I read a post on Nextdoor Westwood, about a recent graffiti arrest in the neighborhood. In a posted letter, sent to the court handling the case, this neighbor claims that she read on Wikipedia that "the gangs" claim as their territory all the municipal territory west of downtown. I wonder what use "the gangs" have for Wikipedia. Western municipal Denver. That's a lot of Nextdoor neighborhoods. The tagger crew member who was arrested got my recycle bin. Every couple of weeks, when the bin is on the curb, it represents. Life in "the gangs" can't be anything like Dr. Evil's hideout. One recently cleaned out "gang house" in the neighborhood was found to be without working plumbing, and hence feces on the floor.
...a set of behavior patterns of a lower-class milieu...can often develop self-respect and dignity only by rejecting the larger society. ...the lower-class population...either cannot or do not want...middle-class values... ...eventually, we shall have to give up the pretense that nineteenth-century free-enterprise ideology can cope with twentieth-century realities... ...the lower-class population's involvement in the neighborhood is...neutral, and more often negative... - Urban Planning and Social Policy, ed. by B. J. Frieden and R. Morris, 1968
I think miracles exist...saints performing wonders. I think the saints are with us, watching us... The Blessed Virgin...she's very much on the scene...a friend to mankind. Which is the reason I read the tabloid press - it keeps track of sightings. "...hi, Mike...OMB. ...in welfare reform is the fourteen-year-old-kid...encouraged by this...government...to take steps...harmful to her. She's had a baby...just made her mother a grandmother at thirty..." ...says Doug...of OPL, "...how to...encourage those values by which all of us of all colors have lived...for centuries." "But without being labelled irrelevant to the debate or sentimental about past that never was," says Jodi...of OPL. It was music to my ears. ...trying to understand America. - Noonan
At work, I found a couple of bills of foreign currency. After work, I took it downtown to a bank which exchanges foreign currency. When I walked in, there was an employee at the front of the velvet roped line. He was asking each customer as they made their way to the front how their day was going. The teller asked me where I got Australian money. I told her that I won it in a dice game with a guy from Australia. As she was showing another teller what Australian money looks like, one of the managers came over to introduce himself. (Because the teller asked me if I had an account there and I told her that I didn't?) He told me that the bank had seen a lot of Australian money lately. I told him that there must have been a convention in town. He asked me how I got Australian money. I told him the dice game story. He shook my hand and congratulated me. It didn't appear to bother anyone that I procured money in a wager with a tourist. At the exit was a guy who wanted to know if I wanted a free bottle of water.
On a day off, I am coming out of a movie. The theatre is located in one of those outdoor mall/condominium complexes. It's huge, with hype of equal size. It's just the kind of place to attract a broad spectrum of ridicule, with its themed festivals, its themed outlet store, its themed burger places with its clueless employees... But on this late afternoon, in early October, with temps in the 70s F, the sun is casting its long last shadows of the day down on a huge lawn in front of a row of townhomes. There is a row of turning trees. A couple of teenaged girls have the place all to themselves as who surely must be their older brothers, from an open window, are cheering on the Broncos tied with the Cowboys late in a game on TV. Did whoever designed this place imagine such a scene? I don't want to get on the bus and leave the girls.
I have another day off a couple of days later. The place across the street, where I have been getting my hair cut, is still closed after their posted hours announce that they should be open. This prompted me to go to the internet to find the next closest hair cutting place, which claims that the next closest place to my home is downtown. Neither the place across the street, nor each of the two I found just as close, are listed online. It's as if my neighborhood is digitally invisible. By the middle of the week. I am walking up the boulevard to catch an earlier bus than usual. I pass a billboard in Spanish advertising a fight on Pay Per View. I can see in the distance ahead a silhouetted figure in the dark. Someone with shorts and dress socks. When he gets closer, I see that he also has on a sleeveless shirt. It's 51 degrees F this early morning, and I have on my hoodie under my windbreaker. He asks me for a cigarette. I tell him that I don't smoke. He replies, "Well can we start?" On a train home from work later in the afternoon, i am listening to a high school girl tell a couple of her friends how she shoplifts a few hundred dollars worth of merchandise from each of three of the city's most prominent shopping malls.
The next morning, I get to the bus stop across the street in the nick of time. A bus comes along which reads "not in service." Right behind it is a bus which is in service. I wonder how many people missed it. Luckily, I do catch it up the street and get on a connecting bus. As we are pulling into the train station, the only guy I have ever seen in a suit on this bus begins asking, "Is this the train station? It's so dark, I can't see my stop. Is the train station next? Does the bus swing around and go back the other way? Does it continue on the same way?" He decides to get off, and appears to be carrying a bible. When I get home after work, there are three girls outside, who don't live in my complex. The youngest one has food all around her mouth. The oldest one, who tells me that she attends the middle school a few yards away, goes on to say that she is looking for a friend from school. I go inside and begin eating dinner. Someone begins ringing my doorbell non-stop, leaning on button during the final pushing. Somehow, I know that it is the oldest kid again. When open the door, she wants to know if I have $1.49.
The following morning is another Saturday at 5 am. I see a rare homeless guy asleep, sitting against the wall of the deathburger. I catch the bus to a train, to a connecting bus. Sitting in the seat behind the driver is a middle-aged guy with a cane...who has a face which appears as though someone beat the hell out of it. He has bruises everywhere, across his nose, a right eye swollen shut, and cuts with big scabs as well. When he turns in my direction, I see the full damage and I recoil. There is a small bandage on one knuckle of his right hand. He does not appear to be in any pains, and appears to be wearing a long sleeve knit shirt or hoodie. When someone comes on, he moves his cane, and I see the top he is wearing is torn completely down the front, exposing his skin. He takes the left side and pulls it over to cover himself.
...the forest with the wandering, ascetic seekers, the Samenas. These strange, self-denying men are "worn-out...neither old nor young, with dusty and bleeding shoulders, practically naked, scorched by the sun, solitary, strange and hostile - lean jackals in the world of men." - If You Meet the Buddha on the Road, Kill Him, by Sheldon B. Kopp, 1972
Local people...speak of a "mi-go" or "mi-teh" (wild man); a "kang-admi, kang-mi," or "animas" (snow man), or a "van manas" (forest man). ...in Garwahl...they are "mirka." The Lepchas of Sikkim speak of the "harram-mo"... - OMNI 10/1979
On my day off, I am on my way to run just a couple of afternoon errands. I am waiting at the bus stop across the street from where I live. Sitting on the bench is a guy with a grey goatee, no socks, and has a wicker basket. A younger guy comes up to the stop and greets the first guy. The younger guy says that he just finished a 14-hour shift at the gas station next door. He has a tall can of beer in a bag, and he pulls out a tiny airline bottle of whisky and takes a sip before handing it to his pal. The young guy then takes out a small pipe to light up some marijuana. Just then, the bus shows up. I look at him, and he says to me, "I got to drink this can of beer." The other guy isn't going anywhere either. I get on and up to a stop for a connecting bus, which quickly takes me out to Caucasianland. I go into a deathburger for lunch. It's full of white people. Some guy at the counter is giving very detailed instructions for his and his daughter's order. At one table, with her parents, is sitting a middle school girl in a jersey for her local sports team, with the name of the HMO which sponsors it. At my table, directly above my head, is a flat screen TV with Jay Leno on it. When I get back to my neighborhood, I am waiting for a bus back to my home. On the bench is a young, drunk couple. The guy is whistling at the occasional car and flipping it off. He goes across the street, through moving traffic, to the drug store. His girlfriend is yelling at him from our side of the boulevard. He comes back in a few minutes with a pack of cigarettes for her. Was she yelling to him what kind to get?
"The reference to hardworking Americans." ...I was using proletarian imagery against Communists, which is one of my favorite things to do. "And no men living are more worthy to be trusted than those who have worked hard for what they have. None are less inclined to take what is not theirs."
"What's wrong with that?" I said.
"It sounds anti-rich. It sounds as if you're suggesting the wealthy are not to be trusted. You are clearly ascribing certain virtues to the poor that you by implication deny to the rich. You don't think there's a contradiction between our promotion of economic growth and our lauding of the special virtues of the poor?" - Noonan
...I got to know some of the other patients in the psych ward. ...many were like me - young professionals overextending themselves and suffering from burnout. We tend to live in a world where good is often not good enough - the new American way. ...as a mental health case manager, I was terrified I would run into one of my clients. - Out Front, 10/16 - 11/06/13
...men of life long calling (or penance) are easily recognizable, adorned with many tokens, the witness of many wonders, the hero of many adventures. "Priests and magicians are used in great number." - Kopp
This week is headed toward the finish line. At 5 am, I am waiting for the deathburger to open as the morning manager shows up. She waves to a customer who I have seen around. He strikes me as a local burnout. She knows him by name. Even with white hair, he appears to be only in his early fifties. His face has exhaustion all over it. His eyes droop. His speech is slurred. He opens the door for her, asking, "Yyouuu waant iin?" When I get to my usual bus stop, someone is asking the guy in the green chef coat where the bus goes. He mentions his job, something about "feeding the kids." I wonder if he works in a school cafeteria.
The guru will appear in many forms. He may wear the garb of a simple teacher or an itinerant healer. Or...with the dramatic force of a prophet, a sage, or even a wizard... He will fit cultural expectations. ...he engenders...responses to his radical...strangeness to all rules and traditions. Arising in a revolutionary context, he sets himself against both the patriarchal domination and the bureaucratic legalistic defining of power. ...overturning...the meaning of life. - Kopp
"...the deep knowledge...that one's country...and that democracy is worth dying for because it is the most deeply honorable form of government ever devised by man. ...and they were happy to fight tyranny..." Deaver's office kept telling us to put in the phrase "pride and purpose." Advance kept telling us to put in "selfless effort" and "impossible odds" and "indomitable will" and "courage" and "bravery." Everyone wore Adam Smith ties...eagles, flags, busts of Jefferson..."Him I'm a free-market purist!" "Hello there, I believe in judicial restraint!" You'd be in someone's home and...see a...copy of Paul Johnson's "Modern Times lying half open... Everyone had read Jean-Francois Revel's "How Democracies Perish" and could discuss with ease Jean Kirkpatrick's analysis of authoritarian versus totalitarian regimes. In the Reagan years you hated to go out on Saturday right before the McLaughlin show... There were words. You had a notion instead of a thought and a dust up instead of a fight, you had a can-do attitude, and you were in touch with the zeitgeist. A moderate was a squish and a squish was a weenie and a weenie was a wuss. - Noonan
It's a Monday at 6 am. I am at a train station. There are three young adults together, two boys and a girl. The girl looks cold on this frosty morning. One of the guys is wearing a pair of knit sweat pants. The girl gives him what appears to be a pair of khakis, which he puts on over his others. Both boys are now wearing khakis and black hoodies. On Thursday, I am in a deathburger behind a guy with a grey beard, and a "Tony Hawk" backpack. A young guy comes in. He flashes an employee a peace sign and tells him that he is "waiting for the bathroom." (?) He goes in, comes out, and leaves. At the train station is a guy with a towel under his cap. The following day is my day off. The Jehovas Witnesses once again drop by a bus stop near my home. Three middle-aged guys in suits and ties, in a white SUV. I am on a bus coming back from grocery shopping. We stop behind a police car which is parked behind another bus. Some passengers from that bus get on ours. One of them says something about a fight on the other bus. The following morning, at ten to five am, I just make the bus at the stop across the street. At this hour, from this bus, I never see anyone get off at this stop. It's just folks on their way to work or somewhere other than here. This morning, off hops a couple of local drunks who I see around here all the time. This is the first time I have seen them get off the 4:50.
The following day, later that night, there is loud drunken angry arguing across the street from where I live, around 9 pm. The next morning is the Monday of Halloween week, but even for my neighborhood, this is no excuse. I am walking as fast as I can up the street to try to catch an earlier than usual bus. Shuffling down the sidewalk across the street is someone in a hoodie underneath a T-shirt. Whoever it is walks as though they may be seventy years old. Some of the neighbors on my neighborhood's social network website are responding to a single neighbor's comment about the neighbor's kid spotting a push cart ice cream vendor wearing a firearm. The argument has become racial. The neighbor with the worried kid has been accused of having a "cookie cut life."
Yet another Monday morning, and I am on a bus which I used to ride early in the morning. It's six am. Do you know where your inner child is? A passenger gets on who looks as though he is a classic dork. He's in a knit cap and winter jacket of the city's football team, a laminated bus pass around his neck, glasses and pencil moustache, and holding a Starbucks coffee. Is that a wedding band on his finger? What a catch. I don't know if he has a bike on the bus bike rack, but he has a headlamp over his cap. His voice carries back to me. He has struck up a monologue with the woman seated across from himself. He begins by Monday morning quarterbacking the team's quarterback, mentions that he had three of his wisdom's out, that he vacations in Mexico with his family, that he has an X-box, what his favorite TV shows are, that he likes pink as a color for breast cancer research, then goes back to talking about the football team. It's been forever and a year since I've seen the likes of him. I'm surprised he didn't mention something about military history.
After work, at the train station, I am at the gate for a connecting bus. In front of the door of the bus is standing a guy who makes a face at me, before he tells me which bus this is. He is holding a pair of sunglasses on this completely overcast day. He shuffles off to the next bus gate, next to a guy who looks just like him, before he put his sunglasses on. The following morning, at the train station, I see a transit system security officer on the platform speaking with a guy who looks familiar, who has a foot long goatee. Either the goatee guy asked him, or the officer told him, where to go from here. The goatee shuffles off into the parking lot. The following morning is the day before Halloween. 5 am. As I approach the deathburger, 3 others are converging upon the same establishment. The two have on orange knit caps. Not for Halloween, but for the city's football team colors. One even has an orange key. I hear one yell at another something about whisky. A regular customer lets me in a locked door, before I open the other one for the trio, one of whom replies, "Right on, John." They appear to be on the way to a job site. One has a small cooler with chips and cheese. He tells the other two, "I used to sell burritos out of this shit." They consider the best meal deals and order. One asks for extra cream twice. Another only wants a Sprite. When the bus comes, it's packed. At one stop, I give up my seat for a girl wearing no coat and a thin green shawl. When we get to the train station, my train stops as a guy with a bike gets up to get off. The door opens, and before he can make it off, the door closes. He and I each press a button to open the door. The train pulls out...
I get off at a train station which is a world away from my own neighborhood. Women in coats with fur collars and high heels. SUVs slowly circle the lot as they seek out a parking space. 'A key map, a CNA licence. These will allow you to work in private care.' I am on a connecting bus to work. One hospital worker is talking to another. 'Student nurses are terrible. They pour hot chocolate inside the trash can. They kick towels under things.' The one with the insights actually works in cleaning services. She was under contract someplace for fifteen years before she was let go. Her husband, who is in a wheelchair, somehow fell down. She took him to the hospital, and while there, put in an application, where she is now gainfully employed. The following morning is Halloween. It's 4 am. Chilly, windy, dark. The leaves blowing across the parking lots sound exactly like running water. In one parking lot are three silent police cars. From the bus to the train, I get of at the city's uber-fabulous technology park. A deathburger there has a heightened decor and a larger kitchen and dining room than the one in my own neighborhood. I can tell that the staff served a more sophisticated clientele. Yet, the staff speak to each other in Spanish. And they have a homeless guy outside looking in.
When I get to my stop, the bus comes and pulls up. On the front is displayed, "not in service." It was driven from the garage all the way here this way. After work, I head downtown, where a smattering of Caucasians are dressed in their Halloween costumes. A gaggle of males are playing guitars on the street, one in a witch hat. Next to my bank is a bar, outside of which is a guy handing out coupons for happy hour. "Happyhourguyshappyhour. Happyhourguyshappyhour." The cross street is blocked off by a fire truck, and street traffic is being diverted by a police officer, down the lane reserved for the mall shuttles. For a moment, the shuttles are stacked three deep. The driver of ours is standing outside on her phone, her head sporting antennae with fuzzy tips. She yells at a driver behind us about the jam up, and says that she is trying to call a transit system supervisor. Just then, the jam begins to move.
"Notes from Commender's Meeting October 30, 2013"
At a residence in my larger neighborhood, A recent no knock warrant netted a cache of weapons. Group is associated with...graffiti vandals... - Nextdoor Westwood
