Baby Lily!

Stats:

20.5 inches — (5 more inches and the shallow end is wide open!)
6 lbs. 9 ounces — (Perfect weight for the shovel pass when crying)
Her natural birth was fairly short — (Mom can no longer hold “I was in pain for hours for you!” over her head)
Momma and baby are doing great! — (Mom will sign Star Wars photographs with digitally enhanced image of Lily for $20. This limited edition of 1,000 copies will help pay for Lily’s iPod in ten years.)

God grant her many years

Joe/Fire update and a great quote

So the headline might be a bit misleading, but new sources—Myspace and a Text Message—have said that Joe and Erin have not lost their house….We think

This means two things.

1) Joe is the luckiest guy in the world.
2) God answered someone’s prayers.

Thanks for praying.

Ps: Great quote from Backpacker Magazine yesterday.

Five of us are in the office when someone asks, “Does anyone here own a yellow Subaru?”

“Nope, just a red one.”
“I have a silver one!”
“Well I have a green one!”
“Damn…all I got is a Mazda.”

Only in Boulder…

Please pray for my friend Joe

There is simply too much to say and too little energy to say it.

I will write more soon, but I must ask that you pray for my best friend and old roomate Joe who lost his apartment today in the San Diego Wildfires. Apparently he is safe with his soon-to-be wife, but his stuff is gone burned up in a firestorm of hellish proportions.

Lord have mercy.

The Gore-Tex Vortex — What Boulder Colorado is really like…

One day I will be able to write like this. Originally published in Outside Magazine a few months ago.

The Gore-Tex Vortex
Think life in America’s favorite outdoor mecca would be dreamy? Careful what you wish for.
By Marc Peruzzi

So you want to move to Boulder, Colorado, the perennial best town in America for (circle one or all depending upon your level of outsideness) roadies, rock jocks, organic consumers, backcountry skiers, mountain bikers, trail runners, ultrarunners, whitewater boaters, alpinists, credit-card environmentalists, New Agers, sellers of waterproof-breathable canine accessories, and those who support prairie dog emancipation at the expense of baseball fields. It’s a great place to live, because everyone looks and thinks exactly like you.*

Except they’re better than you. Get that straight and you’ll fit in. But you’ll matriculate quicker if you come with some attitude. Pose if you must. It’s the best town in America, for Christ’s/Buddha’s/Ganesh’s/Chris Carmichael’s sake. Step up.
But what’s it like to live here? Well, Boulder exudes a unique blend of over-the-top liberalism and extreme fitness. How to describe it . . . If Lance Armstrong and Amy Goodman had a love child, the prodigy would drive his Audi A4 to Boulder, buy a Maverick to decorate the roof rack, and then not ride the $5,000 bike because he didn’t want to encroach upon mountain lion habitat. Are you feeling the zeitgeist? Some more Boulder color might help:

A Buddhist monk moved into our condo complex. Shaved head, full regalia, real deal. He drives a 30-cylinder pickup truck named after a subarctic ecosystem where trees don’t grow and frost lingers.

Two strangers have said the word excelente to me in the past four months.

My barista (Oh, dear Lord, what’s happening to me?) to a fellow barista: “Cuba is, like, this paradise. Nothing has changed since, like, the fifties. They drive these old cars and play this great music.” Me: “Cuba? They put AIDS patients in concentration camps and throw journalists in jail for printing the truth.” Barista: “Uh, yeah, but the people are so happy down there. Who had the tall rice-milk latte?”

Need more telling details? The Dunkin’ Donuts went out of business, but the oxygen bar next door to the gay-and-lesbian bookstore seems to be doing well. The panhandlers on the Pearl Street Mall sport $70 sandals and pull in upwards of 25 bucks an hour. Did anybody mention that the median sale price of a home here is $525,000? That’s $302,000 more than the national figure. The best don’t come cheap. If that’s too pricey for you, maybe you should check out Burlington or Santa Fe. Oh, right: bad sushi.

OK, that’s all lifestyle stuff that comes with living in a town that has a large contingent of soft-palmed check- of-the-month-clubbers. Could just as easily be Marin County. Buy a meditation table, slap a GO VEGAN! sticker on your roof box, and you’ll blend. You’re here for the fitness pursuits anyway.

Except that’s where Boulder gets weird. In most American towns, outdoor-sports aficionados are part of an elite counterculture minority. Mountain bikers and climbers have cachet. Not so in Boulder. Recreating outdoors is the norm here, and it’s in your face. There’s always some horse-toothed mountain-town equivalent of Laird Hamilton ready to kick your athletic pride through the dirt. Remember the 2005 Tour, when T-Mobile kept attacking Discovery, trying to break Lance? That’s what a casual bike ride is like in Boulder. Strangers attack. Old guys with gray beards and steel bikes attack. Reach for a shot of Gu and even your friends attack. And women: Women always attack—they’re the worst.

Even slow guys like me attack. The other day I was reeling in a pro cyclist on a brutal local climb. My heart rate was near its max, but I was feeling good. I was in the zone. Maybe four years of living in Boulder have paid some fitness dividends, I thought.

Then I figured it out: He’s between intervals, and once his heart rate drops below 65 bpm, he’s gone. At least he said “No offense” before he accelerated.

It doesn’t matter what sport you do; you will suffer similar humiliation. Go nordic skiing in North Boulder Park and two Olympians shout “Track!” from a meter back. Climb the Flatirons only to learn that someone once ascended in Rollerblades. Get Maytagged in a hole while paddling Boulder Creek and a World Cup champion slalom kayaker will toss you a rope bag. Running? Not me, not in Boulder. Boulderites run like gazelles. Fancy yourself a mountaineer? The waiters at Sherpa’s have summited Everest. But at least those guys are nice. If Reinhold Messner himself walked into south Boulder’s mountaineering shop to buy a carabiner, the sales staff would give him attitude. It’s enough to make you revolt against the blue sky (300 sunny days a year), pull down the blinds, and watch NASCAR.

I know what you’re thinking. If you don’t like it, why don’t you get the hell out? I’ll tell you why: It’s pretty damn nice here, actually. I just bought a German automobile—gonna chip it. My four-year-old has attended two birthday parties in climbing gyms—little dude will be free-soloing soon. Maybe it’s the endorphin equivalent of a contact high, but I’ve never been in better shape. The sun is shining. The prairie dogs in the infield are chirping. One more round of whitening strips and my choppers will be gleaming. Everything’s, like, most excelente.

* If your teeth are pearly white and your resting heart rate is below 45 bpm.

From mission statement to unemployment

A few months ago a national magazine published a scathing opinion on Gen-Y workers and their inability to be anything but narcissistic. The article, really just a long rant with no solid basis of proof, left me frustrated, upset and ready to throw down if ever in the vicinity of the apparently more-than-holy author. Though one part stuck out, it was a short story about a new employee speaking with the CEO of a major Fortune 500 company.

The employee spoke to the CEO about how he was a great asset to the company, and how he was planning on moving up one day to the level of a C-level executive. The CEO, apparently not the least bit impressed asked the employee how long he had been working for the company. The employee mentioned a few months, but emphasized that he had learned quite a bit and was well ahead of the curve.

The CEO trying not to lose his cool demeanor asked the employee what the companies mission statement was. The employee remained silent. “That is why you will never be above where you are now,” the CEO calmly said. And then he walked out of the room.

It’s a striking example of what new employees tend to miss when starting work for a new company and one I hope to avoid though my memory is usually reserved for sports statistics, trail maps and movie reviews.

Thoughts on moving and why the California DMV Rocks

It is quite crazy what one must do when they decide to move a few states away from the ocean. The first, and most logical problem, finding a place to live may as well be the easiest. Craigslist is a Godsend and anyone who is not using it is an idiot if they think the paper is a better place to look.

Secondly, the California DMV rocks, and before you go and decide I’ve gone completely insane think about this conversation.

Me: “I just moved from California and need to change my license.”

Colorado DMV: “No problem. Since you’re from California all I need you to do is give me $21 and sign here.”

Me: “Seriously? That’s it?”

CDMV: “Yep, California is so tough that it’s the only state we don’t even need anything else from. No social security, no passport, no test, no eye test, no first born child, just your money.”

So maybe the four-hour waits, the I-hate-my-life-seriously-how-do-you-dmv-guys-suck-so-much-and-never-smile experiences were all worth it. God it’s good to come from one of the most paranoid states in the union.

Thirdly, and this was a blessing, Colorado car insurance is about half of California, which is surprising since most people out here SUCK at driving. Take for instance the red light cameras at every intersection. I’m scared to death how many tickets I may have gotten, mainly because people push you out into the intersection and then force you to turn left as the light is changing. Whoever made those stupid cameras I hope took into account common sense and the fact that smart pedestrians look before they start to cross the street and if they don’t, then is it really all that bad if they get hit?

Finally, and this may actually be the best part, I can go places and not run into people I know. It’s strange, but for some reason it’s awesome to walk into a bar and sit down with no reason to turn around and have a conversation. I’m sure this will last only a little while, but for now it’s pure bliss.

Life in FF

Life is now in fast-forward. It is a new job, new town, new gym, new people, new bars, frantically trying to figure out how to pay the bills and now wrapped up in the World Series.

In the last 24 hours I’ve driven though Illinois, Missouri, Kansas and the most boring part of Colorado, only to find place to live, decide not to buy a plane ticket back home, and begin looking for a used bed, desk, lamp and chair on Craigslist.

And then everything changed.

Within two hours from finding what I thought was the perfect place, I’d signed a lease for a 2-year-old fully furnished condo with a roommate who may be heading to London for a few months leaving me the place while he’s gone. The deal, 500 a month including utilities, means a queen size bed, dresser, 42 inch plasma, high-def, storage, quick access to work, and for icing on the cake, St. Peter and Paul Orthodox church three blocks down the road.

Seriously folks, I can’t make this stuff up.

Now a bit about the job.

I’ll be working for Backpacker Magazine as an Intern in their map department. I didn’t sign an NDA during my interview and don’t know their policy on blogging, so I’m going to stay vague at this point. What I can say is that I will get the opportunity to work for a magazine that is at the collision of traditional media and new media. If I’m lucky I’ll be able to listen to weathered editors and journalists debate the merits of video, blogging and podcasting in a real-world non-academic setting where the bottom line is what matters, and not a fabricated grade.

For a young professional with a passion for the outdoors and a knack for tech, the opportunity is ideal.

Now the hard part.

Since I’m an Intern I’m taking a pay cut. One of my old friends in PR just informed me that her daughter’s boyfriend, who is 19 and degreeless, is making more than me at Starbucks. My own brother working for a computer repair guy is passing me up as well. But regardless of the pay this is what I wanted to do all along, and as one very wise man told me a few weeks back, “We create roadblocks that are based on fear and insecurity. Money is one of those roadblocks. There is reality—a house, food, clothes, and then there is roadblocks—plasma TV’s, cell phones, beer. You [speaking about me] sound like you are putting up roadblocks.”

Like it or not he was right.

So I’m going to take a leap of faith and hold my breath. It might mean a second job like a stint at bartending, or back to the bright lights of Best Buy on the weekends. (God I hope not) But regardless, I’m going to have to make sacrifices that I haven’t been forced to make since college, and I’m excited about holding my destiny in my own hands. In the next six months I hope to learn, listen, produce and become a valuable member of the Backpacker team.

Hold your breath folks, I’m sure this is going to be quite the wild ride, and mom if you’re reading this, please just send money, it’s easier if you just send it and I don’t have to ask every month. Thanks!

Goodbye Road…Hello Boulder

All good things must come to an end…and new doors must open. (Sounds cliché I know, but figured it was a good way to say I landed a job)

I’ll leave the long winded post till tomorrow when I don’t have to drive 13 hours to Boulder, but until then I can say I’ll be working as an intern for Backpacker Magazine for the next six months. The money isn’t amazing, and my friends in PR will be laughing, but it’s what I’ve always wanted to do, and if I can’t live in Santa Cruz, Boulder is the next logical choice.

Lets just hope the Rockies go to the series so I can be a bandwagon fan.

Hope you all are well and I’ll write more soon.

Tim

A man named Ken and one hell of a conversation

(Written last Friday 10/5 – not published till now due to computer problems)

Last night was tough. Not in the I’m-sleeping-at-Wal-mart-and-these-guys-want-to-steal-my-rims type of way, but in the this-is-who-I-am-and-you-are-really-pushing-me type of way.

Let me explain.

I’m in St. Paul, MN at the moment, sitting on the porch of an immaculate house built in the late 1800’s. Inside the house lives a very smart man, who also happens to be wildly neurotic and during the period of two hours, flipped my reality upside down and shook my foundation.

It is not appropriate to go into too many details at this point, mainly because anything I say would be reactionary bullshit, but it is appropriate to talk about some of the larger themes of the discussion—The ones that left me scratching my head.

Halfway through out talk, Ken asked me why I believed in the social class structure. Now he didn’t quite phrase it like that, he’s a tenured communications professor so his words are a bit too big for my spell check, but what he was asking was why I thought there were roadblocks erected in my way.

During the majority of the conversation, Ken had asked me to describe my dream job. I rattled off the standard freelance writer gig, gym ownership idea, and business consultant, but he wasn’t buying the standard rhetoric.

Instead he wanted to know what my skills were, how they would provided value to a company, and how I was going to stop talking about things and go out there and do them.

I was left speechless.

Ken then told me a story about luck, and how being in the right place at the right time can be important. But after the story he told me how it didn’t change anything except give the participant a leg up. So why then was I making excuses for why I couldn’t do what I wanted?

I instantly got defensive. I rattled off what the guy at Outside said about my lack of participation in the journalism field, or how it seems today employers want you to give your entire identity to one specific job and hone your skills in a very narrow way.

I then went into talking about how Gen Y does not believe in the old Gen X work ethic, and that we tend to see through fake sincerity and corporate bullshit quickly.

But he didn’t buy any of it.

The unfortunate thing is that I don’t know enough about Ken to have a clear understanding of where he is coming from. What I do know is that a mutual friend who I respect greatly thinks very highly of him. Ken also has traveled the world, had a family and teaches extremely rigorous classes at the graduate level. That alone means he did something right I have to assume.

So when he gives me advice and pushes my own understanding of who I am, it forced me to work hard at consciously not getting defensive, but instead listen to his ideas, which is what this walkabout is all about. Expanding my horizons, pushing my boundaries and falling down every once and a while.

I’ll write a bit more when I have had time to think about our conversation and what I means to my own ideology, but until then, please enjoy the pics from my few days in Minnesota.

Super Secret Post for James Menard (all others skip)

Start Secret Message:

James they have these all over the place. I almost killed myself when I saw the first one because I wanted to get a picture for you. Rumor has it that they THROW things away once they buy new ones.

End Secret Message: