I take the train to the end of its line, where I have a short wait for a connecting bus. When it comes, the driver gets up from behind the wheel to sit across a row of seats with his legs stretched out. Both posted signs and a surprising number of people notify passengers not to "place your feet on the seats". He is taking a cat nap before his short layover. I wonder if he has an alarm set to wake him, and sure enough his phone goes off in a few minutes. I wonder if this is the drill for this week? The next morning, the driver wakes up and acts as if he has awoken late, though I never heard his alarm. As he is hauling ass down the street, I hear his alarm. After I get home, I run across the street to grab some Chinese food. A regular panhandler is standing there, and asks me for fifty cents before I go in. When I come out, he asks me again. I remind him that he has already asked me. He says, "Oh."
Ride West. The adventure begins 4.26.13. Riding the rails. It's a western tradition as old as the hills. See the sights and explore the modern West when RTD's West Rail Line opens on April 26. - RTD print ad, 3/13
A couple of days later, I'm on a train home when the line loses power. I get off the train and hop on a bus. At the bus gate is a short, thin guy with long hair who is on his phone. "This is ridiculous," he is yelling. "You ruined my family bitch." The driver is telling him about the small chances that something which he lost on the bus will be found. The bus proceeds without the guy. The driver tells a passenger that this guy got on the bus in my neighborhood, along the way here. He passed out drunk, and some high school kids stole his wallet. I get off at a stop for a connecting bus. A guy with long blonde hair and a grey beard appears to be asleep. I snap a picture of him before he awakens to tell me that a "long snow is coming. And in two weeks, it will be spring." I hope he does not forget about Daylight Savings Time this weekend.
The following day is my day off, and I am out and about upon the boulevard of derelicts. Some are familiar and some are not. On the ride to the bank is a guy with a long white beard and some kind of small dolly. It almost looks like a dolly for an oxygen tank, but it has a five gallon plastic bucket, a rolled up piece of cardboard, and I don't know what else wrapped in what appears to be plastic belts and wire from the trash, or I don't know from where. Sticking up in the middle are a couple of poles, one of which has what appears to be a duster at the end. Is he a homeless guy masquerading as a window washer? After he gets up to move for an oncoming wheelchair, and sits back down, he begins spouting nonsense. He slaps one of the poles and tells the dolly to stay put. At our stop, he asks the driver if he can use the wheelchair lift to get off, and so that he can "drive. At then thousand miles an hour." I see him cross the middle of the street with his dolly, and disappear. I grab lunch across the street from Catracho's Barber's. The staff are listening to pop music in Spanish. Inside is a homeless regular wearing a good pair of jeans inside of a pair which is falling apart. Some high school kids come in, and are all speaking rapid fire Spanish.
I like talking to "outsiders" who don't see the human species as needing to urgently correct course, as needing to change to avoid some looming (or distant) disasters. - Nexus, March/April 2013
In April 1955 the first Youth Dedications were held. The vow...stated "Are you ready to devote your strength to...a happy and beautiful life, to progress in economy, science, and the arts? We, the community of workers, promise to help you and protect you. Let us go forward with united strength to victory." ...during the Mardi-Gras of 1956 in...Brandenburg...an actor parodied Christ. In a long white garment...a red paper rose...and a crown of thorns; in one hand...a bottle of whisky... He was assisted by girls of the Free German Youth. - Hutten
...cities are back...the news is quite good. People are coming back, crime has declined, economies are improving, and cities are once again becoming desirable places to live and work. Immigration is actually one of the factors behind the national decline in crime rates. - Discover, 4/2013
Surely, not to have seen the great cities of the world is not to have lived. For it is in those cities that the life of our times, its actions and passions, are most sharply experienced and exceedingly felt. - "Getaway", Faye Hammel, 1971
Another Saturday, headed to work at 5 am. Snow flakes are coming down again in this snowy month. I am standing inside the bus shelter at my usual stop. This morning, it smells like urine. There is change on the ground, which I never see. Like the empty cream containers and sugar packages all over the ledge some weeks ago, within throwing distance from a trash can, I believe this is evidence of the presence of derelicts.
On Monday, I am scheduled to work a closing shift. I get called in to work, and I take the buses which come next, after my usual ones. At my usual bus stop is a guy who is telling another guy, "I ain't paid taxes in so long." He says, "The buses out in LA...goin' every which way. Two of the same number show up, two of another behind them." I take the bus to a train, to another bus stop. A big guy comes up with a small woman. I hear him quietly telling her to "stay prayed up. If you're still dirty," he tells her, "you take another shower." He says that it's the same thing with sin. When they get on the bus, he continues to speak to her in barely audible tones. "You have sinned. You know what I'm saying?" He mentions discernment. She is half his size, and she sits demurely listening to him prattle about the behavior of humanity. When the bus pulls into another train station, they both get off. During the five minute layover, perhaps he walks her to the gate for a connecting bus before he comes back on alone. I hear him quietly say, "Thank you Jesus" before he sits down next to someone else, telling them, "Bless you, good morning."
..."Higher Powers" in the sense of St. Paul could be recognized only if they agreed with Christian understanding of what is good and what is evil. But if Higher Powers decided autonomously what is good and what is evil, then...Romans 13 did not apply to them. ...thoughts advocated by Karl Borth in 1938. ...Walter Ulbricht, Secretary General of the SED (the German Communist Party) stated: "...socialism, Communism, and the Christian church must work together... The Christian who takes...humanistic and social obligations seriously...cannot be anything but a socialist." - Hutten
They had listened gravely, watching him, but there was no comment when he had finished. It was not often that they saw him for himself. ...he sat a moment longer. "They lay all these improvements to help you, but none is fool proof. There is only one perfect way of navigation, to know the error of your compass and to take two bearings on shore positions. Don't any of you ever forget it. Good night." - Supership, by Noel Mostert, 1974
On the bus home, a guy gets on who is talking on his cell phone. He just got out of work and has to go back to "the block." As in cell block. He has to do 20 hours a week in jail. The next morning at 5 am, sitting in the bus shelter across the street from where I live are a couple of homeless. They both have baseball caps under big hoods. And they are sharing chips and dip. The next morning is another Saturday. Five am. I see a few police cars going back and forth. I wonder if they are after someone again. I stop into the deathburger, where a couple of young men are whispering to themselves, almost like little kids, before they begin saying "fuck you" as they leave. They are looking in the direction of both myself and the staff. As I head back to the bus stop, I hear more "fuck you"s before I see the two slowly walk across the street, as they look back toward the deathburger yelling "fuck you bitch!" I get on the bus, and a couple of short stops away a kid gets on to ask the driver which direction is the boulevard from which we just came.
I'm on my way back from the Chinese place across the street from where I live. I see four people come out from behind a building across the street from where I live. Two appear to be local drunks, and two do not appear neither drunk nor familiar. They give me the impression that they were briefly hiding. The two apparent non-drunks go on their way. The drunk man appears to give the drunk woman something before they each head down opposite directions of the street. The next evening, I am on the way home from work. A couple of guys sitting behind me are discussing life after prison, in the halfway house. One of them was told by his parole officer that he will have to live in a hotel. He wants to know if the state will pay for it, along with his food. Sitting up front are a couple of women talking about having started out in the same county jail way back when. One is talking a mile a minute, suggesting the other get some kind of resume together to take downtown. The other replies, "I can make money fixing motorcycles. My dad died and left me a (mechanic) shop." On a connecting bus home are another couple of women, one a bull dyke in a black leather jacket missing a front tooth. The latter tells the other that she was a volunteer firefighter. They are discussing health care. Sitting behind them is a homeless guy in a knti cap which reads "chaos."
It's 8 am on a Wednesday. I am at the local deathburger before heading off to work a late shift. The big, drunk guy, who required the manager to call the police, resulting in two squad cars and a paramedic unit from the fire station to drop by, is back sitting at the very same table where he and his friend were both making pencil drawings before he took off his shoes and attempted to put them back on again. Today, he appears sober as he sits next to a grey-haired guy, talking to him about the bible. In the corner in a homeless guy sleeping in a booth. Sitting next to him is a guy with grey, shoulder-length hair, reading a book titled Holy War. An hour and a half later, I am in a snack shop at the train station, standing in a short line. The train stop is next to a community college. A grey-haired couple come in. The guy has a book bag, wire-rimmed glasses and a neatly trimmed goatee. They both look like continuing education adults. They sneak through the line and go into a back room, before coming out and asking if there is a rest room. I instantly realize that they are both homeless. The following morning, I am back at the same deathburger, this time again at 5 am. Where the big guy was sitting 21 hours ago is a familiar homeless guy. He too has a grey goatee, along with a red face and dirty grey hoodie with "U.S. Polo Association" on the front. He does not appear to be the kind to have put his time in swinging a mallet from a horse. On the table is what appears to be the entire contents of his pockets: some Zig Zag rolling papers and his change, which he counts with a shaking hand before looking up at the menu. On the bench are his back pack and a plastic grocery bag. On the floor is his rolling suitcase. When he disappears into the men's room, he leaves everything at the table, including his money. When he comes out, he scoops up his change and gets in line. Heart of Glass is playing softly over the speakers.
On Friday, next to a downtown deathburger, a young guy with hair and a beard like Grizzly Adams is sitting with a sleeping bag and other parcels directly underneath a sign. The sign reads, among other things, "no soliciting, so trespassing." As I passed him, he asked me for a new pair of shoes. The hiking boots which he had on, he claimed, were worn out. All I could do was stare at the sign, and then back again. He told me, "God bless you." When I get home, my tax refund is in the mailbox. I go to my bank's local branch to deposit it before the weekend. When I get there, the front door is locked. A notice on the door asks customers to go around to the side door. When I go inside, I ask if the door is locked because of the homeless. The answer is yes, partly, and partly because of three robbery attempts. The homeless come in and take mints, or they stand between sets of doors in the foyer. The next morning, at 5 am, I am at my usual bus stop. The day will bring white out conditions, shutting down both interstates. In front of a Walgreens is something which I have never seen in the eight years I have been living in this neighborhood. There is a guy shovelling snow on the sidewalk.
To a generation of gay urban-dwellers... Millions of job losses and home foreclosures...wasn't our story. It meant...the freedom to relocate spontaneously, trying on different neighborhoods or towns - slipping into their streets and seeing whether we wore them well. ..there's an appeal in...life outside home ownership or being tied down by our "stuff." It meant idle time and energy to put toward independent projects we may not know exactly how to make money from... Creativity is the dream. Denver photographer...said his images are...of a particular gay subculture based on a rugged, unkempt look. (..."a slender, fit, hairy gay man.") - Out Front Colorado, 3/20/13
It's 5 am on a Monday. I get off the bus at the usual stop, up the street on the way to work. There is a middle-aged guy coming up the street from the east. When he passes me, he mumbles a "how's it goin'?..." It's 12 degrees F but feels colder. This guy is not wearing a winter coat, but an unzipped hoodie and a knit hat. He doesn't appear cold. He looks lost. He crosses one corner and turns north. He goes a short distance before turning around. The way he walks, he will stop, turn around, and look down the street as if expecting someone to come along. He does this over and over. I watch him come back down the street and cross it against a red light. I don't think that he is inebriated. Instead of slouching through oncoming traffic on some kind of autopilot, as the "drinkers" consistently do, he appears genuinely surprised upon arriving at the median to find traffic expecting to go. He hurries across the street and does his turn arounds, going a short way before again coming back up to the corner and turning west. Soon after, he in coming back the opposite direction. He is coming the way he came. Crossing his third time, he passes me again with another "how's it goin'?" Looking into this bewildered face, with its mouth hanging open, am I staring directly at mental illness? I watch as he heads to the deathburger, goes inside, and sits down without ordering.
The following day, I'm on a bus home from work. Three women are discussing, in both Spanish and English, the purchase of two cabbages for a dollar; 25% less than the supermarket. The bus stops at a stop where a wasted derelict is getting up from the bench. He is talking to another guy. When they say goodbye, the other guy heads off while the derelict turns to get on the bus, only to find that the door has closed and the bus is leaving. He makes a futile attempt to alert the driver by raising a finger. It's a foggy morning at 5 am. I'm at the deathburger. I smell urine. I turn to see Mr. U.S. Polo Association. On the table are the contents of his pockets again. Gone are his parcels. He has two lighters, a hairpin, and some kind of tiny wooden rectangular pipe, into which he is putting something. I wouldn't know where to find a hairpin in 2013. Oye Como Va is quietly playing through the speakers, and he is quietly singing along.
It's my day off, and I am on my way to have the broker of my original mortgage take a look at some refinance paperwork from the company currently holding my mortgage. In he office, a young woman whips out to grab the papers, she's gone for less than a minute, and she whips back out having copied every page and sent them digitally to my broker. By the elevator is a big window five stories up. It overlooks a neighborhood in which I lived for 16 years, and a world away from where I live now, before blogs and derelicts. I continue to watch this place from time to time, a passing of people and homes and the creation and installation of a self- made global generation. Somewhere, out there in the view of homes peeking out of bare trees, homes which start at half a million dollars or more, are the lots where I lived in three different homes between 1992 and 2007. I am back here a few days later. On a rainy spring day, it still feels like the same place. The office buildings, the condominiums, the small dogs on short leashes. In this part of town, age comes not at the expense of unrepaired sidewalks. Their good order is required by strollers, where residents pursue all things health-related. And the Mercedes are brand new of course.
There are memories here, as I attempt to remember how it used to be, and if it's different now. It's the time, not the place which has changed most. I worked with a guy a couple of decades ago who lived here when the place was a forest. A health food place at the time he remembered as a gas station called Shorty's. And of course he knew Shorty. He passed the memory on to me. I pass it on, along with my own, here. My own years here were big, bam, boom years. The condominiums which replaced the post WW I housing started at half a million. At the time, that was chicken feed. In 2007, my landlord got a cool million for the two houses he owned on a lot, along with the land. I bought my own place at the same time. My credit was sterling. I had mortgage schlubs falling over themselves to give me a loan. I closed on a place a year or so before the party times came to an end.
...to provide neighborhood independence - allowing taxpayers...to retain up to 80 percent of their federal income taxes to use for local purposes. ...politicians...have spoken kindly of increasing a neighborhood's independence from governments and corporations by employing "community technology" to fulfill its own survival needs. ...populist science...wanted to prove that technology was great - not a killer - if you understood and controlled it. If America becomes a federation of 100,000 or so neighborhoods, the cheap computer...could be much more of a unifying instrument - of the American culture...than anything ever to hit political science. - Omni Magazine, April 1979
It was about 25 years ago that a shorter, gray-haired gentleman...appeared at my desk and chewed up maybe an hour of my time ranting about...developers taking over the east Cherry Creek neighborhood in which he lived. ...there would be no more bungalows for working class families, just...rows and rows of high-priced townhomes... I remember thinking..."This sounds a lot like, 'The Russians are coming; the Russians are coming!" Well, as time went on...it came to pass... Developers were making offers homeowners couldn't refuse... - P. Kashmann, ed., Washington Park Profile, 3/13
Henry visits his mother's house several times a month, though she's been gone now for thirty years. It's where he was born 75 years ago. It's where he brought his wife after World War II... Now he hardly recognizes the place. Someone buys a modest house in a middle-class neighborhood. ...the new owner tears it down and builds...in its place. Perhaps a row of townhouses. Maybe even a mansion. ...puts the property on the market and sells it for a huge profit. Land values soar, property taxes rise... Walk through the neighborhood today and you'll find a new house, condominium, duplex, or townhome on practically every block. The original bungalows are toppling like dominoes. People want to live here. And they're willing to pay...often $300,000 or more. ...several blocks from the Cherry Creek Shopping Center and the boutiques...The Denver Country Club...Congress Park. ...the posh neighborhood of Hilltop. To city planners, this is good news. ...to lure people to the city's core, reduce freeway traffic...more tax dollars, more construction jobs and more shoppers...higher property values... Henry's wife, Vera: "Something you used to see was a lot of children. You don't see that many anymore. What you see is people with dogs. They always say how friendly the dogs are." Henry: "You don't see that many people period." Vera: "They go in through the back and you never see them." Henry: "...it's strange to see one couple living in a huge box where the whole family used to be. If you don't take your turn at the four-way stop...if you miss your turn...you get honked at..." Vera: "When you go walking...it's almost like you're invisible. Some of them would just as soon walk over you as look at you. We feel like we're new here. We've lived here fifty years." - Westword, April 16-22, 1998
Here in mondo condo Or, 'Where have all the rentals gone?'
Is there life after barbecue? Refugees of the 'burbs, those...freaked by matching appliances have come rolling into the inner rim of Denver to set up housekeeping in more tolerant environs. Out there in the realm beyond urban culture, neighborhoods are characterized by guest lists of weekly cookouts. Who only eats Boca burgers? Shifting alliances... Signs of the times Huge banners with telephone numbers for reserving a "unit" and tentative prices (anywhere from the $200s to the $800s) have been stretched up along the construction sites. It's a mystery to many as to exactly who is going to purchase these "units," and where they work. - Denver Daily News, date unknown
From the start, we made the cow the symbol of...Denver. Back in the about-to-bust oil boom of 1984, city boosters were worried that...was holding us back. From what? Scraping away more of our past, maybe. Building high-rises that could be Anywhere, USA. But the subsequent economic downturn actually helped preserve much of...this city... ...with suburban sprawl temporarily stymied... - Westword, 3/28 - 4/3/2013
'Tis yet another Saturday at 5 am. I see who I think is a drunk middle aged-woman holding a Coke bottle. She is talking to a younger guy, who turns towards me to ask, "Hey, do you know what time it is bro?" I realize that the one who I think s a woman is actually a guy. The younger guy appears to be dressed as someone who may work in an office somewhere.
