By Joel Warner
By Michael Roberts
By Alan Prendergast
By Michael Roberts
By Michael Roberts
By Amber Taufen
By Patricia Calhoun
By William Breathes
"Another Round," Letters, July 12
Steve Horner is lower than moronic; he's useless. He's also a bully. The fact that he feels unencumbered by guilt and, in fact, is gleeful when he contacts letter writers and berates them is nothing more than a sorry attempt at intimidation and also indicates incredibly reptilian social habits.
I have some words of warning for Steve Horner. If he attempts to contact me via phone or letter, I will consider that harassment and will ensure that all legal venues at my disposal are utilized to ensure that he regrets committing such a horrendous and infantile gaffe.
Steve Horner is nothing more than a foul-mouthed rabble-rouser who might even sport a bit of pussy envy. Me? I own up to the fact that when I want to get laid with no strings attached, there is nothing better than a decent club with a ladies' night.
Drew Bixby's article about the Ace-Hi Tavern in Golden might have been much more interesting had he actually had most of his facts right. I have been a "regular" at the bar for quite a few years and was wondering where he saw the "shag carpet" and the people "slumped over in a corner booth." There is not now, nor has there ever been, any shag carpet on the floor. Most of the bartenders have worked there for a very long time and will not tolerate anybody slumping over or passing out.
However, the real burr in my saddle comes from his characterization of the regulars as "down-and-out denizens." Admittedly, the crowd at the Ace is not a yuppie group from Cherry Creek, but they are not down and out. The mix of characters in this bar is quite amazing: I can personally name lawyers, corporate managers and vice presidents, computer programmers, engineers, hardworking construction guys, state employees, railroad workers, retired folks, local retail people and on and on and on. I'm sure that just like any place on the planet, some folks might be "down" occasionally. But I know damn near everyone who hangs around the Ace, and I don't know any of them who are "out."
Quite simply, the Ace is "a working man's bar" — whether the man be corporate or construction. Drew Bixby wondering if "at 24 I haven't been dealt enough of life's bullshit and sorrow, haven't cut my teeth working blue-collar jobs or sincerely struggling to make ends meet," is a valid question. Most of the folks at the Ace have been through or are going through those circumstances; youth will not protect you from life's coming storms. But Drew is right that he could "fit right fucking in." Anyone could at the Ace. All you need to be is an honest, straightforward person, lacking in self-absorbed bullshit and pretension. All you have to be is a regular guy — at age 24 or 84.
Stop back some time, Drew. I'll introduce you to some "real" Ace-Hi people and buy you a beer. By the way, I've heard many, many — believe me, far too many — tunes on the jukebox, but I've never heard anyone play the Jackson 5!
"The Nifty Fifties," Letters, July 19
Bobby Davis's letter about The Taffetasmade me want to puke. He evidently feels that his experience of the '50s is the only one. What kind of Ozzie and Harriet world of white-bread privilege did he grow up in? Perhaps he's become brain-damaged from watching too many episodes of Happy Days.
For many people who grew up then, it was a time of violence and repression. The character of Arthur Fonzarelli was drawn from real guys, and they weren't charming. Many kids, including myself, remember being beaten up regularly by dimwits like him. Nobody then cared about bullying; it was just accepted as a part of life.
Marriages that lasted? How many wives hid the evidence of spousal abuse because divorce was unthinkable?
No crap on TV? The only reason there was less crap was because there were fewer channels.
The only good thing to come from the '50s was the beginning of rock and roll. There was Howling Wolf, Muddy Waters, Chuck Berry, Little Richard, Buddy Holly and Richie Valens. Davis missed all that, I guess. Too busy listening to Pat Boone records while playing Parcheesi and sipping Cokes with Mom and Dad. Good, clean fun.