Memory (and not just Frey's) is a Funny Little Thing

I watched Oprah's CYA episode with James Frey, where she retracted her support of his book, " A Million Little Pieces" and confronted him about misrepresenting the story as factual. Good for her.

He looked like he just couldn't wait for the show to just end, and it was interesting watching his fluttery editor try to justify her role. She actually defended the memoir as being based solely on his memory of events and therefore not requiring fact-checking that would normally accompany a work of nonfiction. This rationalization seemed especially thin when James weakly admitted he "thinks" he had two root canals without anesthesia. Laughably pathetic.

However, there is something to be said about the quirkiness of memory. This was illustrated to me less than a month ago when my mom, brother and I recently discussed. the death of our family dog which took place more than ten years ago. It was surprising to realize that we all had very different recollections of the event. We each had found a moment that had stood out in our minds, and let other details fade into nonexistence.

The fact was this: Max, an 11 year-old golden retriever, died peacefully at the foot of the staircase in the entryway of my parents home.

What stood out for my Mom was that he didn't follow her up the stairs as he usually did, and the next time she came downstairs, he was dead. She insisted that she was home alone at the time.

My brother remembers being the first to find him, and being the one who took him outside and burying him on our property. He didn't recall me or my Dad being in the house.

I remember Shawn finding the dog and that both of my parents were upstairs, while I was in the kitchen. I was struck by how touching it was that Max died peacefully in the center of the house while we were all present, caught up in our own routines. Neither my brother or I lived there, but we would sometimes show up there to fix a quick lunch before heading back to work. My Dad was never home at that time, but on this particular day, we all happened to be in the house. My Dad is no longer here to share his version, and we will probably never fully agree on what actually happened that day.
Over time, perspective altered the facts in our minds.

Frey's editor couldn't possibly excuse this book as merely his perspective of events. He made up fantastical lies to create a more compelling story and he never anticipated he would have to make the distinction between fact and fiction.

The irony of it all is that the book was so resonant and popular because it subscribed to the notion that truth is indeed stranger than fiction. Reading it as fiction, it seems riddled with too many plot cliches and unrealistic events. But it was those same outrageous events and cliches that clicked with so many people because they were allegedly real.

A Million Little Lawsuits

It should be no surprise that the scandal du jour (Oprah get's duped by a lyin' addict!) results in a flurry of lawsuits from wronged citizens all looking for a piece of a punitive damages pie.

A couple of Seattleites hopped on the bandwagon by suing James Frey, the author of the not-so-autobiographical "A Million Little Pieces," a book that probably wouldn't have gained the sales and acclaim it did if not for Oprah. He also probably wouldn't have been caught publishing "a million little lies" about his redemption from a life of drugs and crime:

Read the Smoking Gun's Expose on Frey's Million Little Lies:


Read the lawsuit story in today's Seattle Times:

Annoying? A little (Enough With the Title Case Already, Mr. Frey). Worth millions for pain and suffering reading a memoir that turned out to be fiction? Please! What are we talking about here? Finnegan's Wake, it ain't!

SO... Frey and Random House are being sued for a litany of crimes against humanity, including breach of contract, negligent misrepresentation, intentional misrepresentation, violation of the Washington Consumer Protection Act and, my personal favorite, unjust enrichment.

Got me thinking there's a lot of other people who deserve to be sued.

Sue the plaintiffs and lawyers who clog our courts with stupid lawsuits such as this.

Sue the judges who don't throw these lawsuits out, therefore encouraging more of them.

While we're in a litigious mood, why don't we...

Sue Fox "News" for failure to provide unbiased and balanced news coverage. They are a true crime against humanity.

Sue Steven Spielberg for ruining the Stars Wars franchise with Jar Jar Binks.

Sue Tim Eyman for breathing. (He REALLY SHOULD should be sued for his stupid, ill-concieved, state-fund-bankrupting initiatives. Why can't he just GO AWAY?!!??!)

Sue the dumbass who ran out of gas on I-5, causing rubberneckers to create the traffic jam that made me 20 minutes late for work.

Sue the rubberneckers.

Hell, sue everyone with a driver's license-who hasn't rubbernecked?

Go ahead and sue me. I'll countersue and we'll see who lasts the longest!

The best little ski bar EVER.

The Last Run Inn at Snowbowl Montana:
http://www.missoulian.com/articles/2006/01/20/entertainer/ent01.txt

Still crazy after all these years - Snowbowl's Last Run Inn is a drinking skier's paradise on the slopes
by JOE NICKELL of the Missoulian

As Nancy Grenager exited the Last Run Inn at Snowbowl ski area on a recent afternoon, she turned to her husband and chuckled. “That place hasn't changed in 30 years,” she said.
“It's funny,” she added. “In the '70s it was just one big crazy party scene, and it still is. ... The ambience is nicer, but it is that same party scene.”
In a sense, Grenager is absolutely right. For decades, the Last Run Inn has remained the happening place to be in the Missoula area when the snow is flying. There's surely no bar in the area that's busier on a Wednesday or Thursday afternoon; and more often than not, the crowds linger long after the ski lifts close.

But plenty has changed at the bar over the years, as well. The Last Run Inn transformed dramatically as a physical space in 2000, when owners Brad and Ronnie Morris renovated the old, rundown building into a sparklingly modern bar and restaurant. Capacity at the place more than doubled, from 70 to 145.
Yet, from the first day the new building opened, the Last Run Inn has remained as it always was: packed, buzzing, and occasionally pretty zany.
“This is one of the best places I know to just hang out with friends and talk to people,” said Susan Molaris as she sat sipping beer with a group of fellow students in a Friday afternoon telemarking class.
Molaris says she's been visiting the Last Run Inn for 20 years, and has even developed a tradition of bringing a birthday cake for herself every January, to share with other patrons. She once brought a group of African dancers and drummers to the bar to help her celebrate her birthday.
“You can be a regular here without having to worry about the connotation that you're hanging out in bars all the time,” says Molaris. “It's all about skiing.”

It wasn't always all about the skiing. Longtime Missoulians can well remember crazy times from the distant past at the bar.

There was, for example, a group known as the “Upper Clark Fork and Vagabond Seal Hunting Society,” which for years took part in a dubious tradition: When the then-free-flowing headwaters of Butler Creek swelled during spring runoff, the group would launch a wooden rowboat - stored at the hill for this reason only - and see how far they could float. Usually, they wouldn't make it past the parking area. But no matter; it was the effort - and the abject foolishness - that counted.

Then there was the time, years back, when someone drunkenly drove a Volkswagen through the front wall of the Last Run Inn.“We don't have that kind of thing happen anymore, thankfully,” said Ronnie Morris, laughing.

And let us not forget the bar games, which are as legendary as they are unique to the hideaway spot on the edge of the Rattlesnake Wilderness: butt-hole golf (not as disgusting as it sounds), leg wrestling (pretty much like it sounds), pressed snail (far worse than it sounds), best leg contests, and so on.
Some of those traditions have since gone the way of cotton long underwear. But occasional bouts of leg wrestling still break out; and come the Gelande Championship weekend or another of the many special events that take place during the season at the hill, anything can happen, as the crowds swell and spill onto the spacious outer deck.

For proof that some things remain the same, look no farther than the gelande helmet that dangles from a hook over the bar. It's been there for years, and is still occasionally used for its original purpose - and it's not for skiing protection.

“People climb up on the bar, hang from the helmet, and spin,” explains Garland Davis, manager of the Last Run Inn. “It can be rather disorienting. It's great.”

When the ski lifts close, things really start to hop at the Inn. By 4:30 p.m., the place is inevitably packed, with smiling, steaming skiers stacked 10 or 15 deep at the bar. The drink line moves at a glacial pace, but nobody seems to really care. Beer moves by the pitcher, pizzas by the whole pie, cocktails come double-fisted. Sipping and munching patrons linger around the hearth, where a warm fire crackles, or crowd tables in the vaulted dining room, where the bluing light of dusk streaming through the tall windows contrasts with the festive mood of the revelers.

A 50-something guy with a handlebar mustache hobbles past in his ancient, battered ski boots, bumping shoulders with a college-age dude wearing the latest North Face ski coat.
“Sorry, buddy,” the kid says, patting the older man on the arm.
“No sweat,” the man replies.

Personal space is virtually nonexistent in the Last Run Inn, even now that the place has more than doubled in size. Part of that is due to the fact that people tend to take up extra seats and table space with tossed-off jackets, hats and gloves.

Still, part is due to the fact that the Inn is simply full to capacity, day in and day out, throughout the winter.

The crowding gives the Inn a natural feeling of camaraderie and looseness. Tack on the fact that many of the patrons know each other from years schussing the hill together, and an afternoon at the Last Run Inn can feel more like a family reunion.
“At other ski hills, sometimes it's all families or all tourists, and you would never just go up and talk to people,” says patron Katie George. “Here, it just feels like it's easy to meet people - if you don't already know them.”

Maybe that has something to do with the fact that it's all but impossible to act haughty when you're bundled up like an overstuffed Beanie Baby, walking around in boots that were definitely not designed with an elegant gait in mind. Even the non-drinkers look drunk as they plod through the bar, knees slightly bent, feet heavy, each step rolling hard from heel to toe.

For the outsider - and especially the non-drinking outsider - the place can feel a bit cliquish. People generally don't ski alone, and thus they rarely drink or dine alone at the bar. The scene can be surprisingly intimidating for the loner new to the area. That's true at most every bar, though, and in this case, it merely serves as a reminder to bring friends next time.

“It's kind of like a skiing country club,” asserts Ronnie Morris. “It's so heavily used by pass-holders and people who have skied here for years, (that) when you walk into the bar everybody knows everybody, and you can sit down and have a drink with them. You don't feel really pressed to move on.”

While drinking has long dominated the agenda for the apres-ski crowd, the Last Run Inn has in recent years come to be appreciated as much for its food as for its justly legendary Garland's Sheer Hell Bloody Marys. The transformation of the Inn's menu came about with the building's expansion, thanks to the installation of a more complete prep kitchen and a wood-fired brick oven.

It also has a lot to do with the efforts of bar manager Davis, a 21-year veteran of the Snowbowl crew.
“When I first came here, this place was totally a dive,” recalls Davis. “It needed a lot of work. I came on and just hung with the evolution.”

Nowadays, it's not unusual to find menu specials such as wild Alaskan salmon, baked penne pasta, or lamb gyros listed on the board. The standard menu centers around familiar foods - pizza, chili, and salads, but includes some oddball items as well, such as a pound of Little Smokies served with a raspberry-jalapeno dipping sauce.

Given that the patrons are essentially a captive audience, prices at the Last Run Inn are quite affordable. A whole pizza with two toppings costs less than $10; specials and dinner-sized salads are generally in the $6 range; a slice of meat or veggie pizza costs $2.50.
“We try to keep our prices so people will stick around and won't bring their lunch,” says Davis. “We just try to make our money on volume.”
There's plenty of that. In an average peak-season week, Davis' crew serves up about 500 Bloody Marys, 500 pizzas, and 50-100 gallons of soup.

As to how those Bloody Marys are made, Davis is more than willing to share a recipe.
“Two cans of chicken noodle soup, 12 ounces of soy sauce, one tube of anchovy paste, and a can of Spam, he says with a wry grin. “Puree it and boil it. Oh, and maybe add some vodka.”
OK, so maybe he's not willing to share. In fact, Davis says he thinks that recipe might someday serve as his retirement plan: Sell it for a cool million, and relax.
Then again, like most of his patrons, he's not in a hurry to leave the Last Run Inn.
“We have a good time here,” says Davis. “Otherwise, I wouldn't stay around.”