By Alan Prendergast
By Michael Roberts
By Michael Roberts
By Amber Taufen
By Patricia Calhoun
By William Breathes
By Michael Roberts
By Melanie Asmar
After reading the letters attacking Patricia Calhoun for her very good article about Coach McCartney ("Is Nothing Sacred?," January 18), I wanted to write in her support. Why is it that when a woman writes something that needs to be said, people respond by criticizing her personally rather than discussing what she has written? Is it "bitchy" to tell the truth?
And the Hits Keep Coming
A scribe hungry gun nut named King
Deigned to provide Patty a ring
He told a ludicrous lie
About a nice DA guy
Off Limits, she wrote King's whole thing.
Chief Deputy District Attorney
Guess who I ran into today (at the gun show, of course, where all of us armed patriots congregate): the guy who all the minions of the ministry of misinformation otherwise known as the FBI already have me in league with. I met Stew Webb for the first time. He was at the gun show with his material, and he wasn't aware of your Off Limits article, but I pointed out one thing. He said you made it seem like I actually incriminated myself with a picture of the actual rocket launcher. I did not have an actual rocket launcher; otherwise, they would have arrested me. It was just an empty one.
But, anyway, the world better watch out now. Stew Webb and Daniel King have actually met, and--who knows?--maybe we're conspiring to overthrow something.
Ashes to Ashes, Rust to Dust
Thank you for Robin Chotzinoff's article on George Murray ("Love Among the Ruins," January 25). I would have been at his funeral had I known.
George told me of one time he was taken to the back of his lot by local cops and had the hell beat out of him. He said it taught him a lesson. I hope he gave as good as he got.
George told me more than once that I had big hands and a hell of a handshake. I always thought he was big enough to hunt bear with a switch.
I knew George had severe depression bouts, and I am not surprised he took his own life. I respect his wishes, and the spirit of George Murray is welcome at any time around me.
As a longtime friend and fellow junkman, I am sure George will understand when I say, "Rust in peace!"
The Edge of Right
Regarding Karen Bowers's "The Powers of Persuasion," in the February 1 issue:
Last year, I followed with great interest Ms. Bowers's "Life on the Edge" article that was published March 23, 1994. I was on the Edgewater City Council at the time and have since resigned. I noticed that the only letter to the editor addressing that article was from none other than the infamous Pauline York. The one statement from her letter that stands out in my mind is: "Who cares?"
When it comes to what may amount to obstruction of justice, Ms. York, I care. Obviously that is not an opinion shared by the Jeffco DA or our state senator and state representative, because they have consistently been made aware of this situation for the past year. That isn't even covering the complaints on Ms. York in regard to campaign-law violations filed with the secretary of state, the Jefferson County Clerk and the city clerk over the past four years. I have learned the hard way that red tape makes things disappear as if by magic.
Having attended Judge Klein's Edgewater court, I thought your story was about as lame as the cases he seems to get. However, don't you think he would look great with a conductor's hat and a gold railroad watch? Though not as big as Captain Kangaroo and not as quaint as the little tiny conductor on Shining Time Station, Klein would look great at the helm of one of those new RTD light-rail trains. A few spare tokens to jangle in his pocket would add a nice touch.
It would seem that with a sizable tax base, Edgewater surely has the finest judge it can buy.
Please sign me "name withheld." I have to live in Edgewater, and I don't want to have my name on a token hit list. I've got a bigger shovel if you need it; keep digging.
Name withheld on request
Regarding Eric Dexheimer's "Hop to It," in the February 1 issue:
As a resident of the eastern plains, I can tell you that the coming grasshopper plague is real and it is natural--as are many of the other cycles that our mysterious world provides us.
What is also real are the agra-chemical multinationals' attempts to make nature a villain and man heroic in killing off the critters. Be they bug, deer or coyote, Con Agra has something to kill 'em off. This will, for a price, deliver more slightly-more-expensive wheat to the table. However, there is a downside to the whole chemical stew we must eat. There are cancers of all sorts and types that carry off the agriculturalist and his workers as well as the happy Douglas County resident, the Republican congressman and the urban journalist.
The counties, the state and the feds then take more money to control pests. The poison gas-makers have killed off every natural critter that would make a difference to the infestations that are about to occur. Why worry about who's paying the spray bill? We all know who will: people. They are paying to be killed off, a beau geste.
The town I live in spends a lot of money spraying poisons; the excuse is to eliminate mosquitoes, but the real result is the killing off of the pesky songbirds and other eaters of the insect so Cargill can sell more poison gas and employ more chemists. Thus the price of the bread that even a Westword reporter eats is leavened. People have little knowledge of what goes into the federally mandated policy of cheap wheat no matter what the price.
Since there has been total federal control of the Western rangeland for the past hundred years, we shouldn't have to look far to assign some of the blame. "Trust me, I'm from the government..." Until the Western rancher and wheat farmer become responsible citizens, it looks like they will remain on welfare in a very similar state to the inner-city welfare queens, except they'll be driving a new pickup and living on rented land.
Regarding Michael Roberts's "Will the Peak Inherit the Earth?" in the February 1 issue:
The article on the ratings war between the local radio stations is very similar to wondering who farts the loudest, Tweedledum or Tweedledee. Music, not just rock, is in its worst state since Pat Boone was king of the rock-and-roll singers in the late 1950s.
Here's a thought experiment: Take the years from 1940 to 1967 and observe how popular music changed and grew in that period. Now do the same for the years 1968 to 1995. It is obvious to me that much of today's music is only rehashing the breakthroughs of the 1960s, and rather poorly at that. We need some leaders, and soon.
I don't know how many people would agree that this is an exciting time to be a Denver radio listener. The ingestion of smaller, upstart stations by large-bankroll communication magnates and the fight by other "alternatives" to produce a "softer, safer sound" has left nothing but a bad taste in my ear.
How can stations profess to be "fresh and innovative"? Wake up and smell the coffee, people. To be safe is to be afraid.
If advertising and channel-surfing are all that you're relying on to keep your ratings, then you've already been emasculated. Toughen up, push the envelope a little. And maybe in the process you'll grow some balls (and listeners).
Ask and Ye Shall Deceive
Michael, Michael, Michael. Just dropping you a line in regard to your original "Stairway to Hell" article and the follow-up "You Asked for It" in the January 25 issue.
Do you think it's possible for you to be any more anti-Seventies? Must be that you and your readers are a bunch of Nineties-loving kind of clods--baggy-pants-wearing, brainless bozos who actually believe Hootie and the Blowfish and Toad the Wet Sprocket are important parts of music history. Well, I've got news for you, Captain Clueless. The groups of the Nineties have as much chance of enduring the test of time as Madonna's virginity had a chance of lasting till she was eighteen: none. And who is more dense, you or your readers? Putting down the likes of Journey, Elton, the Eagles and Zeppelin in any form is pure musical ignorance. When's the last time one of your Nineties clowns sold out a 70,000-seat stadium? Never! But they can fill a cafe or theater near you!
If you and your mindless readers think the Seventies were that bad, you all need to take a long look at the talentless, unmemorable decade you're living in now. Then, and only then, will you realize that the decade was pretty great, and never again will it ever be equaled!