From a past life while working for Whitewater Excitement:
My old roommates right before the last drop in Tunnel Chute rapid.
And yes, that is me guiding…
“Lynch him in a back alley,” Tilghman said, laughing.
The quote runs roughly halfway through ESPN’s latest headline story on Tiger Woods, and Golf Channel anchor Kelly Tilghman’s recent slipup.
The story broke a few weeks back on a Sunday. Tilghman, while broadcasting on air for the Golf Channel, discussed how players might be able to beat Tiger Woods.
Nick Faldo, Tilghman’s partner, joked that the young players should all “Gang up (on Tiger) for a while.” Tilghman responded jokingly “Lynch him in a back alley.”
They both laughed and went on.
Enter Yahoo.com.
The story broke as it always does in full nappy-headed-hoes fashion. First a few prominent blogs spoke out. Soon Yahoo.com had a story posted.
“Anchor says racist comment,” one of the taglines read. “What did she say?” was the next line.
Of course I clicked.
Then I read the story and rolled my eyes. It didn’t go away however. First ESPN jumped all over it. Then Sportscenter replayed the audio. A few national papers picked up the story, and even though it didn’t reach Imus proportions the headlines were still there.
“This is Woods time to step up and prove himself a man,” one commentator wrote. “By laughing this off, Woods will damage the African American community.”
Then the call for Tilghman’s head started.
“She must be fired!” One angry commenter noted. Soon, 1,400 similar comments were linked to the Yahoo.com story.
Woods spokesman released a statement saying Woods and Tilghman had spoken and made amends. He admitted it was a poor use of judgment, but that was it. End of story.
The media however, refused to die. Tiger finally made a statement.
“It was unfortunate,” Woods said. “”Kelly and I did speak. There was no ill intent. She regrets saying it. In my eyes, it’s all said and done.”
Tiger goes on to say, “I’ve been in that situation before. We all say things we do regret, and that’s certainly a moment she does regret.”
Then he sums it up. “It was more media-driven than anything else.”
Exactly. Media-driven.
For a man who keeps his private life at bay. Cried in his father’s arms. Made it public that he would not play in the Open if his baby were to be born. And spends millions on helping children learn. The story gets old.
I am a part of the media myself, though; sometimes I wish I were anything but.
Sorry for the delay folks. Work has been busy and according to my coworkers, “Tim is trying to take over the world.” In reality it’s just California and Las Vegas.
Remember that computer Steve Jobs released last week? The small, yet significant paper-thin laptop that instantaneously created an obesity epidemic for laptops everywhere?
Well it has gotten better. And in true Apple fashion, the creators are as far from Steve Jobs as you can get.
I present to you AirMail. No seriously, I’m not joking, this thing is so F-ing genious, even Fake Steve wrote about it.
Two hippies: one journalist, one web designer/musician have done what millions wish they could. Make and market vinal manila envelopes to double as sleeves for the new Macbook Air.
Their website, eye candy in itself, not only mimics Apple, but proves how stupid Fortune 500 companies are.
In it’s entirety the site has less than 300 words of written text.
They have three simple choices for visitors.
- AirMail: All you want to know
- Press about AirMail
- AirMail: About the makers
They have three high-res graphics for press to utilize. Multiple email hotlinks for questions, and ordering options from the home page.
There is no clutter. No splashing quotes on the header. Just simple white with a splash of manila.
These guys are genius. Pure F-ing geniuses.
Organizing photos tonight and came across an album full of shots taken last summer. Reminded me why I love Santa Cruz and the ocean. Enjoy.
For I am young, and young people always believe that tomorrow will be better than today. Youth try the impossible. Scale the mountain that is supposed to be inaccessible. And dare the things that age will fear.
~ Unknown
Success consists of going from failure to failure without loss of enthusiasm.
~ Winston Churchhill
Coffee, bagels and the New York Times gave way to the Boulder County Library and a lazy hike along the Mesa Trail before nerve-wracking football games. Took a few shots and thought you might enjoy.
1) The Flatirons
2) Notice how all the snow is on the trail?
3) A white peaceful world
Overheard while working out at the YMCA.
Ridiculously ripped dude one: “Hey man do you cyclocross?”
Equally Ripped dude two: “No, just ice climb and ski. Going to Jackson this weekend and Aspen in two weeks.”
“Sweet! But you really should try it. Once the road season ends it ‘s a great way to stay in shape. I just did a sick race in Estes Park.”
“Yea? Hard?”
“You know, typical. 30 miles, snow, same old shit.”
“Well I do need a new bike. Maybe I’ll pick one up. BTW, ever want to ride across Colorado?”
“Did last year, it was too easy.”
When I moved to Boulder I was out of shape. Two months on the road had broken me down. I’d run a marathon, competed in a few triathlons and climbed some 14,000 ft. peaks, but besides that the summer had been fairly uneventful.
Back home (Santa Cruz California,) I was the active one among most of my friends. Saturday mornings would be filled with 40-mile rides, 15-mile runs and marathon lap swims.
I would hit the gym at lunch, climb sporadically and hike twice a month.
And then I moved to Boulder.
The town where if you can’t ride a century, run a marathon and bust out a pitch on a gruesome 5.12 all in the same day, you’re mediocre. Worthless. Pathetic. Plane out of shape.
“Just remember,” several people told me when I first arrived. “There is always someone faster, better and more ballsy out there than you. Once you know that, you will be fine.”
I believed them, but it didn’t sink in at first.
My first two months were a blast. Twenty five thousand feet of elevation gain, over 100 miles hiked, a few hundred miles run and even two climbing sessions. I drank beer, lost weight, ate healthier than ever and found myself happier than I’d been in several years.
But as the newness wears off and I begin to become more of a resident in Boulder, the reality is sinking in.
“What are you doing this weekend?” I might ask a coworker.
“Oh you know, same old stuff. Climb a mountain early Saturday, then attend Dave Matthews before heading out to a friends hut trip which I’ll have to ski into at night. Then Sunday ski back, bang out a freelance piece and relax.”
Damn. And I thought hiking 10 miles was cool.
It starts with an idea. Maybe from one line in an article buried deep inside the New York Times. “So and so decided it was a good idea to tell kids yadi yadi yada.”The writer, then reading the story stuffed between two iPod listening zombies on the subway, quickly makes a mental note and continues reading.
The line festers over the next few days. Showers are consumed with thoughts and the dinner table has brief “what if,” conversations. The writer thinks there is a story there, but is just not sure where it is exactly.
A week later while sitting in the dentist’s office, the writer notices a magazine he had never heard of before. Quickly glancing through he discovers the magazine may be an outlet for the story, and in a moment of shamefulness, rips out the masthead and stuffs it in his pocket.
The masthead, a few months old, sits on his desk crumpled with sweat form the long hot day stuffed inside his jacket. Then in a moment of inspiration the writer jots down some thoughts, calls a few people and writes a pitch.
The editor’s comments are typical. “Who are you? Why do you think this is a good story? How does it fit in my magazine? I think there is potential but I don’t think it’s there.”
By this time the writer is committed. The time thinking alone has already breached every aspect of his life, and the small line buried deep inside the New York Times needs to be explored.
It takes three weeks, several more calls, hours of thinking and two more pitches to the editor. Finally the editor bites, and the writer has an assignment.
“Go ahead and give me a 1,000 words,” the editor quickly jotted down in an email. “I need it by next Tuesday. Is this possible?”
It is Friday, but anything is possible when given the chance.
The writer works tirelessly dialing numbers scribbled weeks ago on notepads littered on top of his desk. Answering machines mean voicemails and the fear of a deadline missed. Sunday rolls around and panic is starting to set in.
The story, just now shy of 600 words needs a solid source. Several people have agreed to speak, but none on the record. The writer, seasoned and familiar with the fear of missing a deadline quickly jots a note to the editor.
“I have a solid story,” he begins. “But I may need a few more days to find a source willing to go on record.”
“Tuesday,” is all that comes back.
The writer quickly works wonders pulling out all stops. His home life is a whirlwind of anxiety. The paycheck is dismal, just a $1.25 a word, but the story needs to be told, and if he doesn’t who will?
Finally, early Tuesday morning he finds a workaround to not having a source. Dashing off 1,000 words he gives it a quick once-over and hits send. For the first time in a few weeks his brain takes a moment and stops thinking about the story.
The next day the editor writes back. “Good, but not good enough. I like this, this and this, but can you strengthen it here and here? Also, I know what you’re trying to say, but I don’t think you quite nailed it. Please reread and fix.”
Quickly the writer goes over the changes. Hardly a sentence is intact. Feverishly he continues to call the people who were kind enough to chat. He pours over notes, googles for hours and bangs out drafts. After two days he is satisfied and hits send.
The cycle continues three more times. And then the editor replies with a simple, “Thank you, I think the story is good and I appreciate all the work.”
Three months later on a cold fall day, the writer is back on the subway and sees the magazine in a man’s hands. He quickly asks if he could borrow it for a second and scans the index for his name. There it is half way down, with a large page number pointing readers to enlightenment.
“Excuse me sir,” the writer asks, “But did you read this story by any chance?”
He points to his handiwork.
“Oh that one? Yea, skimmed it this morning on the pot. Cool idea, but the writer sucks.”
It’s Sunday and that means $1.63, Starbucks and the Sunday Times. This afternoon while in the middle of yet another arduous 6,000 word article, I watched an interesting scene unfold at the bar.
A gentleman who was paying for his drink watched the barista accidentally knock two empty cups off the bar. The cups hit the floor next to the customer. Instead of bending down to pick them up, smile at the barista and make her feel less clumsy, or even acknowledge the situation, he just kicked the cup to the middle of the store and went along his business.
After he left the barista walked around and picked them up.
It got me thinking. I know I have done similar stuff. I’ve missed the trashcan and acted like I didn’t notice. Spit on the sidewalk only then realizing an old lady was walking towards me. Turned my head when someone needed help.
The big question is who was watching and what were they thinking.
So next time I have the chance I hope I make the right decision and act accordingly, because who knows who’s watching and what they are thinking.
Took approximately four days, but finally after an amazing day of coffee, elevation, wilderness and beer I’m back.
Thought long and hard about putting up the pics, they are shot with a pos digital, so forgive the quality.
1) Last Drop of coffee at the Laughing Goat
2) Pre Mud Season in Boulder
3) Peace at 8,340 ft.
4) The backside of Boulder as a storm creeps in
