Patrick Jacobs

To paraphrase an old quip from some unknown wit, the only things that will survive the impending nuclear holocaust are cockroaches, Cher and Hudson’s Hamburgers. Eventually, all situations must go pear-shaped and come to an end, and so is the sad fate of this humble little local section of the newspaper you hold in your ink-smeared fingers. You can put away that bottle of Jack Daniels and dry your tears – shameless plug alert – because new columns will continue to happen at www.getoutnorthidaho.com.

Fashion wise, different cultures bring in the New Year in a variety of different ways. For example, fancy panties are de rigueur for folks in Brazil, Ecuador, Bolivia, and Venezuela; red underpants are supposed to bode well for love in the new year, while yellow knickers indicate dreams of money. Here in North Idaho it doesn’t really matter what color your skivvies are, at least for the most part.

Over the last four or so years that I’ve been haunting local eateries with the intent of giving them a critical shakedown, I’ve committed to print probably more than a handful of things I would sooner or later come to feel a twinge of regret about. I look back now at some of the early reviews and it’s often apparent that I hadn’t yet learned the value of smoothing down painfully blunt snarkiness into more of a semi-pleasant verbal bruise.

Swing Magazine was a relatively short-lived but popular national magazine which was published during the early to mid-1990s and included the tag line “Life In Your Twenties” under the masthead on the cover. It was one of the very first publications geared heavily toward “Generation X,” a group of people who had begun to graduate from college and was just starting to make enough money to consider where they wanted to establish a career and settle down.

Several months ago, we took a look at which restaurants and nightspots made certain local residents light up with glee like a Christmas tree. Here’s the rundown on another three local movers and shakers. DJ Brentano (Baja Bargarita/The Torch Lounge)

To quote that great would-be novelist Snoopy, it was a dark and stormy night. It was the first major snowstorm of the season and all the local TV weather personalities were ablaze with the threat of an imminent blizzard that would add another deep layer to the fresh 6 inches of snow already blanketing the landscape. I drive paranoid-style in winter conditions, and cruising gingerly down Seltice Way, I’d managed to pick up a tailgating, four-wheel drive lunatic behind me, swerving, headlights blazing. I was positive I was going to have to brake suddenly for something, whereby I’d be neatly rear-ended and my car would go up in flames instantly like a 1978 Ford Pinto.

Trace your hand on a brown paper bag, cut it out, glue construction paper feathers on the fingers, and hang it on your momma’s fridge, because once again, Turkey Day is upon us. Despite the potential terror of distant relatives bearing mysterious Jell-O salads, most people like to celebrate Thanksgiving at home with their families. There’s comfort to be found in the sound of the Macy’s parade on the television, the scent of a slowly roasting domestic fowl heavy in the air, and the sight of your dear Auntie passed out face down in the cheese-and-crackers platter after her fifth dirty martini.

Like a hot, greasy burger patty sliding off a stainless steel spatula onto an awaiting bun, some eateries just don’t stick with me. Sometimes I’ll drive around wondering where to eat and certain restaurants don’t even pop out and beckon my attention at all. Eventually, I might notice them and think “of course, it was there the whole time,” but even after I finally make a visit or two, I’m still left with a blank, with nothing especially memorable to report, but no real complaints either.