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

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.

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.

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.

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 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.

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