Denver Blog

Ed Quillen.

Betcha Ed Quillen is pissed.

Last month, Quillen, a Salida-based contributor to the Denver Post, offered what I saw as a dubious reason for why the Rocky Mountain News had gone under: The tabloid had focused its circulation efforts on the Denver metro area, as opposed to energetically promoting its product to readers elsewhere in Colorado. In regard to the Denver Post, which had maintained more of a statewide presence, I wrote at the time that "it may actually be losing money on every subscriber living in remote communities on the Western Slope or the eastern plains," adding, "The Post would be well advised to bite the bullet, whether it frustrates its Salida correspondent or not."

According to "Post Trims Delivery in Some Areas," publisher/MediaNews Group CEO Dean Singleton has decided to do just that. Beginning in July, only the Sunday paper will be delivered to what reporter Aldo Svaldi refers to as "outlying parts of the state."

My father, a Palisade resident who died in February, would have loathed this move. As I noted in an item about his passing, he spent every morning pouring over copies of the Rocky and the Post at a Grand Junction doughnut shop. But as much as it disheartens me to think of other newspaper lovers like him in smalltown Colorado having this a.m. ritual snatched out from under them, the move makes good business sense. While folks at the Post continue to insist that the broadsheet's circulation numbers are jim-dandy, the economic climate and the shift of many consumers away from print means papers must be extremely judicious with their resources -- and paying to ship a relative handful of issues hundreds of miles to customers most Denver-area advertisers have no interest in reaching doesn't meet that standard.

Sorry, Ed -- and sorry, Dad.

Monday, January 7
by David Amram

Putnam Valley, New York | In 1956 Jack Kerouac and I first met at a bring-your-own-bottle party at a painter's loft and instantly began collaborating artistically. I backed him up musically while he read and from the earliest days of our working together I knew that he was an exceptional storyteller and writer. The spontaneous energy that poured out of him reminded me of what it was like when I played with Charles Mingus or Dizzy Gillespie or Thelonius Monk. Jack's way of reading was the embodiment of the spirit of jazz. He combined formality and spontaneity in a seemingly effortless way. As a young classical composer, as well as a jazz musician, I, as well, wanted my compositions to sound as natural as if I were making them up on the spot. Jack told me that this was what he was trying to do when he wrote his narrative novels. "I want the reader to feel like I'm talking directly to them," he said. We became friends.

Monday, January 7
by Audrey Sprenger, Ph.D

Denver | There has been a lot of talk about Jack Kerouac this year and the 50th anniversary of his novel On The Road. It's buzzed through Vanity Fair and Rolling Stone, public broadcasting and public radio. Over and over again I hear the same comments, the same questions. "Why are we talking about this book?" "How can it possibly be relevant today?" "Why are we wasting time on Jack Kerouac? He was nothing but a hack. He was nothing but a one-hit wonder." To which, I imagine Jack Kerouac's bemused response. "Are they," he asks with genuine surprise, "Talking about me?"

Monday
Tuesday
Wednesday

Thursday and Friday:
Yesterday was my last day of work for the week. Typically I would never get Friday off, but my progress has been superb, my body has found its health, and my trainer knows this. My trainer also knows that Santa is watching him, and in a pathetic attempt to win brownie points with Father Christmas, he gave me today off. He's so transparent.

Monday
Tuesday

Wednesday:
I awoke this morning before the sun. I opened my blinds to a firey orange suggestion that it may soon follow my lead. I arrived at work bleary-eyed and as I approached the glass doors that lead into the cafeteria, I hit an icy patch that sent me into the splits. This was an unwelcome test for my healing groin that I thankfully passed without much more than a heavy sigh. The glass doors and windows to the cafeteria are tinted, so I wasn't sure if anyone inside saw me pull a Jane Fonda on the pavement. Thankfully, I was spared the laughter.

Monday

Tuesday:

The halls were empty today at our Dove Valley facility. Tuesday is an empty day in the NFL anyway, but on a Tuesday in late December, you can hear leaky faucets. Not that we have any. Our maintenance crew is excellent. In fact, everyone that steps into that building is excellent at what they do, and that's not an accident. The efficiency with which the building moves and operates should be studied and emulated and taken to our nation's capital. There are far too many leaky faucets there.

Monday: I don't like the sound of morning radio show hosts. I can't help but picture them as obnoxious party guests. Before I got injured in week 5 of this NFL season against the San Diego Chargers, I was lucky enough to sleep through this noise on a Monday morning. In the NFL, Mondays and Tuesdays are like our weekends. Tuesday is off no matter what. Tuesday is a beautiful thing. Monday can be beautiful too, but only if we win. If victory is ours, then so too shall be Monday. If victory eludes us, then Monday belongs to the coaches, and we must come in late in the morning to watch game film and workout. If a team finds itself spending too many Mondays at work, things have gone awry. There are incentives everywhere in this game and getting Monday off after a victory is one of them. Win and you shall win your freedom.

Sadly, these rules don't apply to a cripple like me. Once you are placed on the "Injured Reserve" list, then your presence is non-negotiable. I am there every Monday through Friday doing pretty much the same thing every day, and it goes like this:

Blake Mooney was recently laid off from his job at NewMediaCompany.com and has somehow found some time to give a glimpse into the week in the life of a man on the dole. This is his story.
Monday
Tuesday
Wednesday
Thursday

Friday:
To the depressed and despondent (or in my case, unemployed), hope and optimism have a way of popping up in the minor peculiarities of life. Only Biblical figures are struck by epic moments of revelation. The rest of us receive our epiphanies in the quiet of our day, when something small and irrelevant pulls off its disguise and reveals itself as a powerful cry for personal revolution.

My angel of salvation took the form of Deuce Bigalow: European Gigolo.

Blake Mooney was recently laid off from his job at NewMediaCompany.com and has somehow found some time to give a glimpse into the week in the life of a man on the dole. This is his story.
Monday
Tuesday
Wednesday

Thursday:
With the exception of big name athletes entering free agency, looking for a job is no fun. It’s like you’re back in middle school during the lead up to the Sadie Hawkins dance - You hear rumors about who likes you and receive insinuating notes in the middle of math class. But mostly, you just loiter around, wearing clothes doused with a spritz of cologne, trying not to look too obvious as you flex your muscles to the girls who pass you in the hallway. Unless you’re a team captain or the most popular kid in the school, rejection is inevitable, passive perseverance a must.

Blake Mooney was recently laid off from his job at NewMediaCompany.com and has somehow found some time to give a glimpse into the week in the life of a man on the dole. This is his story.
Monday
Tuesday

Wednesday:
Everyone knows if you’re a male and you find yourself laid off from your job, the first thing you do is grow a beard. It’s a look that tells everyone around you, “I have no responsibilities and no boss or dress code, so why even fight with the whole personal hygiene thing.” You’re also supposed to walk around in slippers and a bathrobe most of the time, clutching a copy of the want ads in one hand and a cup of coffee spiked with Kahlua in the other. You definitely need to let your apartment get all cluttered up, so when your friends come over to visit, the stink hits them in the hallway and, concerned for your lack of direction, they give you a big pep talk that suddenly jolts you from your waking coma. You clean yourself up in the shower, print out a bunch of resumes, get a great new job and finally meet the girl of your dreams, all while Joe Esposito’s “You’re the Best,” plays somewhere in the background.