In which Amber evades a switchblade-wielding would-be mugger

The Best Bud and the Switchblade

For the love of God, Amber, move back to Wyoming.

The first mugging ... OK. He got your phone, you got away, you came home for the Best Worst Christmas Ever in one uncut, unbruised piece, and we gave thanks. But an SUV full of men pulling over and pulling out a switchblade as you run screaming after a taxi?

Eighth Street in Laramie has a complete absence of switchblades and SUVs full of thugs. Gillette. Sheridan. Thermopolis. Powell. Pick a town in Wyoming, that town's Eighth Street most likely has no switchblades or thuggy muggers who would wield them.

At least quit walking alone at night in D.C.

I'm workin' here!

In other news, co-worker B's up-til-4-a.m. eight months of work boiled down to going live with the Web site over the weekend, and it's fantastic. Two recurring reactions that got my attention:

1) "You have so much more local content!" OK.

2) "I hope you'll put up more local content." There will always be the cheapskate freeloaders who want everything in the print edition to be posted online for free, and we'll always get a chuckle when they say so. It's a great tradition. SSDD.

Utterly random

— It's odd how you can go from not seeing someone — almost ever — to suddenly seeing them everywhere you go in a single day. Like, everywhere. Stalk much? (I'm kidding. Maybe.) Which reminds me of the reporter who wrote about a store that was looking for "night stalkers" ... these things keep me employed.

— I forgot how spicy "spicy" can be. And I had no idea a soup broth could be that spicy. Rachel and I were a chorus of sniffles as we ate our Tom Yum soup. It was fantastic; spicy food just seemed like a really good idea before heading to an indoor ice arena to sit for two hours while watching the UW Club Hockey team slap a puck around. And now I'm hungry.

— I found something I thoroughly enjoy in my job. I told my boss about it, and she gave it to someone else. Seriously ...

— I'm in love. With http://www.overheardinthenewsroom.com/. Bit of an affair going on here.

Example:

Editor shouting to photo desk: "We need wild art!"
Intern: "Who the hell is Art, and is he buying?"

— I have a soft spot for trashy pop music, and I feel guilty sometimes for hitting replay on Cobra Starship on playslist.com. The stuff keeps me happy and looking like a head-bobbing idiot at work. I just can't stand to actually look at Lady Gaga. Put some actual clothes on. You, too, Pink.

— I can't understand how sporting events that are supposed to highlight the best of the best among athletes who have busted their asses and probably eat a scientifically calculated diet are commemorated among their fans with an all-you-can-eat food free-for-all. The Super Bowl. The Olympics. You name the event, people want to consume as much grease and cheese and alcohol as they can while sitting on their ever-expanding rearends and watching specimens of physical discipline and near-perfection fling their lean, muscled bodies across 60-inch flat-screen plasma HD televisions. America, you confound me. Yes, I'm laying out a Super Bowl-oriented food page.