QUID HAS HEARD that the shot heard ‘round the newsroom ricocheted when they caught wind of it at City Hall. Seems that one of this sorry rag’s best hacks, the one could actually spell oxymoron, wised up and headed on out. Now-former scribe Quincy Snowdon has taken off to an island off the coast of Vietnam to be a technical climbing guide. That alone speaks volumes to the extent that some people will go to get out of this news-tank, this business and of having to cover yet one more city council meeting or listen to windy Editor Dave Perry’s endless laments on the demise of snail-driving on I-225 and how chain restaurants do not serve real food, dude. After Snowdon dutifully filed his personal swan song (more on that later) the word was out and the kudos and good riddances rode in. Not knowing any better, the Sentinel’s peculiarly tall and wordy smith followed through with his threat and flew to Vietnam Monday. Quid has heard he survived thus far. All this wasn’t very surprising to another ink-stained wretch here in the newsroom, Brandon Johansson. That veteran scribe climbs stairs, not cliffs, and knows better than to live in places where you not only don’t know the language, but can’t even determine if there really is one. So imagine Johansson’s surprise when he received a friendly little text later in the week from hizzoner Steve Hogan, long a fan of a free press, even when it freely nails him to a wall. Hogan “Good luck with whatever you do from here. Enjoyed reading you! Take care.” Figuring the missive was prophetic coming from the mayor, Johansson has now joined yours truly for my regular sunrise happy hour tour of East Colfax Avenue’s finer establishments. Thick skinned, your faithful servant is accustomed to being the last to know I’ve been fired, and always quick to land back at the keyboard after my collection of quotes and assorted pictures start making the social media rounds. From Quid’s view of the newsroom, Johansson and the rest of this fish-wrapper’s noisy and vulgar hacks are all still here, minus the tall guy with the thesaurus. That brings Quid back to a point sober enough to revel not so much in the wordy to the wise lament left by Snowdon, but by the volumes of hate mail the column drew. The usual suspects quickly weighed in on how Snowdon was yet another bleeding heart type who probably spent his off time picking up trash that wasn’t his or smiling at strangers. Little do trolls know that only mortals are wounded by cliches and profanity. Like legends, reporters only grow stronger with hate mail, and whiskey.
AND THAT’S ALL THE NEWS THAT FITS