By Alan Prendergast
By Michael Roberts
By Michael Roberts
By Amber Taufen
By Patricia Calhoun
By William Breathes
By Michael Roberts
By Melanie Asmar
Russia to judgment: Julie Jargon's "Russian Roulette" and "For Love or Money," in the September 25 issue, were interestingly sensational. I seriously doubt the veracity of most of what she wrote. The outright theme was that only desperate old men and people with many personal and legal problems get involved in this shady, next-to-illegitimate and certainly immoral kind of activity.
I am 48 years old, American by birth, well-educated and financially very well-to-do. I am divorced with two sons now in college, whom I raised by myself after my American wife decided to be like Frank Sinatra and "do it her way." I met and married a Russian woman through mutual friends in Canada four years ago. She loves family, is proud of our home, unconditionally supports me and is far more assertive than any American woman I've ever met. I did it because for most men, American women -- particularly women over 35 -- have become impossible to deal with. They are rude, have a what's-in-it-for-me attitude, and fame and fortune is their goal.
Redo your story, and look at how American women behave in divorce court and probate court. I think you would be stunned at the reality. This is the real dirty little secret of marriage in America. The American female population has taken itself out of the gene pool and is the true master of sex and marriage for money.
Your mail-order bride story was silly. Internet dating is everywhere. Katie Couric promoted it on the Today show. American women don't like the idea that when American men use this technology to date across borders; it becomes harder for them to find a good man. Any good man in his right mind would certainly be looking in other parts of the world to find women who are better-educated, feminine instead of feminist, enjoy smelling good and dress with personal pride -- instead of the Cherry Creek Mall pigs-under-a-blanket fashion statement.
Till debt do us part: "Russian Roulette" was quite accurate. I have come to know a few people who have played this game, and not only did they unknowingly get caught up in what they thought was true love, they lost small fortunes in the process. These girls, be they Ukrainian or Russian, will do anything, be it by their own recognizance or by enlisting the aid of people with questionable character to help achieve their desired goal of obtaining a green card or financial gain or both. I know this because I was used for the same purpose by my now ex-wife.
via the Internet
A word to the wives:When are you going to write an article about men who go to Russia and bring those women here and then physically abuse them? Your article made it sound like this Russian woman killed her husband. I think it was a cheap shot.
Josefina Ygoa did not care about her son's life and drug abuse...just the money.
via the Internet
Kenny makes the grade: Kenny Be's "Conservative Arts Major" satire of David Horowitz (Worst-Case Scenario, October 2) was fantastic! I loved it. One of the things I've missed since leaving the economic boneyard that was Denver in the mid-'80s was being able to see Kenny Be's take on current events in Westword. Does this week's comic presage a move for Kenny Be to greater markets and national events like that other Denver satirist, Pat Oliphant? I can only hope.
Ever since Kenny's "Burnin' Down the (Frat) House" outraged the local Greek-letter societies, I knew that this was one guy to watch.
A rally big show: I wanted to thank David Holthouse for his story addressing the marriage between pro sports and militarism ("Red, White, Orange and Blue," September 25). Sports fanaticism is ideal for developing jingoist patterns of thought that are useful to rally the populace for war.
I also appreciated Michael Roberts's "Power Up" in the same issue, on the democratizing potential of low-power FM stations. I'd submit that high-power AM (talk radio) is also a democratizing force, but only to the extent that the team spirit that pits "liberals" versus "conservatives" is tempered and an exchange of ideas can ensue. KNRC host Doug Kellett is a good example of how committed right-wingers can hold a civil conversation with people who hold differing views. And while KOA has a great evening lineup, it would be refreshing if they replaced the tape-delayed and predictable Rush Limbaugh with someone live and local and real, like Donna Star.
Lastly, your readers may be interested to know that there's a major conference on media reform taking place in November in Madison, Wisconsin (www.mediareform.net). I don't think a squadron of F-16s will be doing a flyover, but maybe a few VW vans will circle the lecture hall.
So we honkies can't speak Spanish, huh? I guess that means that some Hispanics can't speak English, either. Vincent Sandoval shows his ignorance of the nuances of both languages in his comments regarding the translation of "el grito."
Pilgrim's progress: Vincent Sandoval sounds like he's so convicted, like everyone and everything around him is wrong. He should use his judgment and think. There are how many people in this country, this great country of different races? Hmmm, let me think for a minute here: Every country in the world! If Sandoval is out to make a statement, he is dead wrong. The only statement he is making is his ignorance and foolish pride. This is the United States of America, not the United States of Mexico or France or England.
If you can't speak the language that's been spoken here since the first Pilgrims arrived -- which is the English language -- then learn it, or use your right to leave.
On her own: John La Briola's "It's Now or Never," in the September 25 issue, was an excellent article. I had the distinct pleasure of seeing Lisa Marie that Thursday evening. I was more surprised by what I saw than I was by what I didn't. I was expecting some outlandishly clad, overly made-up, obnoxious woman. What I saw was a well-dressed, almost timid performer with a sort of Pat Benatar style. She was gracious to her audience and even more gracious out back of the Gothic, signing autographs for approximately a hundred people.
Lisa Marie, your father would have been proud of you and this new endeavor you have chosen. You have proven to Denver that you do not need Jacko or Nicky.
Chile con comedy: As a dedicated yet relocated Westword junkie (or a carpetbagger who moved back home -- your call), I have sentimental favorites: Alan Prendergast, for his writing style, which is so compelling I end up reading about subjects I'd usually pass up, and Kenny Be, who just totally rocks. So imagine my surprise to find myself worshiping at a new shrine: that of Jason Sheehan.
I've been reading him religiously and enjoying his prose whilst sneering contemptuously at those who'd like to have him skewered. But I had to write after reading his Jack-n-Grill article ("Thank You!," September 18), especially as I found myself licking the pages of Westword and looking for JetBlue flights at the same time.
His paean to green (pork) chile had me beating my breast and ripping at my clothes, since, outside of my own kitchen, I have as much of a chance to chow down on that ambrosia in New York City as I do to have extramarital sex with Eminem. Quel fromage!
Thank you, Mr. Sheehan, for evoking that much-missed food; and if I tarry too long on the shores of the Hudson River and miss my chance to eat the fiery substance at Jack-n-Grill, I swear there will be hell to pay.
New York City
Pots and panache: I don't even go to restaurants, and I love Jason Sheehan's column. I love how he's romanticized restaurant life. It's one step better than Bourdain or Trillin or any of those other food hacks who try to spin a yarn. He's taken food and made it into life. My Jewish mother has tried to take food and make it into life as well, but she simply doesn't have the same panache. I'm writing to thank Jason for giving me a wonderful reason to read Westword.
The Italian job: I don't care what some of those weird letter writers say; I love Jason Sheehan's writing and his opinions. "Same Old, Same Old," his September 11 review of Three Sons, made me laugh out loud. I am a middle-aged old bat who loves to eat out, and although I have never had a meal as bad as the one he described, I have suffered through some pretty marginal dishes. Thanks for all the great entertainment.
via the Internet
A fine line: Jason Sheehan's "Same Old, Same Old" read more like a malicious vendetta, be it professional or personal, than a restaurant review of Three Sons. It makes one wonder who really is behind this horrible review of an excellent Italian restaurant that has been a mainstay of popular fine dining in north Denver for years.
Reality bites:I am an absolute fan (in the true "fanatic" definition) of Sheehan's weekly column. After weeks of reading his reviews, I am quite sure I could happily follow him to the ends of the culinary earth.
After "Same Old, Same Old," I was compelled to write for the first time. I am a north Denver Italian girl (third generation) who just recently moved back to this city after my own stint on the right coast. Sheehan's review of this depressing excuse for a restaurant was dead-on. Frankly, it was dead-on twenty years ago.
Three Sons was the one Italian place in our neighborhood my parents never took us to. I went maybe a couple of times with friends' families, but I never enjoyed it. Of course, I rarely enjoyed anything Italian as a child that didn't come out of my grandmother's kitchen, and I thought perhaps my remembered distaste stemmed from my parents' grumblings, so I just had to check it out for myself when I moved back here. I thought that maybe after some time in New York, I would be able to appreciate its East Coast flavor more.
I just wish I had read this before I wasted my time.