Contributor Archives: Andrew Sayer

Andrew Sayer

About Andrew Sayer

"Ah," she cried, "you look so cool." Their eyes met, and they stared together at each other, alone in space. With an effort she glanced down at the table.“You all just think you’re so much cooler then everybody else," she repeated. And who are we to judge if she’s right or wrong?

California Dreamin’… Bra.

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Loaded three surfboards, some black tees, and a leather jacket in the car the other day. Toronto faded away in the rearview: on the road. The destination was California.

It’s not that far: 4000+ kilometers. 40+ hours of full-speed driving. 4 nights, 5 days. Alone. Just the music and I.

“Dance, dance, dance, to the radio.” Read more

Bring On The Gay


Last year I wrote a similar rant on, but there are a few additional points to bring up, so let’s get into this:

Scott E. Wittlake is my favorite snowboarder. In a strange way, yes, I love him. Dylan Rieder is a handsome man. In a strange way, yes, I think he is a handsome man.

Too many jocks in this macho sport of snowboarding/skateboarding would follow up such an outpouring of man love with the expression “NO HOMO.” I do not. Read more

“If You Commit Internet Suicide Who Will Come To Your Funeral?”

Photo by Matt Fimio


‘Keys to reality’ written by Canadian legend Ken Achenbach and published in Transworld Snowboarding in 1992 is probably the most read piece of snowboard related fiction ever written. It was also Craig Kelly’s favorite. Below is my modernized version updated with today’s distractions, inspired and bitten directly from Ken’s original words, which you should read here first.

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Hating For The Love Of The Game: A Love Letter To Snowboarding

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You hate on snowboarding. Admit it. You talk shit behind its back like a cheating ex. And you should hate it. It’s this passion that keeps it real. It’s this passion that proves deep down how much you love it. And you should love it. The scenario is the same at every industry function: tradeshow, contest, industry event. It matters not. Groups of men – we’re not that young anymore – wearing the uniform that promotes whatever brand they’re currently working for or thinks is the next big thing. They grab a drink, slap high fives, and talk briefly about their hangover. And then they gossip. We. We gossip like schoolgirls.

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What can I say? I’m not a two weeks a year type of person. Leaving a comfortable ‘bright lights, big city’ life working for the Swoosh to write for cents on the word in a strange surf filled land didn’t seem like a hard decision.

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