Gene, Gene, he's our man

Enough with the pestering, find Gene Sears' new blog at http://dailybrightonian.blogspot.com/. Bookmark it, love it and get aggravated by his unnecessary cheap shots at midgets – sorry – little people.

Can't pass up this offer

A free chalupa to whoever can explain to me why Ted Haggard still matters. Go.

Ready or not, kick Mark Koebrich out of your house

My 400th blog post and I'll use it praise the House's decision this morning to not delay the Feb. 27 digital television transition. Yes, I know everybody isn't ready but the best way to get people ready is just to do it. Let them catch up. All the old people that have been slacking will realize it is necessary rather than look at a screen of white snow (unless they mistake it for the Lawrence Welk show). The last thing I need is five more months of promotional home invasions from Channel 9's Mark Koebrich. That man has his own life, his own couch and its time for him to stop loafing in front of old people's televisions, hassling them about switching to digital. Also, I'm sick of those damn promotional TV spots with the big countdown number like its 27 days to the apocalypse.

It's a mission statement

I work in a tough business right now. The main gripe I always here, especially in a small community like Brighton, is we only print the bad news. Ironic because were always the ones getting the bad news - layoffs, cutbacks, closures, furloughs - you name it. My days are frustrating, exhilarating and depressing - it's a lot like watching a Rockies game. Everyday I look at a dwindling amount of staffers. Our newsroom used to bustle. Now, more often than not, we bristle, wondering how many less we can do with. I lead a team of passionate, driven reporters. A few of us are journalism lifers - this is all we know. And there are a couple of us who could pack up tommorrow, continue in a different walk of life and be completely successful. Many of the people in my office haven't had a raise in a year or two, they sat through the anxiety of an ultimately unsuccessful attempt to sell our group of papers and they did it with a unbelievable amount of cheer and good humor even admidst the anxiety. It is challenging to work day-to-day in a career where its future is in doubt. I'm 30 years old and I planned on doing this my whole life. Clearly there is a dilemna there because I still have a lot of time left. This must be how the VCR repairman feels. Yes, there will always be a need for newsgathering but I've never wanted to be a blogger or television talking head or a backpack journalist, I've only wanted to be a newspaper man.
This is all not meant to be a sob story for newspapers. I don't think many people will buy that.I won't demand any candlelight vigils. Quite the opposite, I think more than a few people think the business as a whole is getting exactly what it deserved. For too long, newspapers sat on their high horses as king of the world. It was our pomposity and lack of ability to recognize the changing market that has left us where we are. There will be no tears when newspapers are gone. Sure, there might be a bad feeling for a minute or two, kind of like throwing a pair of ratty, but beloved shoes away, but folks will get over it. Again, I say none of this for sympathy but, more than a few times in my daily travels, I get asked how we are grappling with the struggles that come with this business. Over the past few weeks, I've tried to take it back to the basics for myself - just trying to tell stories, share people's lives. I've been surprised how refreshing it is. It's reminded me what this business is all about. I'm naive like that, eschewing the budget numbers and still believing that if we told the stories that mattered, everything else would fall into place. I don't think we, and by that I mean our community papers, are going anywhere. As a matter of fact, when the dust settles, I think the small papers that cater to their community with stories about 60th anniversary announcements, free obituary postings and pictures from the school play will endure.
Hope you don't mind the ramblings of a old, young newspaper man. And if you know how we save this business, let me know.

This is no way to die

First off, I love the Rocky Mountain News. Grew up reading, still read it. The dream of one day writing for the Rocky Mountain News stoked my fire in journalism. Naturally, I was concerned when I learned of its imminent closure. But steadily my sadness has turned to disgust. First, Rocky staffers launched a blog to share their love of the paper. The stories are bit melancholy and read more like a daily obituary for the paper. But I've visited a couple times and it's nice to read about how much passion journalists have for not only their jobs but also the paper. Now, comes word today, that staffers have organized a candlelight vigil for the paper. Clearly, the Rocky staffers have been far too influenced by many of the aftermaths of tragic stories they've needed to cover but this is no way to go. The Rocky should go out fighting, producing the best possible paper they can to serve as a historical testament to the importance of this paper.
This is not how I want to remember my favorite paper with bake sales, benefit car washes and Haiku poems.
I tell the Rocky, "Do not go gentle into that good night," as poet Dylan Thomas once wrote. "Rage, rage."

What about Gene?

I've been giving our repoter/city editor Gene Sears a lot of ribbing about how people keeping popping up on MY blog to ask where his blog is. But, the final straw came with the crying at the dog movie blog. If I pour my heart and soul out about a dog and all you can come up with is, "Seriously, where's Gene?" then I probably should address this. Gene is still here, working as hard as ever (cough) rooting out corruption, roving the borders for any sign of Union Pacific and sniffing out shady water deals. When he came down to Brighton, he (after several weeks of blatant Musgravizing) turned over his blog to Fort Lupton Reporter Rosalie Everson. Since then, Gene has been toiling with how to restart a blog, what he would blog about, mixing a message for the Brightonites and still catering to his disciples in Fort Lupton who still really believe he's faster than a locomotive. He'll be back soon, hang in there. In the meantime, you've got me and Steve Smith at undertheseats.blogspot.com and Rosalie at fortlupton.blogspot.com.

There's no crying at movies

The dog dies.
I’m new at this, but I think I was supposed to post some disclaimer before I ruined the end of the movie “Marley and Me.”
Who are we kidding?
Name the movie, “Where the Red Fern Grows,” “Old Yeller,” “Cujo.”
The dog always dies.
And then I’m left in a theater, blubbering like an idiot, trying to be consoled by my three-year-old daughter who is really angling for some more of my popcorn.
I religiously avoid any movies with dogs. I won’t even watch “Dog Day Afternoon.” I call them doggie-snuff films where heartless Hollywood movie producers who already succeeded in emptying your wallet, try to get you to bare your soul.
I went to the aforementioned movie because of the lure of a plot about a pair of married journalists trying to manage an out-of-control dog. It sounded autobiographical.
And it was a delightful movie for about 70 minutes. Then reality hits. The couple is older, now has three children and the dog isn’t dead yet. These are all surefire signs that the dog is about to die.
This is when I start squirming in my seat, eyeing the exits, hoping either the movie projector will break or that I might suddenly require an emergency appendectomy. Because I know I’m going to have to watch people go through the agony of putting down their dog and I’m going to break down.
This movie makes it particularly wrenching. The dog gets sick, the dog rallies. The dog gets sick again, the veterinarian turns needle-wielding villian.
And then I begin to lose it. It starts as sniffles, easy enough to pass off as a cold. I pull out a tissue and feign blowing my nose. I throw in a few dry, hacky coughs to supplement my fake cold.
But it only gets worse. The dog is being euthanized. The children watch a video montage of the dog’s life.
At this point, I’m a full-blown woman. I’m sobbing hysterically. My 3-D glasses are fogged over. My mind is scrambling between thoughts of the tragedy unfolding on screen and whether these jeans make my butt look big and I’m asking the person next to me if they’ll hold me. He says “no” and now I’m not only an emotional wreck but I’m self-conscious.
They bury the dog. At this point, I’m not even watching the movie anymore. I’m trying to think about the score of the Nuggets game the previous night or what it would be like to demolish that half wall between our living room and kitchen. I’m like a dangling rock climber, desperately trying to grasp on to anything that would restore a shred of my masculinity. I’m fully expecting an usher to come in at any point and ask for the keys to my garage so they can take my power tools and workbench and replace them with a darling oak vanity.
“It the 00’s,” you say, “a man should be able to break down and cry at any given moment.
“Just ask Mike Shanahan and Pat Bowlen,” you add.
But not like this. Not over some movie dog.
Take my power saw, please.

No NASA for you

OK, I'm holding fast to my New Year's Resolution of never blogging about NASA again. Either, the Knowmers are to apathetic to the plight of astronauts or too passionate to acknowledge I may take on the space agency in a less than stellar (that's a galaxy pun, kids!) light. Either way, my NASA-related posts (numbering more than 6,00) have never, ever generated a single comment. So I will let it go. With one more thing, I was insinuating last week that NASA was blaming the astronaut's deaths on not wearing their seat belts. It's outrageous and still ... nothing. Goodbye, Nasa, forever.
Moving on, Happy New Year, and sorry about breaking those resolutions. You're still fat and I'm still cynical.
You probably wonder where my column has been in the paper lately.
What do you mean you don't?
I work really hard on those.
Irrelevant fluff? C'mon, you don't mean that.
The truth is (this coming from a journalist) I took a December sabbatical, returned to the Holy Land and reconnected with my inner Zen. Hopefully, I can start rolling out some original pieces again soon.