Tomorrow our lives will change forever

“Tomorrow our lives will change forever,” I yelled from my bedroom. Paulie was in his room in front of a movie sleeping or awake, I wasn’t sure. I was sitting at my tiny thrift store desk looking at the touch-tone phone and imagining it ringing non-stop as soon as we passed out the papers the next morning.

That first issue was designed in Andy Jehn’s (now Andy Kennnedy) apartment, and after it came off the printer, photo copies needed to be made and folded. By the end of the next day we had handed out about 250 copies of what we perceived to be the most important thing to come to the Valley since the chair lift. The phone didn’t ring off the hook that day - in fact, the phone didn’t ring at all, at least not after that first issue.

We started The Local in January 2001 because at that time there wasn’t a community forum, and in our opinion, without a place for people to share their ideas, you can’t have a healthy community. It took a while for things to take off. People in the Yampa Valley are pretty weary about new things, especially a couple of loudmouth punks with the audacity to call their paper “The Local.” (But after all, it was born here)

Those first few years were fun. Really fun - in fact, too much fun. Bloody Mary reviews, energy drink reviews, art openings; concerts, more concerts… the list goes on. About the time Paulie sold his second car to pay for his share of the printing, we decided that we should probably start selling ads. I still remember that first ad sale fondly. When Paul and Seth at Café Diva gave us that check we thanked them, shook hands and proceeded to celebrate our newly acquired profits by spending them only a few steps away at their bar.
Paulie and I changed a lot over the years. As our 20s became our 30s, the paper began to gain credibility, mostly because of the amazing people in our community who submitted articles, photos, letters and bought ads. Both of us volunteer time and energy by getting involved in groups outside of The Local. The root of both of our personal missions is building community, and I think that is why The Local has been so successful throughout the years.

Paulie likes to joke about how when people come up to talk to him, how many of their conversations begin with “I really shouldn’t be telling you this but…” I usually add that if we really wanted to make money we’d sell the photos and stories that don’t make the paper back to those involved. (Don’t worry; we don’t own a newspaper anymore.)
Different people and groups have approached us on many occasions these past eight years about buying the paper. Up until now, we have said no for a number of reasons, but mostly because we enjoy the paper and the community that the paper is a part of. For that reason, when Tom approached us a number of months ago, we were wary, but over the past four months we have watched Tom work and had numerous conversations about the direction The Local will take. We have faith that Tom has what it takes to make sure that The Local continues to serve the community. But as always, The Local only works because of community participation. Please keep submitting photos, letters, gripes, props, smidgens, writing and of course, buying ads. We want to see The Local continue to thrive long after we are old and gray.

As for me, I’m going to keep writing and taking photos, which is why I wanted to get into this business in the first place. I’m also going to go off again on more world travels. I have eight years of wander lust to satiate. You can find me on scottglackman.blogspot.com. I’ll send the occasional story in from the road, and if there’s room, maybe Tom will print them. Thank you for the opportunity to assist in putting out The Local for all these years. It has truly been a pleasure.

No News is Good News... For Me.

Imagine an elephant sitting in front of you. He takes up most of your vision, except perhaps a few strips on the periphery. Now imagine not being able to talk about this elephant or even mention him for four months. That’s how these past four months have felt. WE SOLD THE LOCAL. There is lots more to say, but we have decided not to talk about it until the next issue comes out on August 28. For now, I’ll attach the article written in the Steamboat Today. http://steamboatpilot.com/news/2008/aug/22/local_takes_new_owner/

Liberation, at last!

The other morning as I was lying in bed, I felt a strange lightness of being, as if I were iron filings and a magnet was brushing over me. At that point, I let my consciousness go free to research the sensation and surprisingly, it only made it as far as the bathroom cabinet.

Seven years ago I moved out of the apartment that housed Paulie, me, The Local and various in and out-of-town visitors and into a one bedroom apartment of my own. I didn’t have many possessions at the time. It didn’t take long to extract myself from one space and inject myself into the other. The move was incident free… until the crash.

I had never considered myself overly superstitious, or maybe it was just that I hadn’t overly considered superstitions, but when I slid the box of bathroom supplies onto the counter pushing the little two-sided vanity mirror off, it opened up a whole can of superstition worms I didn’t know existed.

OK, maybe I’m a little superstitious. I always knock on wood for me or anyone around me when a phrase is uttered that seems to challenge fate. When salt is spilled, I always throw a dash over my shoulder, and. I always go around a ladder rather than passing underneath. I do these things more for fun than out of fear. I consider little superstitions like this seasoning to a potentially bland life. But suffering the fate of a broken mirror, that was something I had never had to deal with. Not until that day seven years ago.

The memory comes in three phases: The mirror sliding off the counter, the explosion on impact, and then the cleaning up the shards of broken glass. Each of these comes with its own emotion: Annoyance that I didn’t move the mirror first, fear of what would happen when it hit the ground, and finally, bewilderment.

“Don’t cry over spilled milk” didn’t work for me as I brushed the shards into a pile. This was bigger than that. My rational mind came up with reasons for why this superstition started. Perhaps the fragmented reflection seen in the broken mirror sliced at the delicate psyche, taking seven years to heal. Maybe when the superstition was born mirrors were so expensive that they equaled seven years salary of the persons unlucky enough to break them? Whatever the reason, it was up to me to convince myself that it was only a superstition. I thought I was successful. The slices on my fingers healed in a matter of days, and I have felt pretty lucky over these past seven years. So what was it that left me the other morning? Was it something my subconscious was holding on to? Was it truly bad luck leaving? Does it really matter?

I don’t think it matters. They say our lives move in seven year cycles and when I look at mine, I can see this is true. I wouldn’t go back to that day and move the mirror. Whatever has happened, I’m happy for the lessons learned. That seven years of uneasiness will just make the next seven that much sweeter. Oh no, is that a black cat crossing my path.