The Dogfather Speaks

Chuck Green howls into the night.

That's called job security, my friends -- and with Green having just inked a new seven-year contract with the Post, expect him to be around for the long haul whether he's Mr. Popularity or not. "I don't write for my colleagues," he declared. "I don't write for my editors, and I don't write for Westword," (which, he conceded, "fills a void in this community -- not as big a void as it imagines, but it fills a void").

"I consider myself to be a representative of common sense," he went on. "I don't know if that's a definition of a populist or not. But I think that I have a lot of commonality with most people in terms of values, experiences good and bad, sentiments, interests. And I try to hit to all those fields."

Not long thereafter, the dueling tape recorders were clicked off, and Green, with Auggie in tow, escorted me to my car. As he did so, I thought that he looked happier, more at peace than he'd seemed hours earlier. I hadn't been able to solve the JonBenét mystery for him, nor could I bring back dear, departed Gus -- or make those so-called peers of his stop snickering at his work behind his back. But I'd listened to him, at least, and that was something.

Chuck Green plants a wet one on Peaches.
Chuck Green plants a wet one on Peaches.

Chuck probably could have turned the whole meeting into something warm, cuddly, touching -- and maybe just a little bit nauseating. But I just drove away.

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