The middle of the following morning, on the same bus up the street, a Hispanic guy gets on. He's blasted out of his mind drunk. The driver won't let him on with his open can of beer. He takes another drink and tosses it on the grass. He comes back on, pays his fare, and stands in the driver's face. He tells her that she won't allow him to have his "juice." He asks her if she wants to have sex with him. "We'll bang it out right here." This is a no-panic driver, cool under beer breath in her face. She reminds him to stay behind the white line while the bus is in motion. He gets out at a stop where a Caucasian guy recognizes him, and greets him with a big grin. Some ten hours later I am on the same bus, coming back the other way. Who gets on across the street from where he got off this morning bus Mr. Sex Drunk. He asks this driver for a transfer, who gives him one, to which he replies, "Right on. You're a good man. Everybody take a lesson from that shit." With that he is off the bus once again. Someone behind me says, "What a dumb ass."
..late 1954...I...pondered...intervention in support of the French...struggling with their rebellious colonies in Indochina. Convinced that Communist insurgency was...the dominant military challenge of the future, I read all I could on the subject. ...Walt W. Rostow...warned that to defeat armed insurgency, you must go on the offensive. ...General MacArthur...talked of...how to deal with the Oriental. Pacification was the ultimate goal of both the Americans and the South Vietnamese government...involving military, psychological, political, and economic factors, its aim was...an economically and politically viable society. ...without constant fear of death... ...to improve the quality of life...and...enable the people to pursue their occupations... ...in response to a query...from the President...whether I thought the forty-four battalions would persuade the enemy to desist. "The direct answer...is 'No.'" It would take until 1965 to..."establish the military balance." For 1966...I would hope to "gain the military initiative,"...additional forces...required...depended on...the resources the North Vietnamese might elect to commit. When...American...troops moved away from the population, the guerillas [would] recoup their losses, but I never had...enough troops to [be] everywhere all the time. Guarding against resurgence...would take time to...train.... ...the big [enemy] units...had to be...brought to battle on the ground... That process led...to..often costly battles in the Central Highlands and along the DMZ that the American people looked at in horror on their television screens. Constantly harangued on the subject [of corruption in the South Vietnamese government and military] by the American press, I simply had to be patient...for honest...leadership to float to the top... ..in insurgency warfare, a civilian political cadre, even if unarmed, also constitutes the enemy. The South Vietnamese...had...thousands of civilian prisoners... - A Soldier Reports, W. C. Westmoreland, 1976
...the leftist activists...are repeating the same dreary quarrels...of the thirties and forties, of the trade union movement, of Trotskyism... ...be sanctified, drop out, find [your] own center, turn on, avoid mass movements... I see there is a...completely incompatible difference...between the leftist activist movement and the psychedelic religious movement. ...power...shocks me, and alienated my spiritual sensibilities. ...the historical roots of the revolutionary movements and...of the spiritual movement are identical. ...since the Neolithic...a strain...opposed to the collectivism of civilization toward...city states and city temples. ...the base unit is tribal. What I envision is thousands...in the United States and Western Europe, and eventually the world, as dropping out. We're in the seeds of a new society. - Kornbluth
I am a draft dodger. ...having "missed my war," that rite of passage American males are supposed to undergo.
I...met Admiral d'Argenleu and his beautiful mistress. He had been a monk, and...hauled...out of the monastery to [become] high commissioner of the Indochina states. ...they wanted American support to get themselves reestablished. ...why didn't we see that France was an empire...? As for the French, I thought they were a nasty bunch of people. A mean-spirited people. They talked about "gloire" and "honneur"... - Strange Ground, [ed.] by H. Maurer, 1989
Friday. A young guy gets on the bus. He's in a knit Steelers cap. (From out of town?) He says, "Anybody got a smart phone? I just need a GPS. I'm tryin' to find this (marijuana) dispensary." It's not yet noon. I hear someone in back telling him something about "Doctor's orders." The young guy mentions "Twenty dollar days." He decides that we have passed his dispensary. He gets out and a middle-aged guy with stringy hair gets on. He has a cap, on the back of which reads, "Washington D.C." He sits down in front of me and begins making random comments out loud. His voice is slow, like a stoner's. "I did time in prison," he mentions. A girl on the other side of the aisle from him takes his bait. "What...?" she asks. "Haaaa... I knew that would tickle someone," he replies. A woman with a walker gets out and he points and tells her that her pants are falling down. I don't see them falling down. Another passenger gets on carrying a small package. The guy reaches out for it and says, "What's for lunch?"
...we are rational creatures who can exist without fanciful stories or resurrections, splitting seas or winged gods. ...cannabis can be an aid in finding the inner mythologies...to doubt sociological mythologies in favor of...unique experiences... - Boulder Weekly, 10/19/2017
Naming your intention helps open up the heart and psyche for transformation. Writing it down can also unpack those yearnings and understand the pull to a place. ...the travel platform Holocene...facilitates community among transformation-seeking travelers. The returned pilgrim has a responsibility to memorialize the journey, an ancient tradition of Judeo-Christian and Islamic faiths... "It's incumbent to extract the meaning of our experiences and find a way to express them..." - natural awakenings, 10/2017
This is just the new normal in the New West.
THE CHANGING SKI TOWN
Any number of ski town inhabitants -...to teachers and firefighters - are finding it harder to make the allure of laid-back ski and snowboard culture square with making ends meet. Over the past five years, housing crises, homelessness, and even suicides have spiked at the base of some of the most well-known ski resorts in the U.S. ...low-wage service workers in and around Colorado ski areas live so precariously that... In a mobile home park 40 miles from Vail...an entire dwelling might disappear overnight, according to a local non-profit worker who...asked not to be identified. ...they are not welcome in towns where rich visitors fly in to play. ...a lack of local cohesion in a transient setting... - Elevation Outdoors, 10/2017
This is the story of Western Colorado. ...a fantastic story...full of fiercely independent innovators and entrepreneurs who brought forth...uranium...what we rely on to survive. The sacrifices we make to live here aren't really sacrifices at all. Unfortunately, the story being told about us...is controlled by outsiders - and it's about a community that i don't recognize. I would argue that our story is really about...what we can produce...food systems, and art. This is the real story of Western Colorado - the Colorado you were promised.
Chief Storyteller
"The photo shoots...are photojournalistic. There aren't stylists. We pull together...ambassadors...really simple and dirtbag-ish. We wake up, and some might be hungover... We just want to be the voice and vibe of the mountain culture." - Spoke + Blossom, Fall 2017
...enjoying living in one of Denver's most happening neighborhoods. Ever wonder what it's like to live right behind Union Station? "We went to Aspen for the All-Star break, and also had a chance to stop in Vail." The fourth floor has a gourmet kitchen, a big-screen TV, a movie theater, "And there's free cocktails and food! It's shark week this week and to celebrate the aquarium is going to bring some bamboo sharks. We are going for sure." - Mile High Sports, 10/2017
...I could see why the French didn't want to give up Indochina. Colonial life was very grand. It was like something out of the past. Nobody worked very hard. A fantastically easy and gracious way of life, because of the tremendous number of servants and wealth they got out of the rubber plantations... In 1950, they still had all this. - Maurer
Thursday of the following week. Last week I watched a Caucasian guy come out a car parked in front of my townhome complex. This past summer, I saw the first drycleaning delivery van I've seen in my ten years this neighborhood, parked across the street from my place. This morning there is the first Fed Ex truck parked in the same spot, emergency flashers on. The Caucasians are coming... I am at the bus stop across the street around 9:30 AM. A young couple comes along and sits in the shelter. I suddenly smell marijuana. The woman begins coughing. An hour later I am seventy blocks north and across town in a supermarket. I watch a white-haired grandfather carry a 4 ft. box under each arm. His expression is one of despair at his suburban existence. Inside each box is a Halloween skeleton. A clerk tells him, "You are ready for some serious skeleton action." I wonder if he is reassured. The following morning, I am at the bus stop across the street from where I live. It's 9:30 AM. I was supposed to have today off, but the manager at my new place of employment scared off a new employee. Which I predicted would happen. Someone attempts to shorten my hours but a monkey in the wrench works at cross purposes. It's an uneasy truce of a dynamic which purports to be a company, and I surf the mayhem. Such has been my occupation for some time. At the bus stop, a minivan pulls into the liquor store parking lot next door. When I see the seats full of guys in suits I realize who's in town. I reach for my camera but my bus is coming, and I am too late. A guy with coifed grey hair gets out with a copy of The Watchtower in hand. Saturday. 7 AM. I'm at the bus stop across the street from where I live. I spy from this side, walking down the side of the boulevard I live on, a woman in a hoodie. It's 35 degrees F out here. She holds the hand of a barefoot child with no coat. It's a sight I haven't seen in my decade on this side of town. She crosses to this side and heads over to the gas station on the corner, child in hand. They go inside. Some minutes later, I notice a police car pull into the parking lot. An officer opens the back door and the child comes out, and goes in the back of the car. Another officer comes out with the woman, and she appears to thank both officers. She then comes over to the bus stop, Kleenex in hand, and we get on the bus when it comes.
Saturday. I am downtown for another DVD exchange at the library and to do some clothes shopping. The snaps on my winter coat of 26 years have finally given way. I stop into a bar and grill for a late lunch. A skinny guy with frizzy hair who looks like he's eighteen years old takes my order for a salad with chicken. He tells me that my choice is "a top notch salad. One of the better salads." The following Wednesday I am on the bus home, rolling down my boulevard around 9 PM. For the first half of this 60-block ride, I am siting next to a couple of young lovers who claim to be drunk. They are giggling non-stop. Each is wearing a paper crown from Burger King. They don't look or sound drunk. They sound stupid. They depart and another pair come on board for the last 30 blocks. They are strangers who discover that they are both from New Jersey. One is a short woman who makes threats to someone on the other end of her phone. The other is a tall guy. After her call, she tells him that she almost cut out someone's "beating heart. I'm serious." She points to her chest. "He has a scar here, a scar here, a scar here..." She is dressed, not like a psycho, but like anyone I would see strolling downtown on an afternoon. I have been trying to hold my bike vertically inside the bus, where the driver let me on, as the bike rack is full. She gets out as her fellow state native tells her it was nice to meet her. When I get up he sits down in my seat.As I am walking my bike backwards on the rear wheel, he turns to ask me if I left a tiny baggie of potato chips behind. He shakes it and grins at me. Twelve hours later, I am running across the same boulevard where I got on the bus home last night. I make it to the stop for the bus to work as it is stopped at the light. On the bench is a middle-aged guy with one tooth and hair with what appears to be enough grease to fill a can of Crisco. He is complaining that the cigarette he bummed from someone is menthol. "Goddamn! Fuck! I hate menthol! Fuck! Shit!" Don't worry, sir, you have almost smoked it all.
Friday is a remarkably beautiful autumn morning. Around 9 AM, I am waiting for a bus to work on a residential corner. I look up from my book to gander at the beautiful turning trees. I'm in the middle of a suburban fall postcard. I have two days off and am back to work on Monday. After work, around 9 PM, I am at the stop for the connecting bus home. It's across the street from a deathburger. In the dark I can see the entire inside lit up through windows. I watch as someone trudges through the parking lot and up to the entrance, and then inside. He carries a big, rolled up sleeping bag which he puts down as he has a seat. The only others inside are a lone customer and an employee. The sleeping bag guy sits with slumped shoulders. Outside, directly above him, is an illuminated red and white image of the face of a young girl with freckles. I think that I hear a car rear end another. I look down the street to see a flat bed tow truck, having dropped its tail to haul away a small car parked in front of a pizza place.
The following morning, I am on an early bus up the street around 7 AM, in search of a workout before work. The last few blocks before my stop, a guy gets on with something in a fame covered in bubble wrap. Up to now the bus has been quiet; mostly bleary-eyed students on their way to school. A mom in back reads to her child. The guy with the frame asks another passenger, "Where do you work?" "Goodwill," he answers. "Oh, I thought I recognized you!" He quizzes him about the electronics department: do they recycle? The only guy on the face of the earth interested in the electronics department at Goodwill, and he steps onto my bus. "I love to ask employees what they do, but I'm the new guy. Gotta keep moving." He's only been there two weeks. This guy walked out of a script for an independent film. He asks the other passenger how long he has worked there. "Six years," he replies. But his time there "is coming to an end," he tells him. He's moving back to New York. When the chatty guy asks him if that's where he is from, he replies that he lived in foster homes there. "How was that? Not too good, huh?" The chatty guy then begins to tell the other a story about how his dad fell down a 110-foot mine shaft. A couple of hours or so later, I am riding my bike from the gym to a place to have breakfast. On the sidewalk is a guy with a big cloth bag. he decides to step off the sidewalk onto the grass as I go by him. As I pass him, he says in a gravel whisper of a voice, "You're welcome..." Some eight hours or so later, I am flying back the other way after work. Now it's in the dark. I come upon a couple of runners which I see only because I a paying attention. The following evening, it will be someone carrying a plastic grocery bag. I will notice only the reflection off the bag before I realize someone is in front of me.
The morning after I am at the bus stop across the street from where I live around a quarter to nine AM.. There is one guy sitting in the shelter as a tall, grey-haired guy comes lumbering down the sidewalk. In his cap and jeans and work boots, he looks as if he's catching a bus to a construction site. He sits next to the guy and says something to him. The first guy gets up and stands outside the shelter. The second gets up and lumbers on his way. He has trouble keeping his balance. Later on, after work, I am on a bus rolling down my boulevard. Toward my end of town a guy gets on who knows someone else in back. The guy tells him that he and his brother got out of prison four months ago.
Sunday. A noise wakes me up shortly before 4:30 AM. It sounds as if it's coming from inside my furnace, a non-stop clicking. But I wonder if it could be coming from outside. I open the back door, which faces my street. In the dark I see police car lights from down the street. I go back to sleep. When I am out to catch the bus to the supermarket, at 9 AM, I notice that police cars with lights on are at a corner. The entire corner is sealed off with police tape. Later this evening, I will see on the local news that two people were shot at this corner. No suspects yet. Possibly connected to a house party. I head off to shopping. When I am done I'm sitting at the stop for the bus home. Down the sidewalk comes a young guy in a knit cap, shorts, and sandals with socks. I am wearing a T-shirt with, "Love is my religion" on the front. When he passes me he says "Love that shirt dude." After the groceries are home, I take my bike in to the shop. I believe that the brakes "may" need to be replaced. They end up telling me that they are,once again, completely gone. They replace them there, and I'm ready to go on Monday.
On Monday at 8:30 AM, it's 26 degrees F. Tiny drops compose a mist which freezes on the bike rack in front of the bus. I don't know from where and to September came and went. I expected Halloween would be here before I knew it, followed quickly by Thanksgiving. The first is tomorrow, and then it will be gone just as fast. In the evening, at 7:50 PM, it's after work and I am just off one bus, headed to the stop for a connecting bus. For once, this bus is on time, preventing me from catching it. I decide to make my first venture into a doughnut place next to the stop. A young middle eastern guy comes out to take my order. His earbuds don't help his trouble with my English. I get the hot chocolate ordered and ask him for a lid. He translates this into his first language before he tells me that the lids are around the corner from the front counter. Around the corner are the lids, a trash, and a mute looking at his phone. The mute thinks I am looking for the trash and points to it. The following evening is All Hallows Eve. And what an evening it is. I see nary a trick or treater, but when the same bus arrives as the one I missed last evening, a drunk guy disembarks. he falls down and two passengers get out to help him to a bench. For the rest of my journey home, I will wish that i was drunk. A stop or two later and a little guy gets on. He's head to toe in black; knit cap, long leather coat, jeans, shoes. He carries an expression of quiet anxiety. A stop or two after this and a young woman gets on to tell the driver, "Thanks for being on time, motherfucker." Hey, bitch, if he wasn't late I wouldn't be on this bus. I think you better step off... She is quietly cursing in back when the little guy in black takes out a black steel hatchet in a black leather case, and holds it between his legs. I didn't know he had a hatchet, though I must say that I would have been surprised were it another color. He begins talking shit to the young woman in back, and she reciprocates. Then one of the guys who assisted the drunk, a young guy, gets in on the act. The woman tells hatchet man to fuck off. hatchet man tells the woman to fuck off. The young guy tells hatchet man to fuck off. Ten...hatchet man...decides to fuck off. he exits the bus. Happy Halloween, motherfucker. Now fuck off
