Creative White Space

Alfredo Cipolato was a Missoula institution

2008-02-28T08:42:00.000-08:00

WESTERN MONTANA LIVES - Alfredo Cipolato was a Missoula institution
By ROB CHANEY of the Missoulian
Alfredo Cipolato

Growing up in Missoula, I was convinced that Fettuccini Alfredo was named for the man who owned the Broadway Market.

My mother had sent me down to get a cup of grated Parmesan cheese for dinner. Alfredo Cipolato's shop had creaky floors and strange things hanging from the ceiling. He was standing behind a white deli cooler, singing in a language I didn't understand. He asked what I wanted.

I said my mother needed a pound of grated cheese for dinner. Alfredo looked at me.
"You having a party tonight?" he asked in his rolling Italian accent.

"No, just us, I think."

"You sure she want a pound of Parmesan?"

I was sure a pound and a cup were the same. Alfredo cut a wedge from a huge wheel of cheese and flipped on a homemade-looking gizmo that showered grated Parmesan into a paper sack. It ran a long time.

Alfredo handed me the sack, and I handed him a dollar. Even back then, Parmesan cost a lot more than a dollar a pound.

"You sure she said a pound?"

I was sure. And Alfredo Cipolato was not about to let a small boy's pride or dinner be sacrificed to a misunderstanding of weights and measures. He rang up my dollar and wished me a fine meal.

When Alfredo closed the Broadway Market in 2004, he was 93. I visited with him on his last business day, just before New Year's Eve, and we joked about the cheese grater. He invited me to stop by and borrow a cup of Parmesan any time.

After his funeral last Tuesday, tales of generosity were common currency in the St. Francis Roman Catholic Church parish hall. One couple recalled looking for ingredients for their child's baptism party and getting a bottle of Veuve Clicquot Champagne in their grocery bag. Music teacher Mike Rosbarsky once needed a few slices of prosciutto and walked out with the heel of the expensive ham.

A photo of the two men shows Rosbarsky apparently lunging across a stage while Alfredo looks ready to burst with joy. Mike said he was trying to hold a microphone as Alfredo gave his last public performance of "O Sole Mio."

Missoulian editor Sherry Devlin reported the scene:

"Our favorite community event of the past week? No contest. Alfredo Cipolato's unexpected solo, leaning on his cane at the front of the stage, after being introduced Sunday night as the only member of Missoula's Mendelssohn Club to have been with the men's choir all of its 60 years. We couldn't hear all that 93-year-old Cipolato said, and couldn't understand a word of the song he sang in Italian. But there was no mistaking the message of the roaring standing ovation that followed. And the tears many in the packed University Theatre wiped from their eyes."

Alfredo's own stories ran more to smiles than tears. When he was a young man learning the hotel trade in Venice, he received a swastika lapel pin from no less than Gestapo leader Hermann Goering. The next day, when he heard that Germany had annexed Austria, Alfredo threw the pin into a canal.

His training moved to New York City when he came in 1940 with the staff of the World's Fair Italian Pavilion.

"Mrs. Roosevelt and the wife of Fiorello La Guardia, they always came for tea," he recalled. "And they never tipped!"

A few months later, World War II was on. Alfredo found himself rounded up with other Italian citizens as a suspected enemy of the state. The authorities decided to intern him at Fort Missoula. For three years, he worked in area sugar beet fields with other Italian internees, earning $1 a ton.

He met Ann D'Orazi while singing in the St. Francis choir. Missoulian columnist Evelyn King had the following account:

"When the young couple decided to marry, there were a few obstacles, since the war was still in progress and Alfredo was considered an 'alien.' They were finally given permission by U.S. Attorney General Biddell. They were also told not to leave the vicinity of Missoula by 'plane, train or car' for a honeymoon trip.

"Father White of St. Francis solved the problem by giving them bus tickets to Polson where they stayed at the Salish House."

King added that shortly after the birth of Ann and Alfredo's first child, he received deportation orders to return to Italy. The couple appealed to Sen. Mike Mansfield, who got the order blocked. Mansfield also advised Alfredo to promptly apply for citizenship, which he did.

For the next half-century, Alfredo lived a life well-larded with music, food and wonder. He was a founding member of the Missoula Mendelssohn Club and sang with them for 63 years. He and Ann regularly flew to Venice to see friends and family, and even to renew their wedding vows. One trip took place just weeks after the Sept. 11 terrorist attacks: "If you're going to live in fear, you might as well be dead," he said afterward.

Over the cash register in the Broadway Market, Alfredo kept a letter in a sandwich baggie. It was addressed "To the gentleman former Italian line employee who runs a shop selling Italian goods in Missoula; Missoula, Montana; United States of America." It came from Maria Vittoria Romasso, an Italian searching for history of her father, Thomaso Romasso. She'd seen an Italian documentary about interment camps that featured Alfredo, and believed Thomaso might have been a comrade who died at Fort Missoula.

Alfredo was always amused that the letter found him without a ZIP code, address or even a name, from the same Post Office that once spent three days trying to deliver a 30-pound panettone Christmas bread to a Cipolato on West Broadway instead of East Broadway.

The Cipolatos' Broadway Market was a three-dimensional encyclopedia of food. Alfredo loved discussing the difference between shrimp cooked with heads on or heads off, the best ways to serve snails, and the relative qualities of Canadian and Italian prosciutto. He could contrast the food pairings of vintage Champagnes, allowing that he and Ann personally preferred a $12 bottle of Zardetto Prosecco with their scrambled eggs on Sunday mornings.

Worden's Market owner Tim France said he was always amazed at the amount of Parmesan cheese Alfredo ran through that grinder, and still regrets not trying to buy it from him when Alfredo retired.

"I'd just like to keep the tradition going," France said. "It was part of his style."

The worst Halloween

2007-10-31T14:26:00.000-07:00

Happy Halloween!

Today has always been one of my favorite holidays. What kid does not like Halloween? I've never met one who didn't, not sure I'd want to. I recently gave my Mom a hard time about the year she completely ruined my Halloween. I think I must have been in 3rd or 4th grade..still very much into the whole trick-or-treating thing, but old enough that we didn't have to be accompanied by a parent. I don't think they ever understood how much mileage we got each Halloween even though we brought home pillowcases bursting with candy. The best part though, was running around at night (even a school night!) with no parents. A kid's dream!

So this particular year, my Mom helped transform me into the bride of Frankenstein, taken from a cool halloween makeup book. Cool costume, check. Biggest plastic pumpkin that could easily hold half my weight in candy, check. Amped friends ready to hit it hard, check. Let the fun begin!

Then, my Mom told me there would be a little detour. It seems that a neighbor girl's Mom had convinced her to make me go to the haunted house at the fairgrounds with the girl. I loved haunted houses, but you always-ALWAYS-do them in the days leading up to October 31, never the night of! It didn't help that this girl wasn't my friend, the only reason I knew her was because she followed my brother around school and the park telling everyone she was going to marry him. That and she had a strange habit of eating butter and chapstick like it was candy.

I don't know why I was chosen to go with her or how my brother, who was in her grade, got to skip it and go trick-or-treat with his friends. But that is what happened and I was devastated. My Mom promised I could go trick-or-treat afterwards and hopefully find my friends. With that, I'm dropped off at the haunted house. We wait in line and walk through it-it's a pretty good haunted house-and as we exit, she starts to panic. Somehow, she lost her witch hat while we were in the house. Her hat, by the way, was poorly made with black construction paper. The green paper band had been waving in the air because the tape wasn't sticking very well, and basically the thing was on the verge of falling apart before we set foot in there.

She bangs on the exit door on the verge of tears and begs the attendent to let her back in to find it. The guy says "no" and pushes us out of the way to keep the flow of people moving. She starts to cry. I feel bad for her, but impatient because it is time to go trick-or-treating and the hat was paper!

After a few more tears, I finally convince her that we needed to go back to the front because our ride is waiting for us. Still crying about the hat, she follows me to the front where we wait for one of our mothers to pick us up. And wait. Apparently, they got their wires crossed and each assumed the other had pickup duty and we sat there for a very, very long time. By this time, older kids are showing up, many of them drunk and amused by the crying blonde girl (who no longer resembled a witch) with the thick glasses and the angry little bride of Frankenstein sitting on the curb.

A couple of guys approached us and one ripped my big pumpkin out of my hands. Quickly realizing there was no candy in it for him to steal, he threw it at my head as hard as he could. His friends (and several people in the line that was snaking by us) laughed. The witch continued crying. I fumed.

By the time my Mom came to get us, I wanted blood. Her blood. It was so late, my brother was already home admiring his take. I was allowed to trick-or-treat at the one house on the block besides ours that still had their porch light on. The candy at our house had been wiped out, so the next day, my Mom gave the leftovers from a friend's house which was about 15 mini Three Musketeers. Brutal! I was so upset. It was truly the worst Halloween ever!

I sure had fun giving my Mom a hard time about it a few weeks ago. We were howling. She had also dressed up as the bride of Frankenstein, and the image of us in her car on the way home, me a smaller version of her with my arms folded across my chest overcome with pure rage directed at her, interrupted by the girl still crying about her paper hat....

Bear at Wild Horse Dock

2007-09-12T13:07:00.000-07:00

This Mama bear was watching my brother and I while keeping an eye on her cubs who weren't far from her. She spent most of the time up the tree (and we watched her actually come down the tree head first!) while the cubs scampered at the base of the tree. We were trying to load up our boat at the dock next to this tree, but they weren't going anywhere. With ice melting, we decided we had to make a move. She watched us from a tree but didn't seem to care about us at all. Not us, not my brother's little dog, or the bag of fried chicken he had in his hand.

Even though bears are frequently sighted around my Mom's home and other areas, I never get bored with them. They are extraordinary animals.

More bugers

2007-08-26T21:25:00.000-07:00

Apparently "bugers" are a popular food item in the northwest. Earlier in this blog, I described an awning that advertised them along with fries and shakes. Here is another northwest establishment that not only serves them, but gives them away!

9.11.2001

2006-09-10T21:10:00.000-07:00

On the eve of the 5th anniversary of 9-11, I'm watching the accidental documentary by the French brothers filming a rookie fireman. It is as hard to watch as it was the first time it aired, and there are of course no words to describe it, except that it puts you right there.

I remember how surreal it seemed that morning, when I switched my radio for some reason to NPR as I got ready for work. Realizing what was going on while trying to squeeze in my routine. Realizing, but not comprehending. It hit me first when the airport sign on I-5 indicating something. I don't remember what specifically it said, that the airport was locked down? Something that made it real. Then my school emergency communications pager went off, as the naval/army bases went under lockdown, including the schools on the bases. Here in Seattle, that is what initially made it real.

I tried to read online what was happening, but didn't see the tv footage of the planes hitting and the towers coming down until I went to a bar near my house, since I didn't have cable. It is still hard to watch.

It is the eve of the fifth anniversary of 9-11, and I can't help but wonder what tomorrow will bring. Hopefully it will only be a sad, quiet milestone. In case it is not, I will check the batteries in my work phone and my pager, and hope that I won't need them tomorrow.

Rasta and the Amazon

2006-08-19T20:41:00.000-07:00

I don't know if the sunny weather makes people more social around here or I'm just unaware of how often I'm connected to my iPod, but I seem to have been part of an increasing number of random coversations in the last few days. Case in point:

Midday, Friday-I'm walking up Broadway. This somewhat rasta-looking guy sweeping the sidewalk in front of a shop greets me. As I reply "fine, thanks-how are you?" –he is already asking me another question. His accent is so thick, I ask him to repeat it.

"You are taller than me, aren't you?"

He walks towards me as I'm passing him like he's sizing me up. If it was night, I would be sort of frightened.

"Well, I do have heels on," I say. I'm sort of confused...so what?

He interrupts me again with another question I don't understand. "Pardon me?" I say.

"How tall are you? How tall are you?!?"

"Five-seven..." I've been continuing down the street this whole time. I hear him yell after me,
"Five-SEVEN!?!? I thought you were six-one. At LEAST six-one!!"

I don't know why this exchange makes me laugh, but it does. Sometimes it is refreshing to not always be plugged in.

Later that afternoon, I was working out at the gym. Ubiquitous iPod blasting in my ears, I was in a zone as I went through my little circuit on the weight machines. I finished a set on triceps and grabbed a spray bottle and towel from the machine next to mine so I could clean my machine and move on. The thing is, I grabbed the spray handle, and as I lifted the bottle out of its holder, I accidentally spritzed–all over the guy sitting at that machine.

I think my voice was amplified-not only from the iPod but also the shock and mortification of spraying a complete stranger-and I started to laugh as I profusely apologized. He gave me a terse half-smile while he stared somewhere past my right thigh-wouldn't even look at me.

Ah well, it was an accident and I did sincerely apologize, even though I was laughing out of embarrassment when I did. What else can I do? Time to work the quads-on the OTHER side of the gym!

Later, a man recited a poem to me and asked for a dollar. I gave him two. It was a long poem about kindness towards others. Sometimes that just seems harder and harder to do.

A Soldier on Patriotism

2006-08-13T15:56:00.000-07:00

"There's nothing un-American, unpatriotic or wimpy about being against the war. There's nothing patriotic about blind conformity," he said. "I've earned my opinion. I spent a year in a combat zone."

Sgt. Zach Bazzi, 3rd battalion, Charlie Company

View related story on Seattle Times:

The War Tapes

Happy Easter

2006-04-16T13:32:00.000-07:00

I won't be enjoying any ham or lamb today- I don't do much for Easter anymore now that I've outgrown eggs and baskets and even Peeps (if that is possible. Check out the cool peep art featured in the Seattle Times today).

I'm not a regular church-goer anymore. As I told someone the other day. the only thing I've given up for Lent lately is, well, Lent.

Anyway, I always feel a twinge of guilt around Easter, as it is a reminder of some of my less-than-proud moments though I think I was a fairly decent kid. I wasn't mean or jealous or too bratty that I recall...but I think Easter must have brought out the worst in me, because two of my uglier moments as a child came out around this time.

Incident #1: I don't know how old I was, but on one Easter Sunday, I was playing on the playground at the park near my house. There were lots of kids there, including one little girl I didn't know with the biggest chocolate bunny I had ever seen. It had to have been almost half her height, with big candy eyes and holding a colored chocolate basket. It was impressive. She thought so too, as she stood in the middle of the playground, holding the mammoth bunny with both hands (required). There was no wrapping on it, and she stood there, proudly licking one of the ears while watching all of the kids who enviously watched her. This went on for some time, and I remembered getting annoyed at her showing off unapologetically for so long. Suddenly, she lost her grip and dropped it. When she picked it up, it was covered with sand..especially the parts that were softened and moist from her hands and mouth. She was very upset. It was ruined, and we all smiled and laughed with satisfaction that she got what she deserved.

Incident #2: Annual Easter egg hunt held at the Missoula County courthouse. The usual colored eggs and candy were hidden all around the courthouse lawn, with kids racing around in their Easter clothes and baskets to load up with the goodies. Every kid hoped to find one of the special eggs. These eggs were half pink, and had numbers, like a math problem, written on them. Any kid who found one of these eggs could trade it in for a silver dollar, which seemed like the most exciting thing ever. I really wanted one of those eggs and was desperately scouring the lawn looking for one. Out of the corner of my eye, this girl got my attention and I watched as she obviously had spotted something and was heading in a direction to retrieve it. I traced where she might be headed, and I saw it. She spotted a telltale pink and white egg, balanced on a ledge of a post. The post was much closer to me than it was to her, and I went and "found" it. She never said anything, she may have never realized that I never would have seen it were it not for her.

Since I was a child, there has not been one chocolate bunny or easter egg that has not reminded me of these incidents and caused a twinge of remorse or guilt.

However, I did get that silver dollar and kept it for several years. Maybe I didn't like the reminder that I cheated to get that silver dollar, or perhaps I just wanted some candy.

Bartenders and Priests

2006-02-01T18:17:00.000-08:00

This is a random conversation I had in June, 2004..so random, I couldn't help but write it down. Every bit of it is true!

"Bartenders are better than priests," said the scruffy man standing next to me at the Eastlake Zoo bar. I gave him a courtesy half-smile and continued to try and catch the bartender's eye so I could order two Coronas and get back to my dart game. The sooner the better.

"Even so," he continued, "I still need to go to confession this Sunday. I've had a hard week." He then launched into a story that began in downtown Seattle with "the third best-looking woman in town." For reasons that weren't clear to me, he had had an altercation with a man and crushed his skull.

"You crushed his skull?" I asked. The bartender approached and I ordered my beer.

"Yep. Crushed his skull."

"Did you kill him?"

"No."

"Seems to me if you crush someone's skull, you'd likely kill him."

"Well his life will never be the same. Now I must go to confession."

"Well, you'll be doing a lot of Hail Marys this Sunday," I said.

"Eh, I'm going to hell."

With that, I wished him good luck, tipped the bartender and went to the back of the bar to play darts.

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

2006-01-28T10:58:00.000-08:00

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

2006-01-25T21:05:00.000-08:00

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.

2006-01-20T15:26:00.000-08:00

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.”

Tis the Season for 'Santarchy'

2005-12-19T14:52:00.000-08:00

I don't know why I found it strangely depressing to spot Santa Claus and two elves sitting in a booth at the Jack in the Box on 85th and Aurora. Santa has to eat...what's the big deal...?

And then I read this item....

Gang of boozing Santas rampages in New Zealand

By The Associated Press
WELLINGTON, New Zealand - A group of 40 people dressed
in Santa Claus costumes, many of them drunk, rampaged
through New Zealand's largest city, robbing stores and
assaulting security guards, police said Sunday.
The rampage, dubbed "Santarchy" by local newspapers,
began early Saturday afternoon when the men, wearing
ill-fitting Santa costumes, threw beer bottles and
urinated on cars, said Auckland Central Police
spokeswoman Noreen Hegarty.
She said the men then rushed through a central city
park, overturning garbage containers, throwing bottles
at passing cars and spraying graffiti on buildings.
One man climbed the mooring line of a cruise ship.
Other Santas, objecting when the man was arrested,
attacked security staff members, Hegarty said. The
remaining Santas entered a downtown convenience store
and carried off beer and soft drinks.
Alex Dyer, a spokesman for the group, said Santarchy
was designed to protest the commercialization of
Christmas.
Three people were arrested and charged with
drunkenness and disorderly

Advertising Should Help You, Not Hurt You

2005-10-21T10:47:00.000-07:00

Spotted on the back of a large delivery truck under the company name and phone number:

"QUALITY NOT QUANITY"

righhhhhhht.

Do people not read their own signage?

My brother and I about died when we came across these 12" letters on an awning that wrapped around a fast food restaurant in Wallace, Idaho:

CHICKEN FRIES SHAKES BUGERS ICE CREAM

Mmmmm mmmm. Needless to say, we did not stop for lunch.

Halloween Conumdrum

2005-10-14T15:01:00.000-07:00

Once you have grown out of the trick-or-treating age Halloween serves one primary purpose: to allow both women and men dress up like slutty women without recourse. You know it's true.

Everyone knows dozens of women who have dressed up as a black cat (translation: black bodysuit, ample cleavage, cute tail/whiskers/ears), a hooker (enough said) or some other overtly sexy witch/maid/nurse etc. that included short skirts, high heels and more makeup than would be acceptable in any O.R. or laundry room.

Everyone also knows dozens of men who have dressed up as a girl, which includes "girlish" boobs-the-size-of-large-pumpkins, a horrid satin and lace number (nicely attired with a robust amount of chest hair for some) and clownish makeup.

When I was younger my Mom and her friends, "the Ladies," used to dress up and hit the town for a few glasses of wine and some laughs. The group had to lay down the law for one of the ladies..while they would dress up as bag ladies, tampons and Yassir Arafat, she would show up as Big Bird, in a yellow leotard and boa and yellow tights to show off her long legs, with picture perfect hair and makeup. After that, the rule was "no libidos," a word and Halloween mantra I have never forgotten.

There are a lot of considerations to take in when deciding on a Halloween costume, but for me "hotness" hasn't been a big one. It just isn't as much fun as being a little ridiculous or outrageous. Even my stint as Madonna during her blonde ambition didn't carry much libido, unless you consider tassles from my party hat bustier dunking into your drink sexy.

I'll admit, I did once dress as a dominatrix which might have sex appeal...except I was a dominatrix troll. I was particularly proud of my nod to Austin Powers with my authentic "mini-madam," a troll doll with matching flourescent orange troll hair, matching outfit, cuffs and whip. My shirt said "I do bad things" in little rhinestones, mini-madam's shirt said "I do bad things, too." Fun costume, till I had to walk home in a downpour.

But Halloween parties are also a great place for a single girl to meet lots of new people, and while outrageous is fun, some might be a little hesitant to talk to a girl who has willingly stuck dry cat food in her hair (yet it's a great costume idea! I just can't explain it til after halloween). Especially when a sexy cute black cat is talking to a mermaid (a mermaid!) on the other side of the room.

What's a girl to do on Halloween? Big Bird on crack? Slutty Laura Bush? Black cat from hell?

Does anyone have some cat food I can use?

Another Cultural Icon is Toast

2005-07-26T09:14:00.000-07:00

RIP Montana Turd Burd

There are no more Montana turd burds. I was very saddened to learn that the little creatures, fashioned out of a shellacked piece of cow poop, with pipe cleaner legs, googly eyes, feather wings and a cowboy hat (the deluxe versions may have come with a little holster and a bandana) can no longer be found at the $10,000 Silver Dollar Bar along with the huckleberry taffy, colored agates and Indian purses.

Apparently the Montana Turd Burd factory burned down, and there are currently no plans to rebuild it. Turd burds have been around as long I can remember, and now they will disappear from our cultural mainstream, just like the Marathon Bar, Stretch Armstrong, and candy cigarettes.

Maybe they will become a hot collector's item on eBay. To think I've purchased a few as gifts for people who refused to believe that stores sold toy poop. People I haven't talked to in years, who probably don't even realize what a treasure they now have in their hands.

I just don't have a collector's eye, I guess. Just like when I gave away the pope decanter with the screwtop papal hat. So long, Turd Burd. Thanks for the memories.

2004-12-01T15:59:00.000-08:00

I've been on quite a hiatus. Since May I graduated, summered, Halloweened, gave Thanks and finally admitted that it is already the holiday season (starting today, mind you and not one second earlier! I don't care what any business journal tells you).

Reading through my blog entries from last spring reminded me of how much I enjoyed blogging, and not just because it was part of my participation grade for a class. I'm not sure that reading them is particularly pleasureable (especially if your name is Tim Eyman), but it's not like readers are beating down my URL, either.

So I'm looking forward to continuing this little exercise. When I have something to say. Judging from the presence of cheesy Santas and horrid Holiday Muzak everywhere, that shouldn't take too long. Until then, Happy Holidays!

2004-05-23T17:45:00.000-07:00

Earlier in this blog, I described the SECOND most hilarious (Read humiliating)fall that I have done in public. Well it doesn't seem fair to tease about the first (read worst) fall. Here it goes:

It's early on a weekday morning and I'm rushing to catch the #33 bus that meanders around Magnolia before heading downtown. It's important to catch that bus, because the Magnolia buses only come around every half hour or so, and that is if they are on time. This has taken some getting used to, so I am running down my dead-end street and down a flight of stairs to the street below. As I reach the street, I can hear the bus chugging up the slight incline towards the bus stop and me, about a half block behind it.

I'm running, partially to make sure that the bus stops, and because I recalled being annoyed observing people taking their own sweet time to get on a bus that is waiting specifically for them. I race to the other side of the street and continue running along the grass strip between the sidewalk and the street.

About 15 feet in front of the bus, my foot catches something on the ground–a clump of dirt, a rock, who knows– and I go sailing in the air. After some considerable air time, I land on my hands and knees, skidding in the wet grass and dirt. As I let out a loud swear word before I can gether my senses, I look up at the bus.

I see the driver, and several passenger heads, craning to look at me. They all have the same expression, of curiousity, amusement, and horror on my behalf. I hear that hydraulic sound as the driver opens the door for me.

I get on my feet and notice the two green and brown stripes working their way down my khaki pants from my knees to my ankles. What should I do? Do I turn my head in shame tell the driver "nevermind" and walk home to change my pants, come back and get the next bus? Or, do I suck it up, get on the damn bus and endure the entire day in my downtown office with grass and mud on my pants?

No matter what I do, I'll always be that girl who bit it in front of the bus. I don't want to be that girl who bit it in front of the bus and was too embarrassed to get on it. I got on that bus.

As I mounted the steps, I realized that not only did the front half of the bus witness my fall, but many surely heard the profanity as well. I put my fare in the machine, declined a transfer and walked towards the back of the bus. I felt like Mr. Rooney at the end of Ferris Bueller's Day Off. I could almost hear that Yello song (chuka chu kah...)

I smiled and began to laugh at my own fortune, but no one would laugh with me. No one would even LOOK at me! I was invisible! I finally found a seat and sat in it, thinking what a fun day I had in store for me. Suddenly this little gray head peeks from around the seat in front of me and this little old lady says, "Are you all right, dear?"

"I'm just fine, thank you," I said, and laughed again.

2004-05-23T17:17:00.000-07:00

I've always had a problem with taking things a little too literally.

When I was little, I came home from school visibly upset, and crawled into my Dad's lap when he came home from work. "I don't want to have hot lunch anymore," I said with a quivering voice.

(SIDENOTE: I don't know about your school, but hot lunch was BIG STUFF for us, and a rare treat for me. My Mom usually made our lunches, and allowed us hot lunch only on special days. Those days were themed lunches related to holidays, with itms like pilgrim stuffing, shamrock peas, etc. It was a big deal for a first grader, plus you usually got chocolate milk).

"Why?" My parents asked.

"Because, today, " I said getting more and more upset, "They served Leprechaun stew!"

It would be nice to say that I've grown out of my literal sensibilities, but I haven't. And nowhere is this more obvious (or more painful) than in the dating scene. I am clueless to the subtle ways that men and women send and receive signals. You pretty much have to hit me on the head caveman-style for me to understand what is going on.

A while back, I was relaying an odd encounter I had in the grocery store to a friend. A man was standing next to me in the rice aisle, when he touched my shoulder, a bag of brown rice in his other hand. "Excuse me, do you know how you are supposed to cook this?" he said, motioning to the bag in his hand.

"Like other rice, I would suppose...boil water and steam it?" I said, thinking the directions might offer better advice than I ever could. Who doesn't know how to cook rice?

"Oh, right," he said, blinking at me. "Thank you." With that, he walked away.

"What an idiot," I told my friend as an end to the story. "No, YOU are the idiot," she said. Huh?

"He didn't care about the rice, you moron. Are you just book smart?"

"You try and read something else in everything," I said. "Why would he ask me how to cook rice, then?" "Hopeless!" she said.

I may be hopeless, but I was recently justified in the way I think in these situations. Now, I'm not into this too much, but the other day I attended a conference for work, and one of the sessions was determining your "True Colors," which is a watered down version of the Meyers-Briggs personality test. By determining your color and the colors of those around you, you are supposed to learn more effective ways to communicate based on their colors.

According to this process, I am a green with a strong secondary orange color. I won't bore you with what that means, except that it made sense, surprisingly.

As a sarcastic and jaded person, this True Colors seems silly in that horoscope, fortune-telling kind of way. But after reading the characteristics of "greens," I had to admit that some of it was dead-on.

In the sheet on communicating with greens, one of the tips said "don't read between the lines. When greens are asking for information, that's exactly what they are doing and nothing more."

So, sorry brown rice guy, my answer didn't mean "I'd rather eat that brown rice, bag and all before I would ever have a conversation with you." It really meant, "Steam the rice fella, and good luck with that."

CONFIDENTIAL TO M. IN MT: That said, I'm not a complete social moron. The sushi conversation did not go down like this:

HIM: "We should go and have sushi sometime."

ME: "I hate sushi."

It was more like this:

HIM: (Out of the blue) "Do you like sushi?"

ME: "No, I don't."

There is a difference, I swear!

I give up.

2004-05-18T16:53:00.000-07:00

Today is the 14th anniversary of the day Mt. St. Helens blew.

I remember that day quite well...my family was barbequing in our back yard when we noticed that it was eerily quiet. It was snowing ash, I remember a baseball helmet on our deck was dusted white.

Missoula got quite a coating of ash. We weren't allowed outside for four days (eternity for nine and ten year-olds) and the cabin fever was brutal. No one went outside without surgical masks, and except to ride a bike to the store for water and emergency supplies (the fine ash would ruin engines and easily find its way into your lungs) or to hose down the house, cars and yard.

The thrill of extended school closures quickly dissipated once we learned that those days would have to be made up on Saturdays or in the summer. School in the summer? I felt sick.

Finally, we were allowed outside. The ash was everywhere. My little brother scooped it up in jars, convinced that those jars of ash would be his ticket to fame and vast fortunes in a few years when he could sell them as souvenirs.

How funny that you can still buy gargoyle statuettes and other knickknacks made from St. Helens ash, alongside the huckleberry taffy, mini indian purses and agates at the 10,000 Silver Dollar Bar along I-90.

I wonder what he did with his jars of ash?

2004-05-11T17:53:00.000-07:00

Bumper sticker spotted today on the Montlake bridge:

NOBUSHIT

2004-05-02T23:00:00.000-07:00

Two stories of the past few weeks reminds me of how true it is that people see what they want to see.

Case in point: The infamous photo of the caskets carrying U.S soldiers who were killed in Iraq. Many people (myself included) saw a touchingly sad image showing the respect that those soldiers received (and deserved) on their final journey home. Many saw what hundreds of AP bylines from Fallujah fail to deliver with such an impact: our soldiers are dying over there.

There were others who saw something completely different in that picture. They saw an image that conveniently fed into the anti-war liberal agenda, the exploitation of dead soldiers and an unfair attack on Bush. Many were outraged that the paper would defy government orders to not print those types of pictures.

Another story from Prosser, Washington offers similar disparities in how an image can divide. A 15 year-old kid works on an art assignment to keep a visual diary. In it, he expresses his feelings about the U.S. involvement in Iraq, including drawings of Bush’s head on a stick. The art teacher, alarmed at the drawings, turns the diary in to the principal, who in turn calls the police, who contact Secret Service.

Again, many people see a kid expressing his opinions about a controversial war. Others see an anti-American kid who didn’t get the punishment he deserved.

I find these stories to be very troubling. I guess I don’t understand. If it were my son, husband, sister, or friend who lost their life in Iraq, I would take such comfort in that picture of those caskets. More importantly, I would still believe that it is our government’s obligation to ensure that the American public see those types of images.

As a democracy, we have a right to see the entire, ugly picture when it is our people who are dying on foreign soil. Does anyone not see the irony of the Pentagon trying to control the images of war we see, a war that started to remove a dictator who controlled the media for his purposes?

The government line about giving the Iraqi people “freedom” rings more and more hollow the longer it goes on.

I’m so saddened that a kid drawing an effigy of Bush (images of which are broadcast regularly on television news from the Middle East) is punished by his school district for making his art assignment political. It saddens me even more to learn that the kid, who sports a Mohawk in a small town, doesn’t “fit in.” I wonder if this ever would have gone as far as it did if that were not the case.

It is okay to not like what you see. But it is not okay when politicians and other people with authority to prevent others from presenting those pictures, warts and all. If the first amendment doesn’t define the freedom that our politicians so glibly talk about when discussing democracy, I don’t know what does.

2004-04-20T15:20:00.000-07:00

I need to get out of this state. I just read about Fritz's law, the most asinine proposed ordinance I've heard of in a while. The utter lack of common sense and logic almost makes Eyman's initiatives look legit by comparison.

What in the hell is going on in Auburn?

If this ordinance passes, any dog weighing more than 30 pounds would be classified as "potentially dangerous."

Huh?

An old, fat labrador that can barely get up to drink out of the water dish could be considered dangerous! Not only that, but if this "potentially dangerous" dog happens to wander outside of the yard, he would instantly be upgraded to "dangerous" and would require insurance–the same kind of insurance that circus owners must have for lions and tigers.

Sheepdogs and poodles and mutts, oh my!

This stupid ordinance was written in honor of a terrier-poodle that was mauled by a pit bull. The pit bull was owned by a woman who repeatedly failed to keep the dog contained. In other words, she was already violating existing leash laws.

I'm sorry that Fritz was taken down, but making every other big dog legally "dangerous" wouldn't have saved the terrier-poodle. Pit bulls and other dogs who are bred as attack dogs and not properly contained are the problem, not big dogs as a whole.

"We need common sense solutions for irresponsible owners," said Auburn Mayor Jim Lewis, supporter of Frtz's law. "That's all we're looking for."

Please explain to me how punishing responsible dog owners will curb those folks who already don't observe the law.

I don't get it.

If this ordinance flies, the same logic could be applied to other problems that plague society.

Damn nice of McDonald's to stop supersizing their combo meals, but it just isn't enough. Maybe a weight limit should be used to designate people as "potentially dangerous" to themselves, and anyone designated as such would be instantly upgraded to "dangerous" if caught within 10 yards of Burger King.

Better yet, the kind people in Auburn could concern themselves with more pressing problems, like enforcing existing leash laws. Now THAT is common sense.

2004-04-19T13:06:00.000-07:00

I'm not sure what just happened, but I am really glad that I was able to recover! As I was leaving to grab some lunch, not one, but BOTH of my heels caught the edge of the curb in front of my office building. Miraculously, I was able to avoid falling face-first on to the pavement. Such a graceful maneuver would have caused nasty scrapes embedded with asphalt on my knees, hands and my face. Very nice.

I don't know whether I should be mortified that I could be so clumsy, proud of my apparent agility and dexterity to be able to sidestep such a humiliating fall, or whether I should go on as if the whole thing never took place.

What's the fun in that? I've had some SPECTACULAR falls in public, the kind where when you see it happening to some other poor schlub, your first thought is "Damn, am I glad that's not me!"

Picture it: Borders bookstore in downtown Seattle. It is a nice spring day around noon. The streets are filled with tourists and workers alike, enjoying a decent day. Borders is packed as well. If you haven't been in the downtown store, you should know that right smack in the center of the store facing the street entrance is a large staircase that takes people to the fiction and music sections on the second floor. From the staircase, you get the grand view of all that is happening on the ground level: cash registers to the right, information desk and nonfiction to the left, periodicals in front, and best sellers lining the center aisle towards the door.

On my lunch break, I wandered the music aisles while listening to my walkman, and headed down the stairs to return to my office. About three quarters of the way down the stairs, one of my cool platform shoes caught the edge of the stair I was descending, sending me hurtling towards the floor– before I even had a nanosecond to react.

All of the sudden, I'm flying through the air in the middle of the busy store, soaring past the last four or five steps at the bottom of the staircase, and land on my hands and knees on the hard floor with a resounding crack.

Waiting for the pain to settle in, I noticed that the sounds of retail had diminished considerably as people stopped what they were doing to take in the spectacle that was me. They all had the same wide-eyed expression of amusement, pity and relief (see above). As I looked around, everyone immediately turned back to what they were doing as if I wasn't even there.

There was nothing I could do but laugh at myself. Laugh, I did...forgetting that my headphones were still intact. My laugh is already loud (and "gutsy" according to a former coworker, whatever the hell that means). I'm sure the usual crazies that wander around downtown probably went out of thier way to avoid me that day.

That's not even the best fall I've had. But I'll save that for another day.

2004-04-12T22:34:00.000-07:00

I don't enjoy admitting when I'm wrong, but here it is: I could not have BEEN more wrong than I was in my blog yesterday. I hereby retract everything I wrote regarding Tim Eyman and his gambling/property tax initiatives.

In fact, if I were to criticize him today, I would say that he has not gone far enough with his brilliant plan to subsidize government with gambling profits.

Hopefully, tax "rebel" Eyman will see the same inspirational light that I have, before his paid felons (or whoever they are) succeed in getting the signatures he needs to get his existing initiatives on the ballot.

Stop the presses! Let's take this as far as the clever Ashley Revell, the man who liquidated everything he owned–including (quite literally) the shirt on his back–and rested his financial fate on the roulette wheel. Man bets it all--and wins.

Wake up, Tim! Let's go for big bucks and no whammys, slice our property tax by half and take our chances on the wheel of fortune. Everyone knows that real gamblers don't waste their time on the nickel slots. We can send the governor to Vegas on the first day of each fiscal year with all of our tax proceeds, and his/her bet will either double our money or lose it all.

If we lose, that single act might save a lot of time and money on a re-election campaign...two-for-one, Tim. Right up your alley!

No time to waste, let's rewrite those initiatives and put the plan into action. 50-50 odds ain't bad, right?

For more Eyman fun, check out KOMO TV's Ken Schram and his hilarious commentary:

2004-04-11T16:48:00.000-07:00

In some ways, I admire Tim Eyman. Here is a regular guy, fed up with government bureacracy, who is practicing democracy at it's best: for the people and by the people.

Unfortunately, that is the only nice thing that I can say about him, because his foray into public policy is also democracy at it's worst. His initiatives are ill-concieved, fiscally irresponsible and appeal to an ugly combination of self-centered desire and greed.

While his lame car tab initiative stripped desperately needed money from public coffers, it didn't stop there. Add in the legal expenses of determining the constitutionality of his amendments, specifically for including two items in an initiative (tab fees, and the bit about public approval for tax increases).

His latest stroke of genius includes expanding gambling in Washington state while significantly reducing the property tax.

If he was really concerned about eliminating the government's waste of public tax money, why doesn't he do his part by drafting initiatives that are within constitutional boundaries and fiscally responsible?

This gambling initiative is a horrible idea, one that Washington residents will regret years down the road if it becomes a reality.

I will tell you why, aside from pointing out the questionable ethics of not requiring the residents who benefit from public services to pay for those services and instead shifting the burden to a "voluntary" tax (you don't gamble, you don't pay).

When the same idea of allowing electronic gambling machines to operate off of the reservations came about in Montana (I think it was the late 80's, early 90's), I was all for it. What a great opportunity to generate millions of dollars in public money, not to mention the revenue enjoyed by the proprieters hosting the machines. It is a decision that many citizens would rethink, if given the chance.

It wasn't long before the effects of the machines began to take their toll. First, it was the stories from bartenders and waitresses about little old ladies spending day after day in the dark confines of the casinos, playing nickel keno with coins carried in by the shoebox.

The machines began to spread outside the designated casino establishments into bars, restaurants, convenience stores–anywhere that had 3 square feet and a grounded outlet. It is not enough that you are constantly in the presence of the machines, but it is compounded by the viral effect the machines had on whatever environment they took hold of.

Lights would dim and window shades would be drawn to enhance the eye-catching screen graphics tempting patrons with hundreds, thousands of dollars in winnings–all for a quarter or two. The blinging-and bleeping sounds of each machine competed with each other, the chatter creating a constant cacophony of noise.

Places that used to be a vibrant social scene where people would discuss the daily events became filled with people perched in rows on stools, mindlessly sipping drinks while staring unblinkingly at the screen, one hand tapping on the "bet," "deal" or "play" buttons.

I might be overdramatizing the effect, but these things are all recognizable in places all over the state.

The machines had an effect on the social fabric of the state in different ways, too. In Missoula, it started with the conversion of the local IHOP into a casino (not a great cultural loss, I know, but stick with me). Then it was the bowling alley converting to a casino. Local restaurants, art galleries and shops morphing one-by-one into instant cash franchises and pawn shops. It was, and still is, depressing.

And maybe that wouldn't sting so much if I could say that schools in Montana don't suffer from the same budgetary woes that schools do elsewhere. I wish that our potholes were non-existent, our libraries brimming with more books and periodicals than you could ever imagine, or that social service agencies could now afford to serve all of those in need. I wish that I could say that our quality of life was a little bit better, that our wages were more competitive or that job opportunities were more readily available. But I can't. Montana has the same fiscal problems that Washington has. We are also not unique among other states that have traveled down this path.

While gambling brings in much-needed revenue, at what cost to our quality of life? Sadly, the money is significant enough to ensure that we can't do without it, but not enough to make a noticeable difference.

Don't be fooled by the notion that gambling brings in tourist revenue, as was argued in Montana (this was a compelling point in a state with no sales tax). People don't go to Montana to gamble, as they don't here. Studies show they aren't drawn into gambling once they get there.

Don't think that the social problems created by widespread gambling won't effect you as others clean out savings and checking accounts in hopes of that one big payoff.

As a citizen of the state of Washington, Tim Eyman has a social obligation to pay for the services that he enjoys. He should pay for the roads that he drives on, pay for the costs to improve and maintain the civil infrastructure that benefits him, and help pay to educate his children. He should pay for the police who protect his home and his business and the fire and paramedics who will come to his aid if something happens to him or someone he loves.

To shift that burden is unfair, as is devaluing those services so much by making paying them, in effect, a "choice."

Vote NO on Eyman's "Just Treat Us the Same" initiative.

2004-04-06T16:27:00.000-07:00

Speaking of safety, my neighbor thwarted a burglary attempt into the garage of our 7-unit townhouse building this morning. One good thing about our location, I guess, is the quick response from the police. The thieves were able to walk away once they heard my neighbor, but the police were on site within three minutes of her call to 911.

When my unit was broken into three years ago, we had the same quick response-and caught the thieves red-handed with a lot of my stuff in their car.

I've mentioned before that I'm not a city girl. That point was well made when I moved here from a house (disco cabin, actually) in the slums of Magnolia. I thought I was being efficient when I decided to move some of the bulkier items that I don't use everyday into my new townhouse. Although blinds had not yet been installed on my windows, I figured that as long as anything was out of sight, I wouldn't have a problem.

Chuckling to yourself yet?

Missoula has it's own share of problems–as a college town, burglary is not nonexistent–but in the last few places I lived, we were lucky that people bothered to shut the door half the time, let alone lock it! (Sorry , Mom)

Anyway, so I loaded up my golf clubs, my skis, my kayaking gear, my laptop and printer and some jackets and tucked them away in closets.

Now I KNOW you are laughing at me.

So a few mornings later at 2:30, I get a call from the police, who asked me to come down and I.D. my stuff. I find all of my things sprawled out on the precinct floor with a cop rifling through all of it. The funny thing is, out of all of the things they stole, the cops were fascinated by a brown leather jacket that lay there on the floor.

Not just ANY brown leather jacket. I bought my "Starsky and Hutch" jacket at Carlos' One Night Stand, though it looks more like something Shaft would wear. Flared lapel, double-stitched detail and a fly buckle belt meant to be tied, not buckled.

I guess the jacket didn't look like something I'd wear to the cops, as I stood there in a fleece pullover and a baseball cap. Mostly, they were interested in the wallet they found in one of the pockets, that had 5 or 6 drivers' licenses, medical insurance cards, and a credit card–none of which matched my name, the thieves names, or each other.

"Are you SURE this is your jacket?" one of them said as he looked at me suspiciously.

"Absolutely."

The next day, a detective called and asked me again, "that jacket is really yours?"

For a second, I started to get a little nervous. They couldn't think I had something to do with that wallet, could they? Somehow, it ended up in my jacket, but what I would do with a bunch of IDs for middle-aged African-American men? After all, I was the one dumb enough to fill my empty townhouse with a bunch of pawnable items and then tra-la-la all the way back to Magnolia.

City girl, I am not.

2004-04-05T16:53:00.000-07:00

I was planning on commenting on Eyman’s latest lame-brained initiative, but after being rudely awakened today by what seems to be an increasing number of news items related to abduction attempts, that commentary must wait.

Maybe I need to ease off on the A & E programming (I so enjoy Bill Kurtis…), but what in the hell is going on around here?

Dru Sjodin, Jennifer Lai (the Mercer Island girl) and many, many more local and national accounts of women and children being grabbed at bus stops, on sidewalks, or in parking lots seem to fill newspapers and take up air time on a regular basis. How many times was the Amber alert enacted last week in Washington alone? At least two? Three?

What a sad statement it is when so many women and children are taken, used and thrown away like fast food wrappers. And what about all of the attempts that go unreported? I bet most women you and I know have had at least one (if not many) encounters where they questioned their personal safety, fate changing the instant a car drives by or by unwittingly walking into a building or driving off in a car.

I don’t think too much about my personal safety, I’m not sure why. While my neighborhood feels relatively safe, it is adjacent to what the police have called the “crack triangle,” and while they generally keep to their side of the street (and me to mine), we are not separated. I’m frequently out in the dark, in the early morning hours and late at night to walk my dog. (On a side note, when I first moved there, my Dad expressed his concern over this. I explained to him that with a 75-pound dog attached to one hand and a bag of poop in the other, I wasn’t expecting too much trouble from anyone. I still don’t.)

Until this morning, I had long forgotten my refusal at age 19 to heed the warnings given to all women at American University in Washington D.C., located in a nice area near Embassy Row and Chevy Chase, Maryland. NEVER walk anywhere alone at night, we heard.

I was not about to have my lifestyle dictated by fear or by “what ifs..” (a city girl, I’m not). So I didn’t listen. Even after an incident where I felt very vulnerable, I would still walk home from the library late at night or insist on taking the Metro and walking home alone after meeting friends across town. It all turned out okay, but I don’t feel quite as fierce about that principle now as I did then.

Perhaps that is the same attitude that the woman in Kent had until yesterday when she had to mace a man trying to pull her into his car. Well, at least she was carrying mace and was able to use it.

Something is seriously wrong when there seems to be so many predators on our streets.

I don’t know who needs to address this or what measures should be taken (within the confines of our laws, anyway) but something needs to be done. It is not good enough to simply instruct women to always look over their shoulders and train our children how to avoid being abducted.

It makes me sick.

2004-03-30T20:23:00.000-08:00

So far it is a Blog O'Not a Whole Lot of Fun, but hopefully that will change soon, as I readjust to my new schedule. We didn't get introduced in class, so allow me to do so briefly.
My name is Kerry, and I'm in the 2nd cohort of the DMC program at UW.

I'm from Missoula, Montana (yee-haw!). Before redneck or sheep jokes come to mind, you should know that Montana stereotypes were the subject of a 17 minute film that I finished for this class last year...which probably scared the rest of my group. It was a fun project, although not one that the Montana Tourism Bureau will pick up anytime soon.

That said, I love being from and being in Montana. Probably will be more on that later.

I digress......I have a Journalism degree, although my professional background is primarily in graphic design and arts marketing. For the last three years, I've been working as the communications coordinator for a regional education agency. This is usually fun for me (as fun as work can be–let's face it, I'd rather be skiing any day of the week).On any given day, I might be writing, designing brochures, building web pages or presentations, working with other designers, etc. etc. Incorporating digital video into my arsenal of tools is one of the goals I've been working to achieve in this program.

What is most fun, though, is developing content that is not even remotely work-related. Education material is, shall we say, a bit dry and WAY too politically correct for me. This blog will be another opportunity for me to step out of that role. And step out I will.

Before I sign off, here is a little teaser on topics that I expect that I will touch on over the next quarter.

•The man who really should have his name legally changed to "Horse's Ass," Tim Eyman. My blood pressure jumped a few points just by typing his name.

• Bush. Need I say more?

And much, much, more.

Finally, I added 2 links that you may or may not view (and I'm not encouraging you to). I always forget the URLs and thought this might be a handy place for me to find them.

The first is a memorial of sorts to my Dad, who passed away a month before I started this program. This website was one project that I did for a class. I've broken some of the links to protect the not-so-innocent, and I need to update some of them. Probably sappy and way more personal than I would normally be with people I don't know, but so be it. When it seems as if every school and work-related deadline occur simultaneously, it is good to know that any quarter will be a cakewalk compared to that first one!

The other is an Educational Technology blog that is run by one of my colleagues, Conn McQuinn. He is always current on the latest issues and cool gizmos that are tech-related, and I enjoy listening to his stories, whether it is his paper rocket kit that actually went into space or the interesting way he played with matches in college. He knows his stuff, so if you have any interest in education technology, you might want to check it out.

That's all for now. I have a brochure to finish.

Slainte!