As mentioned in my previous post, the article on the Smurfit-Stone closure appeared in this week's Independent.
Have to say, there's a difference between hearing about the closure and seeing it up close at the one place where venting happens naturally. Working this story proved a great reminder why I got into my profession: people.
Saturday, December 19, 2009
Tuesday, December 15, 2009
Missoula happenings
Smurfit-Stone Container Corp. announced Monday morning that it's permanently shuttering the Frenchtown mill. For those of you unfamiliar with Missoula, the linerboard plant sits just west of town and employs hundreds of folks at the comfortable wage of $25.44 an hour. The plant has suffered a half-dozen temporary shutdowns over the past 15 years, but this latest development is troubling. As of Dec. 31, 417 people are out of a job.
Roy Houseman, acting president of the United Steelworkers Local 885, told me yesterday that—factoring for salaries alone—the closure will suck about $18 million annually from Missoula's economy. The trickle down has been covered extensively since news broke, and I jumped on the story myself as soon as we heard.
The 4 p.m. shift change at the mill Monday was, to put simply, depressing. Those coming out of the gate either declined to comment or said they'd basically spent the day in a daze. Connie Thompson, who met with a few of us press folk before the whistle blew, has worked at the plant for 27 years. "We tried to call everyone in our department during their day off to tell them, and most had already heard," she said. One example she offered up: a Smurfit-Stone employee got the news from a few bystanders at a gas station.
As for the moments following the announcement at work? "Everybody kinda sat looking at each other during a job meeting we had this morning," Howard Cotten told me across a concrete barrier. "Emotions ran high for a few second...then guys started talking about what to do next."
Some chose to put a bit of humor to the situation today.
I spent several hours in Frenchtown last night working on my story. Let's just say these guys are justified in their venting. Ten days till Christmas.
Roy Houseman, acting president of the United Steelworkers Local 885, told me yesterday that—factoring for salaries alone—the closure will suck about $18 million annually from Missoula's economy. The trickle down has been covered extensively since news broke, and I jumped on the story myself as soon as we heard.
The 4 p.m. shift change at the mill Monday was, to put simply, depressing. Those coming out of the gate either declined to comment or said they'd basically spent the day in a daze. Connie Thompson, who met with a few of us press folk before the whistle blew, has worked at the plant for 27 years. "We tried to call everyone in our department during their day off to tell them, and most had already heard," she said. One example she offered up: a Smurfit-Stone employee got the news from a few bystanders at a gas station.
As for the moments following the announcement at work? "Everybody kinda sat looking at each other during a job meeting we had this morning," Howard Cotten told me across a concrete barrier. "Emotions ran high for a few second...then guys started talking about what to do next."
Some chose to put a bit of humor to the situation today.
I spent several hours in Frenchtown last night working on my story. Let's just say these guys are justified in their venting. Ten days till Christmas.
Sunday, November 22, 2009
20 reasons why "How I Met Your Mother" is disturbingly realistic
Going through my bi-monthly "How I Met Your Mother" kick. Once again I'm noticing a troubling number of parallels between a CBS sitcom and the non-fiction that is real life. Yes, this post is more than a tad self-indulgent. But the blogosphere counts that one of its hallmarks, no?
1. Your average Joe can't act to save his life, much like the stars of the show. Except the suit-sporting, woman-killing, catchphrase-spewing Barneys of the world. They're just awesome.
2. Bob Saget should never be seen in person. Ever.
3. Long-distance relationships don't work. And yet everyone eventually finds him or herself saying, "It will totally work."
4. Loud techno dance clubs sound way more fun than they actually are. Best to just chill with the cute coat-check girl.
5. Barney's bamboozles to bag busty babes work about half the time. They guarantee slaps the other half. Don't ask how I know, just trust me.
6. Britney Spears is a crazed vapid slut.
7. Nothing good happens after 2 a.m. There's a reason bars shout last call 15-20 minutes before the clock strikes. That extra shot of Jagermeister can spell the difference between getting home with your dignity intact or waking up next to a butch rugby chick from Nevada.
8. Beard don't go with suits.
9. After drinking too much at the bars, it takes at least three eye witnesses to replay the night's events. Even then, part of the story will remain shrouded in mystery.
10. "Give me five" is back. If it ever left.
11. Going solo for brunch leads to nothing but scoffs and condescending stares.
12. Be wary of crazy eye. Seven out of ten dysfunctional relationships can be avoided by detecting the crazy early on.
13. Couples and singles can be easily distinguished at any bar or club, based on wakefulness, social lubricant and attentiveness to conversation.
14. "I'm Gonna Be" by the Proclaimers is the ultimate road trip track.
15. Close friends rarely notice each others' annoying flaws, until they're pointed out by a third party.
16. The Naked Man works. In theory, anyway. Haven't become desperate enough to try it. Yet.
17. Calling a girl before the three day mark is a bad idea. But guys do it anyway.
18. Canadian money isn't real.
19. The first weeks/months of a serious relationship lead to added poundage and inattention to one's appearance. Why dress up the cow when there's already milk in your cereal? Okay, bad use of that particular phrase.
20. Being single in a crowd of coupled friends sucks. You're inevitably the only one with the interest or energy to: hit the bars, get silly drunk, sing karaoke, sled down Blue Mountain at three in the morning, go to three movies in one afternoon, spontaneously hit the road for a weekend road trip to who-knows-where, dance on tables, sky-dive, walk to the nearest pub for a single beer. And relationship advice from said coupled friends (that by not looking around for a date, you'll find one) is BS. Unfortunately, being proactive doesn't work either.
If this list doesn't sell the show as a must-watch, I've got three words for you: Neil Patrick Harris. 'Nuff said.
1. Your average Joe can't act to save his life, much like the stars of the show. Except the suit-sporting, woman-killing, catchphrase-spewing Barneys of the world. They're just awesome.
2. Bob Saget should never be seen in person. Ever.
3. Long-distance relationships don't work. And yet everyone eventually finds him or herself saying, "It will totally work."
4. Loud techno dance clubs sound way more fun than they actually are. Best to just chill with the cute coat-check girl.
5. Barney's bamboozles to bag busty babes work about half the time. They guarantee slaps the other half. Don't ask how I know, just trust me.
6. Britney Spears is a crazed vapid slut.
7. Nothing good happens after 2 a.m. There's a reason bars shout last call 15-20 minutes before the clock strikes. That extra shot of Jagermeister can spell the difference between getting home with your dignity intact or waking up next to a butch rugby chick from Nevada.
8. Beard don't go with suits.
9. After drinking too much at the bars, it takes at least three eye witnesses to replay the night's events. Even then, part of the story will remain shrouded in mystery.
10. "Give me five" is back. If it ever left.
11. Going solo for brunch leads to nothing but scoffs and condescending stares.
12. Be wary of crazy eye. Seven out of ten dysfunctional relationships can be avoided by detecting the crazy early on.
13. Couples and singles can be easily distinguished at any bar or club, based on wakefulness, social lubricant and attentiveness to conversation.
14. "I'm Gonna Be" by the Proclaimers is the ultimate road trip track.
15. Close friends rarely notice each others' annoying flaws, until they're pointed out by a third party.
16. The Naked Man works. In theory, anyway. Haven't become desperate enough to try it. Yet.
17. Calling a girl before the three day mark is a bad idea. But guys do it anyway.
18. Canadian money isn't real.
19. The first weeks/months of a serious relationship lead to added poundage and inattention to one's appearance. Why dress up the cow when there's already milk in your cereal? Okay, bad use of that particular phrase.
20. Being single in a crowd of coupled friends sucks. You're inevitably the only one with the interest or energy to: hit the bars, get silly drunk, sing karaoke, sled down Blue Mountain at three in the morning, go to three movies in one afternoon, spontaneously hit the road for a weekend road trip to who-knows-where, dance on tables, sky-dive, walk to the nearest pub for a single beer. And relationship advice from said coupled friends (that by not looking around for a date, you'll find one) is BS. Unfortunately, being proactive doesn't work either.
If this list doesn't sell the show as a must-watch, I've got three words for you: Neil Patrick Harris. 'Nuff said.
Tuesday, November 17, 2009
Blowing a little time
Weird. The last five minutes just bled together into one very strange moment. I'm sitting at my workspace, standing in the kitchen, and standing outside the basement door all at once. I can't explain beyond that. Must be a side effect of drinking six cups of coffee in two hours. Or not eating anything since that Papa John's pizza last night. Or knowing I'll still be here in an hour. Tuesdays do seem to drag on endlessly.
Passed my weekend in the usual mundane ways: worked on some personal writing projects, hung out with the kid sister, got buzzed and moshed at a metal show. I did, however, pass a Friday on-assignment at Lookout Pass. Eighteen inches wasn't much, but I carved some pre-Thanksgiving turns and got my gas expenses covered. Sadly, I also found out how out of shape two months of relative lethargy in this basement have left me. Better get back to jogging before the season hits its stride.
Thanksgiving promises to be a different scene entirely this year. First year not going home for Dede's pickles and Grandpa's turkey. Instead I'm heading up to the cabin in Choteau on Thursday for my first-ever bout with deer hunting. John's got a burr in his ass about shooting a lowland whitetail and our property is more than a ticket to meat. Don't know yet if I'll be able to pull the trigger myself. A deer is more of a kill than a pine squirrel. But I do love venison. And meat's expensive at the grocery store, more expensive than a bullet and a few hours of gutting Bambi's cousin.
I've realized in the course of typing this entry that Pandora can't sort music worth a post Despos-grilled-cheese shit. The Fratellis should not prompt late career Modest Mouse or golden era White Stripes. Ugh. With that, I'm done with this post and (hopefully) out of the newsroom.
Passed my weekend in the usual mundane ways: worked on some personal writing projects, hung out with the kid sister, got buzzed and moshed at a metal show. I did, however, pass a Friday on-assignment at Lookout Pass. Eighteen inches wasn't much, but I carved some pre-Thanksgiving turns and got my gas expenses covered. Sadly, I also found out how out of shape two months of relative lethargy in this basement have left me. Better get back to jogging before the season hits its stride.
Thanksgiving promises to be a different scene entirely this year. First year not going home for Dede's pickles and Grandpa's turkey. Instead I'm heading up to the cabin in Choteau on Thursday for my first-ever bout with deer hunting. John's got a burr in his ass about shooting a lowland whitetail and our property is more than a ticket to meat. Don't know yet if I'll be able to pull the trigger myself. A deer is more of a kill than a pine squirrel. But I do love venison. And meat's expensive at the grocery store, more expensive than a bullet and a few hours of gutting Bambi's cousin.
I've realized in the course of typing this entry that Pandora can't sort music worth a post Despos-grilled-cheese shit. The Fratellis should not prompt late career Modest Mouse or golden era White Stripes. Ugh. With that, I'm done with this post and (hopefully) out of the newsroom.
Wednesday, November 11, 2009
The job
Looking up at the newsroom storyboard, I realize I'm rapidly approaching the end of my eighth month at the Missoula Independent (our map at present extends through December 3). Hard to believe it's been over half a year. Even harder to believe I've been a regular presence, staff and freelance, here since June 2008.
I've covered a lot since that first Info about Ryan Alt, a guy infamous around here for rigging up cameras in artificial bear dens. Off the top of my head, I remember writing about: the last-place runner in the 2008 Missoula Marathon; University of Montana alumni getting squeezed out of the Homecoming football game; the short-lived "drive you home in your car" outfit Designated Driver Missoula; the cutting of the Capitol Christmas Tree in Ravalli County (bullshit fluff); the now-editor of UM's alumni magazine and her past meltdown on the set of MTV's "Miss Seventeen"; flooding in the courthouse basement in Ravalli County (more bullshit); union members picketing outside a Missoula bank; a dummy cop in Lake County that tricked me into slamming my brake pedal; a religious wacko running for the public school board of trustees; a UM football senior waiting, waiting, waiting for a draft call from the NFL; a religion-based group home for ex-cons, including four sex offenders, operating in a kid-heavy neighborhood; conservation dogs; the DMV's flunky new computer system; the current state of the notorious former Montana Freemen; cowboy polo; Missoula's new outdoor amphitheater; UM booting a satellite research group off campus, and footing the subsequent rent; the county health clinic dealing with rising patient numbers; ownership change at the exclusive Loft of Missoula club; a river ranger on the Blackfoot; the plight of the landless Little Shell Tribe; tainted compost in Bitterroot Valley gardens; a critical national study of Montana's public defender system; skatepark plans in Hamilton; a new group of parents pushing for harsher legal guidelines for guardians ad litem; more Little Shell plight; the new Whitefish Curling Club; more public defender system criticism; right-wingers meeting in droves in the Bitterroot; 358 homeless students in Missoula County schools, including 209 elementary students; rising foreclosures in Ravalli County; and KMPT 930 AM's switch from a progressive to a conservative radio format.
In that time, I've said the following relating to my job as a reporter (to sources, coworkers, friends and family):
"The only character flaw I can't blame on a career in journalism is my Norwegian cynicism."
"I can't believe in God. My editor won't let me."
"Journalism is like collecting piss in a sieve. The harder you try to get the job done, the faster it drains."
"If I felt politicians could change the world in a positive way, I wouldn't be a journalist."
"Journalism is a career tailor-made for the attention deficit and hyper active. By the time one story runs, you're half-way through the second."
What're you doing? "Surviving." Work suck? "Like a $20 hooker. All teeth."
"Sometimes after work, I just feel like I need to loofah my soul."
"What the hell did I write last week?"
"What the hell am I writing this week?"
"Oh, yea, I remember. We talked a couple weeks ago, for that story about the thing. That wasn't you?"
"You're who? We talked when? Um, I didn't write that."
"I'm sorry, the writer you're asking for hasn't worked here for over a year."
"I'm Alex Sakariassen, with the Missoula Independent...It's a newspaper...A newspaper...Never mind, I've got the wrong number."
"God, my job sucks."
"God, my job rules."
"I can't believe I get paid for this."
"I don't get paid enough for this."
"Grad school never looked so good."
"Grad school? Pshaw."
"Foreclosure notices are a goddamn goldmine."
"Bankruptcy filings are a goddamn goldmine."
"This shit's depressing."
"This shit's great."
"Compared to some of these people, I'm not doing so bad."
Could be the sleep deprivation, or the five cups of coffee, or the fact I'm skiing this Friday on-assignment, but I'm riding a high right now. This time next week? Who knows. Half the fun is guessing. The other half is drinking when I guess wrong.
I've covered a lot since that first Info about Ryan Alt, a guy infamous around here for rigging up cameras in artificial bear dens. Off the top of my head, I remember writing about: the last-place runner in the 2008 Missoula Marathon; University of Montana alumni getting squeezed out of the Homecoming football game; the short-lived "drive you home in your car" outfit Designated Driver Missoula; the cutting of the Capitol Christmas Tree in Ravalli County (bullshit fluff); the now-editor of UM's alumni magazine and her past meltdown on the set of MTV's "Miss Seventeen"; flooding in the courthouse basement in Ravalli County (more bullshit); union members picketing outside a Missoula bank; a dummy cop in Lake County that tricked me into slamming my brake pedal; a religious wacko running for the public school board of trustees; a UM football senior waiting, waiting, waiting for a draft call from the NFL; a religion-based group home for ex-cons, including four sex offenders, operating in a kid-heavy neighborhood; conservation dogs; the DMV's flunky new computer system; the current state of the notorious former Montana Freemen; cowboy polo; Missoula's new outdoor amphitheater; UM booting a satellite research group off campus, and footing the subsequent rent; the county health clinic dealing with rising patient numbers; ownership change at the exclusive Loft of Missoula club; a river ranger on the Blackfoot; the plight of the landless Little Shell Tribe; tainted compost in Bitterroot Valley gardens; a critical national study of Montana's public defender system; skatepark plans in Hamilton; a new group of parents pushing for harsher legal guidelines for guardians ad litem; more Little Shell plight; the new Whitefish Curling Club; more public defender system criticism; right-wingers meeting in droves in the Bitterroot; 358 homeless students in Missoula County schools, including 209 elementary students; rising foreclosures in Ravalli County; and KMPT 930 AM's switch from a progressive to a conservative radio format.
In that time, I've said the following relating to my job as a reporter (to sources, coworkers, friends and family):
"The only character flaw I can't blame on a career in journalism is my Norwegian cynicism."
"I can't believe in God. My editor won't let me."
"Journalism is like collecting piss in a sieve. The harder you try to get the job done, the faster it drains."
"If I felt politicians could change the world in a positive way, I wouldn't be a journalist."
"Journalism is a career tailor-made for the attention deficit and hyper active. By the time one story runs, you're half-way through the second."
What're you doing? "Surviving." Work suck? "Like a $20 hooker. All teeth."
"Sometimes after work, I just feel like I need to loofah my soul."
"What the hell did I write last week?"
"What the hell am I writing this week?"
"Oh, yea, I remember. We talked a couple weeks ago, for that story about the thing. That wasn't you?"
"You're who? We talked when? Um, I didn't write that."
"I'm sorry, the writer you're asking for hasn't worked here for over a year."
"I'm Alex Sakariassen, with the Missoula Independent...It's a newspaper...A newspaper...Never mind, I've got the wrong number."
"God, my job sucks."
"God, my job rules."
"I can't believe I get paid for this."
"I don't get paid enough for this."
"Grad school never looked so good."
"Grad school? Pshaw."
"Foreclosure notices are a goddamn goldmine."
"Bankruptcy filings are a goddamn goldmine."
"This shit's depressing."
"This shit's great."
"Compared to some of these people, I'm not doing so bad."
Could be the sleep deprivation, or the five cups of coffee, or the fact I'm skiing this Friday on-assignment, but I'm riding a high right now. This time next week? Who knows. Half the fun is guessing. The other half is drinking when I guess wrong.
Friday, November 6, 2009
Another end to another week
The newsroom is relatively quiet this afternoon. Editor took the day off, one writer left early, and the rest of us are just looking to knock out a few interviews before heading to our respective homes/bars/breweries early. I'm thinking it's another four o'clock day.
I spent my morning reworking draft one of my upcoming feature for Headwall Magazine. For those of you out-of-the-know, my paper launched a quarterly outdoors mag in May. Issue four hits stands in December, followed by a spring edition with yours truly. But I've said all this before. In fact, I think I said something about it a few days ago. Guess I'm suffering early onset senility. Fuck.
Received some interesting news this afternoon. The Society of Environmental Journalists invited me to join a 20-member panel this month to plan their 2010 Northwest Regional Conference. We're appointed to discuss the conference theme, as well as potential guest speakers. Not sure where they got my name, other than I'm one of SEJ's thousands of members. But it sounds like a blast, certainly a great excuse to skip an afternoon at work.
Until later, folks.
I spent my morning reworking draft one of my upcoming feature for Headwall Magazine. For those of you out-of-the-know, my paper launched a quarterly outdoors mag in May. Issue four hits stands in December, followed by a spring edition with yours truly. But I've said all this before. In fact, I think I said something about it a few days ago. Guess I'm suffering early onset senility. Fuck.
Received some interesting news this afternoon. The Society of Environmental Journalists invited me to join a 20-member panel this month to plan their 2010 Northwest Regional Conference. We're appointed to discuss the conference theme, as well as potential guest speakers. Not sure where they got my name, other than I'm one of SEJ's thousands of members. But it sounds like a blast, certainly a great excuse to skip an afternoon at work.
Until later, folks.
Sunday, November 1, 2009
Are we back on track to good old isolationism?
I found an ironic juxtaposition in my afternoon. After finishing my annual post-Halloween viewing of Casablanca, arguably the most poignant statement on the crumbling of America's early 20th Century isolationist mindset, I read an article in the latest issue of the New Yorker titled "The Predator War" by Jane Mayer. Elements of the two got me thinking: has technology set us back on the track to isolationism?
Richard Blaine, Humphrey Bogart's signature role, stands as the single greatest example of the American isolation mindset through the first half of Casablanca, set in Morocco during World War II. He's politically neutral, preferring to watch emerging global conflicts from the unassuming position of local saloon owner. His bar, Rick's Cafe Americain, is a place for music, liquid pleasure and gambling. Yes, it attracts much black market business, but Rick himself is never directly involved. The problems of others, even friends, slide right by. In response to the arrest of Ugarte, a man recently implicated in the murder of two German couriers, Rick says simply, "I stick my neck out for nobody." Ugarte is one of the few men in the city of Casablanca whom Rick respects. Despite that, Rick refrains from getting involved for the sake of his own safety. It was the same with America, which didn't get involved in WWII until a few weeks before the film was released.
America's involvement in World War I certainly set the stage for the departure from isolationism. But the domestic troubles of the Great Depression interrupted that transition, and WWII stands as the first real step in turning our country's attention to global development. Sentiments within the country certainly reflected outside concerns, as many citizens were recent transplants or could still easily track their family's history to some specific European hamlet. But as with the management at Rick's Cafe Americain, the U.S. government kept its eyes firmly focused on domestic affairs.
"The Predator War" hints at some upcoming return to that same ideology. Thanks to technology, Americans can happily involve themselves in international affairs without leaving the house. Hell, with the Internet, you can scope out the streets of Paris or London without putting on pants. Mayer's article discusses the latest developments in remote-control killing, specifically the unmanned drones used to kill upwards of 500 people in Pakistan since January 2009. All attacks have been sanctioned by President Barack Obama, Mayer writes, and executed by CIA operatives or government contractors operating joysticks from secure locations within the U.S. Mayer quotes Mary Dudziak, a law professor from the University of Southern California: "Drones are a technological step that further isolates the American people from military action, undermining political checks...on endless war."
Yes, our government is still steeped in foreign affairs. The wars in Iraq and Afghanistan are far from over. But if soldiers can execute key leaders of Al Qaeda using the same technology gaming nerds do to slaughter hordes of goblins or aliens or whatnot, how long before we see no reason to stick our necks out for anyone? We may wage war for decades to come, but the loss of a multi-million dollar aerial drone hardly constitutes sacrifice. Clearly that's all the problems of others in this crazy world are worth to us. Killing enemies from a Laz-E-Boy? Can't get much more isolationist than that.
Richard Blaine, Humphrey Bogart's signature role, stands as the single greatest example of the American isolation mindset through the first half of Casablanca, set in Morocco during World War II. He's politically neutral, preferring to watch emerging global conflicts from the unassuming position of local saloon owner. His bar, Rick's Cafe Americain, is a place for music, liquid pleasure and gambling. Yes, it attracts much black market business, but Rick himself is never directly involved. The problems of others, even friends, slide right by. In response to the arrest of Ugarte, a man recently implicated in the murder of two German couriers, Rick says simply, "I stick my neck out for nobody." Ugarte is one of the few men in the city of Casablanca whom Rick respects. Despite that, Rick refrains from getting involved for the sake of his own safety. It was the same with America, which didn't get involved in WWII until a few weeks before the film was released.
America's involvement in World War I certainly set the stage for the departure from isolationism. But the domestic troubles of the Great Depression interrupted that transition, and WWII stands as the first real step in turning our country's attention to global development. Sentiments within the country certainly reflected outside concerns, as many citizens were recent transplants or could still easily track their family's history to some specific European hamlet. But as with the management at Rick's Cafe Americain, the U.S. government kept its eyes firmly focused on domestic affairs.
"The Predator War" hints at some upcoming return to that same ideology. Thanks to technology, Americans can happily involve themselves in international affairs without leaving the house. Hell, with the Internet, you can scope out the streets of Paris or London without putting on pants. Mayer's article discusses the latest developments in remote-control killing, specifically the unmanned drones used to kill upwards of 500 people in Pakistan since January 2009. All attacks have been sanctioned by President Barack Obama, Mayer writes, and executed by CIA operatives or government contractors operating joysticks from secure locations within the U.S. Mayer quotes Mary Dudziak, a law professor from the University of Southern California: "Drones are a technological step that further isolates the American people from military action, undermining political checks...on endless war."
Yes, our government is still steeped in foreign affairs. The wars in Iraq and Afghanistan are far from over. But if soldiers can execute key leaders of Al Qaeda using the same technology gaming nerds do to slaughter hordes of goblins or aliens or whatnot, how long before we see no reason to stick our necks out for anyone? We may wage war for decades to come, but the loss of a multi-million dollar aerial drone hardly constitutes sacrifice. Clearly that's all the problems of others in this crazy world are worth to us. Killing enemies from a Laz-E-Boy? Can't get much more isolationist than that.
Friday, October 30, 2009
Hello again
Sitting at work, watching the clock for the moment I can call it quits and hit the K-Ho. HB 400 went into effect on Oct. 1, but I've been too busy till now to stop in for some 9+ percent beer.
Speaking of busy, this and this are predominantly responsible for my absence from the blogosphere of late (as well as this raging alcohol-induced migraine that hasn't let up in two weeks). The first story took well over a month to report, and prompted several legal threats from divorcees wishing me not to run names. Point taken. The second story took a little less time, though no less effort. I thoroughly enjoyed conducting interviews with pistol-packing conservatives. Not sure how they'll react to the article, but I've had no death threats yet. Just praise from online comments and the man upstairs. Must admit it's my best work yet in this field.
Wrapped up a first draft of my feature for the next issue of Headwall Magazine as well. Admittedly I should have finished it months ago, since I took the trip in mid June. For those of you unaware, the piece addresses an often overlooked aspect of skiing the Beartooth Pass north of Yellowstone Park in June and July. I'll add only that our days in the slackcountry required neither alpine touring gear nor a pass for the T-bar operated by Red Lodge Mountain. It's my third foray into long-form outdoor magazine writing, a field I've not-so-secretly longed to enter since high school.
I'll end abruptly now, for reasons having to do mostly with beer. Hopefully I'll write again soon, since I don't have the excuse of a brimming plate of work now. Happy Halloween, folks.
Speaking of busy, this and this are predominantly responsible for my absence from the blogosphere of late (as well as this raging alcohol-induced migraine that hasn't let up in two weeks). The first story took well over a month to report, and prompted several legal threats from divorcees wishing me not to run names. Point taken. The second story took a little less time, though no less effort. I thoroughly enjoyed conducting interviews with pistol-packing conservatives. Not sure how they'll react to the article, but I've had no death threats yet. Just praise from online comments and the man upstairs. Must admit it's my best work yet in this field.
Wrapped up a first draft of my feature for the next issue of Headwall Magazine as well. Admittedly I should have finished it months ago, since I took the trip in mid June. For those of you unaware, the piece addresses an often overlooked aspect of skiing the Beartooth Pass north of Yellowstone Park in June and July. I'll add only that our days in the slackcountry required neither alpine touring gear nor a pass for the T-bar operated by Red Lodge Mountain. It's my third foray into long-form outdoor magazine writing, a field I've not-so-secretly longed to enter since high school.
I'll end abruptly now, for reasons having to do mostly with beer. Hopefully I'll write again soon, since I don't have the excuse of a brimming plate of work now. Happy Halloween, folks.
Tuesday, September 22, 2009
He came in through the bathroom window...
Why does breaking into a house through a window always look easier in the movies?
Locked my keys in the house yesterday. Again. Had to scale the back wall and enter through the bathroom window. Sixth time I've climbed through a window since moving to Missoula. Nearly fell hand-first into the toilet. Not a lifetime highlight, let me tell you.
Moral of the story: don't lock your doors. Getting robbed is preferable to swimming in toilet water. Even if your shit's uninsured.
Locked my keys in the house yesterday. Again. Had to scale the back wall and enter through the bathroom window. Sixth time I've climbed through a window since moving to Missoula. Nearly fell hand-first into the toilet. Not a lifetime highlight, let me tell you.
Moral of the story: don't lock your doors. Getting robbed is preferable to swimming in toilet water. Even if your shit's uninsured.
Sunday, September 20, 2009
Crazy small world
August 2003: I drive my battered red Geo Prizm down Divide to Sleepy Hollow. The parking lot is packed, people in all states of formal dress wandering along the pavement toward the bridge. I follow a few friends and take a seat in the grass tiers overlooking the outdoor stage. A cute brother-sister duo harmonizes beautifully as Nicole walks out in her bridal dress. I've known Nicole a long time, listened to her complain about the inner workings of the Bismarck High School yearbook, laughed during speech meets at her highly recognized rendition of Christopher Durang's "Laughing Wild" alongside Johnny B. After the ceremony, we all gab over a buffet dinner in the park. All in all a wonderful wedding.
September 20, 2009, sometime around one a.m.: I'm drinking gin and tonics with Melissa, Bret and their friend Julie at the Old Post. We hoped to catch some music, but all the worthwhile shows are charging grotesque covers. The waitress makes a reference to Charles Xavier from X-Men, something I wish happened far more often. Julie asks where I'm from and I respond North Dakota.
"Really? Where in North Dakota?" Julie asks.
"Bismarck."
"No kidding. I bet I could rattle off a few names that you might recognize."
"Hit me."
She names a handful of families, none ringing more than a faint bell. Then she mentions Nicole's name. I light up.
"Yea, I know Nicole. I went to high school with her. We were huge speech geeks."
"You know, she's my cousin."
"No shit?" Heavy emphasis on the -it.
"I went out to Bismarck for her wedding."
"Um, I was there too..."
Small world. Crazy small.
September 20, 2009, sometime around one a.m.: I'm drinking gin and tonics with Melissa, Bret and their friend Julie at the Old Post. We hoped to catch some music, but all the worthwhile shows are charging grotesque covers. The waitress makes a reference to Charles Xavier from X-Men, something I wish happened far more often. Julie asks where I'm from and I respond North Dakota.
"Really? Where in North Dakota?" Julie asks.
"Bismarck."
"No kidding. I bet I could rattle off a few names that you might recognize."
"Hit me."
She names a handful of families, none ringing more than a faint bell. Then she mentions Nicole's name. I light up.
"Yea, I know Nicole. I went to high school with her. We were huge speech geeks."
"You know, she's my cousin."
"No shit?" Heavy emphasis on the -it.
"I went out to Bismarck for her wedding."
"Um, I was there too..."
Small world. Crazy small.
Thursday, September 17, 2009
All in a day's work
Ever wondered what would happen if you just didn't take the next bend on a mountain road?
Yea, me neither.
Spent two hours at Harold's Club in Milltown yesterday. Downed two pints of Pabst while on the clock, all in the name of fine journalism. Loving our approach to the Oct. 1 smoking ban. Even drove down to the Jack for the first time this afternoon. Smoked, chatted. Great stuff. Story's shaping up to be really entertaining.
Em and I went to the Paolo Nutini concert last night. Saw more people at the premiere of "Pirates of the Caribbean II" in Choteau. But small crowds are almost better at the Wilma. Less fighting for floorspace. The opening act-Anya Marina-surprised me. A gal with a sultry voice, a hollow-body and an iPod Nano has no right being half that entertaining. Paolo sent every high school girl in the crowd over the edge. Even the 20-something groover in the creepy wifebeater in front of us got down. Glimpsed the most striking Dustin Hoffman lookalike on Earth. Right down to the "killer with the ladies" bit. I only hope I end up that suave when I hit my 50s.
Yea, me neither.
Spent two hours at Harold's Club in Milltown yesterday. Downed two pints of Pabst while on the clock, all in the name of fine journalism. Loving our approach to the Oct. 1 smoking ban. Even drove down to the Jack for the first time this afternoon. Smoked, chatted. Great stuff. Story's shaping up to be really entertaining.
Em and I went to the Paolo Nutini concert last night. Saw more people at the premiere of "Pirates of the Caribbean II" in Choteau. But small crowds are almost better at the Wilma. Less fighting for floorspace. The opening act-Anya Marina-surprised me. A gal with a sultry voice, a hollow-body and an iPod Nano has no right being half that entertaining. Paolo sent every high school girl in the crowd over the edge. Even the 20-something groover in the creepy wifebeater in front of us got down. Glimpsed the most striking Dustin Hoffman lookalike on Earth. Right down to the "killer with the ladies" bit. I only hope I end up that suave when I hit my 50s.
Sunday, September 13, 2009
Tricycling Missoula
The life of the unabashedly single boasts one major hazard: the inevitability of finding oneself the dread "third wheel." This shouldn't be viewed as a complaint, merely an analysis of social phenomena I've found myself party to quite often. Passing the odd weeknight or Saturday afternoon with two close friends who happen to be dating isn't all that uncommon. Far from. But sometimes the circumstances of those outings stand out as particularly unique. For example, J and K kindly invited me to a dinner outing a few Tuesdays back. Not one to pass up a pitcher and a po-boy at Charlie's, or conversation with two of my favorite people for that matter, I took up the offer instantly. We chatted work and school and social goings-on for a while, then J reminded me of the day's significance: J and K's eight-month anniversary. Thinking about it still makes me smile. I can't say I didn't push J a little hard in his initial interest in K, and I'm glad I got to raise a toast with them in celebration.
Sometimes, though, the situation makes me downright uncomfortable. About a year and a half back, I found myself setting a possible record as the ninth wheel. Yea, that's right. The couples at the time were all good friends: J and J, P and A, B and E, and S and T. I got a last-minute invite to a Mauler's hockey game (hockey, I admit, was the single motivating factor in suffering a couples overdose). Unlike prior brushes with third-wheel, fifth-wheel and even seventh-wheel syndrome, this ninth wheel crap left me feeling more than the odd man out. I can only imagine it's how Neil Armstrong felt staring down at Earth from the Moon. Complete and total isolation. If three fights hadn't broken out in quick succession, I'd probably have lost my freaking mind.
Not quite as strange was last night's little excursion to the Osprey's playoff game against Great Falls. B invited me, though in all fairness he did warn me that he and A were going with A's parents. K and T came along as well, pushing me dangerously close to a repeat ninth-wheel experience. But I enjoyed the game, chatted with A's mom and joked around with B for the first time since he got back from Washington, D.C. K and T left early, and I tricycled alongside to the Top Hat for some excellent rock-and-reggae. Fun night, all told. Still...can't say I didn't feel the occasional twinge.
[Addendum: since writing this post on Sunday night, I've three-wheeled through the first half of "Wayne's World" with K and T and tossed back a wonderful night of Tanq-and-tonics with J and K.]
Work's going. Tomorrow I get a Montana license (only been putting that one off five months), perhaps full registration for my car on Wednesday (strongly encouraged by a dickish Missoula County sheriff's deputy from here on referred to only as Douchey McDoucebag). But life seems stuck, like movie characters when you hit the pause button. Morning temps are dipping to the low 50s. Fall's coming, and with it winter. Maybe then things will pick up. In the meantime, here I sit. At my desk. Or in my cubicle. Or on a bar stool somewhere, waiting for the bartender to shout last call so I have an excuse to shuffle on home.
Sometimes, though, the situation makes me downright uncomfortable. About a year and a half back, I found myself setting a possible record as the ninth wheel. Yea, that's right. The couples at the time were all good friends: J and J, P and A, B and E, and S and T. I got a last-minute invite to a Mauler's hockey game (hockey, I admit, was the single motivating factor in suffering a couples overdose). Unlike prior brushes with third-wheel, fifth-wheel and even seventh-wheel syndrome, this ninth wheel crap left me feeling more than the odd man out. I can only imagine it's how Neil Armstrong felt staring down at Earth from the Moon. Complete and total isolation. If three fights hadn't broken out in quick succession, I'd probably have lost my freaking mind.
Not quite as strange was last night's little excursion to the Osprey's playoff game against Great Falls. B invited me, though in all fairness he did warn me that he and A were going with A's parents. K and T came along as well, pushing me dangerously close to a repeat ninth-wheel experience. But I enjoyed the game, chatted with A's mom and joked around with B for the first time since he got back from Washington, D.C. K and T left early, and I tricycled alongside to the Top Hat for some excellent rock-and-reggae. Fun night, all told. Still...can't say I didn't feel the occasional twinge.
[Addendum: since writing this post on Sunday night, I've three-wheeled through the first half of "Wayne's World" with K and T and tossed back a wonderful night of Tanq-and-tonics with J and K.]
Work's going. Tomorrow I get a Montana license (only been putting that one off five months), perhaps full registration for my car on Wednesday (strongly encouraged by a dickish Missoula County sheriff's deputy from here on referred to only as Douchey McDoucebag). But life seems stuck, like movie characters when you hit the pause button. Morning temps are dipping to the low 50s. Fall's coming, and with it winter. Maybe then things will pick up. In the meantime, here I sit. At my desk. Or in my cubicle. Or on a bar stool somewhere, waiting for the bartender to shout last call so I have an excuse to shuffle on home.
Saturday, August 22, 2009
Cruising the Back Nine
Cruising the back nine
Two white sashes,
four glasses of wine,
one stolen golf cart,
six lives screaming: “Hooray for freedom, for independence,
for the buzz of loneliness and champagne.”
You do the math.
The doors at First Lutheran Church flew open,
“Ave Maria” fell silent, and there
A little girl silhouetted in sunlight.
Forecasters said rain, but Ann said no.
I’m getting married today,
No rain, no clouds.
All teeth, all smile.
Shoulders back and silk-smooth,
Her dress trailed two feet behind,
a nod to oil-paint smudges and Impressionism.
Someone has the keys,
Left over from a man-and-wife joyride,
But I don’t recall who asks me along.
Prairie night clear, stars like shotgun pocks in a speed sign on Highway 10,
and us dying to find life in more than a limbo pole.
Old high school hijinx rediscovered in the emptiness unique to wedding guests.
I squat in a basket meant for clubs,
A groomsman perches on the hood,
Nick clings to the awning, defying physics.
Crown in the belly, speed on the brain.
Ditches, shadows, laughter race past our eyes.
“Faster!” “Bridge!” “We’re tipping!”
Scent of sweat and conditioner,
Sashes flapping.
Ann pulled Todd’s handkerchief from his breast pocket,
A symbol of beauty, triumph, finality.
The pastor—a godfather—choked up.
Guests smiled,
The bride shimmied.
Our ride ends with stern words from country club personnel,
But whatever.
It’s a wedding,
We’re drunk,
We’re wild,
That’s more excuse than we might have had as teens.
Back to wine, limbo poles and conga lines,
All that anticipated joy.
We’ve pulled life from this night, left ourselves on the back nine.
One white sash
And a tassel from my shoe.
August 15, 2009
Two white sashes,
four glasses of wine,
one stolen golf cart,
six lives screaming: “Hooray for freedom, for independence,
for the buzz of loneliness and champagne.”
You do the math.
The doors at First Lutheran Church flew open,
“Ave Maria” fell silent, and there
A little girl silhouetted in sunlight.
Forecasters said rain, but Ann said no.
I’m getting married today,
No rain, no clouds.
All teeth, all smile.
Shoulders back and silk-smooth,
Her dress trailed two feet behind,
a nod to oil-paint smudges and Impressionism.
Someone has the keys,
Left over from a man-and-wife joyride,
But I don’t recall who asks me along.
Prairie night clear, stars like shotgun pocks in a speed sign on Highway 10,
and us dying to find life in more than a limbo pole.
Old high school hijinx rediscovered in the emptiness unique to wedding guests.
I squat in a basket meant for clubs,
A groomsman perches on the hood,
Nick clings to the awning, defying physics.
Crown in the belly, speed on the brain.
Ditches, shadows, laughter race past our eyes.
“Faster!” “Bridge!” “We’re tipping!”
Scent of sweat and conditioner,
Sashes flapping.
Ann pulled Todd’s handkerchief from his breast pocket,
A symbol of beauty, triumph, finality.
The pastor—a godfather—choked up.
Guests smiled,
The bride shimmied.
Our ride ends with stern words from country club personnel,
But whatever.
It’s a wedding,
We’re drunk,
We’re wild,
That’s more excuse than we might have had as teens.
Back to wine, limbo poles and conga lines,
All that anticipated joy.
We’ve pulled life from this night, left ourselves on the back nine.
One white sash
And a tassel from my shoe.
August 15, 2009
Friday, August 21, 2009
Office spaced
Skylar's out. Jesse's out. Matt's on a long lunch. I'm nearly finished with my Up Front for next week, which isn't due till end of day Monday. All in all the newsroom is about as slow as it gets (for a weekday, at least). Kinda nice to speed through a story I can really wrap my head around. Even have the ball rolling on my next feature, as well as an Up Front for i36. Bliss.
Pat and John stopped in last night for bachelor drinks and cigars. The inappropriate application of "Excite!" sexual stimulant by those two to choice parts of their anatomy made for some entertaining grimaces. Not much else to say about the night. I mean, how can you follow that up?
I need to take some kickass pictures this weekend. Not just for Mountain High, but because I feel I've been lax with my photo taking lately. Shot this one the other night on the Bitterroot, just a few minutes from my house.
Also, heard yesterday from a friend who just relocated to Kabul. Not exactly a thrilling town for civilian life. Should be interesting to hear more as time goes on. And now, let the hooky-playing commence.
Pat and John stopped in last night for bachelor drinks and cigars. The inappropriate application of "Excite!" sexual stimulant by those two to choice parts of their anatomy made for some entertaining grimaces. Not much else to say about the night. I mean, how can you follow that up?
I need to take some kickass pictures this weekend. Not just for Mountain High, but because I feel I've been lax with my photo taking lately. Shot this one the other night on the Bitterroot, just a few minutes from my house.
Also, heard yesterday from a friend who just relocated to Kabul. Not exactly a thrilling town for civilian life. Should be interesting to hear more as time goes on. And now, let the hooky-playing commence.
Thursday, August 20, 2009
Weddings, work, and not much in between
My neighbors refused to turn off their driveway light last night. Lit up my room like a brothel. Now I'm massaging the mother of all knots in my neck. Apparently kinking your spine at a 90-degree angle under the pillow is anything but healthy.
Saturday's wedding was beautiful. Not a ripple in the entire ceremony. Nudged Neal when the officiant asked if anyone had a reason why Ann and Todd shouldn't get married. He grinned and said, "I got nothing." Reception went over well, too. Great wine, great walleye. A bit too much of the former and not enough of the latter. Took shots of Crown with the best man and maid of honor periodically. By the time the band started up, more than a few of us high school chums were shaky at the knees. Cruised the back nine of the country club in a stolen golf cart, danced with two bridesmaids at once, and hit up the Bismarck's sketchy rave scene at Buck's in a three-button suit. Massaging feet wasn't the most glorious way to end the night, but we can't win 'em all.
Work turned into an absolute nightmare Monday/Tuesday. Never realized just how much I get done on Thursday and Friday. Met my deadlines, though, and afterwards had round two of last week's brush with crazy. Still wondering what my whole thought process on that one is.
Writing some lighter stuff this week. Even have some inspiration for a poem, which I'll post here in the next day or so. Hitting up TotalFest tomorrow night for Vile Blue Shades, maybe heading to River City Roots Fest for some bluegrass. Sunday comes with another wedding, down in Anaconda. Pat and Alisia are bringing in scores of old college chummies. Another reunion. For now, work work work. Sakistan out.
Saturday's wedding was beautiful. Not a ripple in the entire ceremony. Nudged Neal when the officiant asked if anyone had a reason why Ann and Todd shouldn't get married. He grinned and said, "I got nothing." Reception went over well, too. Great wine, great walleye. A bit too much of the former and not enough of the latter. Took shots of Crown with the best man and maid of honor periodically. By the time the band started up, more than a few of us high school chums were shaky at the knees. Cruised the back nine of the country club in a stolen golf cart, danced with two bridesmaids at once, and hit up the Bismarck's sketchy rave scene at Buck's in a three-button suit. Massaging feet wasn't the most glorious way to end the night, but we can't win 'em all.
Work turned into an absolute nightmare Monday/Tuesday. Never realized just how much I get done on Thursday and Friday. Met my deadlines, though, and afterwards had round two of last week's brush with crazy. Still wondering what my whole thought process on that one is.
Writing some lighter stuff this week. Even have some inspiration for a poem, which I'll post here in the next day or so. Hitting up TotalFest tomorrow night for Vile Blue Shades, maybe heading to River City Roots Fest for some bluegrass. Sunday comes with another wedding, down in Anaconda. Pat and Alisia are bringing in scores of old college chummies. Another reunion. For now, work work work. Sakistan out.
Friday, August 14, 2009
Shtuff from the Ragged Edge
Eyes reveal quite a lot about a person. Fire, fear, self-loathing, bottled aggression, love, doubt, contradiction, honesty. The last is the most important. What you see in someone's eyes will tell you how much to take them at their word. They say what lips simply can't admit.
Case in point: a girl confessing that she's trouble, she's nuts, don't trust her, walk away. The verbal warning resounds with the immediacy of a mattress tag. "DO NOT REMOVE." But what do the eyes say? They emphasize the point, refine it, like punctuation. Honesty, in all it's glassy brown glory.
I have a bunch of examples from the last week, gleaned from an unusual bounty of unpleasant run-ins. When some outside element might bend or twist words beyond their intended form, when alcohol or frustration or fatigue turn mild irritation into flat-out hatred, look to the eyes. Love, lust or friendship can be sparked or fractured irreparably by the intensity of an iris.
Bismarck's a blast. Delta lost my suitcase in Salt Lake, leaving me without toothbrush and more than my high school wardrobe for the better part of yesterday. But drinks with the crew, with the Neal-Amanda-Amanda-Annie posse, were a much-needed lift. Twenty-some miles of canoeing with the old man helped put a lot of things in perspective, better than a morning on Rock Creek. Yes, crashing a bachelorette party was not the highlight of my life, but six-way spooning with people you've known all your adult life? Well worth the shrill giggles.
Wedding tomorrow, Missoula the day after. For now, vacation and family and no thoughts of work. I think I'll re-learn Bach's "Jesu, Joy of Man's Desiring." Haven't played the Chickering in a few years.
Case in point: a girl confessing that she's trouble, she's nuts, don't trust her, walk away. The verbal warning resounds with the immediacy of a mattress tag. "DO NOT REMOVE." But what do the eyes say? They emphasize the point, refine it, like punctuation. Honesty, in all it's glassy brown glory.
I have a bunch of examples from the last week, gleaned from an unusual bounty of unpleasant run-ins. When some outside element might bend or twist words beyond their intended form, when alcohol or frustration or fatigue turn mild irritation into flat-out hatred, look to the eyes. Love, lust or friendship can be sparked or fractured irreparably by the intensity of an iris.
Bismarck's a blast. Delta lost my suitcase in Salt Lake, leaving me without toothbrush and more than my high school wardrobe for the better part of yesterday. But drinks with the crew, with the Neal-Amanda-Amanda-Annie posse, were a much-needed lift. Twenty-some miles of canoeing with the old man helped put a lot of things in perspective, better than a morning on Rock Creek. Yes, crashing a bachelorette party was not the highlight of my life, but six-way spooning with people you've known all your adult life? Well worth the shrill giggles.
Wedding tomorrow, Missoula the day after. For now, vacation and family and no thoughts of work. I think I'll re-learn Bach's "Jesu, Joy of Man's Desiring." Haven't played the Chickering in a few years.
Sunday, August 9, 2009
Finding time
I need to write today.
There's a lot hidden in that simple statement. Since I joined the Independent full-time, the hours I used to dedicate to creative writing have grown fewer and farther between. Writing is a regime easily broken by obligation, I guess, and when you write 1,000 words or more a week on deadline it's really the last thing you want to spend your precious free hours doing. Prose should never feel like a chore.
I find myself mostly at a loss for material. Moments in life lend themselves to poetry nicely, especially the seedier, hazier hours between dinner and coffee. But longer works? I need to be fully awake and aware, in possession of all my faculties for short stories and essays. More and more I feel this urge to chase down the elusive novel, that bound beast of ink and plot and arch. Or a screenplay. I could write a screenplay. When?
Trucked out to Tarkio for my publisher's wedding last night. Carpooled with the boss. Fun times. The ceremony put most others I've seen to some serious shame. Scores of guests in varying degrees of formal and Missoula-formal (tucked flannel and Carhartts) all milling about a giant white tent. Matt dropped real coin on the deal, down to the fiddle-and-guitar duo bluegrassing his bride down the aisle. Beautiful stuff.
Friday night was anything but. Kyle dragged me to the Top Hat to meet up with some work-related friends, Tricia and Brook. I've become something less than a fan of Reverend Slanky over the years, but they played some awesome funk covers. The Guess Who, Grand Funk Railroad, Mack Rice (or Wilson Pickett, for those not too familiar with the genesis of "Mustang Sally"). Ended up discoing my ass off, working up a sweat, and buttoning down past the nipple line. Of course, Kyle and his savant irresistibility worked magic on both Tricia and Brook. Nothing compares to feeling like the fourth wheel in a gender-balanced group. Eesh.
Still attempting to drum up a date for the approaching wedding back home. Nothing against going stag, but Ann might well kill me for fucking up the seating arrangement if I show up empty handed. Does being throttled by a bride qualify as going out in a flash of blazes?
There's a lot hidden in that simple statement. Since I joined the Independent full-time, the hours I used to dedicate to creative writing have grown fewer and farther between. Writing is a regime easily broken by obligation, I guess, and when you write 1,000 words or more a week on deadline it's really the last thing you want to spend your precious free hours doing. Prose should never feel like a chore.
I find myself mostly at a loss for material. Moments in life lend themselves to poetry nicely, especially the seedier, hazier hours between dinner and coffee. But longer works? I need to be fully awake and aware, in possession of all my faculties for short stories and essays. More and more I feel this urge to chase down the elusive novel, that bound beast of ink and plot and arch. Or a screenplay. I could write a screenplay. When?
Trucked out to Tarkio for my publisher's wedding last night. Carpooled with the boss. Fun times. The ceremony put most others I've seen to some serious shame. Scores of guests in varying degrees of formal and Missoula-formal (tucked flannel and Carhartts) all milling about a giant white tent. Matt dropped real coin on the deal, down to the fiddle-and-guitar duo bluegrassing his bride down the aisle. Beautiful stuff.
Friday night was anything but. Kyle dragged me to the Top Hat to meet up with some work-related friends, Tricia and Brook. I've become something less than a fan of Reverend Slanky over the years, but they played some awesome funk covers. The Guess Who, Grand Funk Railroad, Mack Rice (or Wilson Pickett, for those not too familiar with the genesis of "Mustang Sally"). Ended up discoing my ass off, working up a sweat, and buttoning down past the nipple line. Of course, Kyle and his savant irresistibility worked magic on both Tricia and Brook. Nothing compares to feeling like the fourth wheel in a gender-balanced group. Eesh.
Still attempting to drum up a date for the approaching wedding back home. Nothing against going stag, but Ann might well kill me for fucking up the seating arrangement if I show up empty handed. Does being throttled by a bride qualify as going out in a flash of blazes?
Wednesday, August 5, 2009
There is a God, and his name is Milbank
Seems the Washington Post can't get a break these days. Following a trend toward bad decision making set a few years back (when they briefly removed comment boards from the Post blog), the acclaimed rag decided to cash in on its rep in July by charging lobbyists for access to Post reporters and editors. Snafu, anyone? The controversy came to light thanks to Politico (ironically, founded by two former Post reporters), which exposed a flier sent by the paper to a health care lobbyist. Post publisher Katharine Weymouth later condemned the flier as an un-vetted product from the paper's marketing department. Good buddy Boram, an intern at the Post, told me at the time that Weymouth visited the newsroom and the atmosphere was pretty whacked. No surprise. Media outlets nationwide put the Post over their knees.
Then, last week, the Post pulled yet another dumbshit stunt: they removed political columnist and deadpan funny-man Dana Milbank's comedic net video "Mouthpiece Theater." The segment in question–coproduced with Postman Chris Cillizza–spring-boarded off President Barack Obama's backyard beers-and-diplomacy party, pairing the nation's political talking heads with international beers appropriate to their personalities. Dennis Kucinich, for example, was encouraged to sip a frosty Insanely Bad Elf. Funny, right?
No one seemed to mind Milbank's in-no-way-veiled comparison of the folks on Capitol Hill to the Prince of Darkness(watch the video). But then came the snide suggestion that Secretary of State Hillary Clinton glug a Mad Bitch brew.
Hold the pres...er...hold the Net content! We can't have any snide, semi-witty, sarcastic digs at THAT prominent politician. Not from the Washington Post, not from a man who once stood outside a McCain/Palin rally with a sandwich board and sign boasting "Mainstream Media" and "I need a hug," not from the brilliant comic who turned presidential primary speeches into a drinking game. Henry Waxman as a grumpy troll? OK. The former First Lady, who should be capable of taking her share of biting sarcasm, drinking a beer all but named for her? Not so much.
Slate writer Jack Shafer, bless his sense of humor, came to Milbank's and Cillizza's rescue. He nods to a good point: why should the Post not run a comedy sketch? Isn't Milbank's weekly Washington Sketch nothing more than an incredibly enlightened and insightful jab at the nation's politics? It's just what we need. The front page material, hell, the lion's share of Post opinion writing errs on the side of seriousness. Top-tier censoring undermines everything a newspaper stands for. Weymouth needs to do what we journalists always dream publishers will do: back off and let the paper approach topical debate on every level. Even the mad bitch one.
In other news, my third feature is currently in production (at last) and hits newsstands tomorrow morning. And a week from today, I'll be flying back to old NoDak for the wedding of a very close friend/former roommate. But more on that as it unfolds. For now I'm going to sneak out early and get some much needed sleep. Toodle pipskie, friends.
Then, last week, the Post pulled yet another dumbshit stunt: they removed political columnist and deadpan funny-man Dana Milbank's comedic net video "Mouthpiece Theater." The segment in question–coproduced with Postman Chris Cillizza–spring-boarded off President Barack Obama's backyard beers-and-diplomacy party, pairing the nation's political talking heads with international beers appropriate to their personalities. Dennis Kucinich, for example, was encouraged to sip a frosty Insanely Bad Elf. Funny, right?
No one seemed to mind Milbank's in-no-way-veiled comparison of the folks on Capitol Hill to the Prince of Darkness(watch the video). But then came the snide suggestion that Secretary of State Hillary Clinton glug a Mad Bitch brew.
Hold the pres...er...hold the Net content! We can't have any snide, semi-witty, sarcastic digs at THAT prominent politician. Not from the Washington Post, not from a man who once stood outside a McCain/Palin rally with a sandwich board and sign boasting "Mainstream Media" and "I need a hug," not from the brilliant comic who turned presidential primary speeches into a drinking game. Henry Waxman as a grumpy troll? OK. The former First Lady, who should be capable of taking her share of biting sarcasm, drinking a beer all but named for her? Not so much.
Slate writer Jack Shafer, bless his sense of humor, came to Milbank's and Cillizza's rescue. He nods to a good point: why should the Post not run a comedy sketch? Isn't Milbank's weekly Washington Sketch nothing more than an incredibly enlightened and insightful jab at the nation's politics? It's just what we need. The front page material, hell, the lion's share of Post opinion writing errs on the side of seriousness. Top-tier censoring undermines everything a newspaper stands for. Weymouth needs to do what we journalists always dream publishers will do: back off and let the paper approach topical debate on every level. Even the mad bitch one.
In other news, my third feature is currently in production (at last) and hits newsstands tomorrow morning. And a week from today, I'll be flying back to old NoDak for the wedding of a very close friend/former roommate. But more on that as it unfolds. For now I'm going to sneak out early and get some much needed sleep. Toodle pipskie, friends.
Monday, August 3, 2009
Snapped
Wow. March 24. What the hell happened to the last few months...?
When it comes to this blog, I feel like a walking guilt-trip. I've honestly flirted with the idea of canning it altogether, if only to avoid the impending backlash from friends or family about my chronic sloth. But SportsWhit wants an update, and work is painfully slow, so here goes.
Since I last posted here, I have (in no particular order): written three cover stories for the Indy; published my second freelance magazine story, this time for some petty cash; composed a handful of original songs on mandolin; recorded two tracks with Sean at Club Shmed Studios; skied the Beartooth Pass for an upcoming freelance magazine story; skied a snowfield above Hidden Lake for shits and giggles; attended one coworker's wedding; RSVPed to three more weddings; joined Twitter; abandoned Facebook; watched the Twins lost to the Angels again...and again...and again; moved in with K-Hole buddy and now-landlord Kyle; hosted countless parties; played music in the garage during countless parties; played Rock Band during countless parties; built fires during countless parties; gawked at a neighbor walking her five cats (yes, cats) during countless parties; drank countless liters during countless parties; done other things during countless parties; woke up to countless killer hangovers after countless parties.
Between the office, the bars and the hammock, haven't budgeted much time for ye olde blog. But (and I know I've said this before...repeatedly) I'm hoping to remedy that. I'll likely go into more detail about all the things listed above, and all the things to come, in coming days/weeks/months. For now, I'm going to shamelessly plug our paper's new website and just refer you to the Indy for the real reason I've been absent from the bloggosphere of late (though take note I'm now blogging for work).
Here's something creative, to make up for the annoying and self-incriminating list above. Take care, folks. Talk soon.
Finding the car
Two girls lean against brick outside Bodega,
Dejected, embarrassed, texting with looks that say
“Whatever. Fuck.”
Three men, black uniforms, black 9 millies on black belts,
Hands holding fake licenses, hands reaching to radios.
Bored, perhaps reassessing location or career choice.
Drunks stroll by, gawk, then forget what they’ve seen,
Lost in alcohol dreams.
Whatever. Fuck.
Every cologne known breeds in air with Jaegermeister and body odor,
An assault on the senses.
Beyond glass walls glass lives glide along Spruce,
Skaters in a scheme less than grand.
Drink, dance, flirt. Back to my place?
Yes and the hot night is hotter.
No and the cold heart is colder.
Two men, more cops. Busted looks on busted faces.
Whatever. Fuck.
Done with the heat, with bad service, with the fire twirlers in the alley.
No Chelsy tonight, no waitress to chat with,
to pass a number to
Jokingly at first, but with a phantom of hope.
Walk on, boy, walk on.
Past alleys, past drunks, past tomorrow morning’s regret.
Glass lives, filled with whiskey and vodka and shattered with one word.
Yes.
Whatever. Fuck.
July 24, 2009
When it comes to this blog, I feel like a walking guilt-trip. I've honestly flirted with the idea of canning it altogether, if only to avoid the impending backlash from friends or family about my chronic sloth. But SportsWhit wants an update, and work is painfully slow, so here goes.
Since I last posted here, I have (in no particular order): written three cover stories for the Indy; published my second freelance magazine story, this time for some petty cash; composed a handful of original songs on mandolin; recorded two tracks with Sean at Club Shmed Studios; skied the Beartooth Pass for an upcoming freelance magazine story; skied a snowfield above Hidden Lake for shits and giggles; attended one coworker's wedding; RSVPed to three more weddings; joined Twitter; abandoned Facebook; watched the Twins lost to the Angels again...and again...and again; moved in with K-Hole buddy and now-landlord Kyle; hosted countless parties; played music in the garage during countless parties; played Rock Band during countless parties; built fires during countless parties; gawked at a neighbor walking her five cats (yes, cats) during countless parties; drank countless liters during countless parties; done other things during countless parties; woke up to countless killer hangovers after countless parties.
Between the office, the bars and the hammock, haven't budgeted much time for ye olde blog. But (and I know I've said this before...repeatedly) I'm hoping to remedy that. I'll likely go into more detail about all the things listed above, and all the things to come, in coming days/weeks/months. For now, I'm going to shamelessly plug our paper's new website and just refer you to the Indy for the real reason I've been absent from the bloggosphere of late (though take note I'm now blogging for work).
Here's something creative, to make up for the annoying and self-incriminating list above. Take care, folks. Talk soon.
Finding the car
Two girls lean against brick outside Bodega,
Dejected, embarrassed, texting with looks that say
“Whatever. Fuck.”
Three men, black uniforms, black 9 millies on black belts,
Hands holding fake licenses, hands reaching to radios.
Bored, perhaps reassessing location or career choice.
Drunks stroll by, gawk, then forget what they’ve seen,
Lost in alcohol dreams.
Whatever. Fuck.
Every cologne known breeds in air with Jaegermeister and body odor,
An assault on the senses.
Beyond glass walls glass lives glide along Spruce,
Skaters in a scheme less than grand.
Drink, dance, flirt. Back to my place?
Yes and the hot night is hotter.
No and the cold heart is colder.
Two men, more cops. Busted looks on busted faces.
Whatever. Fuck.
Done with the heat, with bad service, with the fire twirlers in the alley.
No Chelsy tonight, no waitress to chat with,
to pass a number to
Jokingly at first, but with a phantom of hope.
Walk on, boy, walk on.
Past alleys, past drunks, past tomorrow morning’s regret.
Glass lives, filled with whiskey and vodka and shattered with one word.
Yes.
Whatever. Fuck.
July 24, 2009
Tuesday, March 24, 2009
Long time coming Part II
Just caught Modest Mouse's March 19 appearance on the Late Show (thank you, YouTube). Held my breath for a mo. The band has circled the drain the past few years, lurching from one side of the music industry toilet bowl to the other. Good News, We Were Dead. One wrong step followed by another. But this new vinyl release, "Satellite Skin," is something old. Faith restored. Isaac Brock and cronies have returned to the Lonesome Crowded West formula, even as long-time purists have clambered for a taste of the golden Moon & Antarctica. Subdued lyrics, twang-tastic guitar harmonies, a riff that's catchy for reasons beyond reason. Good move. Fall back on the not-so-familiar and leave the untoppable crowning achievement where it sits: on a pedestal.
Long time coming
Okay, update time. I've been seriously lax on this shit and apologize from the depths of my cold, cold heart.
You ask, "Alex, what has kept you so busy lately that you could justify leaving your loyal readers in the dark?" Short answer: I got a job. Longer answer: I got a job in my chosen profession. More specifically, at the Missoula Independent, an alternative weekly in the town that just won't let me leave.
This is how it went down. I've been qualifying for food stamps since graduation, freelancing for a number of journalistic outlets in order to fund my drinking habit. The money wasn't great, hardly a trickle. But it got my foot in the door. When a position opened up at the Indy, my editor looked to his loyal freelancers as a sort of potential employment pool. He called me in to meet with the execs, offered me the job a day later. That was March 6. Now I'm a full-time staff writer, one of three. I cover University news, the Bitterroot Valley, and various aspects of the community at large. Four years of entertainment writing has me scratching my head over news stories at times, but it's a kick. And I've succeeded in landing a job in arguably one of the most tumultuous industries of the time.
No less worthy of note, I blew the last of my freelance savings on a beautiful Epiphone amp. Valkenberg has taken to the air again, flying Monday nights at Sean Kelly's with something less than regularity. I've skied, I've fished, I've bought far more Moby and Cake from Amazon than any human should. Hopefully now I'll take it upon myself to update at least once a week.
Hell, the job is slow enough at times. And blogging is more productive than playing online Scrabble in my cubicle.
You ask, "Alex, what has kept you so busy lately that you could justify leaving your loyal readers in the dark?" Short answer: I got a job. Longer answer: I got a job in my chosen profession. More specifically, at the Missoula Independent, an alternative weekly in the town that just won't let me leave.
This is how it went down. I've been qualifying for food stamps since graduation, freelancing for a number of journalistic outlets in order to fund my drinking habit. The money wasn't great, hardly a trickle. But it got my foot in the door. When a position opened up at the Indy, my editor looked to his loyal freelancers as a sort of potential employment pool. He called me in to meet with the execs, offered me the job a day later. That was March 6. Now I'm a full-time staff writer, one of three. I cover University news, the Bitterroot Valley, and various aspects of the community at large. Four years of entertainment writing has me scratching my head over news stories at times, but it's a kick. And I've succeeded in landing a job in arguably one of the most tumultuous industries of the time.
No less worthy of note, I blew the last of my freelance savings on a beautiful Epiphone amp. Valkenberg has taken to the air again, flying Monday nights at Sean Kelly's with something less than regularity. I've skied, I've fished, I've bought far more Moby and Cake from Amazon than any human should. Hopefully now I'll take it upon myself to update at least once a week.
Hell, the job is slow enough at times. And blogging is more productive than playing online Scrabble in my cubicle.
Thursday, March 5, 2009
Who's going to watch "Watchmen"?
There are moments when I enjoy being a critic. Getting paid to listen to music or watch movies is about as sweet a gig as ever imagined. And there are moments when I regret being a critic. Not every album is a winner, and there's a certain inevitability that feelings will be hurt, reputations marred. Comes with the territory.
Then there are the moments when I truly hate critics, at least the ones at the top. These fellows make me want nothing more than to enter their ranks and set them straight about interpretation. Perhaps when you've been at it too long, even "Casablanca" would be just another movie to review. And it should never come to that.
The most glaring example is the latest string of reviews for Zack Synder's "Watchmen." A film adaptation of the classic 1980s graphic novel by Alan Moore and Dave Gibbons, "Watchmen" seems to have set reviewers off in every way possible. It's been called too long, a waste of time, a film lacking any addition to the original work. To that claim, made by Washington Post reviewer Philip Kennicott, I ask: why must a film add anything to an original work? If that work is strong enough on its own merit, shouldn't a film adaptation spend more time capturing the spirit of the original and less time trying to make its own impact? The trail has already been blazed, folks. TIME ranked "Watchmen" in the top 100 pieces of English language literature of the 20th Century. No director is going to top that, no matter how much depth he tries to add.
I understand the cuts made to the original "Watchmen" story. The comic-within-a-comic "Marooned" was an allegorical trick made for print alone. Back history offered by interviews and book clips were better condensed in narration or dialogue. Not sure I understand the loss of the giant alien squid (which Pat laments as much as I), but Synder no doubt had reasons. I only hope his translation of Adrian Veidt's ploy is similarly brilliant.
I'll save judgment for "Watchmen" until I've seen the film for myself. But I won't be walking into the theater with high expectations. What Zak Penn did to X-Men 2 and 3 was appalling, attempting to condense two trilogy-worth arches like the Phoenix Force and the Weapon X Program to a mere movie and a half. The crimes committed against the Spider-Man saga, chiefly the botched attempt at squeezing Venom into the third film, should have Sam Raimi before some sort of fanboy judicial panel. Comic fans haven't been without vindication. "Iron Man" was an impressive modernization of the original Iron Man genesis, and "V for Vendetta" knocked my fucking socks off. Still, screenwriters seem dedicated to screwing up whatever classic heroes they can. And I don't predict "Watchmen" changing that pattern.
What I will complain about are the critics now using a film adaptation to take pot-shots at the original work. To say the film stinks is one thing. To turn around and attack "Watchmen" as a graphic novel too big for its britches is ludicrous. Kennicott calls into question the revolutionary reputation "Watchmen" has earned, suggesting (if not flat-out stating) that it won acclaim merely as a figurehead for rising pop culture in the 80s. Maybe so, but that doesn't change the fact that it re-wrote the way people view comic book superheroes and, as a direct result, their oh-so-real counterparts.
Sure, the premise of "Watchmen" is outdated. Its impact was felt much more widely at its publication, when Cold War fears were very much alive. The story has lost no more importance in years since. Instead of a statement on the rampant Red paranoia of a bygone today, "Watchmen" is now an example of how that paranoia shaped the literary products of the 80s. It is and always has been the near science-fictional concept of alternative history. What if Nixon had remained president through congressional changes through the 80s? What if America had the ultimate trump card in winning a war against Communism? Never mind the issue of "superheroes," who aren't your typical comic book capes at all but a group of average-Joes and Jans in masks. "Watchmen" is a story about humanity on the brink, a very grim and very real view of our past. And its a story about humanity's reaction when God gets fed up with our shortcomings and leaves to start anew.
"Watchmen" is not "pretentious" or "unreadable," as Kennicott states. "Watchmen" is universal. The comic gore and noire styling (here we're talking dialogue) are not problems to be overcome in a film adaptation. They are cultural relics to be treasured and respected. So forget where Synder's film might stray physically from Moore and Gibbons' work. Concentrate on the spirit and emotion the two versions might share in common. And hope that Synder had the good sense to put some briefs on Dr. Manhattan. The last thing we need to see is Billy Crudup's motion-captured junk.
Then there are the moments when I truly hate critics, at least the ones at the top. These fellows make me want nothing more than to enter their ranks and set them straight about interpretation. Perhaps when you've been at it too long, even "Casablanca" would be just another movie to review. And it should never come to that.
The most glaring example is the latest string of reviews for Zack Synder's "Watchmen." A film adaptation of the classic 1980s graphic novel by Alan Moore and Dave Gibbons, "Watchmen" seems to have set reviewers off in every way possible. It's been called too long, a waste of time, a film lacking any addition to the original work. To that claim, made by Washington Post reviewer Philip Kennicott, I ask: why must a film add anything to an original work? If that work is strong enough on its own merit, shouldn't a film adaptation spend more time capturing the spirit of the original and less time trying to make its own impact? The trail has already been blazed, folks. TIME ranked "Watchmen" in the top 100 pieces of English language literature of the 20th Century. No director is going to top that, no matter how much depth he tries to add.
I understand the cuts made to the original "Watchmen" story. The comic-within-a-comic "Marooned" was an allegorical trick made for print alone. Back history offered by interviews and book clips were better condensed in narration or dialogue. Not sure I understand the loss of the giant alien squid (which Pat laments as much as I), but Synder no doubt had reasons. I only hope his translation of Adrian Veidt's ploy is similarly brilliant.
I'll save judgment for "Watchmen" until I've seen the film for myself. But I won't be walking into the theater with high expectations. What Zak Penn did to X-Men 2 and 3 was appalling, attempting to condense two trilogy-worth arches like the Phoenix Force and the Weapon X Program to a mere movie and a half. The crimes committed against the Spider-Man saga, chiefly the botched attempt at squeezing Venom into the third film, should have Sam Raimi before some sort of fanboy judicial panel. Comic fans haven't been without vindication. "Iron Man" was an impressive modernization of the original Iron Man genesis, and "V for Vendetta" knocked my fucking socks off. Still, screenwriters seem dedicated to screwing up whatever classic heroes they can. And I don't predict "Watchmen" changing that pattern.
What I will complain about are the critics now using a film adaptation to take pot-shots at the original work. To say the film stinks is one thing. To turn around and attack "Watchmen" as a graphic novel too big for its britches is ludicrous. Kennicott calls into question the revolutionary reputation "Watchmen" has earned, suggesting (if not flat-out stating) that it won acclaim merely as a figurehead for rising pop culture in the 80s. Maybe so, but that doesn't change the fact that it re-wrote the way people view comic book superheroes and, as a direct result, their oh-so-real counterparts.
Sure, the premise of "Watchmen" is outdated. Its impact was felt much more widely at its publication, when Cold War fears were very much alive. The story has lost no more importance in years since. Instead of a statement on the rampant Red paranoia of a bygone today, "Watchmen" is now an example of how that paranoia shaped the literary products of the 80s. It is and always has been the near science-fictional concept of alternative history. What if Nixon had remained president through congressional changes through the 80s? What if America had the ultimate trump card in winning a war against Communism? Never mind the issue of "superheroes," who aren't your typical comic book capes at all but a group of average-Joes and Jans in masks. "Watchmen" is a story about humanity on the brink, a very grim and very real view of our past. And its a story about humanity's reaction when God gets fed up with our shortcomings and leaves to start anew.
"Watchmen" is not "pretentious" or "unreadable," as Kennicott states. "Watchmen" is universal. The comic gore and noire styling (here we're talking dialogue) are not problems to be overcome in a film adaptation. They are cultural relics to be treasured and respected. So forget where Synder's film might stray physically from Moore and Gibbons' work. Concentrate on the spirit and emotion the two versions might share in common. And hope that Synder had the good sense to put some briefs on Dr. Manhattan. The last thing we need to see is Billy Crudup's motion-captured junk.
Tuesday, February 24, 2009
What's the difference between the journalist and the giant panda?
For starters, people seem to actually care about saving the giant panda. Something about pandas being cute and fuzzy. Damn "aw" factor. At least journalists have the good sense to breed in captivity.
TIME published an excellent article recently titled "How to Save Your Newspaper." I feel a bit dumb not having realized the facts included before, but when you work one aspect of the industry for so long you get blinded to the whole. Through bar-or-brewery chats with fellow journos the past few months, I've struggled for an explanation on why this is happening and what can be done. According to Walter Isaacson, the answer is simple: charge for online content.
There is, of course, more to it than that. But the point made that print journalism has become too dependent on the advertising leg of its revenue stool is undeniably valid. It's the bamboo to our panda. Readership is up. Just ask any of the kids on campus or any recent graduate. We younglings are tapped into a steady stream of online news and information, and we actually seem to care (I know, right!?). So why do we find the industry floundering? Because net advertising isn't nearly as lucrative as print advertising. Remember those Target or Sears fliers in the Sunday issue Mom always breezed through for deals? Now think of those banner ads on Web sites. Not so effective, I think.
Isaacson's solution, minus the subtleties, is to charge for online news service the same way newspapers and mags have always charged for print material. After all, what's the difference? Who says info on the net has to be free? It's an idiotic model that we seem to be stuck in, much like a rut. We need to bust that rut. Traditional subscription services limit the potential for impulse access, so Isaacson suggests a pay-per-use model. Not a bad plan. Sort of an iTunes for news. Perhaps Lee or Gannett or McClatchy could develop a company-wide debit system. So many dollars with the click of one button buys you a day's access to any of the company's online publications.
Some of the independents have already taken Isaacson's suggestion to heart, months before he wrote the damn article. Exhibit A: the Choteau Acantha, a small-town independent weekly I worked for two consecutive summers. Melody Martinsen (editor) and her husband Jeff (business manager) felt the urge to revamp the Acantha's Web site last year. The site was bare-bones when I worked there, the week's stories and a few photos. Now, Web users can view the paper as-printed for a modest fee. Granted the process is pretty simple; Mel and Jeff post the pdfs for the week's paper and allow paying viewers to download. But they've realized something the Big Wigs haven't yet: the revenue stool has another promising leg, that of consumer compensation.
In this way, journalism can finally steer away from those years of dependence on advertising. There's a strong sense at several publications I could name that content is sometimes written more in the interest of advertisers than readers. Tsk, tsk. Lesson number one is write for your audience. If we journalists aren't tackling the stories that matter to readers, what are we beating the shit out of our livers for? "I'm a journalist" isn't the most promising pickup line. If we lean more on the folk we're writing for, perhaps we can kick this pesky bamboo addiction.
TIME published an excellent article recently titled "How to Save Your Newspaper." I feel a bit dumb not having realized the facts included before, but when you work one aspect of the industry for so long you get blinded to the whole. Through bar-or-brewery chats with fellow journos the past few months, I've struggled for an explanation on why this is happening and what can be done. According to Walter Isaacson, the answer is simple: charge for online content.
There is, of course, more to it than that. But the point made that print journalism has become too dependent on the advertising leg of its revenue stool is undeniably valid. It's the bamboo to our panda. Readership is up. Just ask any of the kids on campus or any recent graduate. We younglings are tapped into a steady stream of online news and information, and we actually seem to care (I know, right!?). So why do we find the industry floundering? Because net advertising isn't nearly as lucrative as print advertising. Remember those Target or Sears fliers in the Sunday issue Mom always breezed through for deals? Now think of those banner ads on Web sites. Not so effective, I think.
Isaacson's solution, minus the subtleties, is to charge for online news service the same way newspapers and mags have always charged for print material. After all, what's the difference? Who says info on the net has to be free? It's an idiotic model that we seem to be stuck in, much like a rut. We need to bust that rut. Traditional subscription services limit the potential for impulse access, so Isaacson suggests a pay-per-use model. Not a bad plan. Sort of an iTunes for news. Perhaps Lee or Gannett or McClatchy could develop a company-wide debit system. So many dollars with the click of one button buys you a day's access to any of the company's online publications.
Some of the independents have already taken Isaacson's suggestion to heart, months before he wrote the damn article. Exhibit A: the Choteau Acantha, a small-town independent weekly I worked for two consecutive summers. Melody Martinsen (editor) and her husband Jeff (business manager) felt the urge to revamp the Acantha's Web site last year. The site was bare-bones when I worked there, the week's stories and a few photos. Now, Web users can view the paper as-printed for a modest fee. Granted the process is pretty simple; Mel and Jeff post the pdfs for the week's paper and allow paying viewers to download. But they've realized something the Big Wigs haven't yet: the revenue stool has another promising leg, that of consumer compensation.
In this way, journalism can finally steer away from those years of dependence on advertising. There's a strong sense at several publications I could name that content is sometimes written more in the interest of advertisers than readers. Tsk, tsk. Lesson number one is write for your audience. If we journalists aren't tackling the stories that matter to readers, what are we beating the shit out of our livers for? "I'm a journalist" isn't the most promising pickup line. If we lean more on the folk we're writing for, perhaps we can kick this pesky bamboo addiction.
Friday, February 20, 2009
Friday, February ###
A few thoughts/observations after my daily browsing of news sites and listservs:
I find it ridiculous that so many Americans have abandoned the idea of foreign trade as a source of economic growth. Chris Cillizza's latest segment of The Fix, a Washington Post politics blog, quotes a Gallup poll on World Affairs: "47 percent of those surveyed said they saw foreign trade as 'a threat to the economy from foreign imports'" Really? Almost half of those surveyed felt the import/export aspect of international business was a BAD thing? No wonder President Obama seems to be bouncing back and forth on the issues of NAFTA (the central topic of Cillizza's post). Obama touched down in Ottawa yesterday for a tete-a-tete with Prime Minister Harper. In one of his frequent moments of brilliance, Obama has been using a potential pull-out of NAFTA as leverage in bringing labor and environmental concerns fully under the agreement umbrella. The idea of the U.S. completely deep-sixing its involvement with NAFTA is as unbelievable as those apes at Citigroup trying to spend $50 million on a new jet while receiving bail-out money. Foreign trade may make us dependent on foreign economies, but guess what? We're already there. Putting the brakes on now won't bring the economy back, and it'll only hurt international relations.
Side note: "President Obama's trip to Ottawa, Canada" is "his first time outside the country since being sworn in on Jan. 20." Really, Cillizza? Since when has Canada counted as a foreign country?
Equally appalling is the latest depth of Sarah Palin's far-right Tom Foolery. The latest Palin biography, "Trailblazer," includes a bit from former Palin campaign manager Laura Chase on the Governor's past attempt to ban books in school libraries. A similar right-wing bimbo, Cindy Hochstettler, led a book-banning campaign in the Bismarck Public School District when I was a kid. My folks, bookstore owners at the time, fought tooth-and-claw to keep classics like "Adventures of Huckleberry Finn" where they were: on the shelves. Book-banning is only one bonfire shy of a wonderful NAZI tradition established by everyone's favorite mass-murderer, Adolf Hitler. Can anyone say Bill of Rights infringement? Chase apparently encouraged Palin to read one of the under-fire books, a gay-friendly children's book called "Daddy's Roommate." Palin's reaction was similar to a six year old presented with a plate of steamed brussels sprouts. I imagined Tina Fey doing an impression of the Mr. Yuck sticker.
Incensed, I've developed a new nickname for Mrs. Palin: GILTBWAGH (Governor I'd Like To Beat With A Garden Hose). I'm thinking of having bumper stickers made up in anticipation of the 2012 election.
Endnote: I'm offended by the recent insinuation that I'm a heavily closeted Republican, even if it was leveled by a loving uncle. When it comes to taking sides, I'm with Will Rogers who said "Politics is applesauce."
I find it ridiculous that so many Americans have abandoned the idea of foreign trade as a source of economic growth. Chris Cillizza's latest segment of The Fix, a Washington Post politics blog, quotes a Gallup poll on World Affairs: "47 percent of those surveyed said they saw foreign trade as 'a threat to the economy from foreign imports'" Really? Almost half of those surveyed felt the import/export aspect of international business was a BAD thing? No wonder President Obama seems to be bouncing back and forth on the issues of NAFTA (the central topic of Cillizza's post). Obama touched down in Ottawa yesterday for a tete-a-tete with Prime Minister Harper. In one of his frequent moments of brilliance, Obama has been using a potential pull-out of NAFTA as leverage in bringing labor and environmental concerns fully under the agreement umbrella. The idea of the U.S. completely deep-sixing its involvement with NAFTA is as unbelievable as those apes at Citigroup trying to spend $50 million on a new jet while receiving bail-out money. Foreign trade may make us dependent on foreign economies, but guess what? We're already there. Putting the brakes on now won't bring the economy back, and it'll only hurt international relations.
Side note: "President Obama's trip to Ottawa, Canada" is "his first time outside the country since being sworn in on Jan. 20." Really, Cillizza? Since when has Canada counted as a foreign country?
Equally appalling is the latest depth of Sarah Palin's far-right Tom Foolery. The latest Palin biography, "Trailblazer," includes a bit from former Palin campaign manager Laura Chase on the Governor's past attempt to ban books in school libraries. A similar right-wing bimbo, Cindy Hochstettler, led a book-banning campaign in the Bismarck Public School District when I was a kid. My folks, bookstore owners at the time, fought tooth-and-claw to keep classics like "Adventures of Huckleberry Finn" where they were: on the shelves. Book-banning is only one bonfire shy of a wonderful NAZI tradition established by everyone's favorite mass-murderer, Adolf Hitler. Can anyone say Bill of Rights infringement? Chase apparently encouraged Palin to read one of the under-fire books, a gay-friendly children's book called "Daddy's Roommate." Palin's reaction was similar to a six year old presented with a plate of steamed brussels sprouts. I imagined Tina Fey doing an impression of the Mr. Yuck sticker.
Incensed, I've developed a new nickname for Mrs. Palin: GILTBWAGH (Governor I'd Like To Beat With A Garden Hose). I'm thinking of having bumper stickers made up in anticipation of the 2012 election.
Endnote: I'm offended by the recent insinuation that I'm a heavily closeted Republican, even if it was leveled by a loving uncle. When it comes to taking sides, I'm with Will Rogers who said "Politics is applesauce."
Friday, February 13, 2009
Get your Global Warming off me you damn dirty Gore-illa
Global Warming is a crock. I'm not talking about greenhouse gas emissions or depletion of the ozone layer or any of the now-irrefutable scientific crap going on in our giant spheric ecosystem. We as a race have really messed up the environment, in the years since that gloriously self-dooming Industrial Revolution (or, as I call it, Fuckfest 1837). As a tumor on the globe, we've gone from benign to malignant in under 200 years. Impressive, no?
No, I'm talking about that good ol' grassroots, haven't-showered-since-Christmas, natty-haired, ganja-smoking, Birkenstocked hippie catchphrase: "Green." Peace signs, hemp and funk have gone from supporting a sensible civil rights movement to supporting whatever against-the-corporate-grain BS a bunch of forestry and philo majors dream up in a purple-haze basement off Higgins. When did every Joe Plumber/Horticulturalist start caring about the environment? And when did that concern spread to politicians like Gore, who saw his loss in the '00 election as a sign that he was destined for Christ-ier things? If you ask me, the day the kind folks on Capitol Hill start falling inline behind a guy who lost to Dubbya should come with a fluttering red flad. No blue and white. Just red.
The idea that humanity could completely destroy an entire planet is nothing short of conceited. We are, after all, talking about an interstellar rock that has survived ice-ages, asteroid strikes, mass extinctions, you name it. Is Earth even slightly a picture of what it once was? Certainly not. The Rocky Mountains haven't always been there. The Great Barrier Reef has not always been there. Put simply, "our" planet has survived a lot worse than Volkswagen and Ford. No matter what we do, the planet will continue to spin and, as evidenced by our relatively recent appearance, give birth to new forms of life.
No, the "Save the Planet" spirit behind the word green is a front. What we mean is "Save our way of life on the Planet." Are we willing to turn back the clock to the Dark Ages, exist in smaller numbers in fewer places consuming fewer precious resources? No. Has the dude in flannel at the brewery arguing about why you should use a different kind of light bulb ever argued for population control? Doubtful. The steps taken in going green limit our impact on the environment, but they don't halt it completely. Low-flow toilets are still toilets. Hybrid cars are still cars.
We're greedily preserving our own way of life, modifying our conveniences to hit less hard the raw elements we once contended with. And that's a noble enough pursuit. Penguins, pandas and polar bears can certainly use our help in making it a few more decades. But who knows? Perhaps the destruction of environment brought about by human ingenuity will trigger another alteration in the planet's character. Perhaps we're the catalyst for next change. But going green doesn't protect the planet because the planet doesn't need protecting. It's our comfortable, modernized way of life that does. Stop hiding behind "Save the Planet" and be honest. You just want to drive your Prius to Starbucks for a double-shot skinny latte and some lounge music brought to you by Dreads-R-Us.
No, I'm talking about that good ol' grassroots, haven't-showered-since-Christmas, natty-haired, ganja-smoking, Birkenstocked hippie catchphrase: "Green." Peace signs, hemp and funk have gone from supporting a sensible civil rights movement to supporting whatever against-the-corporate-grain BS a bunch of forestry and philo majors dream up in a purple-haze basement off Higgins. When did every Joe Plumber/Horticulturalist start caring about the environment? And when did that concern spread to politicians like Gore, who saw his loss in the '00 election as a sign that he was destined for Christ-ier things? If you ask me, the day the kind folks on Capitol Hill start falling inline behind a guy who lost to Dubbya should come with a fluttering red flad. No blue and white. Just red.
The idea that humanity could completely destroy an entire planet is nothing short of conceited. We are, after all, talking about an interstellar rock that has survived ice-ages, asteroid strikes, mass extinctions, you name it. Is Earth even slightly a picture of what it once was? Certainly not. The Rocky Mountains haven't always been there. The Great Barrier Reef has not always been there. Put simply, "our" planet has survived a lot worse than Volkswagen and Ford. No matter what we do, the planet will continue to spin and, as evidenced by our relatively recent appearance, give birth to new forms of life.
No, the "Save the Planet" spirit behind the word green is a front. What we mean is "Save our way of life on the Planet." Are we willing to turn back the clock to the Dark Ages, exist in smaller numbers in fewer places consuming fewer precious resources? No. Has the dude in flannel at the brewery arguing about why you should use a different kind of light bulb ever argued for population control? Doubtful. The steps taken in going green limit our impact on the environment, but they don't halt it completely. Low-flow toilets are still toilets. Hybrid cars are still cars.
We're greedily preserving our own way of life, modifying our conveniences to hit less hard the raw elements we once contended with. And that's a noble enough pursuit. Penguins, pandas and polar bears can certainly use our help in making it a few more decades. But who knows? Perhaps the destruction of environment brought about by human ingenuity will trigger another alteration in the planet's character. Perhaps we're the catalyst for next change. But going green doesn't protect the planet because the planet doesn't need protecting. It's our comfortable, modernized way of life that does. Stop hiding behind "Save the Planet" and be honest. You just want to drive your Prius to Starbucks for a double-shot skinny latte and some lounge music brought to you by Dreads-R-Us.
Thursday, February 12, 2009
10 Things I Hate About Facebook
I've grown pretty freaking tired of Facebook lately. Not tired enough to do the gutsy thing, like Sean, and pull out like it's Prom night. But tired enough to limit usage to a few minutes a few times a week. There's just no rhyme or reason to whiling away precious hours of life in the digital version of Eliot's Wasteland.
Yes, Facebook's value warrants existence. Fantastic networking capabilities, easy/free communication with friends abroad, near limitless photo-storage potential. I can sleep easy knowing that, should my laptop die completely (for a third time) my best photos are safe not only on a 250-gig external hard drive but the oh-so-accessible World Whacked Web. However, annoying crap like this turns me off the whole damn thing. "25 Random Things"? Why not just start a blog, where those who give the slightest hoot can read it and the rest of the world can remain blissfully unaware.
So, the 10 things I hate most about Facebook:
1. Facechat- MSN Instant Messenger and GoogleChat weren't enough already? Just one more way to drunkenly hit on people online after an unsuccessful night of drunkenly hitting on people in bars.
2. Applications- Huh. I've visited 13 percent of the world. Does anyone else care? No. Do I even care? No.
3. Notifications- My Kingdom needs me? So-and-so I met through him-or-her commented on him-or-her's status? Jesus Christ. (oh, I should friend him...)
Which brings me to...
4. Friending- Oh, oh, oh! I have more friends that YOU! I have more friends than YOU! What, Jim Bexley wrote on my wall?! Wait, who's Jim Bexley...
(Btdubs: Thank you, Facebook, for turning yet another noun into a verb.)
5. Photo tagging- I like posting photos, but do we really have to broadcast who is who? If I wanted to include cutlines, I'd apply to a freaking newspaper.
6. The "Scrabulous" controversy- I really liked Scrabulous. I'm fairly certain it saved me from losing my last semblance of sanity while working as arts editor for the Montana Kaimin. Hasbro needs to get off its high-horse and realize the umpteen millions it makes off Scrabble a year are enough.
7. Hogwarts House sorting- If I'm told one more time that I'm a fucking Hufflepuff, I'm killing someone.
8. The "New" Facebook- The fact that Facebook is important enough for people to dedicate time to inventing "new and better" versions strikes me as sad. Very, very sad.
9. Relationship status- Do I really need to clarify?
10. Family members- The BIGGEST point of hatred, by far. The only thing worse than being stalked by some creepy sophomore on Facebook is being stalked by your own kin. Does my mother want to hear from relative A or B or D that I was caught on camera doing shots last October? Nopers.
These points aside, I despise Facebook for the same reason I came out against LiveJournal, MySpace, MSN profiles and the like earlier on. They provide nothing more than an opportunity for insecure young folk to present the version of themselves they want the rest of the world to see. Movie interests, friends, profile pics. The Internet has too long provided an unhealthy outlet for adolescent angst. Facebook is just a symptom of the disease, one which will breed a generation unsure of itself well beyond its early twenties. It's a social mask, and it's high time users realized that. When they do perhaps Facebook will evolve once more, this time adopting utilitarian value measurable in something more than gigabytes.
Yes, Facebook's value warrants existence. Fantastic networking capabilities, easy/free communication with friends abroad, near limitless photo-storage potential. I can sleep easy knowing that, should my laptop die completely (for a third time) my best photos are safe not only on a 250-gig external hard drive but the oh-so-accessible World Whacked Web. However, annoying crap like this turns me off the whole damn thing. "25 Random Things"? Why not just start a blog, where those who give the slightest hoot can read it and the rest of the world can remain blissfully unaware.
So, the 10 things I hate most about Facebook:
1. Facechat- MSN Instant Messenger and GoogleChat weren't enough already? Just one more way to drunkenly hit on people online after an unsuccessful night of drunkenly hitting on people in bars.
2. Applications- Huh. I've visited 13 percent of the world. Does anyone else care? No. Do I even care? No.
3. Notifications- My Kingdom needs me? So-and-so I met through him-or-her commented on him-or-her's status? Jesus Christ. (oh, I should friend him...)
Which brings me to...
4. Friending- Oh, oh, oh! I have more friends that YOU! I have more friends than YOU! What, Jim Bexley wrote on my wall?! Wait, who's Jim Bexley...
(Btdubs: Thank you, Facebook, for turning yet another noun into a verb.)
5. Photo tagging- I like posting photos, but do we really have to broadcast who is who? If I wanted to include cutlines, I'd apply to a freaking newspaper.
6. The "Scrabulous" controversy- I really liked Scrabulous. I'm fairly certain it saved me from losing my last semblance of sanity while working as arts editor for the Montana Kaimin. Hasbro needs to get off its high-horse and realize the umpteen millions it makes off Scrabble a year are enough.
7. Hogwarts House sorting- If I'm told one more time that I'm a fucking Hufflepuff, I'm killing someone.
8. The "New" Facebook- The fact that Facebook is important enough for people to dedicate time to inventing "new and better" versions strikes me as sad. Very, very sad.
9. Relationship status- Do I really need to clarify?
10. Family members- The BIGGEST point of hatred, by far. The only thing worse than being stalked by some creepy sophomore on Facebook is being stalked by your own kin. Does my mother want to hear from relative A or B or D that I was caught on camera doing shots last October? Nopers.
These points aside, I despise Facebook for the same reason I came out against LiveJournal, MySpace, MSN profiles and the like earlier on. They provide nothing more than an opportunity for insecure young folk to present the version of themselves they want the rest of the world to see. Movie interests, friends, profile pics. The Internet has too long provided an unhealthy outlet for adolescent angst. Facebook is just a symptom of the disease, one which will breed a generation unsure of itself well beyond its early twenties. It's a social mask, and it's high time users realized that. When they do perhaps Facebook will evolve once more, this time adopting utilitarian value measurable in something more than gigabytes.
Sunday, February 8, 2009
Discouragement has many disguises
I've been thinking a lot lately about direction. Where have I been, where am I going, all that shiraz. Seven months of freelancing has won me what? A much-improved clips packet and a deep sense of being beholden to my parents? So much less and so much more. It's supplied me with time, too much time, to ponder my degree. The rejection letters and long silences from countless editors at countless newspapers or magazines only reaffirm the points made by friends: perhaps journalism is best abandoned in pursuit of something more concrete, more stable, more promising.
The number of friends who have left journalism after graduation is about even with those that have stayed the course. Nursing, non-profit work, PR, humanitarian efforts. Some have tried, thrown up hands and moved on to other horizons within one year. And can I blame them? Last week, McClatchy froze pension plans for employees across the U.S. One of their shining publications, the Sacramento Bee, announced a round of layoffs the same day. I received the following e-mail on the Society of Environmental Journalists' newsserve, just a two or three hours after an SEJ-wide message drumming up financial support for the org.:
Today would be an especially awkward time for my fellow McClatchy SEJers
to seek their employer's financial support for SEJ or for attending SEJ
events. This morning McClatchy Chairman and CEO Gary Pruitt anounced
that the corporation is freezing its pension plans and "temporarily"
suspending the company match to its 401k plans. Minutes later, The
Sacramento Bee publisher Cheryl Dell announced that The Bee will be
making another round of layoffs between now and March 31. No mention of
buy-outs. No details on how many or the kind of Bee employees are
affected. "As we have just begun work on these plans now, you may not
hear more from us for at least a few weeks," she said.
I've spent a lot of time bitching about Lee and Gannett, but the disease continues to spread. Independents are safer, for now. Helps not to have a boss at a corporate headquarters in Metro, USA breathing down your neck about trimming expenses. Perhaps the rural weeklies will thrive in the collapse of corporate dailies, filling the void and picking up ad revenue from dropped and jilted advertisers. One thing is abundantly clear: jobs are hard to come by. And I'm not just talking about the measly five-a-day posts to journalismjobs.com. I'm talking about the dozens of part-time jobs I've applied for in the last four months. Baristas, waitresses, sales associates. Those who have 'em are keeping 'em, clinging to those hourly wages like life belts. Freelancing doesn't pay the bills, not nearly. Savings dwindles, money in the market is no longer a fallback.
That begs the question: what next? Do I entertain Sean's musings about making Valkenberg a full-time pursuit? Do I continue feeding this sad, discouraging cycle of applications and rejections? Or do I purchase a Canada pass, use my old Boy Scout connections to get a guiding gig and retreat to the interior of Ontario's canoe country? I do have one answer. I won't stop writing. All this nay-saying, all this Dooms Day shit doesn't mean we unemployed journalists have to give up. Staff writing isn't the only writing to be had, in Missoula or otherwhere. If you're passionate, if you're dogged, if you are now the news junky you once were, use that fire to fuel even the faintest flicker of work. The worst thing we, as trained journalists, can do in light of all this mayhem is throw up our hands and say "Surrender. I'm out. Not my game anymore." Then you're just the guy in the dirty trenchcoat on the corner, stabbing at the sky with a sign boasting "The End is Nigh!"
The number of friends who have left journalism after graduation is about even with those that have stayed the course. Nursing, non-profit work, PR, humanitarian efforts. Some have tried, thrown up hands and moved on to other horizons within one year. And can I blame them? Last week, McClatchy froze pension plans for employees across the U.S. One of their shining publications, the Sacramento Bee, announced a round of layoffs the same day. I received the following e-mail on the Society of Environmental Journalists' newsserve, just a two or three hours after an SEJ-wide message drumming up financial support for the org.:
Today would be an especially awkward time for my fellow McClatchy SEJers
to seek their employer's financial support for SEJ or for attending SEJ
events. This morning McClatchy Chairman and CEO Gary Pruitt anounced
that the corporation is freezing its pension plans and "temporarily"
suspending the company match to its 401k plans. Minutes later, The
Sacramento Bee publisher Cheryl Dell announced that The Bee will be
making another round of layoffs between now and March 31. No mention of
buy-outs. No details on how many or the kind of Bee employees are
affected. "As we have just begun work on these plans now, you may not
hear more from us for at least a few weeks," she said.
I've spent a lot of time bitching about Lee and Gannett, but the disease continues to spread. Independents are safer, for now. Helps not to have a boss at a corporate headquarters in Metro, USA breathing down your neck about trimming expenses. Perhaps the rural weeklies will thrive in the collapse of corporate dailies, filling the void and picking up ad revenue from dropped and jilted advertisers. One thing is abundantly clear: jobs are hard to come by. And I'm not just talking about the measly five-a-day posts to journalismjobs.com. I'm talking about the dozens of part-time jobs I've applied for in the last four months. Baristas, waitresses, sales associates. Those who have 'em are keeping 'em, clinging to those hourly wages like life belts. Freelancing doesn't pay the bills, not nearly. Savings dwindles, money in the market is no longer a fallback.
That begs the question: what next? Do I entertain Sean's musings about making Valkenberg a full-time pursuit? Do I continue feeding this sad, discouraging cycle of applications and rejections? Or do I purchase a Canada pass, use my old Boy Scout connections to get a guiding gig and retreat to the interior of Ontario's canoe country? I do have one answer. I won't stop writing. All this nay-saying, all this Dooms Day shit doesn't mean we unemployed journalists have to give up. Staff writing isn't the only writing to be had, in Missoula or otherwhere. If you're passionate, if you're dogged, if you are now the news junky you once were, use that fire to fuel even the faintest flicker of work. The worst thing we, as trained journalists, can do in light of all this mayhem is throw up our hands and say "Surrender. I'm out. Not my game anymore." Then you're just the guy in the dirty trenchcoat on the corner, stabbing at the sky with a sign boasting "The End is Nigh!"
Friday, January 30, 2009
In the meantime
Filling the minutes between interviews can be a pain. "Not enough time for one of my typical 10,000 blog posts," I tell myself, "but too much time for a simple trip to Mr. Coffee or my stash of apples." The story, a freelance piece on the now-former 2009 Seeley Lake races, is not as fulfilling a journalistic endeavor as I apparently need this wonderful Friday.
So I turn to the words of William Kittredge and his essay "Doors to Our House." A little research for an essay of my own. I stumble on a passage not quite suited to my present needs but one that nonetheless stirs the musings of a time-killing mind.
"So, out in our West, artists are trying to run their eyes clear of mythic and legendary cobwebs, and see straight to the actual. But sometimes you have to wonder about that. As a friend of mine says, 'I ask for truth, and what do I get? Candor.'"
So I turn to the words of William Kittredge and his essay "Doors to Our House." A little research for an essay of my own. I stumble on a passage not quite suited to my present needs but one that nonetheless stirs the musings of a time-killing mind.
"So, out in our West, artists are trying to run their eyes clear of mythic and legendary cobwebs, and see straight to the actual. But sometimes you have to wonder about that. As a friend of mine says, 'I ask for truth, and what do I get? Candor.'"
Monday, January 19, 2009
Who says journalists don't care?
Okay, so we're ambulance chasers by nature. Journalists have long had to live down the reputation of callous, nosey, unfeeling, unwashed, down-and-out drunkards. The whole government-pet thing is just the latest spin on an old tradition. And what have we done to deserve this? Yes, we hold notebooks under the noses of grieving widows. Yes, we snap pictures of blood-soaked crime scenes. Yes, we like to get a buzz on at the end of the day. But it's not like we do it for the pay, or job security. A few controversies surrounding one or two or three individuals shouldn't reflect on the industry as a whole. We're humans. And, occasionally, we choose to show it.
Case in point: splashed across today's international news was the murder of Russian human rights lawyer Stanislav Markelov in Moscow. Markelov, a pioneer for Chechen rights amidst ongoing hostilities between Chechnya and Russia, was shot in the back of the head after leaving a news conference less than a mile from the Kremlin. He was responsible for putting a Col. Yuri Budanov behind bars for killing a Chechen civilian nine years ago. Here's the rub. Also murdered was Anastasia Baburova, a freelance newspaper journalist in her mid 20s. Baburova attempted to interfere in the shooting on Markelov's behalf, only to have the gun turned on her. She died on the operating table. All this brings to mind the murder of Russian investigative journalist Anna Politkovskaya in 2006.
Now that I've expounded, Valkenberg is playing Sean Kelly's tonight at 10. Not sure what we're playing yet, but rest assured it'll be entertaining.
Case in point: splashed across today's international news was the murder of Russian human rights lawyer Stanislav Markelov in Moscow. Markelov, a pioneer for Chechen rights amidst ongoing hostilities between Chechnya and Russia, was shot in the back of the head after leaving a news conference less than a mile from the Kremlin. He was responsible for putting a Col. Yuri Budanov behind bars for killing a Chechen civilian nine years ago. Here's the rub. Also murdered was Anastasia Baburova, a freelance newspaper journalist in her mid 20s. Baburova attempted to interfere in the shooting on Markelov's behalf, only to have the gun turned on her. She died on the operating table. All this brings to mind the murder of Russian investigative journalist Anna Politkovskaya in 2006.
Now that I've expounded, Valkenberg is playing Sean Kelly's tonight at 10. Not sure what we're playing yet, but rest assured it'll be entertaining.
Sunday, January 18, 2009
The last few days have been something short of interesting. I've spent a good deal of time on JournalismJobs.com, getting together yet another wave of applications. The job market in print journalism is only growing more competitive as Lee Enterprises and Gannett continue their crusade against competent newsroom and business staff. I'd be lying if I said I weren't a little nervous about gainful employment, but I've stumbled on some promising positions. I just hope some editor likes the looks of my resume.
Silver lining time. I received a writer's agreement in the mail on Friday for a manuscript I mailed off in early November. Seems a certain Minnesota-based magazine wants to publish one of my travel stories in their upcoming summer issue. They're also purchasing two of my accompanying photos, an added bonus in my pursuit of a magazine writing career. I've always hoped to break into the magazine world, working my way there through weekly newspapers and freelance work. Maybe my efforts haven't been in vain.
Sean and I are gearing up for our second appearance as Valkenberg tomorrow night at Sean Kelly's. More original material, more covers. Hopefully we won't be playing such a late set this time. The bar cleared out before we took the stage last week. Pretty disheartening.
Finally managed a break from Missoula yesterday. Sean and I took our good friend John Cribb ice fishing on Seeley Lake for his 23rd birthday. Sean and John competed in the Pike on Ice tournament and I tagged along as chauffeur. I hadn't been ice fishing since my days with Boy Scout Troop Six in Bismarck, when we'd drive up to Bottineau on the Canadian border for long weekends. Those were cold afternoons, even with a warmed hut, and we always had a snowmobile for when the fishing was slow. Saturday proved to be a much different experience. A case of PBR, lawn chairs, a borrowed auger. Only John caught a fish, a gorgeous perch tempted by the smelt on his Disney Princess rod. The weather was sunny, temps around the high forties (it was -30 in North Dakota the same day). As anyone could predict, the day got a bit wild.
Silver lining time. I received a writer's agreement in the mail on Friday for a manuscript I mailed off in early November. Seems a certain Minnesota-based magazine wants to publish one of my travel stories in their upcoming summer issue. They're also purchasing two of my accompanying photos, an added bonus in my pursuit of a magazine writing career. I've always hoped to break into the magazine world, working my way there through weekly newspapers and freelance work. Maybe my efforts haven't been in vain.
Sean and I are gearing up for our second appearance as Valkenberg tomorrow night at Sean Kelly's. More original material, more covers. Hopefully we won't be playing such a late set this time. The bar cleared out before we took the stage last week. Pretty disheartening.
Finally managed a break from Missoula yesterday. Sean and I took our good friend John Cribb ice fishing on Seeley Lake for his 23rd birthday. Sean and John competed in the Pike on Ice tournament and I tagged along as chauffeur. I hadn't been ice fishing since my days with Boy Scout Troop Six in Bismarck, when we'd drive up to Bottineau on the Canadian border for long weekends. Those were cold afternoons, even with a warmed hut, and we always had a snowmobile for when the fishing was slow. Saturday proved to be a much different experience. A case of PBR, lawn chairs, a borrowed auger. Only John caught a fish, a gorgeous perch tempted by the smelt on his Disney Princess rod. The weather was sunny, temps around the high forties (it was -30 in North Dakota the same day). As anyone could predict, the day got a bit wild.
Tuesday, January 13, 2009
The Ragged Edge of the Universe
I guess now is as good a time as any to explain the origin of this blog's title. And, since I haven't yet received photos from last night's Valkenberg performance, it'll make a nice filler post until tomorrow.
Since high school, I've had a particular attachment to F. Scott Fitzgerald's "The Great Gatsby." The novel lies at the root of my passion for writing, as both an annually revisited source of inspiration and the catalyst for my pursuit of a career in journalism. My junior AP English teacher, Jennifer Montgomery, first approached me about my writing strengths after reading my analytical essay on "The Great Gatsby." The essay scored me Monte's attention as a sort of mentor and, after the dominoes fell, a position as co-editor of the Bismarck High School Hi-Herald my senior year (Monte was also the school's journalism adviser).
Now to address my emotional connection to Fitzgerald's masterpiece. I've always felt a close kinship with two characters in "The Great Gatsby." The first is the novel's title character, Jay Gatsby. A hopeless romantic, a nostalgia-prone loner in a sea of socialites. To be honest, I've often refused to "get over" past relationships in the hopes of creating a Daisy Buchanan of my own. But I probably share more in common with Peter Pan than Jay Gatsby, until you reach the turn in Gatsby's character. Gatsby is not Gatsby at all, but James Gatz. Born and raised in North Dakota, Gatz reinvented himself upon reaching adulthood, thinking to put his origins behind him. Though I've embraced the fact that I'm from North Dakota, I've often caught myself struggling for a similar reinvention. I recognize the same desire to become more in the world than my beginnings, to reach for a more glamorous future. Like Gatsby, I guess I wrestle with the shame of that desire on a daily basis.
The second and stronger kinship is Nick Carraway. The story's narrator and a fellow of Midwestern roots, Nick finds himself thrust into the unfamiliar surroundings of Eastern high society when he meets Gatsby. Nick cares too much, sees through too much of the foolishness around him to belong to the world Gatsby has planted himself in. An outsider, not sure if he really belongs anywhere, be it Yale or East Egg or the battlefields of WWI. And while I've grown attached to Missoula over the past four and a half years, I can't help feeling the same way. The town is great, the friends are fantastic, but do I really belong here? What, besides school, will be my lasting connection to this place? The parties, the pot, the "Keep Missoula Weird" bumper stickers remain foreign to a simple Midwesterner. Like Nick, I guess I'm the square peg trying to fit into the hippie hole. With every annual read I step into Nick Carraway's shoes without stepping out of my own, and it brings about moments of reflection.
So, the name of my blog. It stems from a quote by Nick Carraway, summing up his youthful adventures and seeking to explain the move east that lands him on Jay Gatsby's doorstep:
"... I came back restless. Instead of being the warm centre of the world, the Middle West now seemed like the ragged edge of the universe."
Since high school, I've had a particular attachment to F. Scott Fitzgerald's "The Great Gatsby." The novel lies at the root of my passion for writing, as both an annually revisited source of inspiration and the catalyst for my pursuit of a career in journalism. My junior AP English teacher, Jennifer Montgomery, first approached me about my writing strengths after reading my analytical essay on "The Great Gatsby." The essay scored me Monte's attention as a sort of mentor and, after the dominoes fell, a position as co-editor of the Bismarck High School Hi-Herald my senior year (Monte was also the school's journalism adviser).
Now to address my emotional connection to Fitzgerald's masterpiece. I've always felt a close kinship with two characters in "The Great Gatsby." The first is the novel's title character, Jay Gatsby. A hopeless romantic, a nostalgia-prone loner in a sea of socialites. To be honest, I've often refused to "get over" past relationships in the hopes of creating a Daisy Buchanan of my own. But I probably share more in common with Peter Pan than Jay Gatsby, until you reach the turn in Gatsby's character. Gatsby is not Gatsby at all, but James Gatz. Born and raised in North Dakota, Gatz reinvented himself upon reaching adulthood, thinking to put his origins behind him. Though I've embraced the fact that I'm from North Dakota, I've often caught myself struggling for a similar reinvention. I recognize the same desire to become more in the world than my beginnings, to reach for a more glamorous future. Like Gatsby, I guess I wrestle with the shame of that desire on a daily basis.
The second and stronger kinship is Nick Carraway. The story's narrator and a fellow of Midwestern roots, Nick finds himself thrust into the unfamiliar surroundings of Eastern high society when he meets Gatsby. Nick cares too much, sees through too much of the foolishness around him to belong to the world Gatsby has planted himself in. An outsider, not sure if he really belongs anywhere, be it Yale or East Egg or the battlefields of WWI. And while I've grown attached to Missoula over the past four and a half years, I can't help feeling the same way. The town is great, the friends are fantastic, but do I really belong here? What, besides school, will be my lasting connection to this place? The parties, the pot, the "Keep Missoula Weird" bumper stickers remain foreign to a simple Midwesterner. Like Nick, I guess I'm the square peg trying to fit into the hippie hole. With every annual read I step into Nick Carraway's shoes without stepping out of my own, and it brings about moments of reflection.
So, the name of my blog. It stems from a quote by Nick Carraway, summing up his youthful adventures and seeking to explain the move east that lands him on Jay Gatsby's doorstep:
"... I came back restless. Instead of being the warm centre of the world, the Middle West now seemed like the ragged edge of the universe."
Monday, January 12, 2009
At the insistence of one Bill Oram, here's the latest:
My search continues for something to justify my existence in Missoula. Lately, I've been passing the time forming a tw0-man band with close friend and former boss Sean Breslin. After casting about for different journalism-themed names ("N Dash" and "Topic Lede" were personal favorites), we settled on what Sean calls the "intentionally misspelled" title Valkenberg. Past and present students of the University of Montana's School of Journalism will recognize the name as that of print chair Carol van Valkenburg and her husband Fred, the Missoula County Attorney. The misspelling is a joke at the expense of crime reporter Mike Gerrity, a child who not only substituted an "e" for the "u" in Valkenburg in a news story but also managed to misspell his own name. We can only hope to excuse it as a mental disorder.
Valkenberg's first appearance is tonight at Sean Kelly's. The set list includes several covers as well as two original pieces by Sean and one original piece by yours truly. We take the stage at 12:40 a.m. because I'm an idiot and failed to reserve an open mic slot before all others were taken.
"That's all well and good," you tell yourself, "but what does any of this have to do with me?" Well, dear readers, the answer is nothing. I've neglected the Ragged Edge of the Universe for the sole reason that I've had little to nothing of interest to write. The blogosphere is a bit too narcissistic for this humble, down-home NoDaker, but I'm doing my best to improve.
On that note, here's a taste of what I do on a fairly regular basis: freelance music reviews for the Missoula Independent, an alternative weekly here in town. This review won't be appearing in print as I'm an idiot (see also previous paragraph) and reviewed an album that had already been reviewed without realizing it. Hopefully by posting here I'll turn a waste of time into something moderately worth while. My freelance work is by no means limited to music reviews, nor to the Missoula Independent. But perhaps my freelance career (journalese for "unemployment") is fodder for a future post.
The Gourds, Haymaker!, Yep Roc Records, 2009.
Cheers.
My search continues for something to justify my existence in Missoula. Lately, I've been passing the time forming a tw0-man band with close friend and former boss Sean Breslin. After casting about for different journalism-themed names ("N Dash" and "Topic Lede" were personal favorites), we settled on what Sean calls the "intentionally misspelled" title Valkenberg. Past and present students of the University of Montana's School of Journalism will recognize the name as that of print chair Carol van Valkenburg and her husband Fred, the Missoula County Attorney. The misspelling is a joke at the expense of crime reporter Mike Gerrity, a child who not only substituted an "e" for the "u" in Valkenburg in a news story but also managed to misspell his own name. We can only hope to excuse it as a mental disorder.
Valkenberg's first appearance is tonight at Sean Kelly's. The set list includes several covers as well as two original pieces by Sean and one original piece by yours truly. We take the stage at 12:40 a.m. because I'm an idiot and failed to reserve an open mic slot before all others were taken.
"That's all well and good," you tell yourself, "but what does any of this have to do with me?" Well, dear readers, the answer is nothing. I've neglected the Ragged Edge of the Universe for the sole reason that I've had little to nothing of interest to write. The blogosphere is a bit too narcissistic for this humble, down-home NoDaker, but I'm doing my best to improve.
On that note, here's a taste of what I do on a fairly regular basis: freelance music reviews for the Missoula Independent, an alternative weekly here in town. This review won't be appearing in print as I'm an idiot (see also previous paragraph) and reviewed an album that had already been reviewed without realizing it. Hopefully by posting here I'll turn a waste of time into something moderately worth while. My freelance work is by no means limited to music reviews, nor to the Missoula Independent. But perhaps my freelance career (journalese for "unemployment") is fodder for a future post.
The Gourds, Haymaker!, Yep Roc Records, 2009.
What can you say about the Gourds that hasn’t already been said? A string of Missoula appearances, an eternally upbeat take on country music, hillbilly-licious facial hair. They fit as well in Montana as they do in Texas, and their latest album will fit as well on your iPod as in your car stereo.
Country is typically a unique taste acquired through days breathing dust and nights swigging cans of Rainier. Haymaker!, an eleventh for the Gourds, takes the best of this jukebox staple sound for a 14-track round on the dance floor. It’s all honky-tonk and no tears, so you won’t run the risk of watering down your beer.
The Gourds don’t simply rattle off line-dance ditties. There’s some experimentation here, with an organ on “Luddite” and a strange series of electronic beeps and boops on “New Dues.” There’s some variety, too, from the vocal yodel of “Shreveport” to the vocal strain of “Blanket Show.”
As always, the Gourds are masters of the lyrical arts. Kevin Russell’s acoustic guitar has as much twang as ever, and Max Johnston holds the whole shebang together with that soul-slicing fiddle. The only danger with Haymaker! is that the Gourds aren’t playing the Union Club anytime soon, and you better believe you’ll want to dance.
Cheers.
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