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.