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Home / Articles / Views / Letters /  Letters | Danish and sex
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Thursday, August 30,2012

Letters | Danish and sex

Correction: The Aug. 23 article “A certain kind of kin” attributed the quote “Is that Duane Allman?” to Ben Kaufman instead of Dave Johnston.

Danish and sex

As a general rule, conservatives like Danish are sexually repressed. But if there is one thing that will give him an erection, it is unlimited corporate profits — whatever the cost. Mr. Danish worships unrestricted capitalism and corporate greed as if they are divine creations — straight from the mouth of Jesus Christ himself. There is a problem with this worship. Without regulation or oversight, these entities — which are not people, and not guided by a moral code of conduct — will kill, rape and destroy anything in their path just for the sake of a higher quarterly profit statement.

As long as Mr. Danish is not personally affected by the actions of unchecked capitalism or corporate malfeasance, he could care less. His self-absorbed sociopathic Ayn Rand type of thinking will be our downfall.

W. Clarke, M.D./Thornton

Paul Danish replies: H.L. Mencken defined Puritanism as “the haunting fear that someone, somewhere, may be happy.”

If he were alive today, chances are he would define Progressivism as “the haunting fear that someone, somewhere, may be making money.”

P.S.: Thanks for pointing out that I’m sexually repressed as a result of changing my party affiliation. I just turned 70 and have been attributing it to old age. Anyway, I’ll try to do something about it when I reread your letter.

You’ve got pee-mail

It was a sunny Saturday morning in Boulder, in July, early enough that the air was still cool. I was taking my dog for a walk on her leash. She stopped to sniff around the trash can and read a few peemails that only dogs can read — with their noses. She left her own mark and moved along.

A happy yellow golden retriever came running towards my dog. “Hello doggie,” I said, and he turned his direction from my dog to me. His friendliness overwhelmed him, and me. I didn’t mind when he put his paws up on me. From about 20 yards away, a young lady called him, but now he was busy saying hello to my dog. “I’m sorry,” she said. “It’s hard to control him sometimes.” She was holding a coffee cup in one hand and a fetchstick in the other. “It’s OK.” I was in my play clothes, no harm done. “He’s a nice doggie.” She smiled, agreed, and stood there and watched as he romped around the park.

I took my dog a little further. Near a few benches and some trees, three men were sitting on the grass. Homeless men. Next to each were their belongings, packed up in bags, or knapsacks, or rolled-up blankets. They sat in a semicircle. In the middle were some paper cups, probably coffee, and some food items they were sharing. They weren’t bothering anyone and no one was bothering them. At least on that morning.

My dog moved towards them, they said hello, I said hello. They each petted her. I pulled her back when she headed for their food. They petted her some more. She seemed happy with that, we continued on. We did a little circle around the park, and as we came back, the golden retriever came bounding up to us again. The lady was closer this time.

“I’m sorry.” “Yes, I know. It’s OK, just a happy friendly doggie.” I petted him, our dogs greeted each other again, and we started to stroll away.

Her dog ran past us, right towards the homeless men. I could see them each petting the dog, and smiling. One of them reached into his bag, took out a bottle of water and tried to give the friendly retriever a sip.

“No! Don’t feed my dog. Come now, Freddie.” She turned to me and asked me, “How can I teach him the difference between homeless people and regular people?” she asked me.

“Maybe there’s not much of a difference,” I said. “Except that they’re homeless.”

“Oh no, not in Boulder,” she said. I walked away, leaving the park.

Maybe I should have said, “How can your dog teach you?” Or, “Why don’t you put Freddie on a leash?” But I didn’t say that. As we left the park, my dog stopped to write a little pee-mail. I wonder what she wrote.

James Enright/Boulder

 

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