Doesn't Everyone Enjoy Moorhead?

No sense on wasting money on a
stand-alone welcome sign. Just
glue it to the back of that stop sign.

After my last post, an admiring and heartfelt paean to Fargo, I decided to head across the river and give you my thoughts on Moorhead, Minnesota. Don't worry. This won't take long. Moorhead sucks dick.

The minute you cross any of the many bridges to Moorhead from Fargo, things change. Colors get dimmer. Moods darken. Hope, along with anything resembling a fine dining choice, dies. If you Google "interesting things to do in Moorhead," images of the bridges leading back to Fargo appear.

Moorhead's flourishing commerce district

I spent about a week in Moorhead one morning, walking and driving past its resale shops and Taco John outlets. Like many, I root for underdogs, and I was honestly trying to find something likable about Fargo's dirty, retarded, river-sharing little brother. It was not to be. Not since Kansas have I wished so desperately for instant teleportation technology.

If a train derails in Moorhead, would anyone notice.

The downtown is an ill-defined collection of old, new, and what-the-fuck, bisected annoyingly by the same busy railroad that neighboring Fargo seems to incorporate so much more quaintly. Even the city hall, typically a well-maintained point of civic pride in any other community, is a poorly groomed, architectural melanoma, wrapped in a dying, 1970's era retail mall with a perpetually "going out of business" department store as its anchor tenant. Metaphors notwithstanding, I suppose this might be convenient if you want to save some time and get a copy of your birth certificate, discount dish towels, and a warm pretzel from the single-vendor, food court all at once.

Wife, imitating the do not walk sign, in front of the Moorehead City Hall (slash) retail graveyard

You can suck my Mick!

I made one last-ditch effort to find happiness in Moorhead by way of my stomach. After scouring Google Maps for any place that didn't have a drive-thru window or drinks with lids, I finally came upon Mick's Office, which allegedly makes a decent hamburger and, most importantly, sells alcohol. I went in around noon, and there were only two other patrons in the place, sharing a table in the corner. Three employees were visible in the open kitchen behind the bar. Although I was concerned with the absence of a lunchtime crowd, I didn't really have a Plan B, and I rationalized that the generous, staff-to-patron ratio would bode well for customer service. What a dumb ass I can be. After ten minutes drumming my fingers on the empty bar top and being ignored, I turned around and left without so much as a glance from the occupationally masturbating staff.

I quickly found the nearest bridge back to Fargo. I suggest you do the same.