Posts Tagged ‘letter to the editor’

Editors Note: This letter was initially sent to the two local papers here in the Aspen area, though neither paper chose to publish. The issue in question is whether our small community should or should not vote to approve the taxes to fund a killer new rec center, which I believe is sorely needed in our “mid-valley” area. 

Don’t Believe the Greedy: Working Class Residents of the Mid-Valley Need the Crown Mountain Recreation Center

Bro’s and dudettes,
It is with fierce urgencyness that I write to the editors of this steamed journalistic endeavor in high hopes that my personal evacuations can be spiked into the public record.

Rockers, I urge you all to get your reps in like big dogs and vote often to pass Measurables 4C and 4D and let the mid-valley finally have the sweat factory it needs and deserves. It’s time to stop the bitching and start the lifting you Sally’s!

That wet, white stuff is falling again, and with it I find myself seeking an indoor place to push some iron, shoot some hoops, and make some waves. The prob is, to do so, we working-class mid-valleyerianites have to travel from here to Muscle Beach and back just to use the sweet facilities that our bro-munities have built for themselves. That’s a lot of time on the roads, bros!  We loc’s need the Crown Mountain Recreation Center to get our groove on here in our own burly neck of the woods without wasting all of that fuel and GTL time getting to the rack and back.

Call me kooky, but it seems to me that the greedy yup’s writing to the paper to complain about having to pay $2000 per year extra on their property taxes either made that number up, did the math wrong (what with the published $60 per year per $100,000 of appraised home value proposed as funding for the killer new gym) or, if I did their math right, have houses worth millions and maybe not oughta complain about not being able to pay for their kids’ schoolitation. Like, maybe have the kid get a job at the Rec, yo? That should help get their college fund AND their bod’s pumped up!

We regular Joe Old Snowmastadons, Basaltines, Emmaites, and El Jebelinarians have suffered enough from the migratory greed that has flowed DV ever since The Crippler got 86’ed. Give us and our kids a spot and let’s pass these Measurements and build this prime slice of radness so that we can reach our maxes here at home in the MV!


C. Madison Anderson

Emma, CO



“Leave all the afternoon for exercise and recreation, which are as necessary as reading. I will rather say more necessary because health is worth more than learning.” – Thomas Jefferson


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May 16, 2010

Military Channel
Programming Department
Re: Sub-standard Television

Dear Sir, or Madam Programming Director,

Recently, thanks to a fantastic, and ultimately unavoidable opportunity that arrived in the form of a constant stream of unsolicited mail, my household has come under the distractible sway of the Direct TV broadcast system.

Prior to this boondoggle, our familial evening entertainment was restricted to obsolete acts of sentimental fancy, such as face to face conversation, the reading of novels, and the occasional marital boot-knocking. I don’t know how we survived without it, to be honest.

Now, we are provided with endless televised programming from an incredible diversity of networks and product-shillers. The other night, when the pneumonia kicked in and there was nothing to do but wait for death or dawn, I personally counted over 100 simultaneously broadcast programs devoted to cheaply designed workout/torture devices. Intrigued by the array of choices, but unable to simply choose due to acute codeine intoxication, I rigged the DVR function to record them all at once for future playback. My wife was slightly out of tune about the erasing of her collected spook-hunting programs, but has since retreated from her silence and has even started to message me on Facebook when I forget to lock something or turn a light out.

The sheer volume of digital choice has turned me into an unmanageably voracious viewer, and as a long-time admirer of military drama, there is no channel (other than the occasional Showtime “spice” hour) that has garnered my utterly divided attention more than your own. Thanks to digital recorders, television phones, workplace “research” and a car-mounted dish that pipes in your signal while I commute, I have actually averaged more than 24 hours a day of Military Channel viewing for two months straight. That is, until a programming shock last night halted that streak like an internal Vatican investigation.

I was just settling into my couch-bed after my nightly eyeball-scrubbing, when I saw that a favorite topic was about to be featured on your channel. Submarines!

I love almost all subs. The Hunt For Red October. The Life Aquatic with Steve Zissou. Togo’s Deli. Hellcats of the Navy is one of my all-time favorite Ronald Reagan/Nancy Davis (no/pun) vehicles. Hell, that movie may have single-handedly changed the fate of the entire world, for better or worse. Had it turned out better, Reagan might have continued to concentrate on movie making rather than fall into one of his foul depressions and consider, of all things, politics.

At any rate, my interest was quite piqued when your show began. And with that unusual focus, I watched with alternating sensations of admiration and fear as your top ten ticked down. Admiration for the men who lived and died in these barreling death tubes, and fear that your humorless producers would deign to leave off the most devastating, world-changing sub of all, the Yellow Submarine, which briefly (but brilliantly) sailed under the freaky flag of the Peace Patrol.

As that internalized battle waged, I made note of a few necessary conciliations given to what must be considered enemy navy’s. Your judges decided to sprinkle, for the sake of appearances, and a likely necessarily (so I would imagine) – a Jap model and a Russian sub in among the historic American and British submarines.

And as a good and prideful southern boy, you can imagine the old cheer that welled up in me as the last and top number was about to be revealed. We descendents of the old rebels of yore may have rehabilitated, for the most part, our social mores (and those that haven’t are Twinkie-sucking diabetics with rotten teeth and a wholly irrational, unfounded appreciation of Kenny Chesney), but we have never forgotten that the Hunley was the first submarine to sink an enemy warship when it downed the ill-fated Housatonic.

But rather than devote the top ranking to the most historic sub of the entire floating, sinking, torpedoing genre, your producers astonishingly gave that honor to a Nazi sub, and did so in a breathless narrative that made me question the very nature of your origins! What is this Nazi worship? I can’t imagine that you would have the balls to pull the same shit if a similar show was to rank the greatest armies. Or would you? What a goddamned insult to every single American sailor who put out to sea, in a world turned upside down, to go chase those fascist assholes around the ends of the earth. What’s left of Hemingway is spinning in its grave up there in Idaho. If Reagan were here, he’d have your treasonous asses thrown off the air quicker than you can count to Zehn, and have every single one of you permanently relegated to the backwater eddy of redneck-exploiting infomercial programming. That guy loved the FCC. He made it his bitch, so to speak.

But whoa is us, the times have changed. Ike was right. And since Ronny Reagan has gone off to pasture, sensationalized channels like yours have slipped in under our regulatory blockades to subvert our citizens with typically unpatriotic blood-lust. The current President has more than enough disaster to attend to rather than spend a second of time dealing with your Nazi-praising, but we, the people still have one enviable weapon at our disposal: the all-might remote.


Corby Anderson
Marina, CA

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1195437989469106298liftarn_Police_brutality.svg.hi*Note, this letter is in response to a recent story about a tussle between a drinker and a cop at a bar in Basalt, Colorado. The story, by Scott Condon, can be found here:


(all references to AK-47, Sev, and Bruno come from a story several years ago, when a customer took offense to the 7-11 clerks Border Patrol cap and fired into the store later on. Luckily, no one was hit.)


Regarding recent Bistro belligerence, it seems to me that we have a situation that further shows the town of Basalt to actually be a fairly calm, mellow place, give or take an occasional AK-47 attack on the Sev.

For example, here in the Central Valley of California, where I have somehow washed up as some tide-spat economic detritus, the 5-0 (cops, in Colorado-speak) would never come into a bar without a prison riot squad leading the way, and for good reason.

The Sureno’s and Norteno’s have displaced the Crips and Bloods as the Gang de Jour out here, and they’ve set up shop at every dingy speak easy from Gilroy to Paso Robles. The other night I went to play bingo at my neighborhood pub, Mortimer’s, and witnessed no less than twenty felony acts of hooliganism, including the unfortunate rape of an innocent artichoke.

Here, the heat knows that the concept of community policing went out the door the minute that teenager’s started turning up shot through with more holes than the Bronco’s D-line. The gangs here are sadists, unreasonable killers of man who would just as soon wave to a cop walking through his bar as he would shoot him, and everyone else in it.

So be glad, Basalt. Be glad that your cops ride bikes and wear slacks and not tactical battle armor to do their mellow rounds. Old Lou down at the Colorado gate can tackle the highway trash with his tanks and artillery platoons. But beware the creep of these southern gangs. They make the fool who took offense to Bruno’s truck stop Border Patrol hat look like the Gang Who Couldn’t Shoot Straight.

And for you, Guy Who Sat at the Bar Howling at the Cops About Some Rancid Old Beef: Bravo! It is a free country yet, and there is no better box from which to lather your deepest protestations than a barstool… Especially one with hot trout nearby. (Which, by the way, as this gent proved, also serves as your last anchor in times of real trouble. Never give up your stool freely – even if the brutes are smacking hell out of your weary armpits)

Corby Anderson
Marina, California

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