The Women Of My News Some More

corey rose
I come bearing the news. And hotness.

Much has changed in the world since I last posted here and here about attractive female news personalities in Denver. The women that once populated my lists have either left for greener pastures, changed careers, or gotten old (some gracefully, some, not so much). Sexist and misogynistic male television producers came to the realization that bad news and horrible weather is a lot easier to handle if a beautiful woman is delivering it to you. It’s the Latin American model that is now mainstream. Thank you, Yanet Garcia. Onward to the list:

  1. Corey Rose
  2. Christine Noël
  3. Amelia Earhart
  4. Lauren Whitney
  5. Britt Moreno

Channel 9 has it locked down. I especially love watching it in the morning. They come at me with double guns of Corey Rose and Amelia Earhart. Are you kidding me? I don’t even know why Gary Shapiro shows up for work anymore. Is there some kind of reverse Title IX in place at the newsroom I don’t know about?

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Corporate Angst

While working at the data slaughterhouse I kept a semi-regular notebook where I drew, wrote inane drivel and otherwise zoned out of meetings that could have been emails. Below is an excerpt from one such meeting with a particular consultant I held deep contempt for. Enjoy. 

His body surges with adrenaline as he leaps across the table and connects his fist to the old man’s lower jaw. A mouthful of blood and teeth spray on the meeting room window. Another blow quickly collapses the old man’s nose and a hard cracking noise echoes in the room as his sinus cavity explodes behind the velocity of his knuckles. His laughs maniacally as a flurry of fists reign down upon the old man’s now limp body. Blood streams in long, splattering waves over movements of wildly flailing arms and fists that result in sickening thuds. He stops when he realizes the beating hurts his swollen hands more than it hurts the old man. He arises, covered in blood, hair and tooth enamel to finally notice the horrified looks frozen on the faces of the employees in the room. The old man lay prostate on the floor gurgling incomprehensible phrases through fluid and broken teeth. He closes his eyes and feels satisfaction. He doesn’t hear the doors open. He doesn’t feel it when the police officers tackle him to the floor. In this moment, he realizes he is too pretty for prison.

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Dancing Into Oblivion

The first night he first met her he saw her dancing from afar at a party. Swaying drunkenly to some soft, emotionless, radio-friendly anthem that she later told him was deep and meaningful to her. As the empty pop music spoke to her, she turned the wood paneled basement into her private dance floor.

No one else at the party was dancing but that didn’t stop her. She moved across the musty carpet and people watched her as they absently drank watered down beer and cheap wine. Groups of drunk girls in dark corners took languid pulls from their cigarettes and whispered to one another. He imagined they were judging her because she seemed more free than they were.

She wasn’t smart, or unique, or even beautiful. But she seemed different.

He pulled her aside and struck up a conversation. Later she would tell him that night was filled with poetry and magic. In a dusty laundry room on a concrete floor, they came together over a pack of cigarettes and red Solo cups full of keg beer.

It started the way he imagined all great love affairs do. Late nights that turned into dark mornings where the reality of it all hung heavy in the dawn’s cold light. Long, sad conversations were spawned by the emptiness in the world around them. He never remembered anything they talked about of significance, but he felt in those moments she understood him. She loved listening to Mazzy Star and he pretended to love listening to Mazzy Star. They made love for hours and she often fell asleep afterwards. With her long legs intertwined with his and her dark hair flowing across his chest, he felt content for the briefest of moments. He enjoyed laying there in the darkness with her and listening to the soft hum of traffic while smelling her shampoo over the ashes of their Marlboro Reds.

When he was with her, his sadness and depression seemed to ease, so he lost himself in the time he spent with her and longed for more of it. He smothered her and she quietly slipped away. Those eyes that once appeared so warm and vivacious turned distant and he finally saw her for what she was: vacuous.

He soaked his heartache in alcohol, determined to drown the memory of her.

He stumbled down the steps of that basement not long after it ended and there she was, dancing alone. The lost faces around the room watched her and either yearned to be her newest conquest or pitied her. He looked around and realized the basement and those furious nights were never filled with magic or poetry. Disgusted, he walked back up the stairs and out into the cold night where the snow had just begun to fall.

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My Final Hike With Jon

An extended backpacking trip through the wilderness helps me turn the volume in my life down. I stop and look around. I notice the vast expanse before me. The way the light at dusk seems almost surreal and unnatural. The speed at which clouds move during the late afternoon at altitude. How serene the cool alpine breezes sound through tree branches creaking and bending above me. How fresh the mountain air feels in my oxygen-deprived lungs. How little any of the problems I carry with me on a daily basis matter. I become grateful for another day of good health. For a warm house to go home to. For a loving wife. For happy, healthy children. For a comfortable bed. Then, I start to notice the people I am hiking up the mountain with. They are people I have been hiking with for most of my life. The same tired jokes become expected. Stories of past trips are relived. Conversations drift aimlessly and we eventually realize that there is nothing left to talk about. We sit around a warm campfire, look up through the forest canopy at the vibrant night sky and enjoy the company we keep. In that moment I realize these are some of the closest people to me. These are the people I have lived my happiest moments with. People I have shared the most laughs with. People I have made it to the summits of mountains with. Memories are fleeting but one sticks out for me tonight. A few years ago one of these people tapped me on the shoulder as I sat quietly on an ancient boulder to watch the sun set over a distant lake we spent all day hiking to. He sat down next to me and handed me a flask of scotch he carried in his pack. I took a long pull from the flask and so did he. We sat next to each other for a long time. Neither one of us said a word.

Rest in peace, brother. Your flask of scotch will be missed.

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Poor Behavior Modeling From A Fictional Monkey

I recently decided I will no longer read another Curious George story to my kids. Not only do I find the Man with the Yellow Hat‘s supervision skills suspect, Curious George is a shining example of how not to behave. Each one of George’s “adventures” has these key elements:

  • The Man with the Yellow Hat decides to leave a juvenile monkey that he stole from Africa and smuggled into the country alone for a moment. This moment is usually prefaced with, “Wait right here, George. I have to go and do this thing….”
  • George, unsupervised, gets distracted by something. He then sets off to investigate the distraction thereby disregarding the instructions he received to stay put.
  • George causes a problem(s). At the height of said problem(s), authority figures and the Man with the Yellow Hat come rushing in to reprimand George and clean up the mess George created. George gets upset and doesn’t understand why everyone is mad at him.
  • George fixes an issue (usually minor) that was the direct result of a problem he created. In Curious George At The Aquarium, for example, George hops into the penguin exhibit and opens the door letting all the penguins out to run amok. As authority figures swoop in to wrangle up the liberated penguins, George sees a baby penguin in the water that cannot swim. He then dives in to rescue the baby fowl in the chaos.
  • George is praised and rewarded for fixing an issue that was the direct result of a problem he created. Again, in Curious George At The Aquarium, George is not only thanked for “saving” the baby penguin, he is given passes and invited back to the aquarium to visit “anytime”.
So, George disobeys his slave owner father figure, runs off, causes trouble, fixes something that is a direct result of his actions and is praised for being a “good monkey”? Not on my watch. If one of my kids jump in the penguin exhibit and frees the penguins, the aquarium better not be thanking my kid, giving them free passes and inviting us to come back anytime soon. They better be calling CPS.
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All Lit Up Again

Kaye: I never did Whipits but I can tell you that Whipits would not be my drug of choice. I would probably choose cocaine. Seems the most respectable of all the drugs.
Me: Agreed. Meth is too white trash and destructive. Heroin is too involved. You need spoons. Cotton balls. Needles. Basically, you need a kit to get high.
Kaye: I don’t want a kit. That’s for a professional junkie. I want to get high quickly.
Me: Yep. All I want a is a dollar bill and a mirror. Or a hooker’s ass.
Kaye: Nice.
Me: Whores and strippers go better with coke, anyway.
Kaye: Totally.
Me: I like a drug I can do in the guise of taking a piss, too. “I have to take a piss”. Go into the bathroom. Take a snort. Flush the toilet. Bam! Go back out and party.
Kaye: Ha!
Me: Heroin is all about the setup. You need some time. An abandoned stairwell. Or a urine soaked mattress in a vacant lot somewhere.
Kaye: You have really thought about this.
Me: It’s what I do.

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An Open Letter To Tits Roadkill Duchamp

You are not interesting or funny. A week old carcass scooped off the road with a snow shovel, sprinkled with organic garnish and served in a trailer is not a meal. It’s a misdemeanor. I am not opposed to eating meat, either. I will consume just about anything that has the misfortune of being below me on the food chain. I am just opposed to eating something whose time of death exceeds its time of refrigeration. And please stop calling yourself an artist. You are not. You are the annoying, alternative, Wiccan priestess, solstice-worshipping, patchouli-stink girl I sat next to in college who claimed to be an art major because you shit out 13 variations of the same Grateful Dead dancing bears painting in one semester. Real artists label themselves “artists”. Insecure girls who work full-time at Kenny Shoes and volunteer once a month at the community center teaching children art classes call themselves “Nomadic Shamanic Artists”.

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From Inner Rage Comes Inner Peace

The wife and I have been doing yoga for the past few months. I enjoy the workout and stretching my aging, longshoreman-like back. I do not enjoy the overuse of an obscure language from antiquity, the smug flexible students that can pull their youthful ankles up through the back of their assholes and the music. Especially the music. It is a combination of Indian restaurant waiting room, New Age spirituality and Yanni Live At The Acropolis. I know the goal of the soundtrack is to relax the soul into peaceful reflection, but it has the quite opposite effect on me. I spend much of my meditative experience fantasizing about tracking down whoever recorded the music and kicking their head through a plate glass window. Then a sense of calm washes over me and I feel alright with the world and my place in it. So I guess in a roundabout way, mission accomplished.

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