Chris ran into Banks Gilberti in Park Lane and followed him around with his GoPro. There was an interview (which I’m told was rather insightful), but the audio just didn’t happen. So enjoy the shred!
Archive
For the casual fridays category
I have nothing interesting to say about my own life, particularly as it pertains to skiing, so I’ve decided to poach ideas from fellow BroBombers. This week’s “inspiration” is Mr. Dunfee’s long overdue demand for freeskiing team videos. I sort of want to just copy and paste his article and hope no one notices, but I think Jon actually reads what I send him.
I’ve been thinking a lot about the death of the Pro Movie lately. Frankly, I don’t really understand why people are still willing to pay for ski films. Look, I’ve liked a couple (literally) flicks from this year, but I can’t definitively say that they’re a cut above any number of the dozenish free movies that have trickled onto the internet over the past month or so—particularly, those produced by relatively anonymous Scandinavians. To be sure, the overall quality of riding, features, and locations in the pro films is better, but the movies themselves….well, they just aren’t.
I’ve mulled over the “whys” and I think I have a few of the answers.
I’m good, you’re good, and racial harmony is so hot right now.
If we’ve learned anything from ill-advised musical supergroup collaborations (I’m looking at the Monsters of Folk album cover), it’s that all the talent in the world doesn’t guarantee any sort of chemistry or cohesion. Have you ever seen a Craigslist band? You know, the ones that put up “bass player wanted” ads? Well if you haven’t, they’re usually made up of 4 or 5 incredibly technically proficient musicians with top notch gear and distinct visions. Unfortunately, these visions are often completely at odds with one another, and the result is 4 or 5 middle-aged Guitar Center employees standing on stage waiting for their chance to solo. It seems to me that often times pro flicks have that same feel; everyone’s got chops, but no one is listening to what the other guy is playing. Ditto this criticism for the completely unnatural athlete groupings- the whole is often less than the sum of its parts. And, I don’t give a shit if the titles are fancier and they can afford to license Bob Marley songs. I double don’t give a shit if there’s a shot of a heli taking off while someone rambles about their first trip to Alaska.
Karma is a bitch. I suppose it’s a sort of poetic justice that a mere week after my (ski)bum dreams died with a whimper somewhere on a lonely stretch of I-40, that an even bummier ski bum would land on my doorstep. It’s true that he gave me ample time to properly align my chakras prior to his arrival, but is anyone ever really ready for an obnoxiously tall kid with multiple pairs of skis crammed in a Honda Accord to turn up on a lazy afternoon? I sure wasn’t. He’s presently 2-3ft. away from where I type this lying in bed…mercifully, two sheets of drywall and several 2×4’s separate us.
This used to be my living room...now it’s a refugee camp.
It’s snowing outside and if I turn my head 90° to the left, I’m forced to stare at his brand new, never-skied EP Pro’s which he plans to guinea pig at MY home resort bright and early tomorrow morning. Did I mention that I’m six days out from knee surgery? Super considerate…
Chick’s dig ski bums. Actually, seeing as how I can’t ski, that statement could be broadened to include the entire Bum Nation. It’s truly heartachingly beautiful to see a gal go from standoffish and disinterested to biting her bottom lip when she learns that you’re on a journey of self-discovery with no real destination. Seriously, “I’ve been sleeping in my car for five days” is the new “What’s your sign?”—provided of course that your car is niceish, you can grow a legit ginger beard, and you show up at hipster clubs and spit game to chicks that voted for Obama and/or have an ironic tattoo. You can practically see the “My parents will hate you…swooooooon” thought bubble appear just above their dramatic bangs. They really don’t stand a chance.
- He could be slayin’ these hoes if he would stop rambling about the CIA and Agent Orange.
Jon’s Monday-Mashup got me thinking. Sure, I don’t have a camera, I can’t ski, and I’m not famous, but a quick perusal of youtube videos uploaded by 16 year old girls (by accident….honest) convinced me that none of those things are prerequisites for making a self-indulgent and questionably interesting video blog thing.
I’m still on the road, presently in Portland, and yes it’s apocalyptically gray. I like it. I’ve been here less than 24 hrs., I’ve made friends, eaten Poutine for the first time (Canucks just slid past the Dutch into 7th place of people I like the most), and seen a hip up-and-coming band play a “show.” I’d say we’re doing alright.
If you’re in any way affiliated with law enforcement, I want to assure you that despite appearances, I am in fact NOT texting, iPoding, macbooking, GPSing, rapping, and driving at the same time. Mom, I’m wearing my seatbelt.
Anyway, for those of you who couldn’t join me on this little mission, I put together a visual summary of my trip. If you loop this video for the next 15 hours, it’ll be like you were riding shotgun—in England, because my macbook mirrors everything.
There’s something extra special about 2/3rds of the way through.
***P.S. This is an official demand for a ski/boot/outerwear/eyewear/energy drink sponsorship for both Jon and myself. I’m serious.
Jon’s progressive riding/writing, coupled with whatever it is that I do, has gone unnoticed for far too long. We’re taste makers—trend-setters if you will. We’re willing to sellout, though.
I have a dramatic/tragic past, felony arrests, stints in rehab, and I rap. Should I start a ski-beef? Jacob Wester is a pretentious tool. Blao. Skiing needs a Suge Knight. Which core companies are going to step up and do the right thing?
So, I did it. I mean, I’m doing it. I’m en route to my own personal imaginary nirvana, or as it’s more commonly referred to—Portland. I’m writing this in the trunk of my car, lying in a borrowed sleeping bag, and apparently I parked in the exact spot necessary for the “Denny’s” sign to shine directly in my face when I lay in the only comfortable position I can manage. But, my pants are already off, and I’m zipped up, so I ain’t moving. I’m 75% sure that I’m in Kingman, which I assume is in AZ as I haven’t seen any CA welcome signs. The open-faced chili cheeseburger I dominated a few hours ago is sitting low and heavy. Yikes. Despite that inconvenient truth, I’m sleepy in that satisfied “I went somewhere and did something” kind of way—even if that somewhere and something is nowhere and drove respectively.
I decided that I was going to Portland while writing last week’s CF, but I left it open-ended and whatnot because I thought it sounded more mysterious and cool to do it like that. I still think it was a good choice. I don’t know why I felt compelled to share that. Continue reading this entry »
You’d think that one night spent playing “Dodge the Suicidal Mule Deer” on a pitch black Colorado state road would have lastingly quenched my thirst for that sort of adventure. Well, it didn’t. In the wee hours of this glorious morning, I got on my Luke Skywalker ish and swerved around a presumably brand-new herd of deer en route to Wolf Creek Ski Area, just outside of Pagosa Springs. I beat the sun there, but just barely.
Let’s back up though. The most interesting part of this story—in my estimation—is the shenanigans that led up to this latest impulsive, ill advised road trip. Continue reading this entry »
Bitch, I'm ME, so who're you
For a sport that roughly 7.4 people care about worldwide, freeskiing is rife with controversy. Aside from the obnoxious “tight vs. baggy outerwear” and “poles vs. no poles” debates, maybe no other issue splits us more definitively than Lil‘ Wayne. For every one of us that remembers to say “the motherfucking BABY!”, another one of us groans. I’ve invested quite a bit of time (and energy) into considering my thoughts on Lil’ Wayne. This is undoubtedly a worthless endeavor, and I am fully aware that having done so is an inherently lame thing to have done. But, I’m obsessed with music, and I find his polarizing effect really interesting. I’m also aware that this will be unbelievably long, and will likely be read/appreciated by very few people, and that’s ok because I’m primarily writing this for me. I plan on saying a lot, and I’m going to supply some seemingly unnecessary details about my musical tastes so that it’s clear where I’m coming from (read: preemptive defensiveness). If you have a short attention span, or a fiercely ideological stance on/against Lil’ Wayne that will make an objective view impossible, stop reading. If you are someone who is legitimately interested in hearing someone’s thoughts on why Lil’ Wayne is a note-worthy/important/respectable rapper, please continue and forgive the length. Continue reading this entry »
When I began this little column a few weeks ago, I led you all (read: the 7 people outside of my immediate family who are reading this) to believe that I would lay out the heart-warming and touching story that was my hard fought ascendance from the hell of addiction into the splendor of ski-bummedness. While that’s fundamentally true—minus the histrionics—this column will also sometimes be a forum for me to ramble about any number of things even peripherally related to either the aforementioned hell or splendor. My hope is that these little breaks from our central narrative will act as colorful little asides that serve to let you, the reader, get a better feel for your protagonist. My other hope is that you all just bought that, and that I successfully put off delving into my past for another week. So… Continue reading this entry »
My dad and I have had this conversation several times, and it pretty much always goes the same way.
Me: “Uncle Zack taught me to ski.”
Dad: “That’s incredulous (or whichever over the top, barely applicable word he favors at the moment)! I taught you how to ski!”
While it’s true that some overly serious guy with a shitty job (read: ski instructor at Camelback in the Poconos) spent a few hours desperately trying to hold my 6-year-old self’s attention in order to show me how to click into my bindings, but my uncle taught me how to ski. Or rather, my uncle taught me how to point my skis downhill and how to stop. Words fail in attempting to describe the transition from: “It’s cold, my feet hurt, and I’m tired of falling down” to, “I wonder how fast I can go on these things”. However, Richard Strauss’ Also Sprach Zarathustra rings in my ears and I see the “Star-Child returns to Earth” scene from 2001: A Space Odyssey play in my head when I think on it. Anyone who hung in there long enough knows what I’m talking about. Continue reading this entry »
