The Ragged Edge has moved, in hopes I'll start actually using it. Follow future musings here.
Alex
Wednesday, June 15, 2011
Tuesday, February 16, 2010
Conservatism redux
Several months ago—October, to be exact—I wrote a well-received piece on a fledgling citizen group in the Bitterroot Valley called Celebrating Conservatism. The story examined the characters and motives behind the group, and called on politicians from both sides of the aisle to question what exactly was going on. Most admitted that yes, CC appeared to be in line with Patriot movement thinking, that shadowy splinter of controversy nuts and Constitution Party supporters often associated with the militia movement of the 1990s.
Since the article ran, I've chased down follow-up after follow-up and kept close tabs on who CC has hosted as speakers each month. I've also kept up on sister groups like Missoula's Conservative Patriots and Ronan's Calling All Conservatives, as well as a tougher-to-track group up in Kalispell. In recent weeks, two members of CC have separately filed constitutional initiatives for the 2010 ballot—the first to allow citizen-convened grand juries and the second to reintroduce Montana's geographic borders into the state Constitution. Both authors cited county- and state-sovereignty concerns, mainstay sentiments of popular far-right speaker and former Arizona sheriff Richard Mack.
Now the issue has officially gone national. At least, it's gone to the national press. New York Times reporter David Barstow wrote a particularly well-reported and lengthy piece on a group in nearby Sandpoint, Idaho, in today's edition. Lee Banville at the Christian Science Monitor's Patchwork Nation blog also tackled the topic this week, focusing on the group in Ronan. The cross-over of Tea Party folk and far-right Patriot thinkers is growing. What concerns that should generate, I don't know. The Tea Party supporters marched in Hamilton on President's Day, albeit in smaller numbers than their march last year. Dollars to donuts some of those faces are the very same ones I glimpsed in October at a CC meeting in Hamilton. The varied appendages of the far right seem to be merging on many common-ground issues. Hopefully the less savory characteristics of some aren't adopted by the others.
Since the article ran, I've chased down follow-up after follow-up and kept close tabs on who CC has hosted as speakers each month. I've also kept up on sister groups like Missoula's Conservative Patriots and Ronan's Calling All Conservatives, as well as a tougher-to-track group up in Kalispell. In recent weeks, two members of CC have separately filed constitutional initiatives for the 2010 ballot—the first to allow citizen-convened grand juries and the second to reintroduce Montana's geographic borders into the state Constitution. Both authors cited county- and state-sovereignty concerns, mainstay sentiments of popular far-right speaker and former Arizona sheriff Richard Mack.
Now the issue has officially gone national. At least, it's gone to the national press. New York Times reporter David Barstow wrote a particularly well-reported and lengthy piece on a group in nearby Sandpoint, Idaho, in today's edition. Lee Banville at the Christian Science Monitor's Patchwork Nation blog also tackled the topic this week, focusing on the group in Ronan. The cross-over of Tea Party folk and far-right Patriot thinkers is growing. What concerns that should generate, I don't know. The Tea Party supporters marched in Hamilton on President's Day, albeit in smaller numbers than their march last year. Dollars to donuts some of those faces are the very same ones I glimpsed in October at a CC meeting in Hamilton. The varied appendages of the far right seem to be merging on many common-ground issues. Hopefully the less savory characteristics of some aren't adopted by the others.
Thursday, January 28, 2010
Cafes suck
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.
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.
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.
Saturday, December 19, 2009
Smurfit-Stone, continued
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.
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.
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.
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