Live from Vegas, baby
Working on a manuscript, with a faux Eiffel tower illuminated behind me. Minus the tower, this isn't terrible different from any other working night. 

It gives me a guilty pleasure to turn my back on the flashing lights and focus on the writing. I'll head out later for a walk about, but right now writing takes precedence. 

My shield against Sin City is the same ticket that brought me here. That's pretty fun. 

Tuna: "If music is truly your wife, honor her."                   


Another Animal Chin Post

There was a time when nearly all the significant folks in my life lived within a radius of 30 miles. On any given night, seven or more of us could be found out in streets after midnight, a mob of wheels and sneakers and bloody body parts. The act of skating was an ends unto itself. We would return before dawn with new stories of bloody accidents, eluded police, and – occasionally – a new trick learned. 

Eventually, we all moved on to other parts of the country and my skating changed as well. While I continued to get better (honestly, it would have been hard to get much worse) my skating slowly became a means. I was continually practicing, looking towards those rare (yet heartfelt) instances when life brought just enough of us together for the critical mass of an Ends moment. 

Spring has finally made it to the mountains, and this past weekend I spent some time at the new Glenwood skatepark. After a long, snowy winter, my skate needle was firmly out of the skate groove; tricks that would have been mindless and easy the summer before were frustratingly out of reach. Trying to link a board slide, a wall ride and a heel flip was near to impossible. 

Taking a break to consider my shadow at the base of the cement quarter pipe, I was struck by just how far I had come from my roots. The Means (or my failure to achieve them) had supplanted my Ends – having fun skating. By practicing for that golden moment of time, when I'll be with all friends falling down on concrete, I was missing out on the value of simply skating. 

All told, pretty usual stuff. Do a search and you can probably find hundreds of blogs raising the flag for living (or skating, as the case may be) in the moment, and a score of those will probably direct you to Choose Death. 

That said, it was a powerful realization. So picking my mopey white ass up off the ground I dropped back in again, just for fun this time ...

... and of course landed all the tricks. Sad day indeed. 

There is a Forgotten Ditch ...
...somewhere in northern Colorado. It is laden with dirt, the concrete is pocked and marked, and the 10 ft. walls are deadly for the uninitiated. After this weekend, it will be assailed by shovels, brooms, spackle, and most importantly: concrete maneuvers in the dark. 

Just thought you should know. :)