Run for Your Life!
Regarding Steve Jackson's "Life...and Death...on the Run," in the March 14 issue:
Clack clack clack. With his fingers pounding the keyboard at three cliches per second, Steve Jackson knew in his bones his latest story was right on schedule--and in big trouble. Because Steve Jackson knew in his heart he'd need another batch of tried-and-true hackneyed phrases...fast.
That was the trouble with turning out topnotch alternative melodrama that was practically up to the standards of Reader's Digest--you used up every threadbare banality in your pocket-sized mental dictionary...fast--not to mention the heavy wear and tear on your "--" key.
But before Steve Jackson could say one Mississippi, two Mississippi, three Mississippi, he barreled brain-first into a two-foot-thick pile of excess verbiage--a sad and tragic end for a man who'd given every ounce of what little he'd had to make people skip ahead to the classifiedsEfast.
Building for the Future
Regarding T.R. Witcher's "Edifice Wreck," in the March 21 issue:
Those of us interested in the preservation of historic structures can consider ourselves fortunate that the Evans School is owned by the Eber family. Under most scenarios, if not for the Eber family's involvement, we would see a parking lot where this 1904 "crown jewel" now resides.
After the clowns from Denver Urban Renewal had a bash at the demolition of the Golden Triangle, along came the plans for the Denver Convention Center. At the forefront of our very small core of non-sellout property owners stood Dick Eber, fighting hard for the survival of his building.
The preservationist brothers may seem a little slow on their feet in comparison with the new wave of condo king developers; however, after twenty years, I think they deserve a look-and-see posture as to the success of these developments. In the meantime, we have a most historic structure withstanding time and the wrecking ball.
I must take issue with Mark Stevens's letter in the March 14 issue. As the parent of a Mitchell Montessori student, I did everything I could to gather information about the status of the program--only to find myself getting stonewalled by the Denver Public Schools board, as well as by spokesmen like Stevens.
I want to thank Patricia Calhoun for her February 29 column about the situation, "Will They Ever Learn?" She was the first person to explore what losing this program will do to the neighborhood, something even we "whining, white middle-class parents" have worried about and will continue to worry about even after it is relocated to southwest Denver.
Name withheld on request
The Sound and the Jury
Regarding Off Limits in the March 21 issue:
The Denver Post has clearly prejudiced the McVeigh case and even more so the Nichols case. While publishing statements from a "member of the grand jury" sells papers, it also prejudices anyone who may be a prospective juror at the trial. There is no way anyone who read the article can honestly say that they have not been prejudiced one way or the other.
Mr. Pankratz and the Denver Post should be held in contempt to the tune of a million dollars until they produce the "member of the grand jury." The "member of the grand jury" should be fined the maximum and placed in jail for at least a year.
Violating the sanctity of the grand jury destroys its credibility. Many things and names are placed before a grand jury that have nothing to do with its query. By releasing anything said at a grand jury hearing, the juror has broken his sacred trust and oath. It's like a priest divulging a confession or your doctor divulging that you have AIDS.
It is very clear that jurors can be bought! I hope the court finds the "member of the grand jury."
High Water Marks
This is in reference to Stuart Steers's "Dry County," in the February 7 issue. It was an excellent discourse, thoroughly researched and clearly written on a very serious resource--water. I compliment you and your newspaper for informing the public.
Walter U. Garstka
For the last two and a half years, I have had a curious relationship with "food critics." I had always known they existed but failed to pay attention until I began my career as a "fine dining" food server. Waiting tables at restaurants such as Al Fresco/European Cafe in downtown Denver and Papillon Cafe in Cherry Creek, I learned quickly that "food critics" are people with tremendous power and influence. Some earned their positions through hard work within the industry, but most started as outsiders and found a way to get paid to consume and comment upon food. Every newspaper has at least one of these "food critics," regardless of who they are or how they got their jobs, and once my eyes were opened, I began to pay attention to them.
Around November of last year, I hung up my fine-dining apron because of the flexible hours offered by a day job and ended up employed at the Laughing Dog Deli. I had some distinct reasons for wanting to work there. Waiting tables, I had developed some values concerning restaurant intangibles such as good quality, presentation and timeliness. Both Lisa and Andrew (owner/operators of Laughing Dog Deli) have worked over twenty years in the fine-dining industry; I knew there would be no conflicts concerning these restaurant intangibles.
Keeping this in mind, I have a few issues to address concerning Kyle Wagner's review of the Laughing Dog Deli (Mouthing Off, March 14). She said that her first experiment with the Suburban sandwich was a good one; I can understand her response. She said she had a horrible second try because the "same helpful soul had added so many onions they were all [she] could taste." I have a problem with this statement: There are no onions on the Suburban sandwich (unless, of course, you request them). She also said her creamy chicken soup "transmogrified into a spicy, tomato-based concoction with two bits of bird." When I checked the records, they revealed that we have never made a spicy-tomato and chicken soup.
I work at the Laughing Dog Deli for one reason: quality. Quality of the food. Quality of my co-workers. Quality of the entire operation. When you are in business for yourself and your reputation is all that you have, there are few other values that seem important.
Timothy D. Marsolais
I own a business near the Laughing Dog and frequent the deli for breakfast and lunch. Having traveled extensively (including a great deal to New York), I have been to hundreds of small delis.
I strongly suggest Kyle Wagner and Westword's readers give the Laughing Dog another try--for breakfast, the one-egg sandwich, made to order (awesome); for lunch, the White Bridge roast beef sandwich. The best in town!
Editor's note: For more on the Laughing Dog, see page 56.
Regarding Brad Jones's "Irons in the Fire," in the March 14 issue:
Cool article on Five Iron Frenzy. It's pretty much laying it out there. These guys are my friends, I am proud to say, even, uh, Jeff Ortega, "The Girl" chick woman. I was raised in church, was a "good Christian." Then one day I looked at what was happening--Swaggart pet the lizard, Bakker took his work home, Falwell, oh well, what the hell?? I became of my own volition a "solitary pagan," sick to nauseum of what "Christianity" had to offer. Oh, boy. Rabid preachers, pseudo-intellectuals sprinkled or dunked. I was sick of this junk. Tell me 'bout Jesus, I'd really like to know. Do you think he still loves me? Obviously so. Been told by the eclect about his elect, by the deformed taught about the reformed. Got out my herbicide, killed all the tulips, which is the favorite plant of the weed of Calvinism, took God all the way off the shelf out of the box, what I found when I opened my box was not God at all but a bag of rocks. Like the ones they attempted to stone Jesus with when He said what He did. The box is gone, my concepts are, too. The stones I keep and launch at will aimed at the Gospel Gestapo. Here, Brad, is a toast to you.
The Devil Made Him Do It
In response to Joe Christ's letter in the March 14 issue:
Get thee behind me, you silly, silly devil man! I am John Baptist, and Denver is my spooky art domain. I am the worst nightmare you'll never capture on film.
The Mile High Gorgon!
Le Gros Guignol!
The Ik! in shriek!
I eat 500-pound goth chick for breakfast. They play tic-tac-toe on my back with bear-hunting knives while I tell jokes. "Knock, knock." "Who's there?" "Christ." "Christ Who?" "Joe Christ." Ha ha! Joe Christ in a Christler for Chrissakes, leaving Denver because all the galleries laugh this silly, silly devil man away and make room for me, John Baptist! Ha ha ha!
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If there is any doubt about my status as Denver's scariest scary man I will have you know a film crew from Esztergom, Hungary, is currently producing a documentary on my life. Not yours! And not that 3.2 Anne Rice wife of yours who supports a silly charlatan's home-movie hobby!
Ha ha ha ha ha!
Thank you for your cooperation.
Name withheld on request
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