...in reality, the economics of a country where whites are now becoming the minority means that big companies won't allow personality problems to hamper profits. More common were the whisperers. They were the ones who used breathy, hushed voices to point out that the folks who got promoted last week or who delivered the milk to the wrong house or brought yellow cupcakes to the second-grade holiday party was "colored" or "Mexican" or "oriental." - Aurora Sentinel, 7/4-7/10, 2013
...I...a former Deputy Sheriff... heard outside my bedroom window someone shaking my padlocked wooden gate so hard they were trying to break the gate. ...males in their mid to late teens. ...a cop came... About 6 more cops arrived. ...a "Decoy" car and the shots someone had reported were to draw the cops to a different location. ...the cops think there were a total of 4 guys trying to break into my house...to get to the only open window...which...could be easily seen... They all looked like typical "gang bangers." ...a man...with what appeared to be Prison tattoos all over him including his shaved head. - Nextdoor Westwood
A maintainance guy pulls up to the bus stop across the street from where I live, 5 am. He's cleaning it with a high-power hose. I wondered, as I watched this scene, what would happen were there someone passed out in a bus shelter when a cleaning guy shows up. I catch the bus up the street, where the cleaning guy has come to this stop. He does some sweeping instead of using the hose. Sitting in the shelter is a guy who appears to have been awoken. He polishes off a can of Pabst. I'm across the street from there when I hear yelling from the direction of the shelter. July brings a new cast of characters to my usual bus stop and the nearby deathburger. A white, bald guy in slacks and a polo shirt has a shopping bag. A scared-looking white kid with an orange crew cut is coming up the sidewalk. A couple with a single bike is walking bow-leggedly toward the deathburger. Relatively speaking, there is some kind of 5 am rush on the deathburger, a bunch of guys perhaps on their way to a construction job site. One of them, waiting for his order, is occasionally stepping to his right and making a tight circle, returning to where he started. There's a regular comb over guy complaining about the price of his coffee and pie. There's another couple, this one middle aged, who I assume didn't get up together to be here at this hour, but are capping off a late evening. The guy is in a white T and jeans. The lady is a bleached blond, with random tattoos in a pink cocktail dress. Everyone seems to be coming to the counter, wanting something extra. America is a nation of people who want something extra. Outside, one of the construction guys is sitting on the ground, against the building. I see a couple of bicycles parked up against two trees. A woman in the parking lot is falling out of her sleeveless top, trying to shove an overstuffed shopping bag into the trunk of her car. When I get to the station, the train is full of people. The guy in the seat next to me looks like he works in a front office somewhere. He's reading a drag racing magazine. He puts it away and pulls out a small piece of paper with a hand-drawn map. Where the trains have advertisements on the inside, for universities and condominiums, now has one seeking applicants to Arby's. Where I get off the train is a guy in a hard hat and a kelly green Henna tattoo on his left forearm. He's sitting, reading the newspaper.
...the property...is under a nuisance investigation. It was a narcotics case. - Nextdoor Westwood
July 4th, one of my neighbors had some friends over...and played loud music outside halfway through the night. His sound system has serious bass speakers, and his music has lots of tubas. The tiny parking lot is packed with trucks. On the cab rear windshield of a Chevy is "The Heartbeat of America." The evening of this 4th, the heartbeat of America is a tuba.
Normally, we're lucky to find one film a year that pays attention to the intersection of race and sexuality... ...LGBT culture buffs...exploring queer popular culture and coming into their own identities... ...a Dynasty-themed drag brunch... ...approach to gay teens in mainstream film... They were disco-dancing, Oscar Wilde-reading, Streisand ticket-holding friends of Dorothy... - 5th Annual CinemaQ Film Festival
Another Saturday at 5 am. I am headed to the deathburger. Across the street, next to a small car lot, is an ice cream shop with a couple of outdoor tables. Seated at one is a couple of young women and a police officer. They appear to me filling out written statements. A big tow truck is leaving the ice cream shop parking lot hauling a small car. It looks just like all the cars for sale in the lot. It's a silent scene in the dark. A police car pulls up to the dealership. An officer with a flashlight is looking through the fence at the fronts of cars parked inches away. (Suspected stolen car?) When I come back from the deathburger, the entire scene is gone.
It's ten after four on a Monday. I'm out the door and across the street. At a favorite panhandling spot at the gas station is a guy in a white T and white shorts, and a white cap. He looks like everyone who I went to college with thirty years ago. A middle-aged couple is coming down the sidewalk in the dark. She is carrying a long twig. They sit on a bench before he heads toward the gas station. Today and the following one, I take the bus to the train, to a train station in an office park. Both days, I ride the train with a middle-aged guy who gets off where I do. He doesn't look at though he is homeless. Both days, he does the same thing. As we walk up a sidewalk behind a parking garage, he looks behind him before laying down on a strip of grass and going to sleep.
Tuesday, at the bus stop across the street from where I live, is a different couple. The woman appears to be a casualty of crack cocaine. Her face appears as 90 or 100 years of age. The guy is younger, and he walks to the gas station mumbling something. When the bus gets here, she gets on with us. He walks back, away from the gas station. I hear him saying,"...immigration reform during the 17th century." When I get up the street to my usual bus stop, stretched out on the bench is someone under a white sheet. The following morning is a change in my schedule. After an hour's walk to the train, I take it to a different station. At the top of some stairs, a kid on a BMX bike is asking me how to get to a certain avenue. There is a strange desperation in his voice as, rather than waiting until I get up to where he is, he calls to me from the top of a staircase. His shirt hangs off his frame, and he stares at me as though he can not comprehend what I am saying. Can I help him out with a ticket or some change for the bus he asks. He rode here he tells me. (From where?)
After leaving the house earlier than usual for the first half of the week, leaving at my usual time makes me feel as though I am late. At my usual bus stop, Richard Spotted Bird strolls by. He asks no one for anything this morning.
It's a new neighborhood for sure, and maybe these kids will appreciate it in a way that I can't. ...things were changing so quickly that I hardly recognized the city my family raised me in. ...a boisterous pack of recently-21-year-olds spilled out of the new bar...reveling in that brief time of life that mirrors these languorous, enchanting mid-summer evenings; a time when the world's...possibilities stretch in all directions... I imagine them all in the midst of...pot upon pot of noodles...revolving casts of roommates, and dirty dished stacked in tiny kitchens that start to smell almost immediately in the hot, still air. They will have loud, good music and Yellowtail-soaked philosophical arguments in apartments, rented rooms, and shared houses all over the city. I remember these things like they were yesterday. The tinge of wildfire smoke I can smell as I write this reminds me that the next few decades are also going to be an interesting and probably intense time for Denver and the rest of the state. - Life on Captiol Hill, 7/2013
It's 5 am. Middle of the week. Middle of the summer. Chilly morning. Diesel engine pickup truck after diesel truck powers up the boulevard. On my way home yesterday, I rode the bus with with a family who gets on where my local supermarket is. The place is sandwiched between a trailer park and some apartments, both of which appear to be residences of the down and out. Standing out from the larger neighborhood of single family homes, it's odd that this collection of people should live here in this patch of municipal space. When I spot this family I immediately recognize the father's gravel voice, which I can hear from the other end of the parking lot. On this morning, at the bus stop across the street from where I live, another guy stretched out on the bench, covered with a sheet. At one end of him is a big lotto ticket. When I get to the stop for my connecting bus, I hear coughing behind me. Behind the bench is a row of hedges. Between these and the wall of a drug store is a space of stones. I heard a homeless stir from there early one morning. When I look there this morning, I don't see anyone behind the hedge. There is only an empty beer can and an old pair of boots.
It's another Saturday morning, a few minutes before 5 am. I am at the bus stop across the street from where I live, looking at the same parking lot which I have seen at the same time (in the dark) for several years now. This morning is the first time in all this time when there is someone at one end of the lot. It appears to be w woman, who is bent over a parking space. It looks as though she has perhaps a cleaning bucket or something like it. She appears to be cleaning one small spot on the asphalt. When I get to the deathburger, it's before 5 am. The place is sometimes not open at 5, when they post their time to be open. Today, not only are they open before 5. Phil Collins is coming over the speakers. There are a pair of teenaged girls sitting in their pajama bottoms reading text messages. On the connecting bus, as many mornings, is a young woman. She's a deathburger employee. As usual, she has her young child in her arms. They get off at a stop where a white dog with brown spots runs up to them. The dog jumps on the mom. The girl appears interested in the dog. The mom has a strong, silent face. From the station, I take a train to the next station, where a young couple is strolling together to a bench. She is dressed in a groovy top. She's statuesque. He looks like a gangster wannabe. He sits on the bench and lays his head in her arms. She holds him as she surveys the scene.
Imagine 2020
The city of Denver is creating a new plan...called Imagine 2020. ...designed to give Denver a renewed sense of direction in the promotion of the arts, culture and creativity. - Curtis Park Times, July 2013
Denver County Fair returns... "We're bringing the dinosaurs this year," says fair director... "Each year, we try to represent more and more of what makes Denver special...from dinosaurs to diesel trains..." "The square dancers are going full time this year," says fair co-founder... "They're a perfect fit for us, because they embody the traditions of the past, with the fun of the new. By that I mean they have Lady Gaga square dancing." Blue Ribbon competitions...include:...Best Colorado Fossil... Other new innovations...include...Camel rides... The Kids Pavilion will...play host to a special appearance by Nickelodeon's SpongeBob SquarePants on Sunday. - Denver News 7/10 - 8/10, 2013
Title artwork: White Video Visitation Torture By Paolo Cirio
The term "White Torture" originally comes from Iran, where...the prisoner is...in...a totally white environment - from the walls and lighting to an all-white uniform...the detainees lose their sense of personal identity. Experiencing human interaction through media impoverishes...interpersonal communication, often producing a deep sense of solitude and emotional displacement. The artwork questions the use of Video Visitation technology introduced in US prisons over the past several years. ...communication...through a poor media...generates a distortion in the perception of emotion and sensibility. ...hallucinations, post-traumatic stress disorder, insomnia and suicide...
REACH is a free...arts studio space where artists in Denver's "not exactly" homeless and in-transition community can...express themselves creatively, be exposed...collaborate...learn...and challenge each other to take the next step - in their art and in their lives. - flyers, Red Line Gallery
I went to see several art exhibitions which are part of Denver's Biennial of the Americas celebration, a mouthful of a title. Red Line Gallery has an exhibition of work made by homeless individuals at the gallery's workshop. The most recent issue of a local GLBT biweekly newspaper has a fashion layout with this exhibition as its location. Both a city council person and the mayor, each responsible for a single ban on overnight camping within the downtown city limits, appeared at the gallery to speak about how great the city is. At a building downtown are a couple of the other art exhibitions, one on a floor above the other. Out of a window here, I can see homeless sleeping under the shade of trees. As I was coming inside, one of them awoke and reached toward my direction, saying something incoherent. From the window, I can see him rolling back and forth on the grass.
Both exhibitions in this building are part of the Biennial theme of 'celebrating the Americas', North, Central, and South. I've been to shows before on a Sunday afternoon, on many a year with Sunday as my only day off. The show with work of a featured artist, and the group show above it, have me wondering. The first show is one with curious imagery, along with a variety of use of the medium. The second show has a good piece or two. It makes me wonder, though, am I experiencing art or am I witness to the presentation of a theme? Outside in the park is a small festival-like gathering which has no attendees besides myself. I don't see any banner announcing what it is, but I hear classic rock coming from a sound system on a stage. There is a huge container, with a sign on it which says something about food donation. There is a bar under one tent, and Grateful Dead stuffed animals under another. At another end of the stage are tie-dyed T-shirts for sale. On my way out, a middle aged guy is approaching the entrance gate on a bike. His hands are in the air as he snaps his fingers. He almost crashed into a recycle bin, before he says, "Whoa, recycle bin." On one end of a huge dumpster outside the festival, someone is taking a leak.
Beginning July 16, leaders in business, government, nongovernmental organizations, philanthropy, and the arts will convene for four nights of inspirational public symposia in a dynamic, cross-cultural experience... ...urban space is inherently in flux. ...brewing has become...a socio-economic organizer... - Ideas Art & Culture brochure
Routine has made the city dweller numb to the significance of each street, block, and corner. Save for chance moments, our urban condition has become banal. - Draft Urbanism
In cultures around the planet, really, the village is disappearing. - Energy Times, 7/8 2013
The clean up is part of the Mayor's Denver Days celebration. ...Mayor Michael Hancock...Jeanne Fautz...and his entourage ate at Towes Restaurant.
Yesterday I had the opportunity to meet with the Mayor. I took a strong stance of the increase of graffiti...especially along Federal Boulevard. - Nextdoor Westwood
Notes from District 4 Commander's meeting July 24
The manager and district manager of a drug store next to my usual bus stop asked for assistance in dealing with drug dealing, shoplifting, and aggressive panhandling affecting their business...
...since the change in police districts there seems to be less police coverage in Westwood. ...injuries and military leaves have eaten into the ranks... ..drag racing...has now taken over what was a cruising problem. - Nextdoor Westwood
Tuesday, I am at my usual bus stop. I hear someone stirring on the stones on the ground behind the hedge. I hear change rattling. Thursday, I hear someone there zipping a bag. Friday I am on a train home after a late shift at work. It's 8 pm. I got on with a gaggle of who appear to be students, at a station on a private university. The all stick together, like some youth group on a mission trip. One guy says that he has to piss, so I doubt that they are headed downtown to convert the natives. When a nice view of the mountains comes into view, the guy who has to piss goes gaga. These ain't locals. At the station where I get off is a collection of mostly adults and seniors from the Far East. I ask one of them, "Nippon?" Blank stares. Not from Japan. "China?" I ask. The oldest one replies, "Yes. Vacation. Colorado is very beautiful." And then it's another Saturday. 5 am. I am on a bus to the train. At one stop, a guy gets on with a teenager of Far Eastern heritage. The kid appears normal, the guy as a friggin' goofball. As they get on, the guy is telling the kid, "looser..." They raced each other to the bus stop an hour before the sun comes up. He tells the kid, "That's three bucks son." I watch them in a mirror on the bus. The guy is messing with the kid's hair. When they get off, the guy is digging through trash cans for a cup. What is the story with this pair?
The following day, I am at my usual deathburger before grocery shopping. In the lot of the deathburger is a smashed up Subaru hatchback. A somewhat bewildered senior guy comes out of it and inside. He orders and waits for his breakfast. I can see. through the back window, a bird is inside hopping along the top of the back seat.
Strange goddamned days here at the end of July. 60 degree F drizzly mornings. Low overcast, cold breezes. Wonderful for what are usually the dog days of summer. It's a couple of days before my birthday, and the last day of the month. At my usual bus stop, I watch a derelict come down the sidewalk, loosing his balance as he walks. Jacket, Red Sox jersey, shorts, black socks, shoes, wooden cane in one hand, cigarette between two fingers of the other, long grey 70s rock star-length hair. He's thin. He doesn't sound inebriated at all. "Scuse me. Would you have some change so I can make a phone call?" At a payphone? Sorry friend, you're in the wrong decade.
