Growing up, I had a different set of heroes than most of my friends, or the rest of the world. My heroes were BMX flatland pioneers Mike Buff, R.L. Osborne and Bob Haro. When Matt Hoffman hit the scene, he was high on my hero list and I wasn’t even a ramp rider, but the things that kid could do on a bike were beyond belief. The drug of choice for these guys was 80’s chicks in Guess? Jeans, and they flaunted this in every issue of BMX magazine that I ever read.

I have never been a fan of mainstream sports like football, basketball or baseball. I still laugh when people refer to golf as a sport. I never recognized pro players as having anything particularly worthy of note, and therefore never had the love affair with them that so much of America seems to possess. I was always uneasy with the bully factor of sports players during my school years and seeing the special treatment kids received for having athletic talent made me a little sick. I frequently wondered why they weren’t held to the same social and educational standards that the rest of us were. They were a source of annoyance rather than entertainment.

The older I got, the dumber the pro players got. They became even less worthy of the money and status they received while their paychecks kept growing and their education kept dwindling. The class and etiquette that used to be required of pro athletes is a thing of the past. Rather than suits and an attempt at speaking well in public, it’s wife beaters, tattoos and public threats. The idea that a God would favor one team of idolaters over another because of a particularly pious hypocrite made me laugh every time Tebow would open his mouth.

You have Michael Vick dog fighting; Lance Armstrong coming clean (pun intended) for his ‘roid use; Barry Bonds getting denied the Hall of Fame for PED use; Pistorius killing his girlfriend; Tiger and countless affairs. The disgusting list goes on and on.

This is a bit of a non-sequitur, but Sports Illustrated published a 2009 study that found 78 percent of professional athletes file bankruptcy or are reported as being “under financial stress” within two years of their career ending. It’s a sobering fact, isn’t it? Especially considering most pro careers end before the players are 40.

As I skimmed Google News the very morning I was writing this article, there were two of five sports stories regarding players who got caught doping. According to many of those who get caught, it’s not who is using, it’s just who gets caught, insinuating that most players use.

I can’t help but wish we could train our children to emulate people with a little bit more integrity. Or at the very least, end the drug testing and let people who want to be science experiments do it. Let them become the gladiators that they try to become in hiding. We could have two groups of athletes – one on drugs, and one clean group – so people could compete in a more balanced tier. That way we could study the effects of performance enhancing drugs in a controlled and honest environment on people who wish to test the results.

I don’t plan on mellowing my disdain for pro football anytime soon, so I will have to be content with the heroes I have in my world. As I have grown up, my heroes have morphed a little. They have changed from BMX pioneers to the people I interact with directly on a life or professional basis. I have grown deep admiration for people who live a life that honors their values, their neighbors and the earth. My heroes have their issues, too. They may work too much, or not make the money they deserve, or maybe they like their music a little too loud. They may have different beliefs from my own, but they generally accept people for who they are, and work towards making their world a better place.

I would like to give a huge, hero-high-five to my everyday heroes: The librarians who manage the books I love so much; the cooks, waiters, waitresses, bartenders and dish-dogs who feed me when I don’t cook for myself; my biking buddies, my business partners; my brother, David, the director of the Colorado Natural Heritage Program, who followed his love of all things living to place him in a career that helps keep Colorado the Colorado I know and love; my father, Keith, who taught me to love the question “Why?” and gave my brother and me the gift of music; my wife, Courtney, who lets me be me and supports my every whim and fancy.

Welcome to Steamboat’s new, monthly newsgazine, Valley Voice. You read it right, a newsgazine; part magazine, part newspaper. We coined this term sometime in the last couple of months as we were trying to define what the Valley Voice truly was. This definition is an important aspect of the work when creating a new style of print media in a world of smart phone instant gratification and modern communication. How can we be unique and desirable dressed in vintage 27 pound newsprint? What will make people use this particular piece of print media to start campfires, wrap fish or swat flies over other available trash?  Oh, or to read?

The answer is simple: put lipstick on that pig by giving it a glossy cover, lots of color, and a couple of staples.  The end result is what you’re holding in your hands:  glossy on the outside, newsy on the inside, but with some meat in some of the articles that give it a more magazine type feel. The 32 pages you are currently reading (or using to pick up some doggie-do) are just the beginning. We plan on expanding the content and creating a user-friendly modality of expression and information to entertain the local and visitor alike.

Introduction

This inaugural issue of Valley Voice consists of over 20 writers and artists. Artist bios will accompany future editions, but for now you will have the bylines to stir memories of past (and some current) publications until we get all the bios of all the contributors. I don’t want to lose sleep feeling that someone is underrepresented, and that’s just the kind of thing that keeps me awake.

There are three key members of the contributing public who I need to introduce here, because it will be one of these three people who you will talk to when you call or email the office.

Matt Scharf is the man behind the lipstick. No, not the one wearing the lipstick; Matt is the artist who will be designing the pages, most of the ads and the fancy glossy map in the middle of each issue. You can see much of Matt’s work around town from logos to car wraps (think My Wireless) to signage at some of the parks. He also created the Whiskey Chronicles Comic that ran for many years in The Local, and a number of political cartoons that ran in the Pilot and Today.  You can reach him online at [email protected].

Scott Ford is our financial guru, esteemed “Office Dad” (even though he has his own office down the street from ours) and the man behind the statistics. He was the management ingredient that gave us the flavor we needed to create the best newsgazine bouillabaisse a lack of capitol could buy. Scott will be doing our billing, telling us if we can afford a new can of beans and guiding us through the fun world of the entrepreneur. Scott will answer your emails in order of statistical preference at [email protected].

And then me, Paulie Anderson. I am the glorified secretary with a column in prime real estate. I answer the phone, listen, talk and sell.  I fill in the blanks, apply liberal sarcasm, adjust with humor and appreciate the word vitriol. My qualification can be summed up as simply as this: I like people and I like paper. My newest cyber address is [email protected].