Spent 15 minutes of my lunchbreak today dry-humping a heater in a cafe bathroom after spilling a mocha all over my lap. Still looks like a wet myself. Damn do I hate fancy mugs with tiny handles.
That said, I've decided the world should drink from nothing but sippy cups from now on. This would solve a number of common problems, like wine spills on expensive rugs and gnats magically appearing on the surface of your beer. Of course, it would come with a host of problems as well. Shots would lose their badassedness. You'd likely mix up someone's orange juice with your PBR. Everything would taste like plastic. Plus, we'd all look like a bunch of 5-year-olds.
Interesting that this should happen today. I just completed the two busiest weeks of work since landing a reporting gig at this weekly. Back-to-back features, plus all the extras that come from operating a newspaper with only three news writers. I was looking forward to a little calm, a little monotony. Now all I can think about is the chocolate stain on my thigh that looks vaguely like the Virgin Mary. Or Rumpelstiltskin. Jury's still out on the likeness until it dries fully.
I can't wait to get home and play Super Mario for a few hours. My brain needs an effing break.
Thursday, January 28, 2010
Sunday, January 10, 2010
Spintering at the grindstone
I'm currently wading through three-plus hours of interviews from the past few days, transcribing the good bits and trying to ignore the points when my recorder decided to be a flaky douche. Two features coming up, the first due on Thursday. Struggling to find a way to keep my sanity intact, one that doesn't involve liver damage or Super Mario on Wii.
On the upside, I dropped in to visit some family friends in Choteau. Got the skinny on a few childhood friends, one of whom just started grad school in St. Paul. She's finding it too difficult to balance her treasured job at an independent pizza place, but she's finding urban planning an amazing avenue of advanced study. And at this point in time, it's a field much in need of new blood.
Realizing that I don't actually have much of interest to say, I'll default to some big Missoula news. I wrote a few weeks back about Smurfit-Stone Container Corp.'s shuttering of the Frenchtown mill. Operations were extended through last Thursday, but the plume is gone and so now are the jobs. The plant is in the midst of "mothballing," as the corporate office says. If that news wasn't bad enough, 55 more jobs will disappear March 10 when Macy's abandons Missoula. It's a bit of news made doubly troubling when one considers the department store's importance in the city's up-and-coming Downtown Master Plan, a bit of business planning that's been in the works for two years. Crandall Arambula, a Portland-based consultant working on the project, called Macy's a "downtown anchor." The idea is that Macy's sucks shoppers from Southgate Mall and Reserve Street, offering a national chain experience and an open door to smaller, locally-owned shopping options. Without it, the city and the consultants are at a loss. See the editorial Jessica and I wrote here.
In a week dominated by closures, Brady's Sportsmen's Surplus also announced it's tagging out. The owner has been a business owner in Missoula for decades, and says he's just looking to retire. No recession issues, apparently. Not like Moose Creek Mercantile, another downtown shop that said Friday that it's folding. Looks like those economists who said we're out of the thick of it spoke too soon, and the recession is finally rearing its ugly head in Missoula beyond the world of real estate and timber.
Too heavy? Too depressing? Well, Bret and I beat the last level of Super Mario this afternoon. I'd planned to hit the slopes on those new Rossignol 80ti Classics I got for Christmas, but spending all day yesterday on the job wiped me out. I'll be in Red Lodge soon anyway (next weekend), and I'll use that as the kick-off for my "ski at least one day a month" plan for 2010. Shouldn't be too hard. If you want to know the secret, track down a copy of the winter edition of Montana Headwall. I suggest you read the piece by Alex Sakariassen. I hear tell it's pretty good.
On the upside, I dropped in to visit some family friends in Choteau. Got the skinny on a few childhood friends, one of whom just started grad school in St. Paul. She's finding it too difficult to balance her treasured job at an independent pizza place, but she's finding urban planning an amazing avenue of advanced study. And at this point in time, it's a field much in need of new blood.
Realizing that I don't actually have much of interest to say, I'll default to some big Missoula news. I wrote a few weeks back about Smurfit-Stone Container Corp.'s shuttering of the Frenchtown mill. Operations were extended through last Thursday, but the plume is gone and so now are the jobs. The plant is in the midst of "mothballing," as the corporate office says. If that news wasn't bad enough, 55 more jobs will disappear March 10 when Macy's abandons Missoula. It's a bit of news made doubly troubling when one considers the department store's importance in the city's up-and-coming Downtown Master Plan, a bit of business planning that's been in the works for two years. Crandall Arambula, a Portland-based consultant working on the project, called Macy's a "downtown anchor." The idea is that Macy's sucks shoppers from Southgate Mall and Reserve Street, offering a national chain experience and an open door to smaller, locally-owned shopping options. Without it, the city and the consultants are at a loss. See the editorial Jessica and I wrote here.
In a week dominated by closures, Brady's Sportsmen's Surplus also announced it's tagging out. The owner has been a business owner in Missoula for decades, and says he's just looking to retire. No recession issues, apparently. Not like Moose Creek Mercantile, another downtown shop that said Friday that it's folding. Looks like those economists who said we're out of the thick of it spoke too soon, and the recession is finally rearing its ugly head in Missoula beyond the world of real estate and timber.
Too heavy? Too depressing? Well, Bret and I beat the last level of Super Mario this afternoon. I'd planned to hit the slopes on those new Rossignol 80ti Classics I got for Christmas, but spending all day yesterday on the job wiped me out. I'll be in Red Lodge soon anyway (next weekend), and I'll use that as the kick-off for my "ski at least one day a month" plan for 2010. Shouldn't be too hard. If you want to know the secret, track down a copy of the winter edition of Montana Headwall. I suggest you read the piece by Alex Sakariassen. I hear tell it's pretty good.
Sunday, January 3, 2010
The unbeatable bits of Missoula
Last night started like any other, I guess: A house party on the upscale western fringes of town, with Kyle and a host of folks I really didn't know. The event was part holiday office fest, part going away shindig for Kyle's old high school buddy Zack, now a Seattle-ite and one of the chiller Missoula natives I've met in recent years. Lots of Deschutes beer, a tilted pool table and several rounds of fiercely competitive foosball. Regardless of the presence of a few stunningly attractive local grad students, Zack pressed Kyle to hit the town for his last night of the holiday. So I drove the three of us to Charlie B's around midnight, under the assumption that we'd burn out relatively fast.
At some point after 1 a.m., Zack broke from our conversation on the varied and more successful ways to meet women to ask where we were headed next. Bit of an odd time to throw the idea of barhopping on the table. Last call does come early in these parts, usually a good twenty minute before the bars actually close at 2 a.m. But who am I to argue with the prospect of a drink, especially when a new friend insists on picking up the tab.
We found ourselves at the Top Hat just in time for last call. I took slow pulls off a bottle of MGD while watching an extremely talented line of musicians rollick through the sounds of old Appalachia. Curiously enough, the fiddler, Hillary, so happened to be an old college acquaintance of mine and a high school familiar for both Zack and Kyle. The performance wound to a quick close. But before I could get the words "Pillow, here I come" out of my mouth, Zack came back from the bar with an interesting pitch. His friend Ben knew the house in the lower Rattlesnake to which the band's entourage was heading for a post-show bash. More importantly, the three of us were invited.
Less than an hour later, I'm funk-dancing to Fat Freddy's Drop in a two-car garage packed with woodworking equipment. The mandolin player, who I'll just call Freaky Frets, moondanced through piles of sawdust, sidestepping belt sanders and automatic drills in a drug-and-Scapegoat-induced trance. My body conveniently forgot its previous state of exhaustion in the interests of grooving sprinkler-style. By the time I settled into a spot in the living room, I highly doubted the night could get much better.
That's when the guitars came out. Not just two acoustic guitars, but two acoustic guitars and a lap steel. The mandolin appeared in new hands, as did a banjo, flute and stand-up bass. Before anyone could shout out a request, the band was in tune and off on round two. Every song dripped with whiskey and woe, mournful fiddle and lighting-fast flute. In no time, a grizzled ginger with a thick beard and a fedora had scrounged a washboard from the garage. One of the house tenants picked up a snare drum. When the scene wrapped up around 4:30, I was begging for more.
We dropped some drunk dude off on the far end of the Higgins bridge, gave our new pal Roan a ride home, and popped "Superbad" into the DVD player the minute we got in the door. I could hardly stand and, hoping not to doom Sunday too soon, hit the sheets.
And that's how this town works, I guess. The job gets you down sometimes, socialization can be a drag, and you never know when shit will hit the fan. But there's always a bluegrass jam session somewhere, as long as you're looking in the right places.
Just too fucking bad I forgot my camera.
At some point after 1 a.m., Zack broke from our conversation on the varied and more successful ways to meet women to ask where we were headed next. Bit of an odd time to throw the idea of barhopping on the table. Last call does come early in these parts, usually a good twenty minute before the bars actually close at 2 a.m. But who am I to argue with the prospect of a drink, especially when a new friend insists on picking up the tab.
We found ourselves at the Top Hat just in time for last call. I took slow pulls off a bottle of MGD while watching an extremely talented line of musicians rollick through the sounds of old Appalachia. Curiously enough, the fiddler, Hillary, so happened to be an old college acquaintance of mine and a high school familiar for both Zack and Kyle. The performance wound to a quick close. But before I could get the words "Pillow, here I come" out of my mouth, Zack came back from the bar with an interesting pitch. His friend Ben knew the house in the lower Rattlesnake to which the band's entourage was heading for a post-show bash. More importantly, the three of us were invited.
Less than an hour later, I'm funk-dancing to Fat Freddy's Drop in a two-car garage packed with woodworking equipment. The mandolin player, who I'll just call Freaky Frets, moondanced through piles of sawdust, sidestepping belt sanders and automatic drills in a drug-and-Scapegoat-induced trance. My body conveniently forgot its previous state of exhaustion in the interests of grooving sprinkler-style. By the time I settled into a spot in the living room, I highly doubted the night could get much better.
That's when the guitars came out. Not just two acoustic guitars, but two acoustic guitars and a lap steel. The mandolin appeared in new hands, as did a banjo, flute and stand-up bass. Before anyone could shout out a request, the band was in tune and off on round two. Every song dripped with whiskey and woe, mournful fiddle and lighting-fast flute. In no time, a grizzled ginger with a thick beard and a fedora had scrounged a washboard from the garage. One of the house tenants picked up a snare drum. When the scene wrapped up around 4:30, I was begging for more.
We dropped some drunk dude off on the far end of the Higgins bridge, gave our new pal Roan a ride home, and popped "Superbad" into the DVD player the minute we got in the door. I could hardly stand and, hoping not to doom Sunday too soon, hit the sheets.
And that's how this town works, I guess. The job gets you down sometimes, socialization can be a drag, and you never know when shit will hit the fan. But there's always a bluegrass jam session somewhere, as long as you're looking in the right places.
Just too fucking bad I forgot my camera.
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