It's the day before Labor Day. I ride the bus to the supermarket with a big guy who has a buzz cut with a little tail in back. We both go into a place to get breakfast. I listened to him talking to the driver and he is now on his phone, talking about beginning a 12-hour shift. He's some kind of at-risk youth counselor, who apparently takes the bus to work on Sundays in another town. He says that he doesn't get paid for holidays. Probably not if he works for the state these days. I work at a cleaners and I get paid holidays, and may even get a second day off this week. He orders breakfast and I see him grab 10 napkins.
So is the best part of (our neighborhood)
the constant graffiti...or the threats directed at white people living in the neighborhood? Oh I know, maybe it's the bangers strolling up and down the street at all hours of the night leaving trash and broken bottles everywhere. That coupled with the street racing and constant blaring music... Denver's own little paradise. - Nextdoor Westwood, 9/2/13
This year...a tipping point. ...the town's main thoroughfare, had a recent make-over, with brightly colored storefronts a spruced-up sidewalks. An organic food shop opened... A welcome center-cum-thrift shop is right next door... Murals are showing up around town... ...a bi-weekly paper, is in its 134th year. - Nexus, 9/13
Project Angel Heart is proud to be located in Globeville - right next door to RiNo...one of the next Denver neighborhoods to bloom. We've been to several neighborhood planning meetings, have heard so many great thoughts and ideas... Hopefully, that'll be great news for the Denver food scene. That space, their food, the amazing cocktail list and beautiful patio - it's exactly how I love to dine with friends... Well played. - Westword Dish 2013
On Labor Day, I decided on the last day of the long weekend to go downtown to an annual festival in the park. The local news said that, over the four days (Friday through Monday), an estimated "500,000 people showed up and 3 million ice cubes were consumed." Perhaps. The sun may be hot, but the air here is dry. It rarely gets into triple digits, and this summer has been very mild. Indeed, there were crowds, food, and MC Hammer and America headlining four days of bands onstage. In the middle of all the white people with their fancy hats and permed hair and trimmed beards, on one corner of a couple of streets, one lonely homeless guy cruising the fair like anyone else. The temperature was in the 90s F and he was wearing a winter coat, because if you live outside it can get chilly overnight. After the big festival, I was on a mall shuttle headed to the train. The same day there was also a baseball game at home. The shuttles were packed. There was one middle aged couple and their little daughter seated in back where I was standing. The ladies appeared just like regular old white people. The mom appeared reserved but good looking. The guy looked and sounded like he had already had too much to drink. I bought a hat at the fest. He told me, "Cool hat. Did you get it at the...at the...the fair?"
Another Labor day has finished. I'm on a bus up the street. Sitting across from me at 5 am is a guy with white hair under his cap, and a T-shirt which reads "I love NYPD." When I get to my usual bus stop, I see a guy walking up the sidewalk on the opposite side of the street. He is talking to himself and pointing straight ahead. Regardless of the direction in which he points, he makes a right and sits at a bus bench. On my own bench, the guy with the green chef coat shows up. He lets me know that the bus is coming. It's the first time as long as I can remember when someone told me this. And it was a guy in a green chef coat. On the news, I saw a story about a local marijuana activist who was killed by a drunk driver going the wrong way in an interstate HOV lame. The vuctim went by the last name of "Kush." The next day, i am at the deathburger at 5 am. A couple of middle-aged guys roll up on bicycles. A guy with shaggy grey hair is on a mountain bike. The other is in a T-shirt which reads "Colorado wrestling," and is on a stripped down chopper bicycle. It has a sign taped to the handlebars which reads "do not forklift here." In the afternoon, I get off a bus across the street from my usual bus stop. Right there are a couple of guys with a shopping cart full of crap, and a stick in it. One of the guys has no shirt on, and I can tell by the way he wears his shorts that he has no underwear on either. The following morning, the first scooter I have seen getting gas is at the gas station across the street from where I live. At my usual bus stop is the first bus driver who I have ever seen catch the bus there. He's standing, pacing. His hands are on his hips, standing at the curb, staring down the street. I hear him say, "fffuck. Oh, c'mon." He's in a uniform of a contract company driver. He sits across from where a driver employed by the transit system sits down. H turns away to face toward the front, still appears impatient. He gets off well before we get to the station. The train takes me to a stop at a community college. I am wearing a T-shirt which reads, "Pink Freud," and as a picture of a very pink Sigmund Freud. A guy with a case which has metal edges and appears to be a professor tells me, "Your shirt made me laugh." This is what is called a "park and ride," where riders park and ride the transit system. They are making a silent procession in the dark to the train platform.
...I live across the street from a public school, my grandchildren could not attend as they are in the minority - they are ENGLISH speaking... I continuously clean up after the parents who park...[dirty diapers...lunch wrappers - whisky bottles... Then we have the loud mexican [sic]
music... - Nextdoor Westwood, 9/4
Commander's Meeting Notes...
Recent homicide...was the outcome of a neighborhood dispute. Residents indicate that the drug trafficking has been using taxicabs. - Nextdoor Westwood, 9/5
'Tis the following morning. I am out the door about an hour earlier than usual this morning. Across the street, I see a regular drunk looking in the windows of the gas station, before he wanders to the other side of the street. I watched him standing on the corner in the dark, his arms crossed, swaying back and forth. Twelve hours later, when I step off the bus, I see him still in the parking lot of the gas station. The next morning, I am back at the bus stop across the street. This morning, for the first time since I have been using this stop, I hear drumming in the distance, in the dark. During the short bus ride up the street, one young guy is talking to another, something about "calisthenics," and "Asian gangs, Cambodian gangs..." Where I get off the bus, the drumming sounds as if it is closer. I head over to the deathburger. On my way back, I'm passed by a guy with a tattoo on his neck, and a backpack. He says somethign about it being "dark, homie." He goes to the deathburger and comes out with breakfast. He sits down on a stone wall next to the bus stop and eats. He belches. A guy shows up who appears to know him. They give each other fist bumps and soul shakes. When the bus comes, his friend gets on and the original guy disappears. On the bus home, when we pull into the train station, a grizzled guy gets up and exits the bus. When he does, I notice that he leaves behind a red pack of Pall Malls. As head toward the train, I hear him berating himself. "Fuck! Shit! You can't keep anything dickhead! Fuck!"
It's another week. I get on the 5 am bus for the short ride up the street. On it are a couple of young guys. One is telling the other about working for some kind of cleaning place. His boss told him that, he could go ahead and subcontract a job, but that he would be the one responsible for the job getting done. His friend's response included "fuck" as every other word. "Did you see that fine girl in the office?" "Fuck...fuck...fuck...fuck..."
'...I am convinced that armed struggle is the key to liberation struggle... ...for...Che...ten city intellectuals were worthless as guerrilla fighters than one farmer from the area. Others have taken up chauvinism, in the spirit of the individualist rancour, which has no roots in any part at all of the history of independence. ...between a carnivorous nation and one that can be eaten...chauvinism, reactionary nationalism...' -
The New Revolutionaries, ed. by Tariq Ali, 1969
It brings you into the now. You have to pay such close attention to your survival at a very primal level. It makes you raw. It opens you to layers, to dimensions of yourself that you may not be in touch with. Your mind, if anything, drives you crazier. And we see how little control we have over our minds. It seems the more aware you are, the more able you are to watch your mind, and the more horrified you get... When I lived in Houston, I used to run with this outrageous group of girls. We called ourselves "The Bad Girls Board of Directors." We were huge drinkers, we were very loud. The others were from the upper classes of Houston society. I also ran around with two identical twin drag queens... ..like St. Augustine...he had to live this super-bohemian life...so he could know what it is to live in the body. - Nexus, 0/13
"
There's a culture of success growing there, you can see it and you can feel it just walking around the school. I want to help that continue." ...Rebel DADS
- Dads Advocating for Denver South. In case you think this is just another case of PTA "homers" blowing the horn for their kids' school... - Washington Park Profile, 9/13
Fears that a gang feud could escalate further prompted the closure of two high schools Friday and the postponement of a homecoming dance. ...a 13-year-old boy killed in a suspected gang-related shooting... "...the Bloods and the Crips." ...what Denver police described as a "credible threat" at the schools. ...the one...was made against the school in general... Students were told not to loiter near the schools and some were escorted to their cars. The boy who was killed
had just started his first week at the school, his family said. Those close to him said he associated with the Crips, although his relatives said he was not in a gang. ...the..older brother was hit in a drive-by shooting about 10 years ago... - The Denver Post, 9/7/13
I am at a stop, waiting for a bus home with a guy who has a civil war beard and is smoking a pipe. He mentions that the bus is late. It has been raining all week. Schools have been closed due to flooding and mudslides. When the bus shows up, he asks the driver the same question every person asks every driver who stops here. 'Are you going west or east?' He then asks the driver, "You're late, aren't you?" The driver replies, "It's bad weather sir." The next morning, more rain. The guy in the green chef coat has no umbrella. I don't see any others besides my own until I get far from my neghborhood. He has a T-shirt over his head. Rather that stand inside the bus shelter, he sits in the rain, on a soaked bench, on his phone. When he gets off, he says to me, "How's it goin'?" I head over to the deathburger. Inside are two completely different-looking guys who appear to know each other. One has on a light knit polyester jacket and cap. He appears bone dry. The other is practically dripping in a soaking wet sleeveless T-shirt and has soaked hair. The dry one says hi to the other before he runs out the door. The wet guy approaches the counter seemingly unaware of what's on the menu. This deathburger is a national franchise which sponsors deal with the Olympics. The wman behind the counter asks him what he would like. he replies that he would like, "A sandwich...maybe sausage...?" She tells him what they have. I next see him crossing the street with his food and an unlit cigarette in his mouth.
The bus takes me to the train. Onboard, I notice a middle-aged guy walking up and down his section of the aisle. His hands are behind his back, then they are hanging to the railing, then his head is leaning against the side of the car. He's in a dark polo shirt and dark shorts, and has a visor which he is wearing backwards. He sits down and looks around, takes off his visor, makes a face like Bill Murray's character in Caddyshack with his lip sticking out sideways. When I get off the train and on to the bus, the roof is leaking in several places. On a bus home, that roof is leaking as well. I got on with a couple. The guy appears to be a drug casualty, perhaps in his late thirties. He's thin, no teeth, caved in face. When the wind picked up at the bus stop, he said, "Fucking burr..." His significant other appears to be in her twenties. ...fucking burr. I get it, yeah, and it's different than the usual street hustle rhetoric; 'hey, bro' or 'hey, homie'. It's still the rhetoric of someone living in his own world. It's the most interesting thing about him, even including his basketball shoes with no socks. As I got off the bus, I glanced at the girl. She appeared to have sores on one hand. Infections from a dirty needle? The following morning, I would see another guy, another casualty, at another bus stop, in an old sweater over a disheveled button down shirt, a hat from the early 1960s which has been in fashion, and a cane. And, he appears to have no teeth and a caved in face. He's talking to someone else and using slow, deliberate physical gestures to describe a point. I've seen other derelict folk do this.
'Tis yet again another Saturday morning at 5 am. On the short bus ride up the street, I join the "fuck" guy and his pal. The first is silent. The second is talking to the other when he suddenly begins asking the driver about washing the buses. Before the driver can answer, he asks him if the bus has a manual clutch and what three buttons on the dashboard are for. The driver answers that the buses are automatic shift, and he then says something about too much noise. The guy then tells the driver, "Well then you will be happy to get off the motherfucking bus. God bless you you ugly motherfucker." On a bus home, there is a third guy with a sunken face and no teeth. This middle-aged guy is curled up asleep in a seat with his mouth open, and aviator sunglasses.
The signature sign of a city on the culinary fast track...aggressive risks, push infinite boundaries... If you stay inside a bubble and never venture outside Leopold Bros., Old Major, the Squeaky Bean, Renegade, the Kitchen, etc, it looks great. If you go to Park Meadows or cruise down Colorado Boulevard...what...the non-foodie population in Denver actually eats, it's still pretty bleak. ...describe...Denver's culinary climate... It's on fucking fire, and has been for some time. ...the farmer's markets: They suck! ...just biscuits-and-gravy and hemp sweaters. ...while there are tons of great independent restaurants, the big-box places are packed every night. When you can eat at a restaurant...why would you even consider going to a Cracker Barrel? The River North district is becoming cooler every year...great places like the Populist, Crema and Cold Crush... ...of Denver's culinary climate, what would you say? It's blowing the F up. ...the craft-beer industry...is solely responsible for pouring $446 million into the Colorado economy. ...taking risks by moving outside of LoDo's exterior...further north into RiNo. - Westword Dish 2013
It's the beginning of another work week. Deathburger. 5 am. In a booth are a young white couple who appear as though they could be art students. The guy is bent over, intently drawing in a sketchbook. Yet, when I get a closer look at their faces, they appear to be older, perhaps in their late twenties. The guy has a maniacal expression of intense concentration, along with a stare. And is the female grading papers? One of them has a coffee from a gas station. Back at the usual bus stop, a guy shows up carrying a sleeping bag. After spending a few minutes reorganizing his belongings, he is off back toward the way from where he came. On a bus home, a couple of middle aged guys get on. One has a long, grey goatee. The other has a face which resembles rotten skin. I've never seen skin so ragged and weather beaten. The guy with the weathered face is laughing, saying something to the other guy about "conspiracy."
Thursday. 5 am. The moon shines through broken clouds, down onto my usual bus stop. At the light are two trucks, one pulling a flatbed trailer. One of the drivers is revving his engine, challenging the other to a drag race. Before they are off the mark, a couple of police cruisers pull up and turn the corner. And on the horizon, I see a purple flash of lightning. The next day is my day off. I am on my way to get a new filter for my furnace. I walk past the entrance to a K Mart, where outside appears to be an employee. he is talking, not in any phone which I can see, but apparently to himself. He's saying, "The guys don't have nice shoes because they haven't had the opportunities I did." As I pass by him, I am wearing a hat I bought which is made of dries sea grass. I hear him say, "What, is it hat day? Oh, I didn't know..." The following Saturday, on a bus home, I am sitting behind a young, quiet guy. Soon, a girl he knows gets on. She's in a deathburger uniform. He asks her if she works with "Steve-o." The only Steve she knows is gay. She asks him if he's the one. He quietly answers "no." Steve-o drives a Mercedes. She tells him, "Andrea's in jail." he replies, "No she's not. Well, she was for a little while. She's back working..."
It's a rainy start to another week. I'm waiting for a train shortly before 5 am. As I am getting on, stepping off a train coming out of downtown is a guy with a grey goatee. He asks me, "What stop is this?"
Our people are a colony within the United States. For the most part we live in sharply defined areas...shanty towns of the South, and more and more in the slums of...industrial cities. ...in another five to ten years, two-thirds...will be in the ghettos - in the heart of the cities. The American city is...populated by the people of the Third World, while the white middle class flee the cities to the suburbs. - Ali
...this contemptuous elite? ...they were encouraging the real bastards of the world. I never again assumed the young had pure motives. The blue collars...made a lot of their money in overtime... They lived on their own kind of common sense and had a nice natural hatred for bullies... They voted for Reagan. ...the white collars...had been born into a class that understood explaining to the disadvantaged to be part of its burden. Now their influence has ended. ...their influence can still be seen in...Sunday Morning,
a wonderful old village explainer... that likes to tell us that racism is a bad cruel thing and says war is bad and cruel. - What I Saw at the Revolution, by Peggy Noonan, 1990
"For the first time in history, we're taking increment financing dollars from our downtown district and investing that into a day facility... We have documentation from each of our Homeless Outreach Team Officers referring hundreds of individuals per quarter to services and even job opportunities." - Out Front, 9/18 - 10/02/13
It;s just after 4 am, and a chilly morning. I step out of my front door and get to the street. On the sidewalk of the opposite side are a couple of young guys trying to stay warm with their arms inside their T-shirts. As they walk along, they are followed by a middle-aged guy who sounds drunk. He's speaking to the other two, "You want to get on the roof?" One of the younger guys asks me for change. The drunk guy punches or kicks, or runs into a street sign. A morning or two later, and I am getting on the same train. As I am getting on, a couple is getting off. The girl has moccasin boots with fringe at the tops, and a purse covered in fringe. She asks the male, "We're getting off here?" What is with this stop anyway? 'Tis another Saturday morning. 5:30 am. I'm at the train station. In a bus shelter at one end of the station, in complete darkness, is a young guy. He is whispering to me through the perforated metal of the back side. He tells me that he sprained his ankle. He's trying to catch one of the buses. I can't hear what else he says. I stare at him.
Two days later is supposed to be my day off. Instead, some time after 6 am, I get a call to go in and cover for a store manager. It's a long day, with an extra two and a half hours working with an emotionally underdeveloped kid. I'm on a train home. I'm standing next to three seated people during rush hour. A guy with salt and pepper hair, a Hawaiian shirt, and khaki slacks is seated across from a couple of young women, one of whom is holding a Watchtower magazine. He's talking about drunks, the prison system in Switzerland, mentioning bible verses. He speaks some Spanish. He mentions the resurrection, asking the women, "What happens when you have an operation?" and them using one as a parable for the other. The crowds who head to work, and then come home both later than I usually do are a whole other scene. Button down shirts and briefcases. One of the women has a bible which she pulls out. She asks the guy a question about Revelation, which he steers her away from. "Those who go to heaven have a special purpose," and he compares them to the congresspeople who work in Washington, D. C.. Tonight, at midnight, the U.S. government is due to shut down.
