Happy New Year

As my resolution last year was "I am going to make it through This Year if it kills me" seems like I was successful in following that one through (Thanks Mountain Goats.) I also realize that I'm a day behind, but seriously, who is in any shape to write such witty engaging prose as this when they're trying to recover from welcoming The New Year in Style. Like I did.

Bob and Joe and I went Out. Joe and Bob have been friends since they were about six. Which means that I have been trying to tag-along with them since I was about 5. Recently--in the past 12 years or so--I have given up on that on that pursuit and dismissed it as unrealistic. Imagine my surprise then, when my brother Bob called me up on Wednesday night: "Hey! You're coming into town, and bring My Friend Joe". I said "Where is Joe?" he said "Where Joe has always lived!" Ok, so Joe is back in town.

I got to chat with his Dad while I waited on the porch for him to brush his teeth.

We went to The Alley, which everyone knows is The Only Thing Happening in Moscow. Wooh.

I love The Alley. It's interesting, it is a Dirty Local Bar (DLB). The inside is decorated in the way of many popular DLBs--with a hodgepodge of graffiti, Local Band Stickers, and neon beer signs. There is usually a hippie-jam-band playing, and if there's not, then someone is playing Phish on the Jukebox.

On New Year's Eve, there was a band from Missoula--I don't remember what they were called, and I only know of their origin because my brother is friendly and was chatting with the drummer. They sounded like the standard hippy-jam band, though their wardrobes were drawn from an eclectic background. The guitar player looked like a young blond Jerry Garcia, the drummer looked like he just finished harvesting and hopped off the combine to hop into the band van, and surprisingly enough, the bassist looked like he should be hanging out somewhere in LA outside a basketball game scalping tickets, or selling some sort of illegal substance. But, like I said: I don't even remember their name.

The best part about The Alley, though, is that it attracts Everyone. It is the last refuge for the aging hippies who had to get respectable jobs. It is where the sorority girls go, it is where the guys who try too hard go. And they all get out and dance. For example, the average progression of aging hippy from door to floor goes like this: They start the evening by getting buzzed enough to get out on the dance floor and bob along...then they start moving a little more wildly, and the tye-dye shirts under their button down office shirts start to peek out, fast forward to about midnight and they're down to just the tye-dye t-shirts and moving with wild abandon. Multiply that one guy by about 6, include their aging girlfriends/wives and add the sorority girls in trucker hats, mini-denim skirts and finally, add the last guy who has a black silk shirt unbuttoned half way down and looks like he belongs in Miami and you've got The Alley.

Happy New Year!