Filling the minutes between interviews can be a pain. "Not enough time for one of my typical 10,000 blog posts," I tell myself, "but too much time for a simple trip to Mr. Coffee or my stash of apples." The story, a freelance piece on the now-former 2009 Seeley Lake races, is not as fulfilling a journalistic endeavor as I apparently need this wonderful Friday.
So I turn to the words of William Kittredge and his essay "Doors to Our House." A little research for an essay of my own. I stumble on a passage not quite suited to my present needs but one that nonetheless stirs the musings of a time-killing mind.
"So, out in our West, artists are trying to run their eyes clear of mythic and legendary cobwebs, and see straight to the actual. But sometimes you have to wonder about that. As a friend of mine says, 'I ask for truth, and what do I get? Candor.'"
Friday, January 30, 2009
Monday, January 19, 2009
Who says journalists don't care?
Okay, so we're ambulance chasers by nature. Journalists have long had to live down the reputation of callous, nosey, unfeeling, unwashed, down-and-out drunkards. The whole government-pet thing is just the latest spin on an old tradition. And what have we done to deserve this? Yes, we hold notebooks under the noses of grieving widows. Yes, we snap pictures of blood-soaked crime scenes. Yes, we like to get a buzz on at the end of the day. But it's not like we do it for the pay, or job security. A few controversies surrounding one or two or three individuals shouldn't reflect on the industry as a whole. We're humans. And, occasionally, we choose to show it.
Case in point: splashed across today's international news was the murder of Russian human rights lawyer Stanislav Markelov in Moscow. Markelov, a pioneer for Chechen rights amidst ongoing hostilities between Chechnya and Russia, was shot in the back of the head after leaving a news conference less than a mile from the Kremlin. He was responsible for putting a Col. Yuri Budanov behind bars for killing a Chechen civilian nine years ago. Here's the rub. Also murdered was Anastasia Baburova, a freelance newspaper journalist in her mid 20s. Baburova attempted to interfere in the shooting on Markelov's behalf, only to have the gun turned on her. She died on the operating table. All this brings to mind the murder of Russian investigative journalist Anna Politkovskaya in 2006.
Now that I've expounded, Valkenberg is playing Sean Kelly's tonight at 10. Not sure what we're playing yet, but rest assured it'll be entertaining.
Case in point: splashed across today's international news was the murder of Russian human rights lawyer Stanislav Markelov in Moscow. Markelov, a pioneer for Chechen rights amidst ongoing hostilities between Chechnya and Russia, was shot in the back of the head after leaving a news conference less than a mile from the Kremlin. He was responsible for putting a Col. Yuri Budanov behind bars for killing a Chechen civilian nine years ago. Here's the rub. Also murdered was Anastasia Baburova, a freelance newspaper journalist in her mid 20s. Baburova attempted to interfere in the shooting on Markelov's behalf, only to have the gun turned on her. She died on the operating table. All this brings to mind the murder of Russian investigative journalist Anna Politkovskaya in 2006.
Now that I've expounded, Valkenberg is playing Sean Kelly's tonight at 10. Not sure what we're playing yet, but rest assured it'll be entertaining.
Sunday, January 18, 2009
The last few days have been something short of interesting. I've spent a good deal of time on JournalismJobs.com, getting together yet another wave of applications. The job market in print journalism is only growing more competitive as Lee Enterprises and Gannett continue their crusade against competent newsroom and business staff. I'd be lying if I said I weren't a little nervous about gainful employment, but I've stumbled on some promising positions. I just hope some editor likes the looks of my resume.
Silver lining time. I received a writer's agreement in the mail on Friday for a manuscript I mailed off in early November. Seems a certain Minnesota-based magazine wants to publish one of my travel stories in their upcoming summer issue. They're also purchasing two of my accompanying photos, an added bonus in my pursuit of a magazine writing career. I've always hoped to break into the magazine world, working my way there through weekly newspapers and freelance work. Maybe my efforts haven't been in vain.
Sean and I are gearing up for our second appearance as Valkenberg tomorrow night at Sean Kelly's. More original material, more covers. Hopefully we won't be playing such a late set this time. The bar cleared out before we took the stage last week. Pretty disheartening.
Finally managed a break from Missoula yesterday. Sean and I took our good friend John Cribb ice fishing on Seeley Lake for his 23rd birthday. Sean and John competed in the Pike on Ice tournament and I tagged along as chauffeur. I hadn't been ice fishing since my days with Boy Scout Troop Six in Bismarck, when we'd drive up to Bottineau on the Canadian border for long weekends. Those were cold afternoons, even with a warmed hut, and we always had a snowmobile for when the fishing was slow. Saturday proved to be a much different experience. A case of PBR, lawn chairs, a borrowed auger. Only John caught a fish, a gorgeous perch tempted by the smelt on his Disney Princess rod. The weather was sunny, temps around the high forties (it was -30 in North Dakota the same day). As anyone could predict, the day got a bit wild.
Silver lining time. I received a writer's agreement in the mail on Friday for a manuscript I mailed off in early November. Seems a certain Minnesota-based magazine wants to publish one of my travel stories in their upcoming summer issue. They're also purchasing two of my accompanying photos, an added bonus in my pursuit of a magazine writing career. I've always hoped to break into the magazine world, working my way there through weekly newspapers and freelance work. Maybe my efforts haven't been in vain.
Sean and I are gearing up for our second appearance as Valkenberg tomorrow night at Sean Kelly's. More original material, more covers. Hopefully we won't be playing such a late set this time. The bar cleared out before we took the stage last week. Pretty disheartening.
Finally managed a break from Missoula yesterday. Sean and I took our good friend John Cribb ice fishing on Seeley Lake for his 23rd birthday. Sean and John competed in the Pike on Ice tournament and I tagged along as chauffeur. I hadn't been ice fishing since my days with Boy Scout Troop Six in Bismarck, when we'd drive up to Bottineau on the Canadian border for long weekends. Those were cold afternoons, even with a warmed hut, and we always had a snowmobile for when the fishing was slow. Saturday proved to be a much different experience. A case of PBR, lawn chairs, a borrowed auger. Only John caught a fish, a gorgeous perch tempted by the smelt on his Disney Princess rod. The weather was sunny, temps around the high forties (it was -30 in North Dakota the same day). As anyone could predict, the day got a bit wild.
Tuesday, January 13, 2009
The Ragged Edge of the Universe
I guess now is as good a time as any to explain the origin of this blog's title. And, since I haven't yet received photos from last night's Valkenberg performance, it'll make a nice filler post until tomorrow.
Since high school, I've had a particular attachment to F. Scott Fitzgerald's "The Great Gatsby." The novel lies at the root of my passion for writing, as both an annually revisited source of inspiration and the catalyst for my pursuit of a career in journalism. My junior AP English teacher, Jennifer Montgomery, first approached me about my writing strengths after reading my analytical essay on "The Great Gatsby." The essay scored me Monte's attention as a sort of mentor and, after the dominoes fell, a position as co-editor of the Bismarck High School Hi-Herald my senior year (Monte was also the school's journalism adviser).
Now to address my emotional connection to Fitzgerald's masterpiece. I've always felt a close kinship with two characters in "The Great Gatsby." The first is the novel's title character, Jay Gatsby. A hopeless romantic, a nostalgia-prone loner in a sea of socialites. To be honest, I've often refused to "get over" past relationships in the hopes of creating a Daisy Buchanan of my own. But I probably share more in common with Peter Pan than Jay Gatsby, until you reach the turn in Gatsby's character. Gatsby is not Gatsby at all, but James Gatz. Born and raised in North Dakota, Gatz reinvented himself upon reaching adulthood, thinking to put his origins behind him. Though I've embraced the fact that I'm from North Dakota, I've often caught myself struggling for a similar reinvention. I recognize the same desire to become more in the world than my beginnings, to reach for a more glamorous future. Like Gatsby, I guess I wrestle with the shame of that desire on a daily basis.
The second and stronger kinship is Nick Carraway. The story's narrator and a fellow of Midwestern roots, Nick finds himself thrust into the unfamiliar surroundings of Eastern high society when he meets Gatsby. Nick cares too much, sees through too much of the foolishness around him to belong to the world Gatsby has planted himself in. An outsider, not sure if he really belongs anywhere, be it Yale or East Egg or the battlefields of WWI. And while I've grown attached to Missoula over the past four and a half years, I can't help feeling the same way. The town is great, the friends are fantastic, but do I really belong here? What, besides school, will be my lasting connection to this place? The parties, the pot, the "Keep Missoula Weird" bumper stickers remain foreign to a simple Midwesterner. Like Nick, I guess I'm the square peg trying to fit into the hippie hole. With every annual read I step into Nick Carraway's shoes without stepping out of my own, and it brings about moments of reflection.
So, the name of my blog. It stems from a quote by Nick Carraway, summing up his youthful adventures and seeking to explain the move east that lands him on Jay Gatsby's doorstep:
"... I came back restless. Instead of being the warm centre of the world, the Middle West now seemed like the ragged edge of the universe."
Since high school, I've had a particular attachment to F. Scott Fitzgerald's "The Great Gatsby." The novel lies at the root of my passion for writing, as both an annually revisited source of inspiration and the catalyst for my pursuit of a career in journalism. My junior AP English teacher, Jennifer Montgomery, first approached me about my writing strengths after reading my analytical essay on "The Great Gatsby." The essay scored me Monte's attention as a sort of mentor and, after the dominoes fell, a position as co-editor of the Bismarck High School Hi-Herald my senior year (Monte was also the school's journalism adviser).
Now to address my emotional connection to Fitzgerald's masterpiece. I've always felt a close kinship with two characters in "The Great Gatsby." The first is the novel's title character, Jay Gatsby. A hopeless romantic, a nostalgia-prone loner in a sea of socialites. To be honest, I've often refused to "get over" past relationships in the hopes of creating a Daisy Buchanan of my own. But I probably share more in common with Peter Pan than Jay Gatsby, until you reach the turn in Gatsby's character. Gatsby is not Gatsby at all, but James Gatz. Born and raised in North Dakota, Gatz reinvented himself upon reaching adulthood, thinking to put his origins behind him. Though I've embraced the fact that I'm from North Dakota, I've often caught myself struggling for a similar reinvention. I recognize the same desire to become more in the world than my beginnings, to reach for a more glamorous future. Like Gatsby, I guess I wrestle with the shame of that desire on a daily basis.
The second and stronger kinship is Nick Carraway. The story's narrator and a fellow of Midwestern roots, Nick finds himself thrust into the unfamiliar surroundings of Eastern high society when he meets Gatsby. Nick cares too much, sees through too much of the foolishness around him to belong to the world Gatsby has planted himself in. An outsider, not sure if he really belongs anywhere, be it Yale or East Egg or the battlefields of WWI. And while I've grown attached to Missoula over the past four and a half years, I can't help feeling the same way. The town is great, the friends are fantastic, but do I really belong here? What, besides school, will be my lasting connection to this place? The parties, the pot, the "Keep Missoula Weird" bumper stickers remain foreign to a simple Midwesterner. Like Nick, I guess I'm the square peg trying to fit into the hippie hole. With every annual read I step into Nick Carraway's shoes without stepping out of my own, and it brings about moments of reflection.
So, the name of my blog. It stems from a quote by Nick Carraway, summing up his youthful adventures and seeking to explain the move east that lands him on Jay Gatsby's doorstep:
"... I came back restless. Instead of being the warm centre of the world, the Middle West now seemed like the ragged edge of the universe."
Monday, January 12, 2009
At the insistence of one Bill Oram, here's the latest:
My search continues for something to justify my existence in Missoula. Lately, I've been passing the time forming a tw0-man band with close friend and former boss Sean Breslin. After casting about for different journalism-themed names ("N Dash" and "Topic Lede" were personal favorites), we settled on what Sean calls the "intentionally misspelled" title Valkenberg. Past and present students of the University of Montana's School of Journalism will recognize the name as that of print chair Carol van Valkenburg and her husband Fred, the Missoula County Attorney. The misspelling is a joke at the expense of crime reporter Mike Gerrity, a child who not only substituted an "e" for the "u" in Valkenburg in a news story but also managed to misspell his own name. We can only hope to excuse it as a mental disorder.
Valkenberg's first appearance is tonight at Sean Kelly's. The set list includes several covers as well as two original pieces by Sean and one original piece by yours truly. We take the stage at 12:40 a.m. because I'm an idiot and failed to reserve an open mic slot before all others were taken.
"That's all well and good," you tell yourself, "but what does any of this have to do with me?" Well, dear readers, the answer is nothing. I've neglected the Ragged Edge of the Universe for the sole reason that I've had little to nothing of interest to write. The blogosphere is a bit too narcissistic for this humble, down-home NoDaker, but I'm doing my best to improve.
On that note, here's a taste of what I do on a fairly regular basis: freelance music reviews for the Missoula Independent, an alternative weekly here in town. This review won't be appearing in print as I'm an idiot (see also previous paragraph) and reviewed an album that had already been reviewed without realizing it. Hopefully by posting here I'll turn a waste of time into something moderately worth while. My freelance work is by no means limited to music reviews, nor to the Missoula Independent. But perhaps my freelance career (journalese for "unemployment") is fodder for a future post.
The Gourds, Haymaker!, Yep Roc Records, 2009.
Cheers.
My search continues for something to justify my existence in Missoula. Lately, I've been passing the time forming a tw0-man band with close friend and former boss Sean Breslin. After casting about for different journalism-themed names ("N Dash" and "Topic Lede" were personal favorites), we settled on what Sean calls the "intentionally misspelled" title Valkenberg. Past and present students of the University of Montana's School of Journalism will recognize the name as that of print chair Carol van Valkenburg and her husband Fred, the Missoula County Attorney. The misspelling is a joke at the expense of crime reporter Mike Gerrity, a child who not only substituted an "e" for the "u" in Valkenburg in a news story but also managed to misspell his own name. We can only hope to excuse it as a mental disorder.
Valkenberg's first appearance is tonight at Sean Kelly's. The set list includes several covers as well as two original pieces by Sean and one original piece by yours truly. We take the stage at 12:40 a.m. because I'm an idiot and failed to reserve an open mic slot before all others were taken.
"That's all well and good," you tell yourself, "but what does any of this have to do with me?" Well, dear readers, the answer is nothing. I've neglected the Ragged Edge of the Universe for the sole reason that I've had little to nothing of interest to write. The blogosphere is a bit too narcissistic for this humble, down-home NoDaker, but I'm doing my best to improve.
On that note, here's a taste of what I do on a fairly regular basis: freelance music reviews for the Missoula Independent, an alternative weekly here in town. This review won't be appearing in print as I'm an idiot (see also previous paragraph) and reviewed an album that had already been reviewed without realizing it. Hopefully by posting here I'll turn a waste of time into something moderately worth while. My freelance work is by no means limited to music reviews, nor to the Missoula Independent. But perhaps my freelance career (journalese for "unemployment") is fodder for a future post.
The Gourds, Haymaker!, Yep Roc Records, 2009.
What can you say about the Gourds that hasn’t already been said? A string of Missoula appearances, an eternally upbeat take on country music, hillbilly-licious facial hair. They fit as well in Montana as they do in Texas, and their latest album will fit as well on your iPod as in your car stereo.
Country is typically a unique taste acquired through days breathing dust and nights swigging cans of Rainier. Haymaker!, an eleventh for the Gourds, takes the best of this jukebox staple sound for a 14-track round on the dance floor. It’s all honky-tonk and no tears, so you won’t run the risk of watering down your beer.
The Gourds don’t simply rattle off line-dance ditties. There’s some experimentation here, with an organ on “Luddite” and a strange series of electronic beeps and boops on “New Dues.” There’s some variety, too, from the vocal yodel of “Shreveport” to the vocal strain of “Blanket Show.”
As always, the Gourds are masters of the lyrical arts. Kevin Russell’s acoustic guitar has as much twang as ever, and Max Johnston holds the whole shebang together with that soul-slicing fiddle. The only danger with Haymaker! is that the Gourds aren’t playing the Union Club anytime soon, and you better believe you’ll want to dance.
Cheers.
Sunday, December 28, 2008
I'm not a skier, but I play one on TV
North Dakota has officially broken a standing record for most snowfall in one month. We're currently working to tame roughly 30 inches of snow on roads and in yards, and that kind of accumulation means one thing: powder day on the prairie. It doesn't happen often (I haven't skied powder in North Dakota since middle school), but here it is.
For anyone not subjected in person to my endless childhood ski stories, Huff Hills Ski Resort is a modest mom-and-pop joint nestled in the Missouri River bluffs south of Bismarck/Mandan. The Beck family opened Huff 15 years ago this year, an anniversary they'll celebrate with a torchlight ceremony this Wednesday night. The resort, consisting of two double chairlifts and a three-story chalet, was built on the site of the former Twilight Hills. Several decades before, a group of doctors and other well-to-do folk in Bismarck opened Twilight Hills to feed their need for skiing. Unfortunately, their concept of mountain management was to ski often and work seldom. The place folded as the ski boom of the '60s subsided.
Conditions have varied drastically over the years. Jim, the grizzled Beck paterfamilias, has perfected the art of snowmaking out of desperation, using an armada of second-hand snow guns and groomers from Red Lodge, Montana. The teen snowboarding craze that swept the rural west in the late '90s kept Huff from going under, though a fair few skiers of talent have crept out of the rafters lately. Die-hards like Dad, my sister Em and me established a friendly repoire with the mountain management, eventually joining the National Ski Patrol to volunteer our services a few days a season. Giving lessons, putting up tower pads, patching up the occasional tweaked wrist or broken collarbone. Another of Dad's former students, my friend David, fell short of joining the NSP but has followed the skiing bug to Colorado College. I won't rail on him too hard here for dipping his toe in the telemark pool.
With low annual snowfall the past seven years or so, business at Huff has been in decline. But this season has breathed new life into the place. I trucked out to patrol a third day today before heading back to Missoula, and the place was packed. Over 500 day-pass holders alone, not to mention the scores of high school snowboarders with season passes. Surprisingly, there wasn't a single injury on the hill. Just kids, parents and grandparents out for a good time in the snow. Temps stayed around 30, with sunshine and low winds. For the first time since I was 13, I stood in a North Dakota lift line for more than five minutes. Jim summed up his opinion of the day by smiling past his tobacco pipe and telling me, "I'm tired."
For anyone not subjected in person to my endless childhood ski stories, Huff Hills Ski Resort is a modest mom-and-pop joint nestled in the Missouri River bluffs south of Bismarck/Mandan. The Beck family opened Huff 15 years ago this year, an anniversary they'll celebrate with a torchlight ceremony this Wednesday night. The resort, consisting of two double chairlifts and a three-story chalet, was built on the site of the former Twilight Hills. Several decades before, a group of doctors and other well-to-do folk in Bismarck opened Twilight Hills to feed their need for skiing. Unfortunately, their concept of mountain management was to ski often and work seldom. The place folded as the ski boom of the '60s subsided.
Conditions have varied drastically over the years. Jim, the grizzled Beck paterfamilias, has perfected the art of snowmaking out of desperation, using an armada of second-hand snow guns and groomers from Red Lodge, Montana. The teen snowboarding craze that swept the rural west in the late '90s kept Huff from going under, though a fair few skiers of talent have crept out of the rafters lately. Die-hards like Dad, my sister Em and me established a friendly repoire with the mountain management, eventually joining the National Ski Patrol to volunteer our services a few days a season. Giving lessons, putting up tower pads, patching up the occasional tweaked wrist or broken collarbone. Another of Dad's former students, my friend David, fell short of joining the NSP but has followed the skiing bug to Colorado College. I won't rail on him too hard here for dipping his toe in the telemark pool.
With low annual snowfall the past seven years or so, business at Huff has been in decline. But this season has breathed new life into the place. I trucked out to patrol a third day today before heading back to Missoula, and the place was packed. Over 500 day-pass holders alone, not to mention the scores of high school snowboarders with season passes. Surprisingly, there wasn't a single injury on the hill. Just kids, parents and grandparents out for a good time in the snow. Temps stayed around 30, with sunshine and low winds. For the first time since I was 13, I stood in a North Dakota lift line for more than five minutes. Jim summed up his opinion of the day by smiling past his tobacco pipe and telling me, "I'm tired."
Saturday, December 27, 2008
In the words of Bing Crosby...
As we all know, winter storms over the past two weeks have draped large swaths of North America in a nice white Christmas blanket. High winds, subzero temps, relentless snowfall. It's been a long time coming. Only a month ago I was complaining over pints of Cold Smoke that Snowbird and Alta were receiving unfair powder conditions while Whitefish, Lost Trail and any other ski resort in my backyard couldn't even turn on snow guns. Even a week ago, the coverage at Montana Snowbowl proved pathetic, reminiscent of my first season skiing there in 04/05 (northwestern Montana received roughly 50 percent of average snowfall that season, according to the National Climate Data Center). The inch-long coreshot on the base of my left Rossignol Bandit is testament to the fact.No more. The latest cadre of severe weather systems are hellbent on making up for the late start to winter. North Dakota has seen higher snow accumulation this December than all of last year. Friends flying through MSP International Airport, O'Hare and Denver walked into bars over the holiday with stories of delays, re-routings or full-on cancellations. Ian described watching airport personnel dole out billet pads to stranded passengers when nearby hotels reached capacity. Four days ago the National Weather Service said Bismarck was on its way to breaking a 1916 snowfall record of 21.7 inches for December. At that time, accumulation in town had hit 19 inches. We've received at least six inches since. Daytime temps have remained in the single digits, with occasional windchills around -10 to -15.
So, the personal impact: I spent Wednesday and Friday this week on National Ski Patrol duty at Huff Hills Ski Resort, south of Bismarck/Mandan. Dug out equipment, ran tobaggans, etc. I shoveled the driveway and sidewalks twice, with a reprieve this morning when my elementary school P.E. teacher Kurt came by with his snowblower. I rediscovered the dangers of digging out window wells while helping Dad roof-rake the house (always make sure you announce your presence in a window well unless you want to suffocate in a prairie avalanche). I cleared paths to the woodpile, to the driver's side door of my car, and in the backyard. The latter proved necessary for our aged border collie, Freckles, to make it to the bathroom. And I high-centered my Subaru Sport on a berm outside the coffee shop, resulting in more digging and the drafting of three hefty passersby to push. Not since 1996, when I crafted a series of tunnels through the drifts in my front yard, have we had anywhere near this much snow. More to follow, but for now some pictures.
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