The Core Speaks

The Lonely Man is the Bitterest

2008-07-08T11:53:00.000-07:00

And we will be John Cusack in High Fidelity bitter around these parts if those donkeys up in Revolution-land get a stadium sorted out before United do.

Given that this does make my 100th post, however scattered, short or lacking substance they may be, we can't have all things bitter. So come on United against the Fire in the Open Cup tonight.

I can haz radio broadcast?

Or a helicopter to make it from Arlington to the Soccerplex by gametime?

Ya Think Argentina Wants to Win the Gold?

2008-07-03T06:14:00.000-07:00

Here's the roster for Argentina's Olympic team compliments of Goff over at the Soccer Insider:

GKs: Oscar Ustari (Getafe), Sergio Romero (AZ Alkmaar). Ds: Pablo Zabaleta (Espanyol), Luciano Monzon (Boca Juniors), Ezequiel Garay (Real Madrid), Nicolas Burdisso* (Inter Milan), Federico Fazio (Sevilla), Lautaro Acosta (Sevilla). MFs: Fernando Gago (Real Madrid), Juan Roman Riquelme* (Boca Juniors), Ever Banega (Valencia), Javier Mascherano* (Liverpool), Jose Sosa (Bayern Munich). Fs: Diego Buonanotte (River Plate), Sergio Aguero (Atletico Madrid), Lionel Messi (Barcelona), Ezequiel Lavezzi (Napoli), Angel Di Maria (Benfica).

Yikes...

Best News Ever - The Beard is Back

2008-06-28T09:57:00.000-07:00

Ben Olsen, thought to be out most if not all of the season with serious ankle problems, has been upgraded to doubtful.

Barra Pride on Deadspin

2008-06-18T11:34:00.000-07:00

Barra get a good pic over at Deadspin, even though there's no shout out -

I don't think these are Nationals fans.

USA/Argentina - The Game

2008-06-09T19:16:00.000-07:00

(Thanks for the picture Tuohy)

The Men's National Team came into its game against Argentina on Sunday night hoping to ward off suggestions of a shambolic defense and an average midfield all headed by an impotent offense.

What they at least put on was a gutsy, heart wrought performance against at least several pieces of the world's best team. Though the opening 30 minutes weren't promising, Timmy Howard showed every bit of his class and why he was once the starting goalkeeper for Manchester United.

Against any team, Argentina would have its chances and Sunday night was no different. The US defense hung on by a thread at times while at others looked surprisingly confident. Heath Pearce put together an impressive performance while Cherundolo did an admirable job dealing with Senor Messi. Even Gooch and Boca were bearable by their occasionally klutzy standards.

We may never know what left Pablo Mastroeni headed for the showers midway through the second half but I know I'm not the only one that figured the game would die off. The US would inevitably slip up and conceding one or two in the dying minutes as we floundered with a man less on the field.

I believe my words were: "That's the way to kill a friendly game..."

But after weathering a brief spell of pressure, the US actually broke out for some of its best attacking moments of the night and left all 78,000+ fans feeling like we got our money's worth. The US crowd grew its voices with the game and most of us were hoarse by the end from "U-S-A" one too many times.

When Landon Donovan, who in my book was excellent all night, sent Klestjan in on goal only for a deflection to leave the Argentinian goalkeeper helplessly stranded, I almost ended up in the 2nd level.

We all leaned back in agony as a thunderstorm rolled over and the final whistle blew. Breaking a series of US corner kicks and counter attacks in each direction that opened up in time with the rain. It seems incredulous that we were left wanting more, with every belief the US could have walked off with a 1-0 victory against the world's best.

That will wait for another day. Instead, what thousands of fans trekking from all over witnessed was an exciting, if scoreless, game with a final 20 minutes I'll never forget., including one that claimed to have flown back from community building in Affrica early in order to catch the game, When under pouring rain and lightning, all of us USA fans were confident we could bring down Argentina.

Argentines Invade New York... USA Looking to Salvage Some Respect

2008-06-06T13:11:00.000-07:00

The US National Team has shown twice over the past week and a half that it is still far from world class. It might be hard pressed to place in the top of the second tier of international soccer given its inability to score and troubles holding the ball in the central midfield.

Away results against England (2:0 loss) and Spain (1:0 loss) don't look so terrible in isolation. However, the a general impotence in the final third and epic battles to simply keep the scoreline low against top level competition are rather distressing.

If you're looking to get pretty hammered, just make a game where you have to drink:

- Every time a central midfielder commits a turnover
- Anytime Eddie Johnson either turns the ball back or wastes a goalscoring opportunity
- Whenever you think we only have ten men on the field because Josh Wolff can't be found
- Every time Gooch takes someone down with a forearm shiver

In any event... moving on to the moment at hand. This Sunday the USA caps off what amounts to an impressive array of opponents for any team with Argentina at 7:30 pm in Giants Stadium.

I've never been (although I hear it is misrepresented and in fact located in the lovely state of New Jersey) and this will be my first men's national team game that I can remember (although it's possible I attended one years ago).

Honestly, as defeatist as it may sound, I don't expect a result from this game. But boy would I like to see a game where we don't play like we've conceded, like we think we can score and where the same tired bodies are out there in the same tired positions.

Check here for the USA roster.

Will be on a bus at 7:45 in the morning from Arlington to hopefully catch the opening Euro games and try to update on the journey/game come Monday with pictures. May try to update Twitter during the trip.

What Happened?

2008-06-06T12:20:00.000-07:00

Well... it's a shame I let the site fall into disrepair as I've had plenty to write about.

Let's run down:

Head Automatica at Longwood University
First NASCAR experience - Richmond International Speedway
First trip to Nationals Park
Several DCU games (mostly disappointing)
Trips to Rochester and Ithaca
A new soccer coaching gig and...

One extreme storm that brought down power for more than 24 hours... and here we are.

As I've said many times before, I'm going to try and get this up and moving again with regularity that will hopefully start with a post on my travels to the upcoming USA/Argentina game at Giants Stadium and possibly a preview post.

In the meantime, any of you that use Twitter, my info is on the side. I'm currently obsessed, so please follow and waste more of my time.

Quick DCU/Columbus Preview

2008-04-17T14:20:00.001-07:00

Very quickly - DCU has looked good at times. Columbus has looked solid in the front, a little messy in the back... like Etcheverry's mullet.

I would imagine I'm with almost everyone in DCU fandom that expects a hard working, attack minded recovery from the game away at Salt Lake last weekend where we were thoroughly embarassed (again).

It's going to be a beautiful night out for some footie and I expect the crowd will be nice even though its a weekday. Looking for a goal from Fred (I think he shoots the ball) and one from the big man Peralta... and maybe best case a bonus goal from Quaranta since he's been so dedicated to pleasing the home fans in order to get back in good graces.

I think we give one up to Schelleto's brilliance... but end 3-1 DC and get this train back on track. Will try and snap a few pictures and possibly attempt this Twitter from the game. Vamos United!

MySpace = The New Record Store?

2008-04-04T07:02:00.000-07:00

MySpace Launches Music Service
By Eaglon News Service
April 3, 2008
On Thursday, MySpace announced the creation of MySpace Music, which will feature free streaming music, concert schedules and tour dates, cell-phone ringtones, and MP3 downloads. There will also be items for sale, such as concert tickets and merchandise. The service is jointly operated by MySpace and three top record labels—EMI is the only major label not participating, but reports indicate that they are still in discussions with MySpace.

The launch of MySpace Music will happen progressively during the next three to four months.

Myspace Launches Music Service

DCU at Pachucha - Casually Running

2008-04-01T20:04:00.000-07:00

Try and get in here every 15 minutes...

0' - A sharp looking start from United with the best chance coming after the Pachucha keeper came diving headfirst out of his box. The work between Gallardo-Simms-Neill-Emilio has looked crisp so far - much better than in Kansas City on Saturday.

Some brave tackling from Bash Brother I (Martinez) and a smart header out of the back from Bash Brother II (Peralta). Would love to see Neill get a shot off when he's inside the box instead of trying to lay it back. When we're in an away game like this I think we need to take our chances whenever we get a look.

I think Pachucha so far has looked threatening with their team speed and we could get hurt later with a free kick since we've already given away about 5 inside our half. Will need to do better than that although the home fans are sounding very restless.

Last note so far - the possession for the most part has looked very strong and will be a real key in not exhausting the team later in the game.

15' - Emilio still doesn't quite have that sharpness. Hoping he digs it up soon.

For as much as McTavish played defense last year I think some of that scoring might have gone to his head. Has lost his man once or twice out there watching the ball.

Couple times I think the backs have resorted to a long ball when they don't need to and suddenly United is defending again.

Altogether, not bad - still 0-0 but Fred looks like he's fading a little bit after an active start.

30' - Wells has made two clutch saves although Pachucha has two TERRIBLE misses.

Really bad spell from 30'-35', soft giveaways and the defense aside from Wells came undone a bit.

Gallardo is a tremendous passer. Thor not as much - too many giveaways out of the back.

HALF - Could be worse. Some good sets of possession but there were also some really rugged spots of getting spread out and losing markers on the defensive end. One or two moments could have produced a shot rather than the extra pass but we'll see how United holds up in the second half.

Pachucha rocks the upper V in the 48' - what a hit and Wells didn't have a prayer but its off the bar.

Pachucha gets through on the left side again but this time its Namoff sleeping a bit. United's got to keep it a bit now but already having a difficult time of it.

Bad Fred for a dumb foul at the top of the box... luckily the referee puts it farther back. And its into the wall.

60' - 2/3 of the way there, still 0's.

And Wells' strong night so far takes a big hit. Cheating and beaten at the near stick on a duffed cross. 1-0 Pachucha.

It's getting tough to watch from a United standpoint although a bit of possession kept the pressure off for a few minutes... All one ended right now though. Emilio is stranded and Quaranta is wandering.

Ugh... another chance but another time not pulling the trigger. Fred needs to shoot more often. Good sequence finally.

United will score a lot of goals when they start trusting that Gallardo is regularly going to put the ball in the most dangerous spot.

75' - Hanging tough at 1-0. Really by a thread.

Thank you referee... could probably have been a penalty.

Not McTavish's best day and we pay for it. 2-0. Gonzalo Martinez totally missed his mark and its a free header. United finally pays for all the bad fouls around the box.

Emilio has been TIRELESS... not quite in goalscoring form but the work up top all alone has been vital.

Pretty glad Pachucha gets one called back on an offsides... We escape 2-0. And I should emphasize escape although there were some strong performances. The fitness just isn't quite there.

Fred has some of the best moments. McTavish struggled. The center backs deserved A's until the 2nd goal where Martinez was picking his ass. Not bad but nothing to be smiling about. Another trip to Mexico, another loss. Gonna have to be a good one at RFK next week.

"It is Fantastic!"

2008-03-24T12:50:00.000-07:00

"It is fantastic for people to get most special gift... which is me!"

Harbour View Distracted By Nice Grass, United Wins Big

2008-03-19T18:22:00.000-07:00

Maybe it was the chilly wind blowing into RFK. Maybe it actually was the sweet looking turf that allowed United to play the possession game it does better than any other team in MLS.

Whatever it may have been, two goals was enough to rip away any hopes Harbour View had of a second round date in the Concacaf Champions Cup. Then United poured on three more to take the game 5-0 (and the round 6-1 on aggregate). More after the break...

The thing that impressed me most about United in its second meaningful game of the young 2008 season was the composure of its defense. The bash brothers (Gonzalo y Gonzalo) in the middle were ruthless while Burch didn't wander as often. Namoff was Namoff.

Fred put in what might have been my favorite performance from him yet. He was tireless on both ends although he could use a reminder that he has a left foot somewhere on his body. His telepathic backheel to Emilio shows that the Brazilian pairing may still be improving although Emilio might have claimed himself a hat trick had he been a little less greedy earlier. (Fred's goal could have been laid off to Emilio looking at an open goal if Emilio hadn't stiffed him on a similar play.)

Oh... And Devon McTavish scored twice. Yea... McTavish. The guy that played center back last year.

All in all things looked very solid for the 65 or so minutes the game can be judged on before Harbour View starting packing their bags while still on the field. I'm going to hold any opinion on Gallardo v Gomez for a while and may not need to ever choose because Gallardo plays so differently.

Props to the whole side... not a bad number out there last night. Bring on Pachucha/Montagua. Here's Fred's (the fifth) goal below.

I'm Not Insane I'm Not Insane

2008-03-18T11:54:00.000-07:00

Occasionally you go to a show expecting very little and you get rocked in the face. Such was the case last night at the Patriot Center with Avenged Sevenfold on the "Taste of Chaos" tour with emo friends in tow.

When I think arena show, I don't think 5 drunk dudes (it was St. Patty's Day) running around like madmen for an hour and a half. But AX7, and to be fair Atreyu also, must have been tired after the show that included fireworks, regular pyrotechnics and over the top guitar solos. There was even an impressively orchestrated circle pit.

The video shows the band getting a fan up on stage to share a shot of Jameson. Too bad the second participant wasn't shown with her sneak attack ass grabbing on singer M. Shadows. More after the jump if you're interested -

Avenged Sevenfold is by no means one of my favorites but they ripped through some tracks, even an oldie with Second Heartbeart, and impressed with the newer songs I'm not as familiar with including my favorite of the set "I'm Not Insane."

Shadows' growling voice was huge live as were Synyster Gates' guitar heroics. The band even reeled themselves in after nearly spiraling drunkenly out of control, half heartedly starting a cover of Metallica's "Whiskey in a Jar" and then starting and stopping themselves at the beginning of "Seize the Day."

Occasionally too much indulgent shredding. Occasionally too much third kick drum on the drum kit (necessary?). But all in all I'd probably go for a second round.

Quick DCU/Harbour View Preview

2008-03-18T09:44:00.000-07:00

The long dark days away from RFK for United's offseason are nearing an end. A late goal leveled things in Jamaica last week, so what should we look for this evening?

The highlight I think will be our first evaluation of how an Emilio/Neil will function over a longer period due since Jaime Moreno remains out with lingering hamstring injury picked up last week.

While I don't expect an enormous crowd, if the Barra/Eagles can get things rocking and make all our newcomers excited to be in front of the hometown support I think we could see some fun attacking soccer.

All in all, what this match really becomes is the first mental litmus test for United. I don't think there are many who would suggest that Harbour View fields a more skilled squad. What this game may boil down to if things stay tight later in the game is whether the new pieces have come together as a unit.

My humble prediction: 3-1 United with the third coming late when Harbour View is pressing.

DC United at Harbour View - Champions Cup - 2 Days Late

2008-03-14T11:35:00.000-07:00

DC United headed to Jamaica for the first leg of their Concacaf Champions Cup first round tie against Harbour View with a revamped squad from last year (only 3 holdovers in the starting line up from last years Champs. Cup tie against Olimpia I believe) and left with a rather anti-climactic result.

A 1-1 away draw in the team's first meaningful game of 2008 is nothing of concern. It would have been nice to head out to RFK on Tuesday night with the tie sealed up but the game deteriorating into sloppy work on a patchy field was no surprise.

Some good -

The Gonzalos = The Bash Brothers
Gallardo = A fine talent, we'll see about his heart as the season grows.
Simms - He'll need to be as steady day in and day out for us to succeed as we expect.

Some bad -

Jaime Moreno = Frail
Emilio = Who? Absolutely anonymous game.
The wide play = Disappointing that one of United's biggest shortcomings last season showed no sign of improvement.

Prognosis - Let's get on with it at RFK... See you in Lot 8.

Gettin' My Activism on with Strike Anywhere and Friends

2008-03-07T08:51:00.000-08:00

FINALLY made it back to the Black Cat last Thursday night, one of my favorite spots in DC and, although I admit to limited punk rock travel, probably one of the best venues around for a punk show. This one even came with a touring indie publishing company for all you zine kids out there. I'll respectfully pass on the "Bikes Not Bombs" sticker.

The lineup went as so: Ratsize (sorry, missed them); Riverboat Gamblers; Paint It Black; and Strike Anywhere.

Expecting much worse from the opening acts after recent experiences with Darkest Hour (see Damnation AD) both Riverboat Gamblers and Paint It Black were surprisingly solid. The first played some Ramones inspired tunes with a LOT of vocals, at times all 4 dudes not stuck behind a drumset (although maybe he was in on it also, I couldn't see).

Paint It Black did their best Minor Threat impression, even mentioning the punk idols, mixed with a little bit of the Bronx for anyone interested in a fresher reference point. The political chatter in between wasn't really my style but props for an inspired performance chock full of hardcore breakdowns and gang vocals packed into minute and a half tracks.

Strike Anywhere belted out some of my favorites from their first couple records but I enjoyed some of the newer, unknown to me tracks, equally. At times I struggled for attention as I wavered on the idea of talking to Mike Schleibaum of Darkest Hour, who was standing directly to my left and pumping fists along to the tunes.

In the end didn't bother Schleibaum with any super fan comments or perhaps a WTF for Sunday night, but it felt damn good to be back in a sea of black t-shirts and little punk rock kiddies (man did I feel old).

Here's a video from the 9:30 Club that's a couple of years old since the sound quality from the Black Cat clips on YouTube isn't great -

bukkit

2008-03-05T17:28:00.000-08:00

I had to put this up...

Enter the ICHC online Poker Cats Contest!

LOLcat

Darkest Hour MIA

2008-03-03T06:00:00.001-08:00

Last night's Darkest Hour + 4 others (Want to know how not to be taken seriously? Name your band Cephalic Carnage.) was cancelled for unspecified reasons. I'm hoping they weren't arrested again for carrying alcohol across state lines.

In the absence of a show to report back from I want to instead give 5 of my favorite moments, from dorms to the 9:30 Club, from more than 8 years of DH:

Sidebar Tavern (Baltimore circa 2000) - First DH show where we stood next to Mike Schleibaum for a half hour while four grown men with dildos strapped to their head, lovingly known as Shat, ripped through about 40 songs, many clocking in at about 35 seconds. I had never seen a picture of Schleibaum before the show and was left a shocked 15 year old when the dude in the Guns 'n Roses cut off jumped up on stage and led me to flail all hundred and 40 pounds of myself around until my head hurt. Oh, a little band called the Dillenger Escape Plan closed the show.

GWU Dorm (DC circa late 2002/early 2003) - Instant classic: 4 bands with interchangable members, including DC scenester heroes Majority Rule, a mix of DH die hards and first timers, and a kid with pig mittens leading the way in the pit before conquering the floor tom when it escaped the stage.

Ottobar (Baltimore, 2004) - Again we found DH mixed up with the likes of the Dillenger Escape Plan. Emory, one of the most mild mannered guys I've ever met, violently shook the railing of the balcony over the stage before vaulting, without warning, off the overhang onto the stage, screaming a few words along with Dillenger and launching in into the crowd. He returned moments later and quietly sat back in his seat.

Ottobar (Baltimore, 2007) - A friend introduces my brother and I to John Henry after the show. My brother draws a blank and just stands there shaking his hand.

9:30 Club (DC, 2007) - Two acoustic guitars lined up on stage to start the show. Doomsayer. I'll never know what happened to those two guitars.

Here's a live clip of Doomsayer... Feel free to share any favorite moments of your own.

So It Begins - If Ben Olsen Is Psyched, So Are We

2008-02-29T08:06:00.000-08:00

Quick DCU countdown:

12 days until the first competitive match - Away at Harbour View
18 days until we arrive in RFK's Lot 8 for the first time in 2008 - 2nd Leg Harbour View
29 days until MLS opening day - Away at KC
37 days until "Our House" opens (sans Nationals) - Home opener against Toronto

Just a bit more after the jump... But first, remember this guy?

Steinberg got as all psyched with a day full of United posts at the Sports Bog that really concluded with this gem from Ben Olsen: "We are kind of thug bone, aren't we?"

Check out the full run of posts to get acquainted with some of the new names, tattoos, and fashions that come with what amounted to an offseason roster overhaul.

Bloggers Reading Out Loud

2008-02-28T19:52:00.000-08:00

Though the news is a bit dated, James (Coop) and I made it down to Georgetown to hear sports blogger, and near deity in the online athletic dudes (who mostly like to watch rather than play) community, Will Leitch of Deadspin chat up his fourth book "God Save the Fan".

Given the recent attention on transparency, a fad in these times of political horserace, I must admit that upon receiving the message from Coop asking me to join him, I had viewed Deadspin exactly once. The only memory I came away with was a furious, and likely duh duh duhhed, Chris Berman; nothing about one Will Leitch.

I left as a fan of an honest and viciously funny writer, who loves to stick it to ESPN, and with one more lifeline keeping me afloat during the workday. Believe it or not, Deadspin even slips in some soccer, although I imagine many of its readers don't know what Charlton means or who Eduardo da Silva is - they know him as the the soccer guy with a good Joe Theisman impression.

On the way home to my RSS reader we stopped for some social gathering with the blogger crowd...

...and two staggering drunk English girls, who luckily were blind to the company they happened upon. Though I didn't get a word in with Leitch, who was being ruthlessly stalked by a combover and a wireless signal, we did meet Mac G and are grateful for his retelling of a fumble in the face of Scooter Libby and a familiar encounter at Nellies on U St.

We'll close with some lessons learned for the night:

1. Know the name of the guy who you're listening to read. When someone politely asks you who you're listening to with 98 other dudes and you draw a blank, some questions may linger.

2. The wristband does not necessarily get you a discounted Budweiser. Even if you ask for it. And the wristband says Budweiser.

3. The Potomac River smells like a week old Port O Potty in August... or Dan's Cafe.

Welcome Finding Kevin Pittsnogle to the World

2008-02-22T09:20:00.001-08:00

Yes... the posting has been significantly slowed. However, maybe the birth of a new blog child and a night out with uber nerds led by Will Leitch in Georgetown will provide the needed inspiration.

I'm proud to be an honorary partner of the recently founded Finding Kevin Pittsnogle where more than you wanted to know about West Virginia University athletics and other assorted hilarity of our sad lives in the Metro area will be shared.

I mean come on and look at this guy:

World Class - Even If He's a Little Old

2008-01-28T06:55:00.000-08:00

This is exciting stuff for DC United fans after an offseason that was looking dull and a little bit grim as far as the balance between player losses (Perkins, Boswell), potential player losses (Moreno, Gomez, Vanney) and gains (?). A sudden influx of South Americans, capped by Marcelo Gallardo, has begun rounding out a squad that at least on paper may be nearing an improvement over those in the past.

Read here for Gallardo's credentials

C. Ronaldo Races a Car

2008-01-15T05:08:00.000-08:00

He's fast and those shoes are pretty rad.

Nice Piece on How Obama Took Off in Iowa

2008-01-05T21:09:00.000-08:00

It will be interesting to see how this trend plays out in a general election if Obama does end up as the Democratic Party nominee.

From MyDD - Direct Democracy

Can Hillary Clinton Learn from her Mistakes in Iowa--or even History?
by mmakeover, Sat Jan 05, 2008 at 11:11:05 PM EST

I saw this firsthand in the precinct I attended, what Morley is taling about in this post. Penn, I heard in an interview after the caucuses, acknowledged the strategic error. Jerome.
Morley Winograd is co-author with Michael D. Hais of Millennial Makeover: MySpace, YouTube and the Future of American Politics.

Despite all their efforts to put a positive spin on their Iowa showing on the plane to New Hampshire, the Clinton team couldn't avoid acknowledging the most important mistake they made in Iowa--discounting the youth vote.

Not only did Clinton lose to Barack Obama by an almost six to one margin among Millennial Generation (those under 25) caucus attendees, but also her weakness in this age group was the key to her overall loss among women. While Hillary carried the over 45 female vote 36%-24%, Obama won women under 45 by a 50%-21% margin and the surprisingly strong turnout among young caucus goers turned that margin into an overall defeat among the female constituency Hillary was counting on the most. Had she and her team only read their history, they wouldn't have been surprised by this outcome.

Every eighty years a "Civic" generation, like the GI Generation and now the Millennials, comes along with a determination to use their size and their facility with communication technology to change the political culture of America. 2008 will be the first election when Millennials, the largest generation in American history, born between 1982 and 2003, will be eligible to vote in sufficient numbers to tip the political scales to candidates who they favor, but they have already made their presence known to those analyzing election data, not just the latest poll results. They, along with the last remaining members of the GI Generation, were the only age groups to cast majority votes for John Kerry in 2004. The YouTube inspired involvement of Millennials in the Senate races in Virginia and Montana was the difference in those two close elections, returning Democrats to majority status in 2006. But those initial tremors are minor compared to the tsunami of change that Millennials will set in motion in the 2008 elections.

Jaded pollsters, like Clinton's Mark Penn, and columnists, like Thomas L. Friedman, who have been waiting for the emergence of a sizeable youth vote and youthful activism for decades, completely ignored this emerging phenomenon believing that today's youth would disappoint those hoping for any sign of political commitment, just as people under 25 had done ever since the 1970s. But that attitude, common among Baby Boomers who believe the entire world should think and act the way they do, represents a significant misreading of history. Gen Xers, who adored and still revere Ronald Reagan and distrust government, were responsible for the decline in voter participation among young people in the 1980s and 1990s, but as studies by Harvard's Institute of Politics have demonstrated, ever since 9/11 today's youth have voted in increasing numbers, at a growth rate that surpasses that of all other generations. Now that they have a candidate like Barack Obama who appeals to this generation's partisan passion for changing America, their impact will reverberate across the country as loudly as it did in Iowa last week.

A careful observer of the Obama and Clinton campaigns' youth turnout efforts could have seen the results coming. Hillary's team were told to invite young people over for a night of watching TV shows like Gray's Anatomy or The Office, and use that opportunity to engage them in a conversation on the issues. Obama's team went about finding its cadre of supporters by using their website, built off of the FaceBook operating system or platform, in tune with Millennial's social networking habits. Once they found potential supporters, Obama's team didn't ask them to watch television, something Millennials do infrequently, unless it's on their laptop with shows downloaded from the Net, but to hang out at the local bar. There Michelle Obama, or "the closer" as her husband calls her, asked them to come out on caucus night and change America's politics forever.

Clinton's attempt to make her gender define the nature of the historic change in this election missed another important trait of Millennials. This generation is the most gender neutral, race-and ethnicity-blind group of young people in American history. Only sixty percent of Millennials are white; twenty percent have an immigrant parent; and, ninety percent have a friend of another race. While Baby Boomers are justifiably proud of their idealistic efforts on behalf of civil rights and women's rights, Millennials take diversity as a given and tolerance as the only acceptable behavior. That's why, on caucus night, young women voted for Obama and his message of hope, while older women felt motivated to support the first credible female candidate for President. Once again, the Clinton's circle of Boomer advisors just couldn't understand why everyone wasn't thinking and behaving like they did. .

The generational differences in the two candidate's teams were embarrassingly obvious during their speeches to their supporters on caucus night. A collection of Silent and Boomer Generation former leaders, from Madeline Albright to Wesley Clark, not to mention Bill Clinton, was planted behind Hillary. Obama's backdrop was his kids, his wife and throngs of young supporters who knew that their efforts had created an historic moment for the country. Given this generational bias, really a blind spot in their thinking, it's hard to believe Hillary can fix her problem with Millennials before the final campaign showdown on February 5, let alone in the few days between Iowa and New Hampshire. But if she can't find a way to appeal to this emerging generation quickly and on its own terms, she will become the first, but certainly not the last, candidate whose failure to recognize the historical pattern of generational cycles in American politics has cost them their future.

Morley Winograd is co-author with Michael D. Hais of Millennial Makeover: MySpace, YouTube and the Future of American Politics (Rutgers University Press, March 2008)

Tucker Max Will Never Cease Being Funny

2007-12-28T11:53:00.001-08:00

I hadn't read Tucker Max in quite some time. Most of you, especially if you are not under 25 and male, will likely find his stories idiotic, disgusting or vile. Maybe all three.

Personally, there is not much I've read that has such lasting comedic value. His Web site suggests beginning with the Sushi Pants story. If you're in it for one story, I say go for this.

Excited Already

2007-11-28T15:45:00.000-08:00

Is anyone really as excited about this as I am already? The poster just released today for the '10 World Cup.

Make Them Stop

2007-11-27T09:59:00.001-08:00

Boooo ethanol - Rising Beer Prices

Sweet Animation

2007-11-25T20:01:00.000-08:00

Pretty neat animation of flight patterns across the country.

sweetness

Next Time You Skip Work, Lose the Fairy Costume

2007-11-13T14:22:00.000-08:00

Oh the challenges that Facebook brings about when you want to remain incognito... or the same challenges brought on by boozing when you're dressed up like a fairy.

How to Impress Your Employer

You Thought The Video Game Version Was Tough?

2007-11-11T18:26:00.000-08:00

Watching how this all actually goes down on guitar makes Guitar Hero 3 look like a cakewalk.

The End (Until the Concacaf Champions' Cup)

2007-11-05T15:05:00.000-08:00

This was the first season that I've really followed DC United from start - watching them beat CD Olimpia away on FSC in Ithaca during my last months of college - to finish - looking through my fingers in my broken seat at RFK as the referee ended United's season.

From the regular season home start against Kansas City I think most of us realized that the central defense was always going to be the make or break factor this year. Trading Erpen for Vanney was like putting a not very stick band aid on a broken finger. For a while it worked and United ran off a string of shutouts during their all important run during the middle of the season where they sealed up the Supporter's Shield.

Then the wheels fell off - anyone who watched the regular season finale against Columbus got a glimpse of the end really. Unsure defending and not quite enough firepower in some tired legs.

Some memorable moments:

Emilio scoring the equalizer at home in the shitting rain against CD Guadalajara finally silencing the "Chivas!" chants after more than 90 minutes.

Everything ounce of energy Benny "The Beard" Olsen left on the field giving us one of the best seasons of his career.

A sold out RFK to see United take down the Beckham train on its first trip from the station.

The entire lower bowl (not just the loud side) on its feet for what turned out to be the last 15 minutes of United's season.

Until next year... when we'll hopefully have a deal for a new stadium (in the district?), a designated player (Veron??) and more of the highest expectations.

Things Heard at 600 N. Wakefield

2007-11-05T14:57:00.000-08:00

On surviving Rockville for more than a year before moving to Arlington:

brian16lockard: you dont even know - but I guess sometimes the caviar doesnt taste as good unless you've had ramen first

Playoffs?? Playoffs???

2007-11-01T13:26:00.000-07:00

Wanted to do a proper pre game write up for DC United and the Fire this evening (ESPN 2) but work does not allow for such things when you are hurrying to finish in order to tailgate appropriately.

So here we go:

Can the defense shore up enough to keep the series at one goal conceded? Going a goal down will make the task immensely more difficult.

How healthy are those two forwards?

Can Brian Carroll not stink? At least for a little while...

We'll find out and we'll get a write up, maybe tag team, tomorrow morning.

Vamos United!!!

The Core Returns to Speaking

2007-10-30T14:17:00.000-07:00

After a lengthy hiatus acclimating to working life, I think that we are back on the air here. And I say we because I'm hoping to garner a little support from my writing pals to create some more regular content to put up here. Topics will likely be scattered but hopefully amusing enough to pull people from their usual work day distractions.

Anywho, we'll start small with what will probably be the last "Heard at the 918" post since WE ARE MOVING back to civilization (Arlington, Virginia) from the dark continent (Rockville, Maryland.

Compliments of Brian - [17:15] brian16lockard: I am racking my brain trying to figure out how to make me black

Welcome back to where we're not tired of using technology.

He's So Agile

2007-09-16T16:43:00.000-07:00

Ben Olsen Confirms My Suspicions

2007-09-11T12:29:00.000-07:00

As quoted by Soccer Insider

Olsen on Emilio: "I've never seen a guy so happy after he scores goals. He loves to score goals, and we love that he's scoring well and he definitely loves it as well. In the shower after he scores two goals, he's singing and dancing, he's pretty happy. He knows that, he admits it: he loves to score goals. As long as he's scoring and we're winning, it's a good situation."

See my Beckham post: "Can't help but love how much joy he gets from scoring. I hope he keeps enjoying himself."

Want to see the truth about the singing? No shower though, sorry ladies.

Healed by the Cosmic Rays

2007-09-11T08:27:00.000-07:00

Everybody should have the joy of this guy in their life.

Real Life is Busy

2007-08-21T07:18:00.000-07:00

I've been out of town and busy with work, but new stuff coming soon. For now here is an excellent article from ESPN Soccernet about Freddy Adu and his move to Benfica, where things will be less cushy.

Freddy Moves to Portugal

A Little Scandinavian Metal

2007-08-14T05:40:00.000-07:00

Since Youtube doesn't have Way of the Warrior, here for your viewing please is Hearts on Fire by the band Hammerfall. I think you'll all like its serious side.

Poor Ways to Begin a Conversation

2007-08-13T19:46:00.000-07:00

Setting: [A noisy bar with glasses banging in the background and conversation made difficult by overbearing Top 40 hits from the speakers.] Several young men including Brian, Chris, Matt and an anonymous emo kid are seated together in the back corner of Old Glory in Georgetown enjoying Bud diesels. Nearby are a few young ladies who, with little inspection, appear to have had several too many wine coolers before making their way out and talk amongst themselves at a volume little lower than a scream.

Scene 1:

Chris: Hey Lock, I think I should ask these girls how they felt about Beckham being in town.

(Turning)
Random girl #1: You think you should ask us what?

Chris: Well, given that David Beckham was in town just a few days ago, do you feel like there is still a little sexy left in the air around DC?

(Without pause)
Random Girl #1: No.

(Random Girl #1 immediately stands and says goodbye to friends and hurries out of Old Glory.)

Brian: Wow. I think we should go now.

The End

Sir Beckham Visits DC

2007-08-10T20:29:00.001-07:00

Many things have already been said about the United game against the LA Galaxy on Thursday night, somethings that I would have added. The traffic was ugly, the crowd was fantastic at responding to the game as the DCenters noted, and seeing Beckham for me was an added bonus to seeing United get their second win and more importantly continue their positive game when last year they began to fade around this time.

An added benefit to everything was that the game was such an event I was even given a slightly early pass out of work for the day. Brian and I rode down with some friends and met big G down in the Lot 8 circus for a quick bite before gametime.

Five minutes into the game United should have been up a goal when Ben Olsen blazed a volley over from inside the box. What a start that would have been as the stands were still filling in. What a sight RFK is when it's filled to the brim for a soccer game in a light rain and the supporter groups in full voice.

The atmosphere must have driven both sides at the outset as they started fluid and open before getting into a rhythm. Although Fred made some bad giveaways he also looked more comfortable in the center of the park. The knock he took that saw Kyle Martino off the pitch with a red card was credit to how frustrating Fred became to defend.

Most of the commentary has been covered but the place erupted when Emilio's bomb slipped past the hands of Joe Cannon, who I thought probably should have pushed the ball wide. Instead, my beer ended up mostly on my shorts with high fives flying around and the decibel level ratcheted up.

If you wait you can see the TV star and the real star of the night Luciano Emilio. Can't help but love how much joy he gets from scoring. I hope he keeps enjoying himself.

When Beckham stepped on the field for what now will be remembered as the historic moment he began his MLS career, I thought the crowd responded appropriately with a mix of surreal screams that Beckham finally suited up and a realistic set of boos that a gamechanging player just walked onto the field for the opposition.

The game ended with a flurry of chances for both sides; most of them were squandered by poor finishing that showed through on Beckham's frustrated face.

The thing that surprised me most was some that some of the players on my men's league team who we watched the game with and are true soccer lovers had never been to a United game. They all seemed to have a great time, suffering as much as the rest of us when United missed a chance and occasionally getting caught up in some of the songs. Here's to hoping that they come back even when Becks isn't in town.

More Things Heard at 918 Veirs Mill Rd

2007-08-10T20:22:00.000-07:00

Tom: When was the last time we went out without becoming a mess?

[pause]

Brian: Never.

We no longer say yes - we say, 'affirmative'

2007-08-07T07:18:00.000-07:00

My roommate Tom just introduced me to Flight of the Conchords, a show on HBO. If you have OnDemand and are at all humored by dry jabbing intertwined with some random song that somehow keeps the story moving, you should check this show out. If you're interested in catching up, the first episode isn't on demand, but find it on YouTube.

For now, here is one of the songs from the first episode and it's awesome.

Things Heard at 918 Veirs Mill Rd

2007-07-30T15:11:00.000-07:00

brian16lockard: I can eat like a snake sometimes

Sangria to "Make it Rain"

2007-07-30T12:57:00.000-07:00

If anybody was in Georgetown Saturday night they probably saw someone around 3 am walking down the middle of M Street to the dismay of cabbies, police officers and his roommate.

This explains why it happened:

Make It Rain Sangria

One jumbo water cooler

One box of white wine
One bottle of red wine
Liter of Parrot Bay Pineapple
500 Ml of Southern Comfort
2 Liters of Ginger Ale
Liter of Lemonade
2 cans of Sobe Adrenaline "Fury"
Assorted fruit slices
One airplane bottle of brandy
Top off with lots of love

Serve chilled, no later than noon, with a speakerbox of hot jams. Don't apologize for the consequences of your partying.

Belated DCU Superliga Review - Or Perhaps It's a Supremely Punctual Club America Preview

2007-07-27T13:50:00.000-07:00

So here's the deal about being a DC United fan - winning is the expected standard, even against the highest competition. That is not to say that Monarcas was of the highest competition because they were obviously in preseason physical condition that was blatantly evident by the late stages where 8 or 9 players packed behind the ball and pushed out at snails pace after a clearance. All of that makes the blown lead, playing with a man up, ending with a tie even more bitter.

The game for United was often promising and a poorly set wall led to Gomez's wicked free kick and another early lead for United. While Dyachenko at times seemed about as useful as a stoned elephant, his pass to Emilio was surely a second if not for a misplaced bit of sod covering the National's infield. Instead United heads into the half up a goal instead of two but looking the stronger side.

Quick interjection of some positives before I get to lamenting - Marc Burch looks excellent at left back. He's big, strong and is serving some heat seeking cross field balls. Fred seems to have found his legs consistently and I can only hope Tommy Soehn convinces him to take defenders on more in the final third. Despite the miss, Emilio is still so sweet, holding the ball up and showing some truly brilliant moments on the ball.

Now, bad news time. Despite my compliments of Marc Burch, the back line still looks painfully haphazard at times especially against players with speed. The goal was an unstoppable hit, but the guy on the left who served the ball over had time to check the wind and tee up a perfect ball. Maybe some pressure inside the defensive half is in order.

Props for the goal though - I had a perfect view with my brother and friend from just above the Screaming Eagles section to watch that thing tail back into the top corner with Perkins clasping air.

There were just so many moments of disappointment to go along with the blown lead. Benny didn't look like himself out there making some poor crosses and almost knocking himself in the face with a bad touch. There were bad giveaways and Boswell wasted a chance to put the ball in the mixer, instead choosing to loft a header towards goal from 18 that the keeper took down with his chest.

I was sure the game was all over when the whole scrum happened when hunk Boswell decided the drill the Monarcas player. Instead United plodded along with a painfully ineffective attack against a team that was willing to sit back and play defense and who has a good goalkeeper to back it up. Then came a counter attack with a world class goal and the win never seemed possible afterwards.

The task on Sunday should be even greater against a more in form team who also now has the taste of defeat in their mouth. I hope that United can pull it together and get a win at Estadio RFK so we don't leave a knockout round appearance up to a game against Houston who seems to improve every game.

YouTube Democratic Debate

2007-07-24T12:42:00.000-07:00

Gut Response - If people were forced to read a transcript of the candidates positions without names or faces attached, there might be a lot more of this - - showing in the actual polls. Those results come from a blind poll that asks for the user to enter their stance on issues and then matches up with what candidate best matches up. Mine matched up with Gravel followed closely by Kucinich. As some people know, Kucinich has great politics for the current Democratic (or Independent as some of us have turned) voter, but the Democratic voter most likely is shoved up one of the three butts of Clinbamawards.

Of the three part Democratic leadership harshly referred to above - they danced around many issues last night. They stepped on their own feet only a few times when pressured by the 'others', but mostly they behaved well and still seem to be biding time until someone else screws up.

One of the moments that surely raised eyebrows came from Mr. Obama when he voiced his intention of speaking to the leadership in countries that have been strictly off limits recently, including Iran, North Korea, Venezuela, Syria and *gasp* Cuba??? Obama does appear to be the candidate with the most presence - his physicality, strong voice and rhetoric are surely some of his biggest assets. They also aren't bad characteristics to have as a leader of a nation.

Still, the candidate who has my ear continues to be Delaware Senator Joe Biden. He's no bullshit like Mike Gravel but with less of the angry old man in the corner syndrome going on. His realistic outlook on Iraq I think will be a revelation for him as pulling out becomes more of an option. Even Hillary agreed with him that withdrawing isn't going to happen like tugging the yo yo back in; it will take time and money and security so that troops that are supposedly on their way home actually make it.

Biden's realist solution to Iraq, a division of the country under a federal system with localized governments, is a stretch that probably would never politically succeed, but ideologically it sounds like one of the best possible resolutions. He has an impressive record of experience on the Foreign Relations Committee, which is a credential the country's next leader could certainly use.

Kucinich and Richardson were sound. I don't feel like Dodd did much for himself except for having the best candidate video that included a white rabbit perched nearby and the prompter asking something along the lines of "So how many white hairs would you say you have?" I mentioned what I thought were mild political performances by Obama, Clinton and Edwards (his strangehold on the poverty issue aside).

Unsurprisingly, when the last question raised was for each candidate to voice something he disliked about the policy of the person to their left, only desperate for a voice - or the opportunity to speak - Mike Gravel actually said something useful to the voter. Who knew there were so many jokers up on stage? The jokers should really show up when the Republicans get their shot at the YouTubers.

In the end I thought the format was pretty successful and certainly a new twist on the debate format that can sometimes seem so outrageously staged to make it uninteresting. Although this was most likely almost as filtered and prepared, it at least has the feel of legitimate participation by the people that will be voting. Could these debates really alter the landscape that seems so destined to funnel toward a three horse race for the Democratic nomination? I hope so.

Horse the Band... Bitch

2007-07-23T18:59:00.000-07:00

Obviously I have to plug the new Horse the Band album - August 28. They just put the video up for a track New York City off the new record and here's my best word for it right now - radical. You can't wait for the super slow death metal breakdown in the middle, trust me you can't.

Story Eating Room, Dollar Budweisers and the MLS All Star Game

2007-07-20T10:53:00.000-07:00

Given that the game was last Saturday I really missed the boat on writing up a report on the travesty that were the last 40 minutes against Dallas. Disappointing really sums it up, although while watching the game from right behind La Norte, Dallas' goals weren't all that surprising. I had a perfect view of Brian Carroll being outworked by Toja on his first goal. On his second I was forced to watch Mr. Hyde come errently out of the goal and be outjumped.

I wrote up a report of the game on the Metro the other morning and I think it disappeared in the depths of my room. Unfortunately no dog to blame for eating it. I think it found its way into my shiny new trash can.

So with game report gone missing I went to meet up with Brian (one of my roommates) to catch the All Star game and some beers down at Union Jacks in Bethesda. Nice bar they have down there, lots of pool tables, and Thursday the Budweisers are $1 starting at 7.

Given the lack of information (the All Star game started at 9:30 I think) and the amount of time to drink dollar Budweisers between 7 and kickoff, I consequently missed a good bit of the game.

I did see Beckhams blond head. I did see Gomez score before looking at the linesman in dismay. I saw the Colombians score. I saw EJ miss his penalty because he neglected to notice that the goalkeeper was pretty much already standing on the side where he was shooting. That's all that happened right? Two and a half hours = many $1 Budweisers.

Staring at Your Computer at Work All Day Makes You Do Funny Things...

2007-07-19T10:39:00.001-07:00

Like look at this on Youtube

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cQ25-glGRzI

Stupid embedding disabled... now you're just going to get sucked into actually clicking on it without immediately disregarding it for the horrific content.

Travelin' Light - Part VII - THE END

2007-07-18T09:44:00.000-07:00

** If you want to read this whole piece from the beginning, check out previous post listings in May and start at Senior Project. Oh, and sorry for no pictures, they're coming.

About a week ago, or maybe it was longer, Berthoud Pass was buried by Colorado’s biggest avalanche in years, sweeping over fifteen cars off the road. Miraculously no one was hurt, but days later I can still see the carnage inflicted on trees and a telltale path carved out in three different places above the road like a hand smashed down leaving marks of three long fingers.

I’m navigating the pass to meet Teddy, an old friend from soccer who graduated two years earlier, at Winter Park. He’s cleaning tables at the peak restaurant to snowboard a couple times a week and graciously gives me some space on his couch. It’s a gorgeous day before another impending storm; the drive to Winter Park takes longer than Jon and my estimates of forty five minutes to an hour. I don’t mind the extended driving time as I gaze at the moon perched in daylight above a craggy peak.

Teddy and his childhood friend Rick embody my vision of mountain spirit. They’re laid back, they love the outdoors and to me they’re here for all the right reasons. Teddy still marvels over the beauty from the pear of Mary Jane even though he’s been up countless times.

It’s beautiful because there’s nothing unnatural, no lodge, nothing human within sight except for a distant road that looks like a penciled line faintly drawn across a page.

On the lift, we discuss how graduation is going to affect Ashley and me in a couple months. He went through the same thing not too long ago, and for him and his girlfriend the stress was too much. At the same time he’s supportive of my view that the only way to stay sane is to see what happens along the way and make sure that we’re both happy and having fun.

Snow is supposed to start soon and we watch the clouds approach, preceded by a furious wind. That afternoon, catching my breath at Winter Park, I saw someone with some good-looking skis. After complimenting them, he informed me they were Simon Dumont’s pro model.

I could only smile and say Oh, really?

He probably would have thought I was kidding to tell him that’s who I spent the last two nights with – and that he gave his best friend’s sister a face full of hickeys.

Rick and Teddy have been moving since their graduation. They’re working at Winter Park before they go to Whistler in British Columbia for the end of the ski season before moving back down the coast to shack up in California for a summer of surfing.

Teddy seems genuinely happy, which is a beautiful thing given his alternative lifestyle after finishing school. I’ve heard discouraging words over that path because there’s no money or that it’s a dead end road. Those people might have a different opinion if they walked in his shoes, or snowboard boots, for a week.

Teddy reminds me college is different from high school, because there’s no constant of coming back to one place.

He still follows the Eagles religiously, a little slice of his Philadelphia upbringing that stays in his life. I can’t help but notice the books on the shelf: On the Road, Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance, Johnny Cash the Autobiography, a collection of Ayn Rand and Ken Kesey.

We talk about different surfboard sizes and his work at a microbrew over the summer before I’m stuck awkwardly in the middle of someone’s mourning. A neighbor comes bursting in the door bawling her eyes out – her ex-boyfriend died the night before. With the slamming of the door comes cold drifts the smell of chain smoking. Here she is sobbing drunk while I stare emptily at the carpet and fidget with my bruised toenail. It makes me scared to see someone like that and not help.

But as difficult as they are, these are the moments I’ll remember as much as any physical experience from this trip. I’m reminded that while I might be having a blast, people are still living and struggling through the difficulties their life presents. No matter how far I stray from my frame of normality, I’ll always be wandering into someone else’s reality.

After the past several nights I realize I’ll sleep anywhere to stay out in Colorado a couple more days. I feel guilty about spending more money but I want at least one more day at Copper to ride and meet people, to tap into the pulse of the mountain.

I’ve stayed in ten different places at this point and my clothes reek and I’ve met bums on the street in the city of Denver and the superstars of a blossoming sport that I’ve packed my life in a car for. There are unique little features that I associate with each of the mountains I’ve ridden. Like my friends who have their different qualities, Mary Jane has her bumps, A-Basin its gnarly streak and Copper its halfpipe.

The day I leave Teddy’s I realize how much my body is wearing down, because I don’t even feel like skiing. The smell of my car is getting to be distastefully distinct – road salt and cheap breakfast fast food wrappers are seeping into everything. Dirty ski socks and worn too many time t-shirts litter the backseat along with a scattered library and an empty cooler – my bookshelf and refrigerator in the backseat.

But it’s not all bad as I think about how much more satisfying a sprinkle of cold from dusting snow is than rain. I’m listening to Against Me, which has become a sort of personal soundtrack, just fulfilling to listen to over and over again. The sunny side of the valley brims with brown and green while the shady side holds its snow until much later in the spring.

So maybe while I'm not together I can feel like I'm not alone.

And somewhere off in the distance, rapidly advancing, is an onslaught of sorts. And there's a joy, a joy in all I can see.

Back at Copper, while I warm up in the lodge, I smile watching a child toy with his glove. His hand is lost deep inside, flapping it around with a grin on his face. His father is in the lodge talking business on a cell phone and both parents have matching undershirts to keep them warm during the day.

I hear dad stop chatting for a second before he reaches down and tugs the gloves off. Those gloves are too big on you son!

Sometimes I feel that same satisfaction in not quite fitting, and being the one that’s still trapped innocently and maybe a little naively in youth. I want to tell the little boy its fine because it doesn’t matter as long as we’re having fun and the times keep a smile on his young face. If he were old enough to understand I’d tell him to keep getting lost in things that seem too big.

Not too many people are out on the halfpipe. Most of the knowledgeable riders have gone home since the wind picked up and snow blows across making the visibility really low. The lifts are still pretty packed with those out early from work for the weekend or those on vacation but it looks like most people have their energy zapped, sometimes the whole mountain can gather up a certain vibe.

I’ve never taken longer to get ready for skiing. Every article seems like heavy labor. I secretly hope they’ll close the lifts so I could have an excuse for not going out all day and that I will get a call for a place to stay – otherwise I’m going to head east. Just like any other activity, it’s hard to pull myself out there lacking any enthusiasm or emotion.

I’m restless and need some company and worst of all I’m too tired to ski; I’m afraid I’ll hurt myself. Maybe I’m spoiled already. I decide to try and occupy myself with talking.

Copper has an area for its employees called the Edge, located a little ways from the main lodge. No matter the time, the computers are always packed. It’s become the best way for people to stay connected when letter writing feels too slow and you have to be quick if you want to sneak in on one. I get a thumb up for the Juventus soccer jersey I’m wearing. Many of the employees are from Peru, Argentina and Brazil but don’t speak much English. For them soccer is something bridging any language barrier.

When he tried to signal me I was stuck on the phone with Zach, whose house we stayed at in Boulder. He took a job in the mountains for the rest of his winter break. While he doesn’t seem too willing to make any promises on a place to crash, I’m going to Vail when I flip off the phone.

By the time I make my way up the pass it’s getting dark, and the weather is not good at all. I forgot to wipe the grime off my headlights, which slows me down to a crawl and cars – mostly enormous trucks – are flying by me with what I’m sure are dirty looks painted on their faces. Whenever they go by I try to follow as closely as seems safe, using their taillights as guides since mine are almost useless. My teeth hurt from being clenched together most of the thirty minutes to Vail and my snow pants are a darker green around my waste from stressful sweating.

Once I’m there, I don’t quite have a destination. Zach arranges for me to meet him at the base where there is a Vans Snowboarding event, but it doesn’t start for another hour. I drive around Vail aimlessly, looking for somewhere to eat for less than a million dollars. After stuffing down two pieces of pizza, I eventually find a place to park a good distance from the event and follow the crowds to the snowboarding competition.

Zach is almost too relaxed while snowboarders launch in the background. The stray glances of his blue eyes under wavy white blond hair give me the impression that he doesn’t even like the mountains that much. He’s only out in the area because his friend hooked him up with a job for break; he only skis occasionally. He’s accepting money from rich people for mindless jobs to round out his break, getting tips for moving ping pong tables and chairs.

Zach’s friends are pretty much assholes: the one a drunk and the other a good old fashioned grumpy fucking asshole. The second in particular doesn’t come kindly towards visitors – at a young age he’s driving snowplows around at four in the morning, clearing the roads for yuppies in fur coats and he’s taking on the role of the disgruntled local.

This guy, whose name I didn’t get, is avoiding the subject of me spending the night with them even though they sleep in a warehouse. I can’t imagine what the big deal would be if I took up a little more space on the concrete floor.

The snowboarding session was entertaining, though I expected a better crowd; most people weren’t even paying attention to the riders cruising in to a quarterpipe littered with various rails and features. But from some of our reactions you can appreciate the creativity, both in the course’s construction and how the riders approach the features.

Similarly, I think that’s how young people approach traveling. While I might be generalizing, the young are still discovering what they like. When we try something new it’s usually slow and probing the first time. Then we go forward with more and more gusto and abandon until our comfort in moving allows for the perfect experience. I think it’s the younger group here in the audience that’s enraptured by something truly innovative and then erupting in applause for the artist.

On our way out, after everything shuts down, I finally get a veto on sleeping at the warehouse. I’m shocked at what is really my first negative response. After I get a short goodbye from Zach and not even that much from his friends, I wander in a sort of uncertain stupor through the village. I guess there just wasn’t enough room on the floor.

What seem like herds of beautiful girls wade through Vail, maybe drawn by the shopping or just the sheer glamour of the mountains’ Rodeo Drive. I ride the Vail bus back to the parking garage, listening to a girl with dyed haired red head chatting up with a vacationer from Atlanta. Most people on the bus are drunk and I don’t know how she deals with such a crowd everyday.

Carefully I get back to Copper, which seemed at least like a good base of operations. I get settled in a corner of the lobby at the Mountain Plaza condo complex with the same clothes I’ve had on for two straight days and my coat draped over my legs. I’m uncomfortable and I frequently swivel my head around the nearest corner to check for security personnel. I try reading for a while in hopes that my uneasy eyes will drift to sleep.

A group of high schoolers pass by. Their flight or bus must have been delayed since they arrive after midnight. Eventually it strikes me that the fourth floor might be more secluded and less likely for any disturbance with the rest of the resort sleeping. I move my camp upstairs and lie to a passerby that I’m sleeping on the couch because I got in a fight with my girlfriend. Just down the hallway, Natrisha’s condo is occupied with new visitors.

My phone alarm rings at 4:45 so I can get up and move my car before the attendants arrive for their morning shift. It doesn’t seem cold at first but after driving to Safeway in Frisco I feel like the temperature drops steeply. With my life’s possessions in the car, I recline, hoping no one kills me in my sleep.

The stars are my first sight when my eyes open intermittently and it keeps getting colder. Finally I give up and eat an apple Danish for breakfast that I saved from the night before. I drive slowly back to Copper, not more than three hours since I was curled up in the hallway of Mountain Plaza. I’m one of the first twenty people in the parking lot including employees. My trial was not in vain – it’s a powder day.

All morning I make laps on the Sierra chair. It’s my favorite spot on the mountain for fresh snow and I don’t see anyone for the first four or five runs; a perfect way to spend my last day of skiing.

There’s not too much talk on the lifts, it’s too windy. I get at least a little reaction out of a man from St. Louis, who is visiting a friend in Leadville for three weeks.

While unloading yells over his shoulder, I’m going to get me some Union Bowl!

When the lifts do start to get a little crowded I head down to the base to bid Copper goodbye for the last time.

The door of the trip was closing after a couple of creaky days. The drive down to Jeff’s house in Denver felt good. It felt right. I flip through the local mountain radio stations one more time. The independent radio was a nice change, pushing Phish and Widespread Panic to Keller Williams and the Dead that don’t get any play elsewhere. As I come down from the mountains into the foothills, the moon sits suspended over nearby peaks, a disco ball over Denver.

Travelin' Light, and you can catch the wind.

Travelin' light, better let your mind pretend.

Get on down to paradise, maybe once, now maybe twice.

Travelin' light, is the only way to fly

I think about the guys I stayed with in Breckenridge, and I realize it wasn’t just jealousy over them being allowed to ski a hundred and fifty days a year. It was their passion and opportunity to go out and attempt perfection at something unique every day. Their willingness to risk bruised heals and fall after fall for one moment of clarity when they land the trick they’ve been working on for weeks. And it doesn’t matter if its in front of a thousand screaming people or their three friends who click their poles together in celebration.

And that’s what writing has become for me – my opportunity for a sublime moment where practice and repetition intersect with something new. For me that independent factor is travel, and whether I can share what I find with the world or with just a couple curious readers makes no difference because the page is always there for me, just like the mountain.

Early Monday morning, the second week of January, I’m ushered out the door by Jeff who has to get to work. It’s hard to watch the mountains disappear in the rearview and not whip the car back around and slap myself for being silly. Drunken talk, about just dropping out of school and skiing, from two nights ago still lingers in my head. A solitary mountain looms over the flat landscape that is Eastern Colorado.

I’m not feeling well as I drift across the map in my head. After so long by yourself the road starts to come alive. I sympathize with poor Hunter S. Thompson because even while I’m sober, I’m getting delusional on the road. Shadows form bridges that I’m never going to pass under. Little birds on the side of the road come at my window then vanish. I focus on everything except what I’m leaving, trying to discover a musical track that is brilliant to distract me in the confines of the car.

Feel the volume of the sky, mark your place in time with another question, why? Just sway, when all you want is to find home.

I keep looking at my phone like someone is supposed to call. When I think through these past couple weeks, I’m surprised my leaving was so emotionless. I’m glad there was hardly even tug. Power lines and train tracks decorate the plains parallel to I-70 East; I’m chasing the storm that just dropped over a foot of snow on Denver, back across the country. I sparingly take pictures of the flat landscape while I drive.

I pop in the appropriately titled album Distance Makes the Heart Grow Fonder and it lets me know the time was right. The road back allows plenty of time for remembering everyone I should thank for making this trip happen and letting me know that Colorado isn’t home yet. I’ll see Virginia soon enough.

A Noble Cause for Sports

2007-07-16T20:48:00.000-07:00

While the writing in this article isn't my favorite, the story is one of seeming impossible success, and certainly makes anyone who doubted the power of sports to change the world waver a little bit from their position.

The story of these two Northern Irish men, one Catholic and one Protestant, to forge something above those distinctions bears lessons that probably belong on a grander stage than ESPN the Magazine or the ESPY awards last weekend where Dave Cullen and Trevor Ringland were co-recipients of the Arthur Ashe Courage Award at the 2007 ESPYS. Tom Friend at ESPN the magazine should be applauded for being able to put together the pieces of the story. So I'll do my little part and put a bit of the story on here with a link to the full story at the bottom.

ESPN The Magazine: Hate is a waste of time
By Tom Friend
ESPN The Magazine
(Archive)

Editor's note: This article appears in the July 16 issue of ESPN The Magazine.

Across the ocean, in a bigoted Irish town, little girls ask other little girls, "Coke or Pepsi?" It is a veiled, mean question -- because the wrong answer can get a little girl's home firebombed. This is a story about the right answer: a basketball game. A game arranged, in part, by one man who's a Coke and one man who's a Pepsi …

* * * *

His first memory in life is a funeral.

He can still see the stone facade of the church, the wood seats and the casket that held his father, his "da." It was no place for a 5-year-old boy; then again, Belfast in the mid-1970s was one corpse and one restless night after another.

He remembers, after his da's death, the police and the British army repeatedly storming his home after dark, yanking his mum out of bed and tossing her to the ground, manhandling him and his two screaming brothers. The strange men would rip up floorboards and drywall in a vain search for stashed ammunition. They never did find any, but from what he's been told, they once returned 40 times in 30 days. It drove his mum to drink, and she became a staggering alcoholic whom he had to follow up the stairs, in case she tumbled backward.

Months later, his mum moved the family to the Ormeau Road section of town, near her mother but also near the epicenter of the Catholic-Protestant "Troubles" of Northern Ireland. Men were butchered just beyond his front stoop -- over religion, land, politics -- and when he got older, he wanted answers. He wanted to know why his da was gone, why his mum never visited her husband's grave. When no one came clean, he eavesdropped. He heard his mum tell a relative that his da had been a member of the IRA and heard her tell a neighbor that he'd been shot. All sorts of questions raced through the boy's head. Shot by whom? Protestants? Had his da shot people too?

As a teenager, he roamed the area around the Ormeau Road with his most rugged Catholic friends, looking for Protestants to pay back. He knew a Protestant when he met one. If a man's name was William, Tom or Oliver, he was Protestant. If he was a Sean, Liam, Paddy or Seamus, he was Catholic. If he rooted for the Rangers football team, he was Protestant; if he rooted for Celtic, he was Catholic. If he played rugby or cricket, Protestant; hurling or Gaelic football, Catholic. If he went to a school called Holy Cross, definitely Catholic. The giveaways were numerous.

This was the world he lived in, where bigoted Catholics called Protestants "Prods," and bigoted Protestants called Catholics "Fenians." But it was also a world in which he could almost hide. His name was Dave -- Dave Cullen -- which didn't peg him to either religion, although he was Catholic. And his sport was basketball, a game considered neutral in Ireland, if it was considered at all.

Outdoor courts were scarce, so young Dave had to walk alone past dangerous Protestant neighborhoods to find a gym where he could shoot baskets, a gym he'd have to pay two quid to enter. He accepted the risk because he needed the escape. He was still haunted by his da's death, still furious at the army and the predominantly Protestant police force that had driven his mum to the bottle. He knew he was a bitter, prejudiced young man. But there was something about basketball, something about draining a shot from well beyond the arc, something that gave him peace.

Hate is a Waste of Time

CD's and Circle Pits - A Week of Darkest Hour

2007-07-15T11:47:00.000-07:00

Eyeing the stage during the soundcheck for Darkest Hour at the Ottobar on Thursday night, my brother and I started talking about the first time we saw them. It turns out it was a little over 7 years ago at Fletchers, also in Baltimore, where they played after a lovely band named Shat. I watched the odd performance, that ended with the drummer shitting on the stage, standing unbeknownst next to DH guitarist Mike Schleibaum.

Waiting for them to set up before playing all I wanted to do was ask Mike if he remembered that performance that precluded my first of many Darkest Hour shows spanning through high school and outlasting college. This show at the Ottobar wasn't as memorable as others - the crowd wasn't quite there and for them being headliners the set wasn't quite as long as I would have liked.

But that doesn't mean it wasn't blistering because it was from the very start when Mike stepped on stage with a smile plastered on his face, high fiving everyone in the front row while feedback wailed, signaling the intro to A Thousand Words But One. It also didn't mean the show was without surprises - the new songs sounded tight and full of energy and not only did regular guitar hero Kris Norris run his gamut of solos, his typically rhythm driven partner dove into several of the shred sessions himself, including a team performance on Sound the Surrender.

If there is one consistent thing about their performances it's their passion for performing the songs they obviously love. Their playlist included three new songs, a heavy dose of 'Undoing Ruin,' a splash of 'Sadist Nation' and their usual epic "For the Soul of the Savior" unfortunately sandwiched in the middle.

People can criticize John Henry for not having any vocal range or the entire band for not having a creative style of their own, but I think after the seven years and five albums now that I've been following Darkest Hour, they've never disappointed, and continue to evolve and improve as musicians just enough with each album that they're fresh and bring something new to the table for punk and metal.

I guess a brief review of the new album is in order to get my words in after seeing a range of reactions online. 'Deliver Us' didn't produce any songs that are going to crack my Top 5 list of favorite DH tracks, but as a record I think it emerges as the best produced and impressively written album. The band has grown so much from 'Mark of the Judas' and as far as songwriting is concerned, this is it for them.

The drums and bass keep everything as heavy as it's ever been. The guitar work is phenomenal and you can distinguish the solo styles between Norris' sprinting fret acrobatics and Schleibaum's meticulous bends, squeals and riffing. As for John Henry, my humble opinion is that the album is his best vocal performance. He's oft criticized for not being dynamic - I assume that means not singing like he's in Taking Back Sunday.

Darkest Hour is not Taking Back Sunday and the vocals rang from grind metal burps to gravelly punk yells that harbor a subtle melody.

Aside from the short interlude track that gets under my skin everytime I'm playing through the album, everything belongs. 'Doomsayer' lights a fire at the beginning of the album that the title track 'Deliver Us' closes out with as much intensity. My favorite track is #5, 'Paradox with Flies' that shows exactly how much musical balance DH possesses.

Since that didn't make it onto Youtube from the show at the Ottobar, here is the track 'Demons' the way I heard it on Thursday.

This is truly a band that will be long appreciated by metal fans for maintaining a place on the scene and elevating their game after time they are asked. If you're in the DC area I hope to see you slam dancing and circle pitting at the 9:30 club on August 12.

Travelin' Light - Part VI

2007-07-15T11:44:00.000-07:00

** If you want to read this whole piece from the beginning, check out previous post listings in May and start at Senior Project. Oh, and sorry for no pictures, they're coming.

It’s time for another movement after we help Natrisha close up her condo. It’s just Jeffries and Dave who keep me company on my last day at Copper with friends. We ride for a couple hours, picking some of our favorite runs that include making laps on the Mountain Chief lift that take us through the expansive back bowls, then down the back of Golddigger to the bottom of the Timberline lift and it’s seemingly impossible long line. We take a last run through the terrain park where we fail miserably at photographing some jumps and almost all crash disastrously.

We exit Copper without emotion, trying not to think about what we’re leaving. We head towards Silverthorne and our hostel, the Alpen Hutte, where we’ve reserved the last three available beds. Since the hostel doesn’t open its doors until 4 o’clock, we park the car and, craving Kentucky Fried Chicken, embark on an adventure with the Summit County bus system. Its map seems decipherable. Waiting anxiously inside the station’s hut, I slurp down some hot sauce with snow – I’m hungry.

We end up with a grand tour of Dillon and Silverthorne. We could have walked to the transfer station in three minutes but instead take a half-hour ride. Eventually we find the KFC we’ve been questing for but miss the return bus to Dillon. It’s snowing hard and the wind is picking up.

Dave’s instincts from a summer traveling Alaska kick in, and as the weather keeps deteriorating, a thumb from his lanky arm goes out in hopes of a ride. We wander in a general direction and eventually, without hitchhiking, stumble upon the Backcountry Brewery on Main St. in Frisco. It’s not as good as Dillon Dam. The beers lack flavor and the place is too busy. They seem more worried about catering to tourists like us than the local constituency we hope to find.

We move down the street and slip into Po’ Boys – it’s packed with attitude and good tunes, and a dollar cheeseburger during happy hour, to boot. The woman of our dreams– a blonde with a Scandinavian accent – is serving us beer. She was a good hire because the three of us hang around as long as our wallets agree.

A couple blocks down we find a beacon of the old mountain town, a local hole called the Moosejaw. It’s cheap, only sporting two beers on draught, and has taped up wooden stools that must be a safety hazard. Ceran wrap seals the space where a window used to be and an enormous plaster hand with an outstretched finger looms overhead pointing you to the restrooms. We fit the dress code still donned in ski regalia – other places might have expected something classier.

The weather isn’t better when we emerge, but at least we are warmed by a couple pints. Hunting for the elusive bus becomes increasingly frustrating as an hour passes. The wind exposes us – thumbs are outstretched again. Passes are made by ten SUV’s with only a driver and we’re curious about their obvious gaze at the other side of the road trying to avoid us, especially when several two-doors stop and see if they can help out, but they’re all headed the wrong direction.

Finally a bus shows up and takes us back at the Alpen Hutte. We quickly unload my Subaru, which looks like a clown car at this point. It’s packed to the brim with stinky luggage. In the conservative culture of America, our hostel is trying hard to live up to its European counterparts. I flashback to the Salmon Weir in Galway, Ireland and eight different nationalities all spouting stories in the broken pieces of languages none of us really knew. Those images aren’t rekindled by the Alpen Hutte living room.

Though dogs roam the living room and swigs of beer are taken in between pauses of conversation, everyone seems to be just passing time. The owner says the hostel is full but there are barely a handful of people in the common area. As diverse as it seems, everyone remains separate in their ethnic groups while a European hostel seems to have a power of bringing people together in a collective experience of travel.

We never get comfortable and the fact that it’s not particularly cheap doesn’t help. We’re charged over thirty dollars for a space with no linens and a shitty pillow, no breakfast and a midnight curfew. Contrary to its free spirited image, the hostel is a tightly run ship in a jam-packed town.

Our distracted wandering for food makes it too late for a trip to Breckenridge; by the time we arrived we’d just have to turn around. We quickly escape the clutches of the hostel, diving in and out of side streets we don’t know, aimed for the bus station. A local jumps on the bus with us and we ask for guidance. We find out it’s his first night out in Dillon after moving from Breckenridge. He’s looking desperately for foosball in a stupor of marijuana and booze and he’s coming up empty handed. He drunkenly chastises us for trying to travel this late to Keystone or Breck, so we loosen on grip on the reins of fate and see what plays out when we follow him to a local joint called Pug Ryans.

Immediately in the door we find the ATM busted. Our new friend furiously exits because he doesn’t have any cash. We find ourselves a seat next to the place’s fish tank and open our ears. The place brings a good vibe right away as I watch the hated Cowboys season slip away in front of my eyes when their celebrated rookie quarterback fumbles a snack on the last play of the game.

The place is really breathing and everyone working seems to have a good time. They playfully jostle with their patrons – a British accent behind the bar leads to high fives and hugs around. Shouts are sent around the bar. In the corner are five girls playing a card game. We get free bread sent over to our table. Warm talk abounds of the ski day past and the neighboring table even donates some of their leftover ribs. Another round of beers makes its way to the table while a waiter takes a shot with friends.

We think we’re lined up for a return bus trip at quarter after eleven, which gives us plenty of time to get back to the hostel before it locks its doors at midnight. After shivering out in the bus station for too long, we realize something has gone wrong. Closer inspection of the faded schedule peeling off the wall reveals we were reading the weekday times – it’s Friday. We frantically call a cab company but they tell us a ride is just not going to happen because the few on duty are already busy.

So we start running in the general direction of Silverthorne. We’re laughing raucously in the dark while the odd car passes us wildly. Breathing heavily, I keep pulling the drawstrings on my hood tighter to shield my face from the cold. Dave’s beard is crusted with ice. It’s very possible we won’t make it back in time.

The shore of Lake Dillon appears on our left, letting us know we’re not too far off. At this point we’re cutting it awfully close to sleeping in the car. Jogging backwards, downhill, on the side of an icy Rt. 6, a car responds to our desperate thumbs. It noisily veers over to the shoulder and just when I think it might clear us out like bowling pins, comes to a stop.

I don’t know if I have room for all of you but how far are you going?

Before he finishes his sentence we’re packed into the backseat of his aging BMW. Its windshield is cracked and the engine sputters, then stalls out, whenever we stop at a red light. Maybe we’re not going to make it out of this one alive – I envision the driver skipping past the road that leads to our hostel while the three of us exchange glances and from the backseat I’ll give Jeffries a tap and nod and when the driver has come to a stop and has to turn the engine back over we’ll make our move; it will be a quick jab to the head and Jeffries will dive out the door, hiding behind it while keeping it open for me and Dave to escape. My paranoid vision evaporates when the driver delivers us pretty much to the doorstop of the Alpen Hutte and after many thanks we wish him luck getting to Vail. Who knows how far that car made it.

When we get inside, the hostel seems even less friendly than before. Our room smells like sweat and stink. We all suffer under the heat that’s choking after the temperature outside. We’re awake most of the night even without blankets. Rolling around uncomfortably, I just keep reminding myself we’ll be at A-Basin in the morning.

My eyes crack open and I’m struck by the oppressive funk; it makes me double step my morning routine. I stumble out of the bunk after my phone vibrates against my face – it’s Drew. Luckily he’s not calling and asking where we are, because our party is still two thirds asleep. Drew’s stuck in traffic, but I still force everyone moving. After living with Jeffries for three years, I know the extent of his morning lethargy. I make as much noise as my snow pants can manage and eventually they grumble and rub their fists against their faces.

A black lab rests peacefully by the fire in the hostel’s living room – two paws grounded while its head rests on the others perched up on the mantle. The room is much quieter than last night but the tender seems unmoved, still watching TV, still reclined in the closet of a reception room. His frayed gray hair and permanent dishevelment makes him looks like a mannequin on display, a relic confined to his workspace where he’ll serve his function and expire in time – hopefully after midnight.

The roads haven’t improved since last night, and after some greasy Mickey D’s rises to the challenge of crushing our hangovers, we tenderly drive past Keystone Resort and climb another ten minutes to A-Basin – the Legend. Our cautious driving is vindicated after passing a red Civic that was on the wrong end of a fight with a bus; its hood is pressed up against its windshield. A couple miles later we hook a right into locals’ paradise – there aren’t a whole lot of mountains left where you can park not only for free, but within a short walk to the lift.

There aren’t any lines but the whipping wind makes the morning painful. The arctic temperature can’t keep smiles off faces though, and the sun manages to withstand the snarling gusts. There’s no cell phone reception, so I wait, huddled inside my jacket on the lookout for Drew and Arienne, who we’re supposed to meet. I’ve known Drew for a couple years and he’s already living the vision I had for myself, moving out West with a cute girl that loves to ski, working at a ski shop and riding every day that he has off.

Finally everyone arrives and my reservations over paying the fifty dollars for a lift ticket dissipate once the lift crests and A-Basin’s three hundred and sixty five degree view unravels. Dave is gone almost as soon as we’re off the lift, disappearing quickly with his now infamous phrase, “fuck it.” It’s his version of magician’s “abracadabra.”

We ride through the morning but dip inside after only a few runs to thaw out. When we emerge from the creaking lodge the weather is balmy by comparison when we arrived; I can actually feel my toes.

We finish the day of skiing at a particularly bad time for traffic, especially since we’re headed back through the mountains to Boulder, where our friend from school has volunteered his basement for us. It will be a good jumping off point for us in the morning when Jeffries and Dave need to get to the airport. Before the trip back though, we determine that pizza is certainly in our best interest after a hard day of skiing, so we head to Breckenridge’s Downstairs at Eric’s.

The pizza joint is a collage of sports paraphernalia, TVs and general insanity that’s overwhelmed by a clanging from the glowing arcade set in between the two dining rooms. I first came here with my dad almost eight years earlier and skied his favorite run today at A-Basin called Standard. It starts tamely and towards the end you start to wonder what the double diamond on the sign is all about. Then you rear to a stop because you can’t see the slope anymore, just the lodge a couple hundred vertical feet seemingly right under your skis.

It’s nervy, just scooting close enough to see the moguls that pock the steep pitch underneath a little ridge. Rocks and stumps peek out from under a noticeably thin snow pack. Skiing it this time around makes me realize how much physically stronger I am than the first time I visited Colorado.

Another run put me back in my place. The route was a four foot fide, unmarked chute pocketed secretively in the sprawling trees. After carefully edging past some rocks and straightlining through the chute’s hourglass middle barely a full ski length wide, I flew past Jeffries and Drew. I felt like a runaway truck with burnt out brakes, but I didn’t have an emergency ramp, only an imposing mass of trees below me. I’m smiling now though, merrily reciting the story over greasy slices and a weaving of tales that criss-cross the table.

The drive home is the worst of the trip; we’re crammed in between everyone’s luggage and the car barely crawls through the mountains. After the road finally unclogs, we hit a spot just after Idaho Springs where the wind must slice through a gap in the mountains and causes a whiteout; we’re completely blind. I don’t know whether to slam on the brakes or keep moving at the same speed and it’s like a game of Russian roulette.

We turn the music off thinking it will make it easier to see. Jeffries’ hands are pressed against the ceiling and every muscle in my body is tense. Only Dave is calm in the back, blissfully ignorant and unable to gauge the situation because he’s blocked in on all sides by ski equipment. I let go of the gas for a few seconds, coasting, before two red lights dimly appear and relief crashes into my brain. I breathe again.

Just out of the foothills we crush three snowboards that are strewn across the road, though we surely must not have been the first to hit them. I mentally thank Drew and Arienne for taking my skis in their car so I didn’t have to leave them to the fortunes of my untrustworthy ski rack. Over three hours later, double the normal time, we make it into Boulder after the scariest drive of my life.

The decor of some homes says so much about its inhabitants. I think of Jeff’s parents, who wanted a ranch style house with a southwestern motif years before they moved to Arizona. It was obvious in their Virginia suburban house they had earthy tones and artwork with Native American motifs. When they moved to Denver, they at least could see some mountains before minimizing to the single floor when both children went to school. They finally made the move to Phoenix last year, actually realizing what they had been invoking for years.

The same goes for Zach’s house, but instead of desert and adobe there are evangelical books and biblical adages adorning the wall. After staying in basement, I notice how everything is religious on the main floor and it makes me a little uncomfortable while we eat a light breakfast of eggs and bagels.

After I get Jeffries and Dave to the airport I’m on my own for the first time, but I decide to bum around Denver for the night and give my body a little rest. That night I slept in my eighth different place since I left home. For some reason, Jeff, who Ashley and I stayed with our first night, seems reluctant to put me up for the night. I force my hand because I don’t have much of an option.

He’s still scared by his decision; I can tell by the way he doesn’t want to get settled. Everything is still packed in boxes after almost two weeks, like college might not be over, or his parents are going to call him back, apologize and say bring yourself home. Maybe it’s easier for me to say that as an observer while he’s still trying to cope with such a shift in life.

I’m alone in what is supposed to be Jeff’s bedroom, but he sleeps in front of the TV and is out early to rest for his accounting job the next morning. My thoughts drift to more unnerving areas listening to the sad tones of Jose Gonzalez. Even though we talk every day, I’m miserable at letting Ashley know how much I miss her over the phone.

Seeing a Woodstock ‘99 poster, still stowed in a moving box, makes me think of my mom, who chaperoned us there when I was just fourteen. She’s always allowed me the freedom to move and try new things; I promise myself I’ll call her tomorrow. Lack of permanence is starting to wear down my spirits as my eyelids close together.

By the time you reach your goal, tongues will be twisted,

to the point where you'll lose track of your soul,

distorted pictures is all you deliver.

It’s miserable driving from Denver to the mountains everyday, so I’m trying to arrange something more permanent to abbreviate the drive. Without anything settled, I head back to Copper. I had been hooked up with the number for a kid named Ian but he never returned my message. Maybe I’ll have to call Jon, my slightly estranged roommate from sophomore year but Arienne gave me foreboding reports of the people Jon is staying with as disgustingly rude and generally unbearable. Heading up to Breckenridge again I wonder if they’re as bad as she suggests and concoct scenes in my head. I imagine something akin to a Jackass movie with incessant harassment of innocent people and beer cans littering the house.

The ski day turns out to be full of chatter. I meet a wife whose husband was in the army for many years; her children are both struggling with their undergraduate degrees, one as an actor, and the other as an architect.

My third is a photojournalism major still twelve credits short sand now waiting tables in Breckenridge. The school messed up her transcript and she’s too pissed off to even go finish school. She might be done for good.

Even a mother can admit the lifestyle sucks you in.

Another parent offered me their home after hearing of my plan for bumming around, although it wasn’t quite hers, it was her daughter’s.

After already giving me the number she asked, you aren’t a drug dealer, are you? Because if you are, then, don’t call her.

I rode up with a first-time snowboarder. She was quiet and obviously prepared for the worst. But friends were taking her along, trying to teach her the intricacies of unloading from the lift. Their attempts to console her alerted me that what I was missing today was someone to ride with. It’s been so long since I’ve been out without a companion, someone to rant about the ski runs past or what part of the mountain to ride next and I sit glumly in silence.

On another ride up I talk with Molly, who just moved to Copper from Seattle. She came out here to see some different mountains after working at Mt. Baker for two years. For some people, this is just the life they love.

Some of the workers speak very poor English and a lot of them come in and ask me for help because I can speak a little Spanish. There is such an enormous disparity in wealth, with most people either filthy rich or dirt poor but in love with the spirit.

I end the day by relaxing in the sun at the base of the mountain. Watching me claw at the top of a can of chicken noodle soup with a knife must be a spectacle. I’m vainly trying to pry the sustenance out of the can with my unbuckled ski boots sliding across the wooden deck like ice skates. A man from Iowa interrupts my efforts, asking me if I’m a local, and after several weeks here I feel obligated to say yes.

Finally breaking into the can I take a seat and scoop most of the soup onto a plate. My slurping instead of using a spoon spills the soup straight onto my black t-shirt. Unfazed by my mess, he goes on to tell me why he’s here without me asking. I halfheartedly listen, soaking up the sun and peering up at the halfpipe.

I worked IT for many years. Now I’m forty so I think I’ll buy a ‘Vette. Or get back into skiing. I need something to cure my midlife crisis.

He laughs and looks for a similar response. I don’t give him one, and he hurriedly bids me ado. Suddenly I can’t be bothered by the idle chatter from vacationers. I finish my meal, soaking up the soup with some pieces of bread, and casually take a few more runs before confirming that I can spend the night with Jon.

We’ve been through the friendship spectrum. Once roommates, we ended living together on caustic terms. After living separately for two years, we get along without any bad blood. As it turns out, when I give him a call, he’s staying in a condo given to him and some professional skiers for the week while they film around the mountain. He enthusiastically extends an invitation, and although I’m excited by the hint of celebrity, I try not to take the offer too quickly.

When I arrive at their condo in Breckenridge with a housewarming case of beer it’s nothing like Arienne’s report. Simon Dumont, a young skiing phenom, sits idly at the table with the keys to his Hummer spinning in his hand. Peter and Michael Olenick, two brothers from Aspen, and TJ Schiller, a gold medal winner at last year’s X-Games, are lounging quietly in front of the television with bottles of Gatorade rather than beer. They’re only around for one night before they have to go to a competition in Sun Valley, Idaho. I’ll see them on TV next week when the X-Games begin, but all I can think is how they all seem so much smaller in real life.

Jon introduces me to everyone and they politely return hellos. He fits the look of extreme sports, with a thick frame and a tan face from skiing daily in the sun. Long bleached hair protrudes from the holes in a home knit hat. He’s putting me up for two nights in a condo that must go for well over a thousand dollars a week.

I’m fraught with jealousy over them getting paid absurd amounts of money to play in the snow. Simon is on a contract with Target that pays him over $400,000 as a base, doing what I call a hobby. “Smelly” Pat paces in and out of the kitchen with the phone pressed against his ear, mouthing for us to shut the fuck up while he gives an interview.

I feel like an intruder when we stop by their favorite pizza joint, X-Treme Pizza for dinner and, shoot a few games of pool. They roar into the restaurant like movie stars, and to some people out here, like me, they’re more than that – they’re heroes. I sheepishly sit at the table while they woo our waitress with overly polite language every time she walks by flashing smiles and asking what she’s doing after work.

They carom from table to table, knocking beer onto plates of pizza and peering over shoulders to get a better look at some video footage they’re watching on portable video cameras. Many of them have baggy pants on with overly big shirts like you might see on a child when it’s time for bed. They’re screaming obscenities across the restaurant while employees look on, vainly trying to limit the damage. By the time we get through dinner most of the other patrons have evacuated the scene.

Later that night a couple of us decide to poach on a jacuzzi at another condominium community because ours is closed. On the way out, Peter Olenick eyes up the space between two cars that are parked against the curb. They’re making the normally two lane street precariously narrow for his vehicle that is a borderline monster truck. When he hits the side-view mirror of one car, he quickly throws it into reverse.

Getting out and looking at the damage he laughs, and in disbelief says I can’t believe I thought my car was going to fit through there.

Without further remorse or any effort to apologize to anyone, we jump into his sister’s station wagon and head for the hot tub.

We’re sharing the bubbling water with a liftie and Breckenridge native named Shannon.

I hate it when people suggest that they didn’t know people actually came from this area – they don’t know that my parents make a living off their tourism. They used to lead activities around the area but now they manage a travel website that’s basically a gateway for people to find stuff to do in Breckenridge.

I want to ask her where she’s traveled. Surely her view of tourists and travelers must be skewed from being part of the destination. I wonder if she’s left this town or this state. I understand a certain amount of bitterness towards visitors, but I can’t help but wonder if she isn’t jealous over their journey? If one of the advents of travel is discovery, she must have learned to stem that flow of curiosity. I feel sorrow for those who haven’t left where they were born and raised. How much can you really know about yourself if you don’t know about anything else?

Again I think of George Santayana writing about travel.

There is an acrid savor in their elderly sweetness: they believe they have missed something which they pretend to despise.

But I don’t think someone who has lived their life in one place is bittersweet about their unmoving. Many people probably think of vacationing as frivolous movement. If everything is provided for in a certain place – there’s food to eat and air to breathe – what more is there to find anywhere else. Sadly, in a time with more opportunity for movement and learning than ever before, some still plod from the beginning until the end, possibly cheated of an unfound love or undiscovered conversation.

I can’t trust that everything will be found in one place; it feels like a constant flame is burning just behind me and whenever I slow down for too long it flares up, pushing me forward. I hope I leave this world still teeming with curiosity, dissatisfied with the little I know.

My second night in Breckenridge is different than the first. The condo was less crowded. Even though I’m crashing on the floor of some of a condo full with the best skiers in the country, there is hardly a lick said about skiing, which is a relief for me. Even though I’ve skied since I was five, I feel like I can’t contribute to their stories of competition or mastering a difficult trick.

They spend most of their time talking about, and then actually chasing girls, like most sexually overcharged twenty something’s. You certainly can’t blame them; they spend ninety percent of their time with men, and the ratio in a ski town is something cruel like eight guys to one girl. Even the lone female in the house, Meg Olenick, is used to their lewdness, accepts it, and uses some of the same crude language.

Early in the evening, when Simon urges me to go get more beer from the fridge, I take a jump towards the kitchen and slip backwards on the heel of my sweatpants. On the way down I jam my chest into the corner of the counter, ripping both my shirt and my skin open. The room goes silent and starts spinning a little, while I lay there not knowing whether to cringe or smile. Later that night, Dumont almost meets the same lethal corner with his face when he somersaults out of a wrestling move applied by Jon in the living room.

Despite their seemingly reckless behavior and their thoughtless attitude, many of the skiers I stayed with were sincerely dedicated to advancing their sport. TJ Schiller and Peter Olenick were on the mountain with photographers before the sun rose. Their day was hours old by the time I struggled out from under the covers. They endlessly critique each other on hours of video footage compiled on a laptop. I can only watch in awe and reassure myself that what I’m watching isn’t done by someone supernatural; they’re right next to me on the couch.

Jon and his friends’ time in the condo is up the next day and I’m losing track of my dreams, of what I’m really doing out here. Most mornings I wake up with my mouth like sandpaper from a dehydrating day of skiing and then little to nothing except beer to drink in the evening. It feels like I haven’t slept in months. Without any income I worry about my slimming funds. I rejoice when it hits thirty degrees out, because when the sun peeks out from behind the snowy clouds my entire body warms underneath my ski clothes.

United vs. Wizards

2007-07-04T11:30:00.000-07:00

On our rainy July 4th up in Ithaca I'm watching United play in front of what looks like about 700 people in Kansas City and even that number feels generous. The production on Mls TV online wasn't bad although what is probably a combination of my internet connection, computer and not quite top of the line technology yet from MLSNet left the picture quality pretty subpar.

Anyways, on to the game. What a different display of finishing by the Wizards after the clinical show at the season opener at RFK. Today it's been pitiful from all angles and personnel, although credit due to Troy Perkins for making his share of special saves especially in one on one.

Clyde Simms and Devon McTavish look suspect in the back. Simms especially is overly cautious to the point where it makes things more difficult and ultimately dangerous situations. Emilio continues his hot streak, exploiting some lazy defending inside the Wizards SIX YARD BOX. LAZY... INSIDE THE SIX YARD BOX.

A nice chance to see what Dominic Mediate could bring to the table, although after a full 45 minutes that contribution was rather tame. Greg Vanney looked civilian although solid in the back which is a rather stark description when lined up against a typical Facundo Erpen performance.

One word that sums up the game from both sides: soft. Maybe it was the heat. Maybe the middle of the season and middle of the week game in front of next to no fans. Game should have been buried once or twice. Although it might seem nit picky, a couple players had the opportunity to put it out of reach in extra time. But I'm glad United is going to get the soft 3 points and take their perch on top of the Eastern Conference standings.

Man of the match ends up being shared by Troy Perkins and his left post that kept the Wizards out on two occasions. Now hopefully the rain will stop in time for some BBQ and fireworks.

US v Paraguay

2007-07-02T17:34:00.000-07:00

Just after discussing how Gilmore Girls makes me want to vomit, I actually found something more barf inducing - the United States' vile display of finishing. Absolutely pathetic, the word FINALLY used from one of the announcers on Gol TV who in both this game and the one against Argentina was very positive on the Americans.

Great effort, enormously disappointing result.

Thank God It's Ending Soon

2007-07-02T14:31:00.001-07:00

I have to move the computer close to my body as I write this so Ashley doesn't peer over my shoulder and lambaste me for every bitter word I have for the Gilmore Girls. This show, better understood as a virus that infests the minds of young women and slowly drives everyone around them insane, be it in their own house or on vacation until I'm soon worried that every public television will soon be simultaneously broadcasting seven years worth of speed talking white noise. I have nightmares about being bound and left in a room with a season of Gilmore Girls

Yes, I know how many seasons of Gilmore Girls exist. And I know Rory and Lorelai (although the spelling mystifies me) as the dispensers of hours of mindless banter promoted as witty chit chat. I'll be frank: it makes me want to shove sharpened #2 pencils into both my ears before I hear the theme song again. If the grandmother on the show was in anyway related to me I'd make sure she met a quick but extremely painful end. Or I hope they both get eaten by a shark.

At least it's almost over. The bitching never ceases and the selfishness of the characters is enough to vomit over. I hope that my youngest sister, who adores the show, doesn't take after any of them. I'm overjoyed the final show is apparently next week. More than a half hour of their back and forth snipping is something Dick Cheney should look into using on some detained terrorist suspects - no more than that though for fear of consequences in an international court. It's worse than Chinese Water Torture. I can only hope that a special guest appearance from Kiefer Sutherland leaves a trail of bodies behind and no hope for any sort of reunion down the road. Or I hope they get eaten by a shark.

I'm pretty upset with myself for having paid enough attention to be forced into writing this.

USA - Argentina

2007-06-29T19:00:00.000-07:00

Like most of American soccer fans, I wrote off this game as hopeless and little more than an opportunity to practice (and fail) defensively for 90 minutes against some of the most prolific attacking players in the world. And like most fans I had to rub my eyes in disbelief when I saw the referee point to the spot after Eddie Johnson first stumbled over the ball for a few seconds before gratefully taking a foul and putting the US up 1-0.

At halftime I thought we could get out of this at 1-1. If anyone on the American side had stayed after practice for some free kicks they would have had a crack at taking the game as their own. Instead, with the tremendous defensive effort beginning to take a toll, Bob Bradley took a peek at his notecards and decided on Eddie Gaven to change the game.

Most readers are now ready for my lambasting of his laziness and overall ineptitude on the international level. Well, that's as far as I'm going to take it. But I should add one other thing. I feel bad for Gaven that he was placed on the field at that critical moment. It was truly embarrassing and I'm sure he wanted to go stick his head in a hole on the right side of the field the moment he saw Lionel Messi target his dribbling at Gaven's trembling feet.

Now the game was not lost by poor Eddie G. Team USA ran out of gas after a monumental display of defensive, and at times skillful offensive, pressure. While the postgame press conference has the Argentinian coach lauded his team for their offensive patience and persistence, it was evident they were flustered by a youthful American team unwilling to sit back and get shit on. Unsurprisingly the man leading the charge was DC United's Hercules, Benny Olsen, and it was a pleasure to watch. If only his legs could be five years fresher, he would be a joy to have around in the years to come and help the youth along in this program. Kudos to Team USA for 60 minutes of wonderful soccer, and the same to Argentina for showing their class in producing four goals of the highest level.

DC - Colorado 6/28

2007-06-29T11:48:00.000-07:00

I'll just make this brief. I was glad to see United recover from what could have been a dagger off Jacob Peterson's head. The backline was obviously fragile and consistently produced poor distribution. That the early goal proved not to unravel the team that also lost starting forward in the earlygoing was comforting and inspiring to a fan.

After the debacle in Utah there was no doubt a despairing emotion after seeing United fall behind again. Then there was the fortuitous penalty call that many people couldn't see without a replay but referee Alex Prus got just right. Good - Gomez buries the penalty. Bad - Nicholas Addlery doesn't bury the shot just before from the penalty spot in the run of play, something that will be critical down the road in the playoffs.

There has been a sometimes not so quiet murmuring that Clavijo is on a short rope as the Rapids head coach. After watching this game I'd have to be a supporting voice in hurrying his departure. The city of Denver (or at least a near suburb) just sprung for a new stadium. Their team is on a four game skid. Coach pulls the squad's defensive stopper out of a midfield against a DC team whose strength continues to be distribution from Gomez right up the pipe. As soon as I saw that sub I knew United's chances were just bumped up to bring home three points and it only took a couple seconds for Addlery to battle home a header.

Glad to see United get back on track after a miserable effort against Salt Lake the game before. Moose looked tireless in his effort, maybe he's learned something valuable just by watching Ben Olsen pour his guts out every game even if Moose doesn't have the finer skill set quite yet. That said, his Gomez imitation scoop pass over the backline should have earned him a point if Emilio could, and should have, slotted the ball home.

Fred gets on the board finally and Emilio keeps on producing even though he could have put the game at leisure before the lightning. Good result and not a bad game given the haphazardly produced back four.

Travelin' Light - Part V

2007-06-29T10:58:00.000-07:00

I fell off the face of the blogging earth for a while... sorry for anyone that might have missed me.

** If you want to read this whole piece from the beginning, check out previous post listings in May and start at Senior Project

The green and black comforter I brought is a little piece of home which, along with Spike, the stuffed dog Ashley gave me, is one of the few comforts I travel with. Dropping Ashley off at the airport was just twenty-four hours ago, but it feels like a distant memory. I’m still feeling the effects of little sleep on New Year’s, but yesterday, ski patrol told us that Tucker Mountain, Copper’s little outpost of backcountry hiking, would open today. Mark and I are determined to put our skis down first on its untracked face, so we’re up before the sun, frying eggs in darkness while the rest of the house sleeps.
We warm up by taking laps on the Mountain Chief lift, dutifully eyeing the area where the snowcat will pick up skiers and carry them where no lift is in place. We arrive in line behind only the Copper Mountain Pro Team. They’re going up to scan the best area’s and film for Copper’s website. The rest of our crew arrives, and we learn we’ll be the first of the public on Tucker Mountain this year. The locals eye us a little warily while we lounge on the snow, munching down some backpacked lunch with a portable Ipod stereo playing.
The snowcat gracefully carves out a groomed highway down a gap in the steeply tilted bowl of the mountain; ten of us pile into its small cab. Most of us have helmets locking our goggles over our eyes.
Detecting emotion was like trying to read a poker player, but the ski patrol didn’t soothe any nerves. If you make a wrong turn up on the Taco, we’re looking at a slide for life situation.
I tell Brad that after knowing him for so long, I don’t want to be the one making the phone call to his parents that their son died sliding down a trail named for a Mexican snack.

We’re dropped off almost a mile away from the avalanche blasted area safe for skiing. The hike is daunting. None of us are in peak physical form and ski boots don’t smooth the effort any. Phil, our group’s lone snowboarder, and I lead the pack with adrenaline urging us on. By the end, Phil is almost stripped to his boxers despite the frigid air above twelve thousand feet. Dripping with sweat and drooling at the steep glades, we impatiently wait for the rest of our friends.
The next forms to appear over the ridge, though, are unrecognizable. Some of the next snowcat’s passengers have passed our friends. For fear of losing out on the untouched path, we unapologetically drop into fresh snow up to our knees. The first couple turns are a feeling out process, switching from the typical style of groomed or thin snow to the task of clearing out our own path. We turn less, gathering the speed needed for pushing between tightly packed trees. Every so often I see a little blur to my right, when Phil and I come close enough to high five, but relishing the run won’t come until we’re at the bottom.
My legs are on fire as I chase Phil down the mountain and the finish is capped by a little hop over a running creek. We have to climb our way out of the woods before collapsing, exhausted, next to the lift and staring up at our freshly carved paths, grinning broadly at the art we’ve just created.

Between the hiking and marathon runs, I’m left spent for the day. In some down time waiting for the rest of the group, I decide to inspect the bottom of my skis where I felt some rocks under the snow. The damage is worse than I thought – I absolutely shredded my skis. In just two long runs my skis chocked up four core shots. They’ll need a patch up trip to the repair shop to fill the dime sized holes in the epoxy of my skis where the wooden base is exposed.
On the way around to the base side of the mountain, I ride up the lift with a kid with rainbow styled Armada skis. He looks about my age, and we talk about school for a while before I find out he’s a sixth year senior finance major from Littleton. We both smile knowingly after he stutters on sixth year. The battered skis he has on might be part of the reason for the delay and I silently wish that I had the guts to join him on his extended adventure.

This morning I was selfish and amassed excuses so I could take those first tracks of the year on Tucker Mountain. My roommate from school, Jeffries, wanted me to pick him and his friend up at the airport that morning but I had to tell him it just wasn’t going to happen. When I arrive at the base, quadriceps burning from the day of hiking and capped by the last draining trip down Glade 1, our last additional roommates were waiting outside.
They both get their first Western skiing experience on January 3. Jeffries is a soccer player with strong legs, stocky, and looks made for skiing fast, big arcing turns. He sports aging, neon green Scott goggles and takes to his new wide open surroundings with ease. Dave is the polar opposite and we lose him every fifteen minutes. While he has the thick beard associated with comfort in the wilderness, he’s nervous about skiing on a mountain this size and slips away, sometimes intentionally.
He picks at the snow with his poles and often slides slowly down the steep entry to runs. You guys just go ahead I’ll find you later. I don’t want to slow you down.
He’s not a bad skier, just extremely timid in an environment that doesn’t reward shyness. Skiing in the Rockies is an activity that often rewards a little audacity and courageousness. Some moments require disregarding the risks of injury or fear of falling if you want to look over your shoulder and see that you’ve conquered something that seemed impossible.

In the afternoon I get to make my triumphant return to the Dillon Dam Brewery. I point out the best pints and generally organize the operation – with that many people it really does turn into an operation. With Mark taking full advantage of the happy hour specials, we raise a ruckus and take an unceremonious leave among families arriving for a peaceful dinner.
When we arrive back at Copper, the party spills into a bar crawl around the village. We’ve been running around on a frozen pond in t-shirts before settling by a blazing campfire. Brad and Jeffries convince two of the girls that I’m training for a new Olympic sport called Ice Running. By the looks of it, I probably wouldn’t win the gold, as I retire next to a fire, bruised and shivering.
We all take a place around a bonfire formerly occupied by more reasonable vacationers that scurry away upon our noisy approach. We tilt our necks up in awe at the moon and, because of the shifting clouds, determine it’s moving at an amazing pace across the night sky. We scream our heads off in gleeful dismay; the world could end at any moment and we wouldn’t be disappointed.

With Natrisha’s impending departure in two days, I start to consider other places to sleep. Luckily the next couple of couches are lining themselves up without much of a fight – Breckenridge, Boulder, then Denver. I’m calling anyone I can get a number for: friends of friends.
Each day I’m waking up later as my body wears down a little bit, working on ten days of skiing in a row. When I’m on the lift, my vocabulary shifts towards “my” mountain or “us” as if I’m a local. I’ve convinced myself that this is where I belong. Even though the group in the condo hasn’t been together all that long, I’m already looking forward a little bit to the freedom from the familiar group and staying with some new faces. I feel again, that I need to move. Why cross the country and live nomadically for a month if I’m just going to fall into another routine?

Since my skis needed repair from yesterday, I got my older pair tuned and waxed. They feel great, and riding on them is like reacquainting with an old friend. Their now perfect edge, reborn from what used to be depraved and rusty, makes for a nice boost out of the halfpipe. The relatively new addition to mountain landscapes, carved out late at night by enormous machines called ‘pipe dragons’, is my challenge for the trip.
Few mountains in the East offer this type of imposing feature with eighteen foot vertical walls. When approached with enough speed it leaves you’re left floating out of the lip into the crystal blue, before turning and briefly planting your skis before again launching into a few glorious moments of zero gravity.
While most people at Copper are here on vacation and say it’s just for fun, I’m out here determined and sweating as I climb back up to the top of the pipe. I wonder what gives me the elation of conquering a new level of achievement, when I climb just a little higher into the air or land just a little smoother. And I realize it’s the sheer hazard of challenging the new. Even though I have a helmet on, I’m pushing myself beyond reasonable limits. The same reason I decided to drive instead of fly – because others said I was crazy to do it.
At some point in life we need some recklessness – as when people go skydiving or bungee jumping. At the onset this trip didn’t make a whole lot of sense; I’m broke and piecing together meals and beds. As much as people say that college is four years of learning and exposure to new, it ends up turning tedious towards the end – the same place, the same people.
So skiing becomes my little breath of fresh air that allows me to return refreshed and inspired regardless of any tedious day to day regularity. I’ll climb up the several hundred feet and drop into the halfpipe again, seeing if I can get more space between my skis and the top of the pipe than last time – maybe I’ll hear an ohhh from the lift – and hope that I don’t crash and ragdoll down the icy wall.

Our descent in the morning down Patrol Chute in Spaulding Bowl shows off some of Colorado’s best qualities and it takes some serious coaxing to get Dave into his first turn. Once we got him started on an easier route, we drop into a skinny route between to rock outcroppings. The top is steep and requires a couple quick jump turns in the thick snow. Powder punches us in the mouth after the sharp entry turn making for a refreshing wake up call.
Fresh tracks lasted late into the afternoon and we settle into a few beers, stretching our legs still heavy from the day’s workout. A man next door just gave us garlic and milk for some mashed potatoes making us feel a part of a shared community, working as a unit out of necessity. We’re working up a hearty dinner to refuel after this morning served up fresh snow that lasted all day long.
There’s no doubt I’m going to miss the people this condo brings together just feet from the lift. Emi and Phil are curled on the couch. Jeffries is headfirst in a book with Dave peering over his shoulder. Natrisha and Sarah are perched in the kitchen concocting a drink. Everyone seems perfectly content.
This is the last night we’ll all spend together and we talk about the future. We’re all studying in school – geology, business, physics, writing – and we all seem to want to push the near future away for enough time to “find ourselves” and what it is we really want to do. Maybe it’s the nature of the traveler, searching for what will make them stay put. Pico Iyer suggests when we travel to learn about other ways of life and see the beauty of the world, we often learn as much about ourselves.

About three-quarters of the way up the American Eagle lift I sneak into a couples conversation. I already recognized their accent as British and it turns out they’re on vacation from New Zealand.
So how long are you out here? Just for the week?
Hah, no no. We’ve already been here a week and are staying for three more. We drove up to Copper Mountain after a couple of weeks in Baja, Mexico. When you fly that far you don’t just stay for a week.
I’m moved by how easily they abandon home for long stretches. My family has never been away for more than what seems to me the typical week at a time. For me, that’s always been the prescribed vacation length; not too much time removed from reality but just enough time away to want back the conveniences and established social place of friends and occupation.
And when the lift crests at the top they’re gone from my life. People from those nationalities seem to be the happiest moving around – their own country is so beautiful it makes me wonder why. When I traveled through Europe last spring, sleeping in hostels of different shapes and sizes, I almost invariably ran into an Australian or New Zealander. Most were younger than twenty-five and not traveling, just living. When they left they didn’t have jobs lined up, only plane tickets.
The Australians obviously come for reasons other than the Jamaicans or Peruvians who mostly clean the rooms and load the lifts; it’s not adventure that drives them, it’s money. There are a whole range of privileges that define a person’s reason for traveling and movement from one place to another. Many try to find a role operating the mountain because that is where money can be made. You don’t need to speak perfect English to make more money here than you would at home.
One man I meet, Jeremy, came all the way from Kingston, Jamaica. He tells me he made the trip because work at home is very hard. He smiles after I introduce myself and says that his older brother is named Chris. We share our mutual thoughts about missing our families.
Leaving was very sad, but I talk to my family every day over the phone. I’m used to tourists because many people visit beaches of Negrad that are near my home, but I don’t know why people like this cold.
He works as a housekeeper, but after two months hasn’t yet tried skiing or snowboarding. Our talk makes me realize where I fit in this mountain society; I can afford not to work and still front as a so-called ski bum.
Skiing is one of the most luxurious sports in the world – apres-ski in fur coats, moving walkways at Beaver Creek to limit your physical exertion. The seduction of adventure is there if you want it. There are screaming turns in blistering wind, sex in the gondola, the romance of the hot tub, the thrill of a ski town night life under a dusting snow, where only the strong make it to last call and rise to ski in the morning. But someone still has to clean up the mess.

Throughout the trip I’ve been trying to plant seeds with anyone that might be worth a future contact. I make sure to ask locals what they do in hopes of a potential tip. What I find is that no matter what they do, almost all of them are happy.
One person from Denver works at a pizza shop and says I always take off Fridays and Saturdays for riding; one day for friends and the other day for my serious riding.
I’m deeply envious every time I hear this and wonder if it wouldn’t be such a bad deal. Then I consider the anxiety attack my mother would have upon hearing pizza delivery after four years of Ithaca College tuition.
While a cause of mine was what George Santayana describes as a traveler’s curiosity to discover new lands as inseparable from the desire to potentially appropriate them, I’m becoming blinded by the accumulating troubles of my transience. My clothes haven’t been washed in days and when I’m not on the slopes I’m bleary eyed from exhaustion. Talking to Ashley over the phone is getting old.
At least the wind died down today, except at the peak where the cold still pierces my jacket. On one lift ride I receive some much needed encouragement on my aspirations as a writer when a local assures me I’ll be fine after graduation because writing is such a valuable commodity.
Go where you want to be and you’ll find a place there. If it’s where you’re happy you can make a place for yourself.
He tells me he grew up in a military family moving every couple years. Now he’s found his own place, starting a business in Littleton about an hour away and shredding turns when the snow is good.
It’s easy to tell the locals apart from the outsiders just by their distinct dialect. Locals’ conversation is full of barely recognizable terms when they talk about the mountain – groms instead of young skiers or boarders, OB instead of out of bounds, or S-chair for the Sierra chair lift.
When I ride up with a group of three teenagers from Dillon, they speak at machine gun pace and I struggle to translate for myself. I mostly keep my mouth shut and listen. They jeer from the lift in between discussion about their new marijuana pipe that looks like an elephant. They don’t want to share their time with me.
After all, I’m in their space, intruding on the dream they’re living every day while I pretend, with a two hundred dollar ski jacket and an attempt at grace on the slopes. Maybe it’s just some ingrained competitive nature from a bustling suburban upbringing that whenever I do something, I need to compete with the next person. I notice many of the locals I meet aren’t even talented skiers, but for them that’s not necessarily what the mountain is about.

Most of the time I realize the experience is a mutual pleasure rather than a competition, and everyone loves a powder day. Two years ago, a friend got a ski pole jammed between his legs by a pleasant looking middle aged woman fending us off the first chair. No friends on a powder day she yelled over her shoulder.
After the day ends a light snow is dusting the entire town. It’s so beautiful it’s almost cheesy. Mark and Dave are out snapping photos but I stay inside next to the fire, considering myself above this touristy behavior even though I’m sure I’ll ask him for copies later. I’ve been the tourist before, but this time I hardly spectate at all, aside from the unavoidable gawking at the enormity of the mountains.

I Want This Guy On My Team

2007-06-06T08:25:00.000-07:00

For anyone that likes beerpong or ping pong ball tossing related activities, this guy may be the greatest there's ever been.

http://www.costaricanproperty.net/ball.html

Travelin' Light - Part IV

2007-06-06T07:24:00.000-07:00

** If you want to read this whole piece from the beginning, check out previous post listings in May and start at Senior Project

After three days of skiing, Ashley and I were just getting comfortable when it was already time to move again. She’s starting an internship back in Ithaca and has to fly out the morning of New Years Day. Drew and Arienne, two friends that graduated from school last year, are helping to make our holiday in Denver a little less foreign. They’ve made their home in Lakewood, twenty minutes outside the city, and they take us in without question. They see in us some of the same spirit of adventure that brought them to Colorado just three months ago.
They’ve made their home where they happen to be, surrounding themselves with the familiar. A painting by Drew’s sister hangs above the fireplace next to the nose of his surfboard with the sandy wax still clinging to memories of last summer. A Christmas tree and cards from family are propped neatly upright and open on the table next to their couch – all tools easing the transition from one place to another, keeping an open connection until the local becomes their own.
Drew has heard of a nearby event with entertainment and an open bar. Ashley and I are sold with extravagant images of a New Year’s gala we arrive early in the night. We all exchange uncomfortable looks when we should be smiling for the photographer at the door. We wonder if we’re out of our league when the next couple enters sporting a suit and evening gown. I have on jeans and a collared shirt.
The room is a well-decorated, tiered dinner theatre under a high ceiling. But the performers are disappointing and the room stays mostly empty late into the night. Only the two comedians, who get laughed off stage, are worse than the musicians.
All along I’m lamenting the abundance of elderly in attendance. I get bolder with my volume until finally I’m chastised with some loud shhh’s to lower my voice from Drew and Arienne. Grinning, they point to the two senior citizens across the row from us. Things are getting dull before Drew is tapped on the shoulder. Some familiar faces arrive, fellow employees from his ski shop who are under the age of forty-five.
The saving grace of the evening is a long-haired karate master, who when he first emerges, we can’t definitively provide for his sex. Alone on stage, armed with various weapons and flowing blond hair, he at least performs his routine with some passion, probably envisioning enemies approaching a la the Matrix. Most of his segments are capped with an extravagant, leaping split. Each successive landing invokes cringes among the men but inspires furious applause that conveniently stifles the giggles evoked from the seriousness etched on the performer’s face.
Regardless of the strange circumstances, I’m glad to be holding Ashley when we count down the seconds. I’m reminded that sometimes, as bad as my skills are, I even enjoy dancing. Confetti drops and we cheers to the next three hundred and sixty five days before locking in a New Years kiss that we’ve never had through our two year relationship. Hugs are exchanged and the dancing begins with renewed energy.
Everything is beautiful until we pile into the backseat for our ride home. Only then does it set in that five hours from now, Ashley and I will separate at the airport. The conversation evaporates into a silent, brooding sadness of our impending separation. After Ashley lifts off towards Ithaca early this morning, I take the tired and hangover ridden drive back out to the mountains.

On my first days out I had been hellbent on introducing myself to everyone I could meet on the ski lift rides. I like getting little seven-minute peeks of who the people around me were and why they ended up on a mountain with heavy equipment strapped to their feet. I think about Edward Norton on the airplane in Fight Club and his “single serving friends.”
Riding by up alone seems like a waste because the lift is a perfect place for conversation. Two girls from Boulder were talking about a roommate who was causing trouble and promised me they weren’t bitches. What better place though for confessions of grievances? On the lift, people often mention where they’re from, assuming they’ll be alien and unfamiliar. One couple is from Potomac, Maryland.
Before they turn away, I smile and say that I’m from practically down the street. It’s funny to gauge peoples’ reactions: One will almost fly out of their seat, joyfully indulging in our shared background; the next will wish they hadn’t spoken, disinterested in someone that isn’t more exotic. I often consider lying.
While I love hearing about different places when I travel, I don’t mind being around someone who’s taken nearly the same path. Hearing their story usually gave mine more clarity; I wasn’t just vacationing or taking the day off from work. I liked to tell them mine was an adventure full of uncertainty. Maybe if I was lucky they’d let me sleep on their couch. I typically tell them I’d like to return and ski for a while or after graduating I’d like to settle in Denver. Then again, maybe all those words are just like going to the grocery store hungry; once I get my fill of fun in the snow it’s possible my reasons will ring hollow.
This morning I’m just not in the mood as my mind lingers on Ashley’s departure. I try not to eavesdrop, but it’s not easy to tune out a conversation from a foot away. Most of the time if you’re riding solo and join a couple on the lift they’ll either invite you into conversation or give a polite hello and get on with their lives. I’m caught somewhere in between, uninvited but still sitting within earshot huddled up against the corner of the chair lift.
I just don’t know what to do… Her mother’s been on life support for eighteen months. At some point you just have to accept what is happening and not let it control your life and your emotions. At some point you just have to let go. I don’t know how to suggest that to my friend and that if she were in the same position she’d want a friend to do the same. What can you do except suggest mentally switching places with the sick person?
Without turning her head the woman aims her voice at me. What do you think?
I snap back from disconnectedly staring down at the passing snow.
Uhhh, I don’t know, I guess you’re right?
I can’t believe she’s asked for my thoughts, but she lets me off the hook as she looks at me and smiles.
You go skiing right?
Before I answer I reflect for just a second.
Yeah. You let go, and then you go skiing.
It reminds me of Raymond Carver’s story, “The Bath,” where the mother of a son, who has slipped into a coma, meets a random family in the waiting room of the hospital. Without any real cause she tells the whole day’s story, why she’s in the hospital and what happened to her son. Despair and uncertainty bring an impulse to share our experience with whoever we can.
In this place so distanced from a home, we find ourselves in isolated situations where it can be a relief to unload experience on people we’ll probably never see again. It’s as comforting as visiting a therapist who you know will keep your secrets safe. Instead of professional security you get the spongy ears of the mountain.

In the first days of traveling, my brain is occupied by overindulgence in the new. But after a couple days, when the escape starts to feel normal, I start to miss little conveniences. I feel disconnected without the internet which is such an integral attachment to the world for me at school. Some of the things, news about soccer and access to fresh music provide stability. It’s a habit that soothes me. I twitch at the thought of an overflowing email inbox.
When traveling, it’s necessary to strike a balance between keeping certain things we know close while at the same time casting off securities that come with regularity. Maybe that’s one of the beauties of moving and traveling: the chance to exercise the human capacity for new experience and drift from daily assurances. Creating that space makes it possible to recognize where we’ve been, and what it is we want to hold on to from each particular place we visit. We discover what we want to make our own.
Over the phone I find myself telling people that after going to the store I’m returning home, and then I clarify – to Copper. Is home really just where we park ourselves at night? I don’t think so, but it is so easy for me to attach quickly to this place I’ve been before, where there are familiar friends that are comfortable in the same place together. We’re all distanced from our normal lives, so we form that protective unit ourselves. We keep familiarity of where we come from through conversation and shared memories.

Democratice Debate - 6/03

2007-06-04T13:29:00.000-07:00

It was encouraging to witness a field of strong candidates on stage last night in New Hampshire and presents democratic and independent voters with a significant dilemma, albeit not necessarily an unwanted one, in determining a strong presidential candidate. Outside of the big three, I was fairly unfamiliar with where the other candidates were coming from and how they lined up against Clinton, Obama and Edwards.

Edwards seemed determined as the in house antagonist, frequently trying to expose shortcomings in the judgment of his colleagues on stage and we never learned a whole lot more about his plan for the presidency but more why the others shouldn't be nominated. Outside of strong performances from Obama, who was elegant and firm, and Clinton, although she was at times unconvincing when staving off allegations of poor leadership and misinformation on the war, Joe Biden showed impressively.

From a democratic who has taken what is at the time a particularly unique position for his party on voting FOR war funding, he was strong in defending his policy choices as well as unwilling to alienate himself from the other candidates by criticizing their particular choices.

We hear people telling everybody, "Just stop the war, Congress." We have 50 votes. We're busting our neck every single day. So I respect them. But look, I cannot, as long as there is a single troop in Iraq that I know if I take action by funding them, I increase the prospect they'll live or not be injured, I cannot and will not vote no to fund them.

In fact, the relative unity throughout the party appears as a good selling point. Still, I'm struck by how little attention Biden received despite being the loudest and honest one on stage. I suppose without the celebrity spotlight you're doomed to also ran in this election. The way Clinton positioned her arguments it appears she is bunkering down with her lead in the polls and the Democratic nomination may be hers to lose.

Travelin' Light - Part III

2007-06-03T12:30:00.000-07:00

** If you want to read this whole piece from the beginning, check out previous post listings in May and start at Senior Project

We wake up with the sun creeping in the window of Jeff’s hotel room; it naturally illuminates the space and pries open our eyes. The first thing we do is squint against the cold glass and debate whether the lights on my car are still futilely shining. We couldn’t get them to turn off last night despite flipping every switch in the thing. After some back and forth we decide that yes, miraculously, my car battery is not dead. With buoyed spirits, we hurry our few belongings back out of the room we entered less than twelve hours ago. It finally feels like we’ve arrived in Colorado.
The car starts without an issue. We give a short goodbye and thanks to Jeff with promises of returning soon. He’s moving into his new apartment today, alone, in downtown Denver. After graduating early from Western State College in December, he landed a job at a local accounting firm and is the first of my close friends to step out into the world. I’m still at least partially under my parents’ financial wings; without them I wouldn’t be able to make this journey. It all seemed a little far-fetched that Jeff would be working a nine to five though he looks comfortably ready for professionalism in his button down and neatly cropped hair.
He can be a little terse, and is often closed – so much that I often forget the dedicated artist and guitar player behind the mathematical mind. Later in the trip I would stumble on his sketchbook that holds nearly a hundred pieces of work. His friends have requested the tattoos for their own body, mostly from the array of tribal looking images that are Jeff’s favorite. It’s strange seeing him out of the backdrop of his home and his parents and his dog Raider, who I’d watched pass an entire lifetime.
In a couple of days, on January 2nd, Jeff begins what people around me keep calling real life. He says he’ll probably be too busy to snowboard, since the crunch on accounting starts now and extends through April; he’ll be working six day weeks until then. I cringe at the thought and pull out of the parking lot with my own youthful dreams of carefree skiing intact.
It feels like Ashley and I are escaping Denver. The grocery store was ransacked last night with the threat of another storm bearing down on the area. Reports suggested the weather would worsen throughout the day. As we start our drive into the mountains I imagine a snowstorm nipping at our heels, but just into the foothills I stop having to conjure up an image as snow begins dotting the windshield. It’s the first of our trip. By the time we pass Idaho Springs, about halfway between Denver and Dillon, we’re slowed to half the speed limit. Trucks start to stall on the stop-and-go climb.
After coming to a halt on an incline, we stare at the back of a semi like it’s the cart in front of us on a roller coaster. I wonder what’s inside as its tires spin vainly. It inches backwards towards the nose of my car and Ashley squirms when I whip just past the back corner. Not long after, a car coming in the opposite direction fishtails once before plowing into the median packed with snow. We ponder how the young woman inside is going to escape her car with drifts piled up against the edges of her windows. Heavier traffic in our direction might have been a blessing, forcing people into a little more caution on the tightly packed two-lane road.
There are still cars lodged in the shoulder, like bricks lain by a mortar of snow, from the past storm with orange ties around their antennas. The Eisenhower Tunnel is a welcome beacon of hope because the weather isn’t improving. It’s a sign that at least we’re not far from Summit County, home to several of the countries most vaunted ski resorts. The mouth of the tunnel splits Loveland Ski Area in half. As we burrow through our last physical barrier, I’m less worried about my white knuckles wrapped around the steering wheel than whether we can get on the slopes today.

We arrive at Copper Mountain too late. Most people are off the slopes by three in the afternoon, ignoring the temptation offered by another hour of turns. Everyone makes an effort to beat traffic but no one really succeeds. Ashley and I have a different, but equally frustrating issue. We’re stuck in the homeowner’s office of Mountain Plaza, the site of Natrisha’s condo at Copper’s base, trying to get the attention of distracted employees who are ruing their desks and wistfully peering out the window at the falling snow.
We’re slowly explaining to them that we’d like to move into Natrisha’s condo, although she won’t arrive until tomorrow. After a brief attempt at accommodation, they apologize for being full and send us away before returning to their cubicles where skis are propped against the wall instead of playfully sliding across nature’s playground. I don’t feel bad for them because we’re homeless again.
Summit County, Colorado, is not a good place to be without a reserved bed during the holidays. There’s simply nothing available. Flakes fall heavily as we bounce around from Frisco to Dillon and then to Silverthorne, from one no-vacancy sign to the next.
Teddy, a former soccer teammate at Ithaca, says he can give us a place in Winter Park, but that option just went from unappealing because of the weather, to impossible. Just an hour or so after we emerged from the tunnel, a rash of accidents forced police to close I-70 Eastbound. Even if we wanted to get to Winter Park, it would be hours before traffic moved.
A little more desperate, we continue our quest for a bed. We’ve resorted to asking places that claim unavailability and it finally it pays off. Ashley exits the lobby of the Luxury Inn with a look of unfortunate satisfaction. The room’s going to cost us $140, but at least we won’t have to sleep in the car, which is what a real ski bum might do. I hesitantly shell out the money.
The room isn’t luxurious, like the establishment’s name might suggest, and it reeks of smoke. We get our first encounter with the diversity of the area – the staff barely speaks English. We want to open the window to clear the rank smell, but it’s entirely too cold. Choking down the air, we dump our belongings into the room and quickly break for some food. We haven’t eaten at all today. My car lights still won’t turn off and we’re waiting for it to sputter instead of start.
A stagnant millipede of cars snakes down the hill from the direction of Copper and Vail and spills over into the streets of Dillon. People are asleep behind the wheel in parking lots. We see one man make a dead sprint for the liquor store, abandoning his Jeep in the standstill on the interstate about a mile away.
Famished, we choose a Chinese buffet more for the quantity than the quality. We watch a young girl argue as only a child can, convincing her embarrassed mother to scratch the child from the bill because she doesn’t like anything they offer. I feel bad for the waitress, a good-looking woman with an accent that I can’t particularly pinpoint, but drips Eastern European.
Most of the people eating are stranded by the closed road. The pair across from us kills time by piling so much food on their plate it looks like an eating competition. They’re locals, a character type I’ll confront often and will be conflicted by in the coming weeks when I’m mistaken for one. They’re such a distinct persona I could pick them almost perfectly out of a lineup by the end of my stay.
I know where to go now if I’m stranded without a room again. Ashley and I speak to another couple during happy hour at the Dillon Dam Brewery who, like us, are in limbo. Their flight for the next day has already been canceled. After our parting, they return a few minutes later.
Misunderstanding that we had actually found a room down the road, they offer: Here’s my cell phone number, and Matt’s too. If you can’t find someplace to stay, we’re staying at my parent’s house up the road near Keystone. There’s plenty of room, so give us a call later if you want, we really wouldn’t mind if you stayed with us.
I’m more than surprised with their hospitality and extension of friendship. It isn’t an empty offer – maybe even hopeful for a phone call. One traveler offering their place to another didn’t seem uncommon, but it was unexpected from strangers we had just met. Matt is a freelance writer and recently moved to Portland, Oregon where he is trying to break into several publications after abandoning scholarship halfway through his Ph.D. in history. We share dissatisfaction with the opportunities for writers, and an interest in taking up public relations to put some money in the bank.
Maybe it’s the small connection of writing that led them to invite us back to their home. Maybe they are serial killers. But more and more I think it’s just a unique understanding, and an interest in delving into unknown experience, into knowing people and uncovering beauty through the unseen. They moved to Oregon without direction, without jobs; they knew the place was where they wanted to be. Ashley and I came to Colorado because this is where we wanted to spend the New Year together. Place brought us all together at this moment in time.
Inexplicably, I couldn’t see this same gesture being extended in many places on the East Coast. In fact, I probably wouldn’t feel comfortable accepting the invitation there. But there was a sense of security in the mutual unknown. The two were warm to us, and if we could have gone to the hotel and taken back our money back, we would have.

The next morning we head back to Copper, making the fifteen minute drive west on I-70 that takes us around a bend and spits us out the last exit before the road winds up through Vail Pass. I already had my season pass, so I picked up a discounted day ticket for Ashley. Natrisha and company, who have entry to the condo, aren’t in yet and won’t arrive until later this afternoon. We suit up in the free parking lot for our first day of skiing, a pleasantly active reward after three days of driving and restlessly searching for a bed.
In our moment of triumph after parking the car, with the mountain in full view, I have a moment of dread. I realize that overnight I broke a rule in the code of skiing. I left my boots in the car. So here we are, excited to make our first turns and I’m having a battle of epic proportions in the parking lot trying to put on my right boot. After several minutes of noisy struggle, and only after I think I’m going to sever my foot off at the ankle with icy plastic, I hurl my boot against the ground with tears in my eyes. Disappointed, I pathetically resign that I won’t ski today. Only then do I think about turning the car back on and blasting the heat.
By the time my boots thaw enough for me to force my cringing feet into them, most of the parking lot is only abandoned cars. Most people have taken the shuttle over to the main lodge and started their day. I never want to listen to Oasis again. Between the arduous drive through the mountains that had us too focused to reach back and grab a new CD to the monumental struggle with the ski boot supplemented by whiny British voices, it was enough to consider snapping the CD in half.

Nobody ever, mentions the weather can make or break your day,
nobody ever, seems to remember, life is a game we play.

It’s the first day of skiing this year for both of us, so we take the morning pretty easy, cruising comfortably around familiar parts of the mountain. It’s like visiting a city you’ve been through so many times, but you still stop by some of the same sites, if not to show someone around, then just to get your bearings right before you explore the unknown. Ashley likes Oh No and I ski nearby and watch her yellow jacket steering confidently through the run’s winding turns and regular tilt without any moguls.
Not too long into the day we’re starving. After a few hours of skiing, our continental breakfast seems distant. Skiing only looks effortless. The famished feeling at four o'clock after a full day on the slopes is unmatched but staying hydrated is the biggest challenge. In the cold you hardly notice the pouring sweat and the loss of water underneath the layers keeping you warm. The effects set in at the après-ski, when two beers deep you decide it’s best to retire for a nap and stagger lightheaded back to bed.
The price of a lift ticket is disturbing until you wander into any of the mountain’s cafeterias. First, you’re blown into stunned gaping, and then you’re appalled. After picking my jaw up off the ground I weigh the consequences of eating hot dogs and Taco Bell for the rest of my trip in fear of not being able to pay my credit card bill at the end of the month. A slice of pizza for $4.50. A cheeseburger for almost $8. It makes an honest man want to steal as much as possible.
But out of options and sucked into the tourist trap, we close our eyes and hold out a ten dollar bill at the cashier, hoping for good news. All we get in return is a couple of coins. Solemnly we head out to the deck to slowly savor our fries and single slice of pizza under the warm gaze of the Colorado sun as it ebbs behind the ridge where the American Eagle lift disappears from sight.
We glance up at the screened in porch of Natrisha’s condo, visible from near the lifts and see some ski boots set outside. Friends have arrived and we decide to join them. While we’re cutting the day a little bit short, we’re satisfied with our efforts. Our legs are feeling a little shaky after not working them for weeks and then shocking them for a few intense hours. The lack of oxygen available at nine thousand feet is getting to us a little. Panting under the warmth of our winter clothes we tromp into the elevator. We both stare at the glowing number four in silent exhaustion.

I make wordless noise walking as fast as my stiff boots will allow. I get a return shout from inside the room. Pushing open the door that was already ajar, I find exactly what I expected. Two shirtless dudes lounging on separate couches, hat hair still shooting in all directions and long underwear exposed from the top of their unbuttoned ski pants. They’re the first of a party of six – some of us have been meeting annually at Copper in the same condo for five years.
I’ve known Brad since childhood but haven’t seen him since the summer. We’ve been in and out of each other’s lives since playing on our first soccer team at five years old. While he traveled the world with his family, who accepted foreign assignments for Exxon Mobil, I was jealously stuck in Fairfax, Virginia. He loves to travel more than anyone I know, falling prey to its seduction at a young age. He’s been to six continents now with his girlfriend who he’s dated for less than a year.
Last year, his curiosity got the best of him and he asked to meet us in Colorado despite limited skiing experience – just two days of my teaching at a little hill in Southern Pennsylvania. I geared him up at the ski shop where I worked and he hasn’t turned back since, or turned on the slope for that matter, preferring an approach reminiscent of a missile.
Mark, who’s situated on the other couch, was an acquaintance through high school and became a closer friend when the trips to Copper Mountain began. He’s not the first person brought into my life by skiing. He’s a member of the race team at the University of Virginia – yes, a ski race team south of the Mason-Dixon Line. Of our whole crew, he’s the one most likely to get drunk and do something stupid.
We get a surprise when a guy named Casey pushes through the open door. He introduces himself as a friend of Natrisha’s, but we don’t know who he is, or quite what to say. We don’t bar the door, but I’m sure our first impression wasn’t the best. It’s probably difficult to walk into a room of established friends by yourself and go for it cold, but if there’s ever a door you’d want to walk through, it’s probably the one that leads to our room. He promptly receives the title of “new guy” after disappearing to unpack. Within minutes, Ashley casually asks if she could borrow his shoes. After complying without much hesitation, he was in.
We recover all our belongings from the car, liberating it from the cold and making ourselves a temporary home base. We’ve slept in five different beds over the course of a week and I’m happy to familiarize with this one for a couple days. Ashley collapses her short frame onto the bed while the rest of the crew trickles into the condo, each greeted with the same round of smiles and hugs, like a separated family reuniting in their old home.
When Natrisha arrives, her first concern is that her missing purse that’s disappeared sometime between checking in down the street and getting to the room.
We scour the room and take turns assuring her it’s around; there was nothing that could have happened to it. No one would steal your purse here, everyone is already rich.
We agree there’s not much incentive for those that are wealthy enough to ski here; they’re in a position to return a purse to you. We soon find it hanging off the nose of a snowboard on our own porch.
We crack open the owner’s closet and extricate some bottles of liquor. The catch up is on but blurred by everybody’s travel weariness. Most of the house crashes early after talking up a big night of partying. About half the house is stuck without luggage, lost in movement from airport to airport because Denver is still in disarray from the effect of two monster storms. Sarah would wear borrowed clothes for the next couple days. There still weren’t eggs or bread in the grocery store, so our rations include mostly hot dogs, peanut butter and jelly and the little loaf of bread we have left.
In the morning, after a skimpy breakfast and a couple warm up runs, we discover some higher power has spited our naiveté from the day before. Both Brad and Mark’s skis were stolen overnight. We all feel a twinge of sympathy and share the misfortune that it had to happen to them and not someone else. I can’t even voice my thoughts: they were idiotic for leaving their skis outside and unlocked all night.
There are certain levels of trust that probably can’t be reached in a small area with a mostly transient population. As many honest people as there are, there are at least a few looking to abuse that honesty. It would take about three minutes for someone to get in and out of the base area where there are hundreds of skis. That’s how long it probably took for theirs to disappear. The silver lining for Mark was that they were his older pair, beat up and on their last legs – he had brought another set with him.
Brad didn’t have the same fortune. He was a newcomer to the sport and had just been outfitted last year. It was a fairly hefty investment that just vanished. He was disenchanted, his face twisted in a mixture of disbelief and anger. Skiing on rentals the rest of the week wasn’t as fun and it took a while before a smile would reappear on his scruffy, unshaved face. The adrenaline rush and the purity of skiing had lost its innocence. The free spirited nature of the mountain vanished in a flash.

This is Funny

2007-06-03T11:58:00.000-07:00

From Get Funny or Die:

DC United @ LA Galaxy

2007-06-03T07:52:00.000-07:00

I just wanted to make a few notes on the game last night. To me, the team in all its incarnations keeps fulfilling its definitive nature this year - frustrating. For those of you who maybe missed the first couple minutes, the game should have been well in the Galaxy's hand with a near miss by Donovan from outside the box and a sitter the Nate Jaqua put over from about six yards.

The formation Tommy Soehn put out there lasted about five minutes. Surviving their, mostly Brian Namoff's, initial woes, it turned to the offense for some slow moments. Moreno looked slower and slower every step and never really troubled the slapped together Galaxy defense. Emilio just hasn't been the Brazilian wonder we saw in his first couple matches. Fred looks sharp on the ball but unwilling to take on that last guy or pull the trigger near the box. Oh, and he missed a header from inside the six with no defenders to be seen.

That said I guess there are some positives that come out of the game

- A point away isn't bad because every one is looking more valuable given the congested standings right now.

- At least United doesn't wear a jersey with a bumper sticker on the front.

- Kpene needs to be on the field more often against teams that are slow in the back. He is fast.

A win against New York next week would be huge.

Travelin' Light - Part II

2007-05-30T09:37:00.000-07:00

** If you want to read this whole piece from the beginning, check out previous post listings and start at Senior Project

We’re listening to a Moe CD, and while I’ve never really been able to figure out exactly what Ashley likes in a band, I actually sense an attunement, a slightly piqued interest that suggests she might just get along well with this one. We go through it twice more. I like to listen to an album on repeat, and not only when they’re fresh out of the plastic because I’m afraid of missing something on the first listen: maybe a piece of conversation drowns out a lick or lyric that would link me to a song forever.

Super thick chunks of broken life and reality,
at the dinner table come to me,
say goodbye, my friend, my exit's here,
my road's so long, a million miles or so.

I get the same feeling when I travel. When you first visit somewhere new, a lot of time and energy is spent just trying to figure out exactly where you are on the map. You aren’t able to learn where you fit in or where the best haunts are because you’re too busy just feeling out the borders and the bigger picture. Depending on where you’re acclimating too, it can take anywhere from days to months. Not just to know little pieces of a place, but to know it well, and understand where you fit into its frame.
I’ve been to Colorado more than ten times, but I’ve never driven and seen the country’s midsection. For Ashley it’s her second trip in as many years. Being a repeat visitor provides an alternative perspective, for better or worse, on very local happenings. I’ve seen the Denver suburbs get closer to the airport every year when I never noticed the same movement in my own hometown.
I keep coming back to the mountains because it makes me happy there; every time I’m more in tune with the people, and I know how to alter my own mannerisms to better fit in. When I’m in Colorado I relax my attitude and keep my ski pants on late into the afternoons, less worried about the hours that pass. Each time I leave someplace I take a little piece of that identity with me. I’ve never stayed for weeks like this trip, and I wonder how much more of Colorado I’ll bring back with me.
Though we’re determined to move quickly, a road trip wouldn’t live up to its billing without emergency bathroom trips and abbreviated stretching sessions. But the land is flattening across Indiana, and as it unrolls, greater spaces open up between houses and potential rest stops. Green is slowly fading to varying browns and yellows with farmhouses planted here or there, farther and farther from the road.
There are endless power lines parallel to the road, wiring the world together. Though they sometimes drift across empty fields, they always return to the highway’s side, replacing trees in the landscape. There are occasionally flashing blue and red lights. We’re glad it’s not us pulled over on the shoulder, causing the breach of monochrome rusted ceilings and despairing silos that match the desolate ground of winter in the Midwest. The whole world looks dead and abandoned making me wonder how some maintain lives here.
Pieces of straw stick like splinters from the upturned land, remnants of what was alive and flourishing a couple months before. Were the people that plow this land as filled with life? As rain comes suddenly, spitting on our windshield, the only sign of activity comes from a groups of cows that appear on the side of the road – brown, spotted, black – all cold I’m sure.
Low fences divide empty fields. Everything looks toyish from the road. Peoples’ homes are just depraved dollhouses with play trucks sitting in driveways, miniature against the near infinite land spreading in all directions. Sprinkler systems sprawl over acres like a dragon lounging over its treasure, providing precious lifeblood to the farmland.
Towns appear in all shapes and sizes. One we come across, whose name I’ll never know, is undeserving of marking on a map. Its vitals are all there, a beautiful building housing god and an apportioned area for the deceased followers of that same higher power. I can’t see more than several houses so it must have taken generations to fill that space. And then there’s more emptiness, as if someone stuck a tourniquet on the end of the little development, hardly disturbed by four lanes of asphalt.
The sun finally shows its face as signs tell us our next big target is Chicago and there is uncertainty about our next move. Ashley and I have this strange disconnection sometimes when neither of us wants to offend the other with a decision, or set something in motion the other might not like. So we both say we’d like to do something, but it doesn’t really matter if we do it or not, but it wouldn’t be bad if we did. In this way, we tortuously decided to go to Chicago for their world famous pizza. At the last chance before we’d have to make a U-turn, we veer off north towards the Windy City.

Chicago lives up to its nickname; it is absolutely frigid. Once we’re into the city, we’re a little lost and getting testy with each about where to park. The criss-cross of one way roads and no turn signs can be confusing in any city, even for long time residents. For tourists it can be a true test of patience. Finally, Ashley pulls into an underground lot and I’m not happy with her choice. She fires back at my stubborn attitude and things begin deteriorating on both sides. I think we’re both fraying from the feeling of limbo that comes with being in between departure and arrival, where no matter how fast you’re moving you’re not really going anywhere.
We try to shelve our emotions in the car. A beer helps relieve the aching closeness of the car. A smile finally cracks across Ashley’s face underneath lose wisps of her light brown hair. The pizza served at the Exchequer was too big for a family of five much less the two of us. Even I couldn’t put a dent in this thing and I usually claim I could stomach a whole horse. We box up the food and take a little hike around the area, holding hands while huddled inside our jackets. We crane our necks and admire the Sears Tower, with spires festively lit for the holidays.
I decide that Chicago’s not a terribly bad looking city except for the aging L Train that’s bridges look like they might collapse at any moment. Frozen, we make our way back to escape from the parking garage before the next hour kicks in on our meter. It takes some twisting and turning to find our way from the clutches of the city, but eventually our car with Virginia plates and Colorado bound skis is aimed in the right direction.

Opening the door of the Motel 6 in the morning unveils an alien scene. The sun is shining over Davenport, Iowa. A late arrival prevented any bearing on the local area, but there’s not much to see. We slip away without the front desk woman knowing two of us stayed for the price of one, a trick that seemed deviously juvenile yet oddly satisfying.
I’m disappointed in passing the mighty Mississippi River at night, and we briefly consider backtracking. I wanted to channel some of Twain into my spirit, and I promise myself I’ll stop on the way home to inspect the mythical landmark that cuts open the middle of the country.
In some way I think we all want to be part of the myth, or at least see its defining features with our own eyes to try and soak up some mystical feeling. It’s the same way people try to impart James Joyce’s “Ulysses” on themselves by retracing the immortalized steps of Stephen Dedalus. For just a moment I want to make the carelessness of Jack Johnson’s music my own, or to have the beauty of an image from National Geographic embedded in my own life, which if just fleeting in time, may never escape my memory.
Occasionally over the day and a half of driving, suspicious of my roof rack, I glance up at the ski tips probing above the top of the windshield. We’re somewhere in Nebraska when I notice their absence and whip the car on to the shoulder. I knew they hadn’t come completely off because there was no devastation behind us.
Somehow the blowing crosswind and the pressure tearing over the top of the car had only dislodged one of the four hooks, which is a near miracle. If something happened to the skis, my reaction wouldn’t be far from suicidal. We try to reinforce the rack’s hold and give it one more chance, but fifteen minutes later it comes loose again. It’s our first real mishap and the skis have to come inside the car, taking up a little more of our already tiny personal space.
I had no concept of the temperamental weather marauding across the Great Plains. No wonder no one lives here. First of all, I want to cry because I’m bored to tears from looking at desolate farmland for over ten hours. Second, it’s fucking arctic, with blasting winds worse than Chicago’s. Even the cattle must be frozen and tired of the scenery. I daydream of what it would be like standing out there all day, gnawing at stale grass. I think I’d beg some mischievous teenager to come tip me over and put me out of my misery.
Numb, we hardly notice the day pass. It feels like the sun barely rose before again retreating from the sky. The monotony of the scene outside the car’s window has made its passengers a little quiet, and gives us time to linger on strange thoughts. I can’t help but imagine the car breaking down. Suddenly there isn’t anyone on the road to help us and out of the darkness a mysterious figure appears offering a hand. Before we know it the torture begins.
Without reason I lower the window and tilt my head up towards the sky that’s sparkling like shattered glass on the pavement. I’ve probably never seen as many stars in all the nights of my life combined. I let out as primal a scream as I can conjure up, scaring Ashley into swerving the car before yelling at me to stop. I tuck back inside, red flushing my face around a smile. There aren’t any headlights in sight. No one could hear me screaming, and it was both terrifying and thrilling – the absolute emptiness.
Even though it was another two and a half hours to Denver, the sign welcoming us inside the state limits of Colorado forces a pent-up sigh of relief from deep inside both of us. And there greeting us was an enormous sign in the distance reading, “Merry Christmas. Eat Beef.”
The remaining hours on the road towards Denver were spent frantically calling everyone I know that resides or potentially resides in Colorado. I hadn’t made arrangements earlier and what started as a significant list of contacts dwindled quickly – some people didn’t even live there anymore. I can’t imagine this trip without the aid of a cell phone. So much more would have surprising, but at the same time so many things would be left undiscovered or not arranged. Only a couple years ago I would have had to plot this beforehand or, god forbid, use a pay phone. Expecting everything to untangle itself and fall into place en route would have been a stretch.
Technology makes travel a distant operation. Once, you had to talk to people; now, you find the nearest Starbucks with wireless internet to search Google for your travel needs. You find maps and restaurants and deals on lift tickets without ever talking to a human being. More than ever, tourists remain separated from the local culture they’re visiting, and more isolated from experiencing the community they’re sharing. Travel can more easily turn into a selfish and unenlightening experience that I’m desperately trying to avoid.
New technology has both benefits and pitfalls. Access to information and experience is unparalleled in history. Planes carry people across oceans in a matter of hours; electronic streams transport data in seconds. One can settle for what they might feel is the whole story in the pictures and stories available with the click of a button and the powering of a screen. We can see videos from some of the world’s remotest areas – see the people, hear their voices and think that we know them.
There are online communities established across every time zone uniting fellow travelers and easing some of their difficulties. There are networks of people offering up free space on their living room floors, futons and spare mattresses across the world. No one has much of an excuse not to see the world for themselves, to touch it and smell it, to hear the intonations of foreign tongues even if they’re indecipherable. I think that’s why driving seemed so appealing, so I couldn’t skip the in between Virginia and Colorado. I’ve fast forwarded past the middle of my own country many times, but watching it go by unites the end pieces of movement.
Well into the evening, no one had answered the phone. We were approaching Denver, and I had no idea where to stay aside from a pricey hotel. I must have made twenty calls in a half an hour, chatting with answering machines and missing returned calls. Anxiously tapping the steering wheel, I finally get a human response from Jeff Rodine.
We’ve had a long friendship, often united by snow. Jeff moved away from Virginia halfway through seventh grade, and I made my first trip to Colorado at the end of that year. I’ve returned frequently since, sometimes going months without talking to Jeff. Our friendship always rekindled when flakes started falling from the sky, just in time for us to arrange a ski trip and catch up on the year gone by.
Tonight, he had just touched down in Denver after visiting his parents in Phoenix. They had arranged a hotel for the night before he moved into his apartment the next day and after hearing my frantic message he insisted we stay with him at the small cost of a twelve pack.
Though it required no physical exertion, the last two days of have left Ashley and I exhausted. We had split the driving, both giving each other chances to rest our eyes from the constant strain of prolonged staring in the same direction, only occasionally broken by a glance in the rearview or a wave at a passing stranger with a familiar license plate. After arriving at the hotel, we both quickly lose consciousness.

Travelin' Light - Part I

2007-05-28T20:57:00.000-07:00

Youth is hardly human: it can’t be, for the young never believe they will die.

”Other Voices, Other Rooms” - Truman Capote

A thin layer of fog hangs in the air, making the drive more strenuous than it should be. I realize it’s been a long time since I’ve seen the sunrise and I’m impatiently watching the color of the sky. I can tell when the sun is coming even before it lightens the air too much because the mist begins to dissipate. It retreats into low strung clouds that slither their way through what Pennsylvania calls mountains.
The sun is slowly peeking its way through, but the clouds won’t let it clear up the ambiguity of morning. My taillights have the best view, but even my eyes directed westward are warmed at the sight of the world’s rebirth.
I haven’t heard some of the songs urging me on in a couple years. After my initial surge of energy, I come down to one of the beauties of travel: the leisure to dust off cobwebbed thoughts. I idly browse through memories of friends from high school and wonder whether they’re the same people I remember before more sullen thoughts emerge.
I realized that even though traveling over break would be exciting, I was leaving people I loved, people I might not have a chance to see again until late in the spring. Break is the only time I see friends that are students elsewhere. Having beaten the shit out of each other for so long, my brother and I are best friends.
Thinking about my mom with fewer people in the house pushes tears up under my eyes, making them sore. She’s stronger since my dad left, but every day I worry that she’ll be lonely. I can only hope she won’t, and try to stuff the twinge of guilt into my gut that tells me I should be helping her at home. Though neither of us wants me hanging around the house, the thought of her alone still hurts.

I’ve made the trip to Pittsburgh probably five times in either direction, and I remember it feeling longer. This morning it’s like I’ve teleported, though the clock tells me it’s been about the usual four and a half hours. The two Dynastar skis hardly seem secure on my roof rack, but they haven’t tried to jump ship yet. Only four little clips hooked inside my Subaru’s windows keep the skis from catapulting backwards and clattering onto the concrete; or worse, impaling the trailing car with an 182 centimeter construction of wood and plastic lined with metal edges.
While I’d like to see Ashley’s parents, I’m secretly wishing her dad won’t be around. We get along well enough, but there’s something that makes me believe a father won’t be happy with his only daughter running off across the country when he’s barely had the chance to see her. I fear I won’t be warmly received.
It’s our winter break from Ithaca College and we’ve decided to drive to Colorado for some skiing, both thinking that the summoning of Kerouac’s freewheeling spirit might do us well. We’re almost through our undergraduate education and it’s become evident that all we’ve done for years is push and push for grades to pass class after class. Four years of repetitive academic motions have left me feeling penned up. So we’re veering off the cyclical track, pretending we won’t get reeled back in, like we might carom off into the West and never come back.
My fears are allayed, and it’s just Sue Williams at Ashley’s house. Dad is already at work and Ashley’s brother won’t be up for hours. Again I expect a grander exit, imagining we’ll have breakfast and Ashley will have to navigate a sad goodbye, but something seems to have gone horribly wrong with our parents’ sentiments this morning. There’s a quick exchange of holiday greetings and gifts before we’re practically pushed out the door with a cooler loaded full of drinks and sandwiches.
It doesn’t take long for Ashley to realize she’s forgotten a crucial component of travel – her curling iron. Supposing we wouldn’t have survived without it, we turn around before leaving the neighborhood. But what’s three minutes when you have twenty-six hours of driving ahead? Before we slip out of Cranberry Township and set sail on our first significant chunk of travel, I change tunes; I want something we can both enjoy. After filling the tank we’re back out on I-70, with Ohio about forty miles ahead.
Before Ashley joined me the day was a blur. I spent most of my solo leg screaming my lungs out along with songs. Later in the trip, I’d learn from a radio show that people who sing in the car are scientifically proven to fall asleep at the wheel less, making me feel very confident in my ability to remain wide eyed for hours.
Now, with a partner for conversation available, I curb the singing because Ashley would rather talk instead of listen to my cracking voice. But I’m not sure if I’m ready yet. I had settled into a solitary mode of travel, and I’m distant as we pass over our first of many rivers. They exude an infinite nature, and I fruitlessly try to imagine how these divisions on the American map were ever born into existence.
Yesterday, I wasn’t sure what to do about lift tickets for almost a month of planned skiing. The weight of not having enough money for skiing increased the more I dwelled on it. Then, halfway across Ohio, I got a call that lifted the burden of the drive. My friend Natrisha, whose condominium we were planning to stay at for much of the time, was able to arrange a heavily discounted pass. She saved me almost six hundred dollars. With the gorilla of funding erased from my mind, I think I’m finally ready for conversation.
Skiing was, after all, my reason for eating up road in the direction of Colorado. Another is certainly the sense of obligation to travel on a low budget just once before school ends and the real world of work tips off in May. Other reasons I’m still grappling with as I urge my wheels with the accelerator. I’m sure they will come to the surface, but it’s got a layer of ice still too thick to crack right now and I settle for one certainty – I can’t wait to be skiing.

Senior Project - Intro

2007-05-28T20:42:00.000-07:00

Alright, so as the capstone to our undergraduate degree in writing we had to develop and write a piece or several pieces that we decided best rounded out our four year experience. I chose to write a lengthy, creative non-fiction piece chronicling my trip to Colorado over Winter Break. If you have any interest, I'm going to put this up online a couple sections at a time over the next several weeks along with some pictures collected from different people. Hope anyone that has the time to read this, even if it is just a piece, enjoys it.

And We're Back

2007-05-26T14:12:00.000-07:00

With all the hubbub of my final final's week, the subsequent senior week and the capstone of graduation things have been a little chaotic for writing. But with only bartending at night to occupy my time here in beautiful now sometimes sunny Ithaca for the next month and a half there should be plenty of writing.

I had hoped to keep running commentary on the United game tonight against the Houston Dynamo. The game is being broadcast on HDNet and thus not on MLStv on the website. So it goes. I'll impatiently be refreshing the Gamecast and hoping United gets three more points tonight at the expense of the reeling defending champs.

Messi = ?

2007-04-19T12:30:00.000-07:00

This is just really awesome.

A Few Questions After Thursday Night

2007-04-14T07:41:00.000-07:00

- Is Beckham watching his team get off with one point in their first two matches? If they keep this up will he request a trade to that OTHER Los Angeles team who's actually going to win some games?

- Where is Landon Donovan?

- Are Carlos Ruiz and Kenny Cooper going to be the most lethal combination this year? If Cooper keeps scoring goals, how long can Bob Bradley keep pretending he's not on the bench for the national team?

A Reflection on Web 2.0

2007-04-12T14:39:00.000-07:00

Just thought I'd plug the website that one of my professors and some of my classmates have been working on this semester - it's a collection of quasi essays all relating to the emergence of new electronic media and inspired by the Youtube hit, The Machine is Us/ing Us. Here's the link to "Just Like a Machine" and I've included the video below.

Goodbye, Mr. Vonnegut

2007-04-12T12:16:00.000-07:00

I suppose I can't eulogize in as effective a manner as most others, but I think I ought to bid Kurt Vonnegut farewell. One of the few authors whose catalog I've read extensively, he is probably the reason I turned towards writing at Ithaca College. I remember reading Slaughterhouse Five for the first time, and then mowing through it over and again. Cat's Cradle, Welcome to the Monkeyhouse and Player Piano - Vonnegut made me want to read, and then made me want to make a difference by writing.

I love reading this article, published when Vonnegut was 82, knowing that he was just as critical and incisive well into old age. While he can't, his work deserves to live on and on.

~ I want to stand as close to the edge as I can without going over. Out on the edge you see all the kinds of things you can't see from the center. ~

DC - Colorado Wrap Up

2007-04-07T17:00:00.000-07:00

Just a couple general thoughts at the start of the game. The pitch is enormous but it looks like the stadium is a little empty - they're showing the weather hovering at right around 30 so I'm sure that's keeping some of the crowd away. I love the introduction, the music and walking out of the locker rooms together is definitely a step towards improving the professionalism in MLS.

The game started slow - probably a combination of the chilly weather and both teams feeling out the enormous field. A couple nice touches at the top of the box but nothing pans out on either side. I'm interested to see how the surprise starters on the wings - DeRoux and Moose. Olsen gets into the game with a dirty sliding tackle and Perkins makes a nice touch over the bar in the 11th minute.

The opposite keeper, 25-year-old Bouna Coundoul, from Senegal looks athletic and confident, making a save off a well worked shot from Moreno that was destined for the top corner. Terry Cooke looks threatening for the Rapids and he is the one that whips in a corner kick that Herculez Gomez nods home. Just when I was going to compliment DeRoux on a nice start he lost his man badly on the corner, and United goes down a goal in the 19th minute.

Foudy just made a nice point about Colorado's use of the wide areas - something DC isn't doing at all. Moose and DeRoux keep drifting inside, further crowding an already busy central midfield.

In the 35th minute Colorado goes up 2-0 on a well worked play that Brown flicks through to Beckerman and ends up with the ball bak at his feet, taking a calm touch and slotting it home on the far post. The defense has really been in shambles twice, once on a dead ball and now again during the run of play. I think both announcers are being a little harsh on Perkins, harping on how he's on a bad streak after his flapper at Guadalajara.

The second half improved slightly, but as the game moved on there were chippy fouls on both sides, and I think the referee lost a little bit of control, especially when he pulled out a card but DC went on with the play and he never awarded the card. DC's movement of the ball improved when the two wide players were changed - Fred in for Moose and Casal in for DeRoux. While I wasn't particularly impressed with Fred, but Casal showed a willingness to drive at the defense and eventually earned Emilio a free header to draw DC closer. 2-1 in the 80th minute.

The only thing that stood out to me the rest of the game was how Moreno again disappeared in the late stages and how much of a whiner Jacob Peterson is. Not a particularly impressive start for DCU and it's highly touted offense, especially after some good showings in the Champion's Cup. Hopefully Soehn can trick Erpen into sealing up that side and the home opener against Kansas City will be a better performance.

DC Player of the Game: I guess if anyone, Emilio for his hold up play and another smart run and strong finish for DC's goal.

Man of the Match: Terry Cooke looks like he's going to be a real threat from the wing, especially at home on the field that's 80 meters wide. He could rack up a huge number of assists.

Opening Day for MLS - United at Rapids

2007-04-07T11:17:00.000-07:00

Several nice storylines for this game. Obviously being the season opener for the entire league is an exciting backdrop - on top of that is the first match being played at brand spankin' new Dick's Sporting Goods Park.

The stadium is a beauty - imagine something similar in DC and what a difference it would make in the gameday atmosphere. A little bit of jealousy is setting in seeing other MLS cities and their soccer specific homes. So today should be a beautiful spring day for the opening kick off - a high in the low 30's with snow flurries. Oh the Brazilians must be loving life.

Just about an hour before gametime and I'm watching the end of the Man U/Portsmouth match as an appetizer. With a few minutes left it looks like Chelsea could be giving a hearty thank you to Portsmouth in a couple weeks. Oops - now they'll be thanking Rio Ferdinand who just made a fine pass past Van der Sar into his own net.

For those interested, here is a link to a nice summation of what happened in the offseason and what to look for this season from Soccer America.

More on the DCU match when its time. My predictions for today's games:

DC 2 Colo 1
Dallas 2 Salt Lake 2
Red Bull 0 Crew 0
Chicago 1 New England 0
Toronto 1 Chivas 3
Galaxy 2 Houston 0

Quick Note on Champions Cup

2007-04-07T11:07:00.000-07:00

Unfortunately I was only able to watch the first half of both the DCU/Chivas and Dynamo/Pachucha matches. Especially upset about missing the second, not so upset about sparing myself the emotional distress of watching the ball slip through Troy Perkins hands. Anyways, one thing that seemed to stand out is how the Mexican squads had very complete teams, while the difference for both MLS teams might have been just one or two weak spots on the field that consistently failed to produce.

For DC, it was Clyde Simms who really disappointed, although he was playing out of position. The ball was given away time after time, and from what I hear they eventually just stopped playing him out wide. That wide position may continue to be a thorn in the side of United depending on the damage done to Gros.

In Houston's case it was the severe lack of pace at right back. Craig Waibel was just not at the level needed for intense international competition against much more skilled and swift attackers. Clumsy challenges were abound - the other man badly missed was obviously Ricardo Clark due to injury.

The level of play between Mexican and MLS teams is obviously drawing closer. The DCU match proved to be a balanced affair, and Houston showed an immeasurable amount of toughness going down two goals before fighting back ahead of the tie several times. It's too bad neither team could produce the moment needed for victory, but if these matches are any indicator, Mexican regional dominance on the club level is waning.

DC United - Chivas 2nd Leg

2007-04-03T07:13:00.000-07:00

There's a couple things I'd like to address about tonight's game, which is airing live on Fox Soccer Channel at 9:30 EST. The first thing nagging me is the incessant reminders of DC's heavy loss to Pumas two years ago; this is not the same team. That's all I will say on that subject.

One of the most important things for United over the course of this year will be staying healthy, especially in the back. Tonight we should expect the same starting lineup, I think, as the first leg, barring the introduction of Fred. Washington Post writer Steve Goff, who knows more of the nitty gritty than most of us, suggests that Fred may be used as a sub option.

If he is spot on then this is what DC should look like:

Perkins
Erpen Boswell Namoff
Simms (Fred?) B. Carroll Olsen Gros
Gomez
Emilio Moreno

I think one of the keys to this game will be limiting errors in the back. Any errant passes in the first leg were met with howls from the sizable Chivas crowd and I can only imagine shaky nerves being compounded by a disruptive crowd tonight. Estadio Jalisco is a capacity of just under 60,000 and I wonder how many will be on hand this evening. If it's anything close to that, it must be one of the largest crowds in front of which United has ever played.

As Sideline Views noted the other day, Chivas is not invincible, even to a lesser opponent. Tonight I don't think United will be at a lower level after the opening leg where they at least proved capable of competing without resorting to bunker tactics.

Another interesting question, especially after all this talk of Jaime Moreno being called back into the Bolivian squad for Copa America this summer: Will he show more energy, or any at all, tonight than he did in the first leg where he was a ghost except for one threatening shot?

I think that if United could strike early Chivas might be apt to fall apart in front of a pressure inducing crowd, hungry for victory after losses in 2 of their last 3 league games. I would think their faithful are expecting a strong victory over an MLS squad. One the flip side I think going down early would be disastrous for United. An important factor in avoiding that fate is Omar Bravo's absence due to yellow card accumulation (2). While I don't agree with the restrictive rule, I'm not arguing at this point; Bravo was the one consistent threat in DC utilizing his speed against a particularly medium paced backline.

The collection by tonight's winner is substantial. It assures a spot in Copa Sudamerica and the chance to play into the World Club Championship, not to mention whatever prize money is alloted to the winner. MLS would earn considerable respect with the presence of at least one, and maybe two, in the finals of the regional tournament. Lastly, a win here would add more fuel to the Sperliga this summer. I'll certainly be rooting for Houston tomorrow night as well.

Can Christian Gomez find a way to get more involved while the Chivas midfield hounds him? Will Emilio's goal streak continue? Who is Fred? We'll see tonight; what an evening it would be if United could pull out a win in Guadalajara.

New Twist in Iran Seizure of British Sailors

2007-04-03T07:00:00.000-07:00

This article from the Independent in London certainly seems to complicate the ongoing hostage situation in Iran. I wonder what relevance this actually has in the grand scheme of the incident?

Thought this deserved at least a mention before I moved on to important matters of the day... Like DC United's Concacaf Champion's Cup game against Chivas tonight.

Cuauhtemoc Blanco to Join Chicago Fire

2007-04-02T11:56:00.000-07:00

This move by the Fire marks the third player to occupy the league's newly created Designated Player slots; Blanco's contract is expected to be around $2 million a year. I'm hearing lots and lots of bad reviews on this move. I personally am not a big fan of it either, but there are several directions it could go.

If nothing, Blanco will certainly bring attitude to the team and the league. Whether its the right kind of attitude only time will tell. He is an immensely skilled player that comes with a gorialla of an attitude. That balance of goalscoring and playmaking potential versus the potential headache he could cause the club will be what ultimately determines if he is worth the money, especially at age 34. Some of the highlights below show both the beauty of his goals and the boneheadedness of his celebrations that, should they continue in MLS will certainly cause controversy.

I would say that so far Blanco brings the least to his team of the players acquired through the league's new rule. Reyna and Beckham are both proven leaders who will undoubtedly boost morale before they undo their team. Reyna is still capable of being an engine in the midfield, I think, even if his legs might be wearing down a little. Beckham has those magical moemnts especially from crosses and free kicks, not to mention his enormous drawing power for the league. Will Blanco be able to fulfill these established expectations?

Some questions to consider over this move:

Will this be another tired, aging star transferring to MLS to cash in on his name when his skills might no longer bring home the same paycheck? For the sake of the league I hope this won't be true and that he can produce at least a few of the special moments of which he is capable.

Can Blanco service the Fire in a positive manner that overwhelms his history of having a bad attitude? As a DC fan, I don't mind this aspect so much. If they want to spend money on a guy who is going to bring down the clubhouse then so be it. Maybe they should take a better look at who DC is bringing into their club.

How much drawing power does Blanco still have for Mexican-American communities at MLS stops? In Chicago there is no doubt they can boost attendance if the club promotes Blanco in a positive way. He won't arrive until after his contract expires with Club America at the end of June, but there is certainly the opportunity for a marketing campaign that will help attendance during the summer months.

I guess we'll wait and see if all of Blanco's magic is used up or, if for a year or two, which I hope is all the Fire are planning, he showcases his world class ability.

Reading on the 2nd half of the US game last night

2007-03-29T08:37:00.000-07:00

I believe this was the general consensus on the game last night:

If anyone wants to read up on the 2nd half or just other opinions of the US - Guatemala game that ended 0-0 last night here are some links:

Soccer Insider

MLS Site

One of Several Big Soccer Message Boards

US vs. Guatemala - First Half

2007-03-28T18:07:00.000-07:00

Little running discussion of the game:

- First off the field looks much better than Sunday.

- A new look backline makes things interesting after the disheveled performance against Ecuador... from left to right - Spector, Conrad, Demerit, Simek. We'll also get a nice look at Bradley and Feilhaber playing together again in the middle to see if they can repeat a nice 2nd half a couple days ago.

- Still can't believe that Eddie Johnson is getting another start when Bob Bradley is already giving so many fresh faces a chance. Already he showed the ability to hit a defender with a shot from six yards out. I wonder, why not Kenny Cooper?

- The whole room over here seems to agree that Feilhaber has some very Reyna-esque tendencies, already showing his ability to spread the ball around the field well. Slow start in the first 10 minutes, kind of expected by the 4-5-1 played by Guatemala.

- Like the attacking attitude from Mapp, pushing the ball whenever the opportunity presents.

- A nice ball played through in the 18th minute by Donovan but Johnson hits it right into the keeper's hands. At this point I don't think he has moved past a jog and right now it feels like the US is playing with ten guys. Simek really looks nice on that right side so far, very comfortable moving forward on the ball.

- Slow... slow... slow... 28 minutes... Guatemala putting lots of guys behind the ball. Apparently Twellman sends texts messages to Wynalda.

The commentators don't even seem too worried about the game, having a fine little time in the booth - we're considering that they're drinking some of tonight's sponsor Jose Cuervo, and maybe Wynalda will run across the field with just his tie on and a number 34 painted on his back yelling, you'll never catch me Landon! - Mr. Fox

- Some nice movement between Feilhaber and Bradley results in a free kick about 35 yards out... they're looking very comfortable with each other. And yea, that is the only moment worth mentioning for the past ten minutes.

- Two more moments of brilliance from Wynalda: he first commented that maybe we'll just see Johnson in a couple years in Africa followed by him suggesting that premiership teams don't train in between games because it rains a lot in England.

- The first half was very uneventful and the crowd seems to be souring a little bit. Unfortunately my time is up because I have to go bartend. Good luck USA in getting a goal, and I hope Cooper sees some time.

R.I.P. Barbaro?

2007-03-28T12:40:00.000-07:00

For all those whose hearts were broken earlier this year when Kentucky Derby winner Barbaro was euthanized, there may be hope yet.

Evidence provided here seems to suggest that Barbaro - not unlike 2Pac - may still be alive and living out of the limelight. While theories abound, there does remain the off chance that the picture below is only a crazed manifestation of hope and that the legend of Barbaro will remain as it is in our memories.

Could it really be him? Mark certainly hopes so.

My Middle Name is Danger

2007-03-28T08:39:00.000-07:00

Or at least that's what one member of the Mexican media in Guadalajara has dubbed Christian Gomez, giving him the nickname peligro. Or I suppose here's the Spanish version if you're so inclined.

It's good to see some international recognition of MLS MVP's quality, for example:

Does DC have a chance next week in Guadalajara? According to the game report, they played a very good warm up match against the Tecos reserves, winning 3-0 with goals from Gomez, newcomer Casal, and of course the goal monster Emilio. Really, how many will he rack up this year?

I think if United play the game they're capable of, not the disjointed performance we saw at RFK, then they are very much in this tie, and perhaps we could see a little MLS vs. MLS in the Concacaf final.

Northern Irish Parties to Form Coalition Government

2007-03-27T11:40:00.000-07:00

An end appears to be in sight for the Northern Irish conflict that has spanned over 40 years. While arms were laid down by the Irish Republican Army in 2005, a stand off continued over the arrangements for a power sharing government between Sinn Fein, the Catholic and Irish nationalist party, and the Protestant Democratic Unionist Party (DUP).

Just before another deadline for agreements towards a devolved Northern Irish government passed, the two sides pushed a decision for self-rule through. The image above is itself a sign of change, as for years the Reverend Ian Paisley, leader of the DUP, refused to be seated in the same room as Sinn Fein leader Gerry Adams, much less within arms reach.

What began as a civil rights movement for Catholics in Ulster exploded into a full fledged armed conflict between militant parties after the events on January 30, 1972, known as 'Bloody Sunday'.

What the agreement on Monday established is that by May 8, a Northern Irish Parliament will be restored much of the control over internal affairs that it ceded to London at the end of March in 1972. Since then, views between the dominant parties Sinn Fein and the DUP have been seemingly irreconcilable. Fettered by mistrust over Sinn Fein's former association with the militant Irish Republican Army (IRA), and especially Adams alleged role as the IRA's leader, Paisley refused any situation involving equal presence in government.

Given the deeply sown differences between the two parties, political cooperation was a tedious achievement that broke down several times. Rhetoric between leaders has been stubbornly unmoving, considering a formal cease fire was signed by the IRA almost ten years ago, yet the gains of the agreement are immediately obvious with the British government allegedly planning infuse 35 billion pounds into the province.

What was for so long a conflict between divided traditions turns toward a hopeful improvement regarding the future of the entire province. No doubt the economic emergence over the past decade of the Republic of Ireland spurred the two sides into political action. While optimism was the air of the day, both Adams and Paisley were sure to invoke the memory of those lost in the conflict, which was over 3,500 people during the 30 year period of the Troubles.

“We are very conscious of the many people who have suffered,” Mr. Adams said. “We owe it to them to build the best possible future.” He added, “It is a time for generosity, a time to be mindful of the common good and of the future of all our people.”

And Paisley:

“We must not allow our justified loathing of the horrors and tragedies of the past to become a barrier to creating a better and more stable future. In looking to the future we must never forget those who have suffered during the dark period from which we are, please God, emerging.”

This turn towards the future is exactly what so many people have been encouraging for years. There will no doubt continue to be tension, especially during the marching season which seems to be a crude reminder of past Protestant hostility towards the Irish Catholics every spring.

But this agreement is a positive sign that what was once a conflict tainted by terrorist activity and merciless killing is moving towards a final chapter of non-violent politics and an attempt by once feuding communities to recognize their mutual needs and interests.

If you're interested in more, the CAIN database is an extensive resource for the history of the conflict.

Highlights from US vs. Ecuador

2007-03-26T08:31:00.000-07:00

For those of you that didn't get to see the game, here are the goals and all three of Donovan's very un-Landon like finishes which I must say were all class.

US vs. Ecuador

2007-03-25T10:19:00.000-07:00

Computer malfunctions during the first half... but some thoughts:

- The jury is out in our house on the new uniforms. I personally think the pinstripes are nice.

- Great hit by Donovan off a bad clearance. Wynalda must cringe every time Donovan nets another one and has to note the statistic box.

- The defensive communication looks miserable. A couple miscues between Howard and his defenders. The defense, which is the same lineup we saw in the World Cup, looks leaky and it's supposed cornerstone Onyewu was exposed badly and beaten twice on Ecuador's goal.

- Movement up top is miserable, with Ching trying to play like a target forward without a complimentary player. Johnson is invisible and lazy; one wonders how many more chances he can really get.

- Benny Feilhaber looks good at times and like a first cap player at others. A nice through ball with the outside of his foot in between several bad giveaways.

- Donovan was by far the best player for the US in the first half. Hopefully he inspires more in the second half, and we'll see if Michael Bradley can come in and prove he belongs as a player and not just given the benefit of the doubt by his dad.

Second Half

- Wynalda is a trip in the commentator's booth. Him and Arena often take little jabs at each other and I'm sure Dave O'Brien has to give them a couple quick kicks under the desk.

- The movement to start the half is much better, Donovan looks to be an upgrade at least in terms of his movement and his commitment to the game.

- My roommate just farted and yawned at the same time.

- Donovan produces two brilliant goals after Dempsey whiffed on a sitter from inside six yards. The first off a nice turn and slotted through ball, and with the ball bouncing up and down on the turf Donovan calmly slowed down and placed the ball to the far post. His second came just two minutes later as the Ecuadorian defense looks in shambles and it's about as un-Donovan a finish as I've seen, blasting an unstoppable drive into the top corner from Beasley's well weighted pass.

- Looks like the DC United representative is going to be the lonely one on the bench with Kasey Keller not too get into this game. Maybe Carroll get his chance on Wednesday because as decent as Feilhaber played, and I think decent is the best description, he went unnoticed through most of the second half. Little correction, Carroll shows up in the 90th minute, turns out Kyle Beckerman is Keller's buddy over there.

- The defense never really seemed to mesh, hopefully that's sorted out before we start playing the likes of Argentina this summer. Pace proved to be a serious issue, especially for Gooch and Bocanegra on the left who was left chasing several times. Not a bad performance in the end, made a little bit better by the killer game that Donovan produced. Wouldn't the US be better off if he could produce this energy and determination every game, or maybe donate some to Eddie Johnson.

- A nice save from the Ecuadorian goalkeeper, a questionable call on what looked like a penalty and a bad miss from Dempsey kept the score from being more lopsided. Nice crowd for the victory, announced at 31,000.

Player of the Game - Obviously the hat trick man Donovan who provided inspiration to a team that otherwise looked sluggish; even typical firebrand Dempsey looked a step behind.

Surprise - Aside from Donovan's work rate and decision to display all that he could be, the center midfield, especially in the second half with Bradley and Feilhaber was nice. While not flashy, they moved the ball and kept possession that was lacking in the first half, although again some of this might be attributed to getting a second player in front of them once Johnson was subbed.

Disappointment - Every game things seem to slip farther away from Eddie Johnson, who for a couple months was going to be the savior of US soccer and expected to score at feverish pace. Now he looks out of sorts, making bad runs, if he makes any, doing his best play going backwards and missing poorly on the chances presented to him such as the one that both Arena and Wynalda deemed a cross, but upon closer inspection was surely a shot.

Oh what to do with Mr. Bradley, who is now 3 and 0 as "interim" coach, and seems to be quietly showing that he may be capable of getting the job done. I wouldn't expect a worse performance against much weaker Guatemala on Wednesday.

A Place for Good Beats When You Tire of Your Itunes

2007-03-23T17:34:00.000-07:00

Scanning my email in hopes of finding something interesting if usually a vain effort. Some time ago though, one of the 3 daily clips from Thrillist at least forced me to raise my eyebrow. To stray off topic for a moment, Thrillist itself has a glutton of strange and hip information on everything from clothes to restaurants to drinking games.

In any case, this wonderful morning left me introduced to Pandora Internet Radio. The service itself is free and the music player is reliable. The database of material is enormous spanning over 10,000 different artists, most of which I've never heard. The beautiful component of Pandora, is that it allows you to create a radio station by way of entering any band you enjoy into its search engine, and then the site produces more songs according to what the band sound likes. Here's an example of how the good people at what they've deemed the "Music Genome Project" regarding the Bronx: We're playing this track because it features hard rock roots, punk influences, a subtle use of vocal harmony, repetitive melodic phrasing and mixed acoustic and electric instrumentation.

Maybe the descriptions aren't quite dead on, but the site's other crucial feature is the evolutionary behavior of each station. You can approve or disapprove of each song with one click and each decision is registered under individual's profiles, influencing the future selection of songs. So if you're interested in finding something to throw on that mix CD after HelloGoodbye - Here in Your Arms, then head over to Pandora and see what you find.

Oh, and if anybody was curious who the Bronx is, here's a sample for your ears' pleasure...

Random Stuff to Look At

2007-03-21T08:14:00.000-07:00

Just a couple random links to take a peek at, I haven't had much time to finish up a longer piece right now:

News/Politics

Israel-Palestine Talks Continue Through Rice

Music

Rodrigo y Gabriela - Myspace Page

Bearvsshark - Old news but have been listening to a lot lately

Soccer

Here's a prediction of the Eastern Conference for MLS from Vasco USA

And a nice boost to United fans who have already given up hope on the second leg of the Champions Cup in Guadalajara from the DCenters

General John Abizaid - Heard too late?

2007-03-16T13:38:00.000-07:00

David Ignatius of the Washington Post published an editorial looking at the exit of Gen. John Abizaid from the Central Command, and how in the long run it might not be much of an exit at all. From Abizaid's background as a Lebanese American who speaks Arabic casually, he was a gem to have in the field in Iraq - a figure that could appeal to the masses as a beacon of understanding.
This depth of understanding - both of language and culture - may be a crucial measure in finding a productive and successful outcome in the Middle East. American policy can no longer rely on self-centered decisions. If it wants to lower the negative impact on the military and achieve any semblance of the goals the administration set out after, a serious look needs to be taken at the needs and interests of the local cultures.
Additionally, as Ignatius cites from Abizaid, the Iraqi conflict is most likely not going to abate in the immediate future - meaning the next 2 years as those that seek an immediate withdrawal are hoping.
Aiding the construction of a strong political and social structure is going to take much longer, and is not fueled by selfish misunderstanding or headstrong personalities. Progress will be accomplished by a stronger influence from men and women such as Abizaid, those who are willing to empathetic and recognize the voice of local Iraqi populations - which the media has turned into a mass of warring individuals. I hope that Ignatius is right and this is not the last we see of Abizaid as an influential figure in American policy.

DC United - CD Guadalajara

2007-03-16T12:39:00.000-07:00

First things first, I missed the first twenty minutes of the game due to some poor driving conditions and some equally as poor human error. When the three of us arrived and quickly made our way to our seats I thought we were also in the wrong stadium - maybe somewhere in Mexico. The Chivas fans were loud, ridiculing calls and an errant goal kick from Troy Perkins. The weather wasn't getting better as the first half ending fairly quietly at 0-0.
Feeling uncomfortable with United chants in our section, we spotted a couple rows of open seats above the Barra Brava. Some decent play from both sides, with Bravo's speed becoming more apparent a problem for DC's defense. Chivas eventually brokethrough with some slack passing on United's right side leading to a break, and after a nice ball across, Bravo only had to put the ball towards the goal before the backtracking Namoff slid the ball past already diving Perkins.
I have never heard RFK louder than it was on that goal and I was fairly sure the goal and crowd's reaction would be backbreaking. But United labored on, with renewed energy from Benny Olsen creating a few sparks. DeRoux was subbed in on the left, moving Gros to the other side and speey Jamil Walker came on for a ghostlike Jaime Moreno. DeRoux was miserable with the exception of one notable run past some defenders, giving the ball away more than his teammates would have liked.
While Olsen should have equalised in the 84th minute, he tried to make amends, tracking down a ball in the corner and forcing a bad foul from Chivas. Gomez's free kick found an open Emilio who casually buried the header and sprinted toward his DC supporters in elation, showing more passion than you would expect from a player in his 3rd game for the club.

Surely we'll love to have this guy around for years to come. I'll be back to talk about the second leg more as the time gets closer.

Why do I love cheesy pop music?

2007-03-04T09:16:00.000-08:00

Does it get better than this? I submit it cannot.

None of it makes a lick of sense - just keep dancing.

DC United Wins Champions Cup Tie

2007-03-02T10:35:00.000-08:00

As much fun as it was watching United rack up goals via ever impressive Christian Gomez and new stud Emilio who no doubt is going to be the next South America star to shine for United, there are still questions to be asked, especially before a match up that has even more ramifications for an MLS team in proving its place in local international competition. The game against CD Guadalajara poses a moment for one of the MLS flagship franchises to show its ability - a more than capable one - of competing with a storied Mexican club.
From my point of view, the defense needs to be tightened up - it looks like a leaky ship that could turn into a full scale disaster against a team more capable on the finishing end. While Erpen can be an asset going forward, he scares the bejesus out of me sometimes on the defensive end. But on that note, what about the slide tackle from Namoff that looked straight out of a game of Fifa between me and my roommates when one of us gets upset - granted the reaction could go up for an Oscar, but wouldn't most good players go down when they're assured a gift?
While I love Jaime Moreno and think he is a valuable player, he looks to be playing at a painfully slow pace sometimes. Maybe something will come of this forward United is giving a trial with.
Moving on to the game against Chivas in two weeks - I know the weather was bad, and I'm not one to start a tirade about too few fans because I was stuck at school, but it would be great to see a little more support at RFK for these fans. I'll be at the Chivas game and hope that with the added weeks and maybe some sunshine we could get a good crowd out there, because if not I have a notion the game is going to turn into two home games for Chivas.
Go get your tickets.