither has the giddiness. Every house I’ve ever lived in, be it for a month or three years, since age 19 has had the Love Tractor’s oil forever mark its driveway, lawn, and inevitably its “less visible” sidewalk two blocks away. (The embarrassed roommates and neighbors who never appreciated her powers will eventually be revealed as heartless cyborgs). Her stories are the stuff of legend among family and friends, and when they speak of her it’s with shaking heads and a stifled laugh - of disbelief I’m sure. She’s transcended her existence of “car” and has all but earned a spot at the family dinner table. If she had any, I’m convinced my Mom would do The Love Tractor’s laundry.

The Love Tractor has stories. The late night “missions” and “front lawn fourwheelin’” in college which always led to her constant mysterious disappearances. We’d wake up in the morning and she’d be gone. We’d always find her a few hours later in other parts of town, either in front of bars or party houses. How she got there is anyone’s guess. (The Love Tractor keeps secrets.)

The now-countless 13-hour races across the desert from northern California to my folks' place in Phoenix. (11-hour, actually, but don’t tell my parents.)

The 2 a.m. multiple-360-degree spinout in the middle of Utah during the first odyssey across the Rocky Mountains, and the World’s Biggest, Whitest, Longest Blizzard on the way back.

The incident we shall refer to as “The Ditch” in Steamboat Springs, Colorado.

A drunk driver has rammed her. A drunk driver has driven her.

Despite the name, I never did “score” in her backseat. But she did magically drive me home in a wondrous daze shortly after my first time.

She’s been towed. Because of flat-tired necessity and at the hands of outstanding, um, indiscretions. (The Love Tractor cannot be bothered with the paperwork of mortals.)

The two-year span referred to as “The Horn Lottery,” during which time slight inclines in the road or idling for more than a minute inexplicably caused the horn to blow loud, intermittent staccato blasts into the ears of all nearby pedestrians, or “lottery winners.”

The day she received a cosmetic upgrade. New paint job? Hell no. Weightlifting trophy drilled into her hood as a new hood ornament? Hell yes.

Then one day, about the same time she began to develop a loose rattle, a deep ill-sounding chug and other noises not of this world and I began to wonder every time I put the key in the ignition, “is today the day?”, we were told that she would be lucky to make it six more months in the condition she was in. Devastated, I spent the next few weeks whispering the news to friends and morbidly thinking behind closed doors about life without her.

“Fix her,” they suggested.

“Ha! How do you fix your personal Jesus?” I retorted. “Certainly not with regular oil changes and a new set of rotors! Just let us have our last days in peace!”

That was three years ago. And I no longer trust the Judas-like behavior or foolish “standard care” advice of these “mechanics.”

Since then, the noises have persisted, if not grown louder, and the stories have continued to pile up. It’s almost like the mechanic motivated her to blow more valves and minds, his diagnosis a locker room post. It’s almost as if he challenged how deep my faith would go. He practically dared us to stop using oil, tune-ups and tire rotations all together. Well, The Love Tractor never backs down from a challenge.

My faith has never been more engine block-solid.

How else can you explain her recent miracle survival through a roadside operation to disengage and remove her drive train, drain her battery, tow her half way across the country, and then put her all back together in the rain, all with no manual or diagram? (See forthcoming Tales From the Road – No Sleep ‘Til Denver post).

And much like the old dorm and the fish, my friends are in constant awe at her ability to continue truckin’ despite what may SEEM like my best attempts to slowly and deliberately put her down. But they don’t “get” the understanding the Love Tractor and I have. The Game we play. It’s not like I’m trying to kill her. I’m just here as a helpless opponent, a Washington Generals to her Harlem Globetrotters, throwing whatever futile blows I can at her as she brushes them off like her original paint job. Like those who watched their generation’s great sports figure in his prime (Ruth, MJ, Gretsky, Woods), I too am grateful for just having the chance to see it.

But The Love Tractor and I don’t kid ourselves. We can see the writing on the odometer. The paint is resigning to the rust. They always say that use of your turn signals is one of the first things to go. Try to throw a Beatles tape into her tape deck and you’ll learn that “Paul is dead.” Power steering – you don’t know how unnecessary it is until you’ve lost it.

It’s the vicious truth of life, and one day no matter how much faith I have or how much gas I pump into my tank…indeed I will pass away, like all humans, and she’ll have to find herself someone new to save.

But until then…late-night mission, nuclear fallout, my first kid’s prom limo, bank robbery getaway, fish-killer man hunt, stunt car or a search for life’s answers – there’s no one else I’ll turn to for help.

Zen and the Art of Making Peace with Your Inner Good Surfer

2006-08-31T11:51:00.000-07:00

If ‘it’ has to be explained, you don’t have ‘it’ – Anonymous

“How long have you been surfing?”

“For years now.”

“You must be a good surfer, then.”

I am not a Good Surfer. San Francisco’s Ocean Beach and Santa Cruz’s Pleasure Point are home, I have surfed Baja, Tahiti, Hawaii and Europe, taken surf trips to surreal places worthy of features and spreads in magazines, and even lost women in part because of the sport’s influence. At first glance, I certainly am a surfer. I catch waves, have as much fun as anybody and respect the beauty of it. But I am not a Good Surfer. And now that I’ve relocated about as far from a surfable wave as you can get in America, my legacy back home will remain that of not a Good Surfer.

Every surfer, from the guy paddling into an ankle-high easy ride to the Water God getting towed into Jaws at 30 miles an hour, has at least a few commonalities: ambition, motivation, and the ability to stand on top of a moving board. But Good Surfers? They have more. They have patience. They have effortless balance, faith, understanding, a little luck and most importantly, they have The Glide.

I didn't know what the difference was or what I was doing "wrong." I was persistent in my surfing. I remained dedicated to the effort and amazed by its control over my psyche. I was constantly observing, analyzing my own actions in comparison, and very often ended up wondering where the disconnect was that led to my constantly “unsuccessful” undertakings. Things this difficult and frustrating normally get tossed to the “tried it and it never took” wayside within a few tries. But I remained vigil in my intense attack on attaining the surf pinnacle – The Glide.

I never attained it, never knew why, and given my new geographic location, resigned myself to the nagging reality that I never would.

___________________________________

Unexpectedly, I returned home to the ocean for a week. Of course, a return to the line up excited me, but there was something different about my sense of this opportunity to surf. Because my return felt like a gift, a bonus, there was no intended approach, no self-applied pressure to improve. There was only a subtle and new urge to ignore the short boards I had spent so much time trying to master, dust off “Shorty,” the ironically named 8’3” funboard I caught my first wave on, paddle out to the 3rd peak of the Point, and have a few easy rides on my old buddy.

And as I sat inside at a break that is no longer “mine” on an otherwise unimpressive summer day, knowing that the countless sessions I toiled to become a Good Surfer were behind me due to my current landlocked residence, that my goal was not going to be met, I let it all go. The years of slamming down the faces of whiplash K-mart closeout specials, shivering in the shark-infested unknown of dark dawn patrols at empty, eerie breaks, flailing like a dishrag in the dryer trying to master boards made for people smaller than me, the naturally-evolved group pressure to become as good as my surfing cohorts. My grip on trying to master the ocean loose, my surf lobotomy in full effect, I lost it all, and got EVERYTHING. I finally began receiving the liquid frequency the ocean’s been broadcasting to me for years. Relaxed and dumb, I casually pointed my large non-shredding float machine down the line, and let the astounding physics take control.

Like a hawk suspended in a thermal uprising, with the weightless balance of a floating hangglider, the wave lifted me to my own surf joy, I was completely alone, and only after I had turned my back on the ocean and returned with an empty mind, did I begin the process of harnessing The Glide.

I’ve been raked across a reef in Raitaia, slammed into the sand and held by an Ocean Beach A-frame monster, stranded outside of a Rockaway wall with no reasonable way back in, yelled at and threatened by locals in Santa Cruz, and yet all it took was an unremarkable, waist high sunny summer day slow roller for me to begin my endless ride as a Good Surfer.

Maybe you’re a surfer. Maybe you have no idea what the real difference is between yourself and a Good Surfer. If that’s the case, I can only tell you not to care, because I certainly can’t explain it to you.

Manifest Destiny Rebound: Pointless Endeavors-Denver Established

2006-08-23T10:26:00.001-07:00

A year short of 30, I decided to drop most everything in my beloved West Coast Wonderland to chase a girl half way across the country.

Family, a tribe of friends, a movie set city and quick access to every single one of my self-indulgent outdoor and indoor vices couldn’t, against every logical synapse firing in my head, hold me back from going after her and landing here in Denver, CO.

Because of love. Because I have no idea what’s going to happen: adventure defined in simplest terms. And a life ruled by aversion to adventure doesn’t allow for the reward inherent in the risk. Because in life there is no exchange policy, and at least once you’ve got to relax, slack the shoulders, and yell ‘Ah, fuck it’ in the direction of a major purchase and watch your own private chaos theory unfold.

Yes, it’s one of the most Pointless Endeavors to date.

And you, Kiddies, are all privy to the leap. Thanks to the miracle of Al Gore’s modern technology, the uniting folks at blogger.com, and my boundless flair for the creative license, I’ll be reporting the Pointless Endeavors of Colorado in this space. If I’m lucky, it’ll document an extension of the many ridiculous (-ly f*ckin cool) stunts, pickles, thoughts and acts of ‘endearing’ alienation in which we found ourselves pantless or hurt back in California. Maybe it’ll be pictures, videos or stories of new ski gear and how it was broken, Bora Bora, jumping out of airplanes, travel do’s (bring your passport) and don’ts (if it’s been expired for 20 years), the art of wearing a fake mustache, suffering through a triathlon for the first time, the zen of large auto parts landing on your head, getting yelled at by local surfers, Vegas baby, black furry apres-ski boots, a guy named Dirty who’s a veterinarian in Manhattan, cooking show therapy, the value of a good stuntman, the joy of having so many best friends that you have to hold a two day, ten person contest to see who will be your best man, the best excuses for ditching work, the miracle of tequila, sand, foam, WHATEVER. I promise it’ll be pointless and I also promise at the very least you’ll find perspective. Because if anything else, you’ll be glad it wasn’t you who was lifted off a river, via rescue helicopter, for essentially no reason at all.

The West Coast was home – I know how much ass it kicks and I’m sure I’ll be back. But for now, I’ll ride this Manifest Destiny Rebound and stake the Rockies as my new frontier, preaching Pointless Endeavor gospel to fellow skiers, climbers, bar patrons and embracers of the silly.

Cheers.

Pointless Endeavors Defined

2006-08-22T10:58:00.000-07:00

Pointless Endeavor:

An earnest and conscientious effort towards a goal devoid of meaning; to work with set purpose to achieve absolutely nothing.

A regressive yet highly entertaining approach to life unconsciously developed by a debilitatingly tight-knit tribe of friends in Northern California. Normally used in reference to reasons for skiing, getting naked, rock climbing, air guitaring, surfing or drunkenly “tagging” others in their crotch region. Also used in reference to their dating potential, seemingly irrational decision-making, and mission to rid the world of self-importance and pretense through public displays of stupidity and humiliation.

Usually results in injury; ALWAYS results in fun.

For more on the Pointless Endeavors, check out the (fittingly) unregularly-updated blog, pointlessendeavors.blogspot.com.