The milkman cometh

We ran out of room in this week's Brighton Blade. Here is my column – a web exclusive.

This is the third time around for this joke and I’ll retire it after this. But I came home a few weeks ago and found my wife with the milkman.
Literally.
There in my own driveway, the local milk deliveryman was pitching his products, notably milk, to my wife.
She was relieved when I pulled up because I was supposed to be the heavy who said “No” and shooed him away. I was all prepared with some story of lactose intolerance or the tragic milking incident that blinded my uncle.
Isn’t it funny how differently we respond to people on a given day?
I’m tempted sometimes to scatter the local religious knockers, salesmen and magazine-peddling youth from my doorstep with a water hose.
But, on this day, I was in a good mood. That made me an easy mark for a sales pitch.
By the end of the conversation, we had a blue cooler on our front porch, a free half gallon of milk, a free half-gallon of orange juice and a lifetime contract that we will never buy another grocery store milk carton or so much as look at another cow.
I think I was sucked in by a certain pulling back to my youth.
I remembered the Thursday mornings when we would pull the milk jugs from the wooden box on the front porch. Then we’d take it down to ice cellar for safekeeping.
OK, OK, we never had an ice cellar.
But, it seems to me, that having milk delivered to your home is a rite of passage.
My parents had milk delivered to their home until I think they got some bad butter and that was the end of it. And my wife says her family even had milk delivered to their home for a while.
In that way, I feel like I’m carrying on a proud tradition. My daughter gets excited about helping me bring the milk in and maybe it will be a requirement she’ll make of her family someday.
It’s almost like living on a dairy … a dairy where the cows milk themselves, bottle it and put it on your front porch.
I also feel like I’m supporting a fading tradition. Everything is going technological. We don’t write letters anymore, we send e-mail. I assume someday we’ll get our milk via hard drive.
So, when there’s a chance to step back and have things a bit old fashioned, I’m all for it.
And it doesn’t taste bad either.

Good question

A Kiwanis club member asked a good question last week at the end of House District 30 candidate Dave Rose's speech to the club. Staying consistent, Rose put a big emphasis on experience. He pointed out, the state house was no place for political training. So one astute Kiwanis member wondered aloud (with Rose being a Democrat), "If experience is so important in this race, why not in the White House?
Answers?
We'll take the ninth caller at 303-659-2522.

New blogger/columnist

Wanted to take a minute to introduce you to our newest columnist/blogger, Krista Clinton. Krista is a new Brighton resident and a mom of three and will start writing about her new life on a regular basis in the Brighton Blade in October. I'm excited to have her sharing her life with our readers and I think it will be a fresh voice in the paper, too. Right now, she needs your help coming up with a column name so visit her blog at Krista. For those of you have to come to enjoy Ron Ames, he will still be in the Blade on a regular basis too.

Living Fearless

My wife and I experience different emotions when our 2-year-old daughter ascends the park playground near our house.
My wife is filled with nervous trepidation. Each step, each turn is a chance for my daughter to fall, to injure herself. Especially because she is more apt to focus on where she’s going than where’s she is at – a risky proposition 8 feet off the ground.
I feel exhilaration when I see my daughter bumping elbows with the bigger kids, navigating the sharp turns of a slide or dangling precariously from the monkey bars.
Fearlessness.
That’s what gets to me.
My daughter never has any inclination of how close she stands to the precipice of a nasty tumble. But my wife and I’ll admit to this as well – is always one step ahead, watching her dangle that wayward foot into the vast nothingness and foreseeing disaster.
Because there is no danger for my daughter until, of course, she does get hurt. Then, it’s a bandage on the knee or elbow and it’s off again, ready to take on the world.
We’ll pull her aside and remind her she has to remember where she is and think about what she’s doing. That, after all, is the top job of any parent.
And all these warnings – looking before you cross the street, not eating unwrapped candy on Halloween and not petting dogs you don’t know – will eventually settle in with my daughter and some day she’ll become … well … me.
Not just me. She’ll become, more specifically, an adult.
She’ll worry about gas prices, paying the mortgage and the energy bills. She’ll watch the news at night and worry about what kind of world we live in and she’ll cringe when her own child tears around those same playgrounds.
And then I’ll look at that young woman – carrying the burdens of this scary world and the day-to-day dangers we face – and I’ll wonder what happened.
It makes me wonder when I lost that sense of fearlessness, that sense of invisibility, if you will. It sure wasn’t when I hit my head falling off the jungle gym as a 5-year-old. I got stitches and kept going. And it wasn’t Sept. 11. I already knew the world was a heartbreaking place before that day.
But, somewhere in between, my sense of wonder with the everyday normalcy of life was tempered with the harsh reality of the dangers that always lay ahead.
I hope my daughter hangs on to that feeling of fearlessness as long as she can. And, while I always want her to be safe, I hope this harsh world never knocks it out of her.

Fever

Good afternoon, knowmers. I don't want to spend every Monday harping on the Broncos but the Orange Fever rushing through the veins of Denverites is palpable. I purchased a couple Super Bowl tix this morning. Just kidding, I did, however, finally get on the website to buy 2007 Rockies World Series tickets so keep your fingers crossed there.
Isn't the weather just balmy? I think winter will sneak up on us like a thieve in the night. I'm circling Oct. 15 (my birthday) when the cold weather usually rears its ugly head.

Parental attention in about a half hour

In a new education initiative, Denver Public Schools is including parents to spend 5,280 minutes in a school year with their children – that's about 30 minutes a day.
But, please, parents, no more, no less.
We'd hate for you to be bothered.

Consumed

As some of you may know, because word gets around fast in these parts, I've recently taken on a new role at the paper. What does it mean? It means Monday and Tuesday I'm absolutely consumed by the newspaper production process – I hardly get time to go to any of my favorite web sites or even check in with my favorite bloggers. No, no, this isn't goodbye – just an acknowledgment that you haven't been getting my best stuff – a lot of last-second thoughts just so you know I'm still here. Cut me a break, I'm maintaining a weekly column, making sure we have a weekly staff editorial and putting something on the blog. How much of me do you think there is? But I love my blog and all of you that make this a regular visit. We'll keep it going and, once the dust settles, we'll get back to business as usual. Stick with me. And if you know of anything you want to see better, added or changed in the paper – let me know. I can't hide behind "I'll check with my editor" anymore. It kinda comes with the job.
On a personal note, I want to let you know that these papers mean a lot to me. I'm coming up on my sixth year here. It's not chump change anymore. The better part of a decade is something special, especially for a straight-out-of-college kid who came here young, naive and lacking cynicism. But the people of this community give me my passion. I work everyday for you, trying to cover your community. It hasn't been easy lately with a small newsroom and plenty of changes. But it only makes me more proud of what our staff does everyday.
Talk to you soon.

Christmas in September

Sorry to rain on your parade, Bronco fans, but yesterday was a joke - a freaking joke. What good is instant replay if you're not going to use it to correct bad calls. And sure, the consensus of Broncos fans is "you win some, you lose some." That, by the way, is the biggest crock I've ever heard. Flip the call around, Denver fans would have burnt this city to the ground. So, don't give me that garbage. And that, ladies and gentleman, is my biggest gripe with Broncos fans, this arrogant pomposity of, "Well it helped us out, no biggie." See ya in the playoffs, cheaters!

9/11

A debt owed

I think many of us have been patiently waiting to know who killed Adams County deputy district attorney Sean
May a couple weeks ago.
As a reporter, I’ve been hoping police will hold that press conference where they say they arrested the person who did this or at least know why. Yeah, even reporters, dismissed as cynical muckrakers, root for the good guys too.
But as the search and investigation continues, it begins tougher to not read between the lines of what police can’t or will not say. Each day, it seems to become moreclear this act was far more sinister than some random act of violence.
And if there can be a worse feeling than knowing a good man, good husband, soon-to-be father and excellent attorney was taken so violently, it‘s grappling with the thought that some individual out there wanted it that way.
Our society loves our heroes. There’s a reason super-hero flicks dominate the summer-box office. It’s not just the thought of some Hollywood actor in a leather-clad bat suit. We like our heroes brave, fearless and invincible, whether they’re charging up a flight of stairs, facing down a gun-wielding baddie in a street or convincing a jury to put someone behind bars for the rest of their lives.
So there is a sick feeling in my stomach now. It’s not unlike the one I felt seven years ago this same week. I feel vulnerable, I feel scared, like our world’s just a little less safe.
You don’t have to be a comic book junkie to know the hero isn’t supposed to die – that’s Hollywood 101.
But sometimes they do. Sometimes, the people entrusted to protect us do become victims.
It makes you worry about the rest of us. If people like Sean May aren’t safe, the kind of people we look to make sure ours laws are enforced, then what chance do the rest of us have?
That’s why I was heartened by the words of Adams
County District Attorney Don Quick last week when he said
May’s death, intentional or not, would not stop them from doing their jobs. He added if it was an attempt to intimidate them, it already failed.
I hope we’re all just as brave.

True inspiration

I woke up this morning with a stiff neck,I knocked a book off the shelf, the shower head fell on me (twice), a bottle of bathroom cleaner hit me in the head and my home Internet isn't working. If can salvage this day, there is hope for anyone.

No, really, you're kidding?

Last night, Fox debuted a new reality show where individuals can earn prizes by successfully climbing through a variety of shapes of holes in walls. This is the end of the world ... I know it.

What do we want? Fresh voices. When do we want it? Not now

I think the big irony surrounding this year's political races from the state level to the federal government is a call for change. Fresh voices, no more politics as usual. But, I think when the November dust settles, we'll have more of the same. If, for no other reason, than we want something new but we're not willing to overturn the apple cart for change. (Sorry Barack) I think there is a general sentiment there are so many issues facing our country right now, that we can't just turn it over to anybody. I'm not saying I agree with it. Gotta have the experience.

Cutting to the chase

It shouldn’t be that hard to find a good barber.
It never was when I was younger.
My dad would take me to the military base, I’d plop down in the chair and a disgruntled drill sergeant would cut my hair.
Five minutes, tops.
But, since leaving home, the search for a good barber or stylist (as men with sensitive hair call them) has been a twisted, frustrating road. And most of the time it ends with a “Dear John, letter” and shed tears amid the shorn locks.
I thought I really found a home with the last place I went.
It’s one of these spots that’s supposed to cater to guys – large pictures of athletes, televisions tuned to ESPN, reasonably attractive women running their hands through your hair … essentially everything our Founding Fathers dreamed of when they devised the Constitution.
But the dream was quickly shattered.
See, I’m not big on the small talk. I mean, how much can you actually talk about the weather? I’m also not a big fan of gabbing to someone while they’re holding a pair of scissors to my neck.
Maybe you can identify with this. When someone is mugging you in a dark alley, you prefer to handle the transaction quickly and not chat about the kids.
The time in a barber’s chair is also a good chance to pray I don’t get a ‘80s style Flock of Seagulls do.
But I shouldn’t have had to worry about this. The guy-friendly hair salon made it very clear I could come in and watch sports. That was the appeal.
I come in, sit down and this woman is gabbing in my ear. Again, at a normal salon this is not a problem, because the gabbing is included in the price.
Still, my one-word answers were off-putting for the stylist.
She said, “You’re quiet, you must be tired,”
Now, I’m obligated to talk over being rude.
“I just really wanted to watch sports, lady. You said I could.”
I wasn’t mad at the stylist. I was more disillusioned. I thought I was coming here to hang out with some chick who likes sports and wanted to cut my hair.
But the sports were a front for talking like when the wife buys you a new pool table but then adds on, “it’ll be a chance to spend more time together.”
Now, I’m not able to watch sports but I have to talk about my feelings, too.
Give me a trashcan to empty and a garage to clean, and I might as well be at home.
The last straw came with my final haircut, which really wasn’t a haircut at all.
Sometime, between sitting me down in the chair and taking my $20, the woman completely forgot to my cut my hair.
I ‘d like to think she was too wrapped up in the Brett Favre press conference. But I know it’s a lie.
We did have a nice talk though.

Not forgotten

I haven't forgotten you, dedicated Knowmers. I'm just waiting in my storm shelter for Hurricane Gustav to make Colorado landfall. I understand the eye is somewhere over Wichita. I'll keep you posted.

Smudge

It's sad but unfortunately necessary that GOP vice-presidential nominee Sarah Palin had to disclose today her 17-year-old daughter is 5-months-pregnant. I say sad because, believe it or not, this isn't the first teen pregnancy to ever happen. I say necessary because in our nasty political world, it would have become nasty campaign fodder very quick. Which it shouldn't unless you're of the mind that Palin would use her throne to advocate all teenage girls become pregnant.
Republican or Democrat or Naderterian, I wish we could agree that politics would be better off without these kind of things having to be disclosed, solely so someone didn't beat you over the head with later. It's irrelevant to holding political office other than the fact that I think candidates who've actually experienced a little bit of life are the kind of people I want in office.