...we're going to have a huge leisure society...going to reverse taxation and pay people for the work...machines do for them. Because there's no other solution... ...paid by the government - "credit" of some kind... ...thousands and thousands...loafing around... - Kornbluth
...in Kfar Manchem kibbuts in Israel. ...secularism and socialism...we discussed the meaning of life...we drank and smoked hashish...we listened to the Voice of Peace "from somewhere in the Eastern Mediterranean" proclaim "no more war, no more bloodshed"... - The Unraveling, E. Sky, 2015
Thursday. After work, back on my boulevard. Guessing by the time, it's 7:55 PM, I've missed the 7:50 bus rather than it simply being late. I stop into the doughnut place next to the bus stop. A middle eastern guy, different than the usual one, comes out from the back. "Large hot chocolate please," I ask. He appears alarmed. "We are out of hot chocolate," he explains. He does not say when, if ever, they will have some more. I have consumed every last drop in the place. I no longer have any choice but to order it on Amazon from now on.
Sunday. I head to a "film festival" downtown to see a movie. The movie is sold out, unless I want to stand in line for an hour to see if one of the ticket holders fails to show up. I head instead to the library to pick up a DVD of The Partridge Family. Monday morning. Bus stop across the street from where I live. In the shelter are a couple of high school kids. It's cold out here and they are in just hoodies, looking cold. One asks me for a cigarette. Some twelve hours later, I step off the crosstown bus back on my own boulevard. As I collect my bike from the rack on the front of the bus, one of a couple of guys (also only in hoodies and looking cold) asks me if I have an extra transfer. I cross he street and get on my last bus home. A couple of stops later, a young woman gets on. She is wearing a black cloak, out of some Disney production. She's in red pants and has purple hair. She asks the driver where the train station is coming up. An entire bus load of guys speaks up to answer her. She's obviously someone whose importance I am oblivious to.
Tuesday. I cross my street in the morning, headed toward the same bus stop. I am behind 4 people who I think are all Caucasian teenagers. Everyone is in black clothes. There are two guys in leather jackets, a third guy in a hoodie with "no gods, no managers" on the back, and a girl with a magenta bob hairdo. One of the leather jacket guys appears older, late twenties. He has scratches on his face and a five o' clock shadow. At the corner is a small black car with stickers all over it. The passenger window is cracked, and someone is shouting from inside. As it passes the four, someone shouts again. One of the leather jacket guys says, "Fuck you," and gives a few steps of a pursuit. The way his black hair is styled and with his jacket, he looks like a New York mob guy. When the four get to the bus stop, I notice that the female is actually old enough to be the others' grandmother. Four other kids come along, run over to talk to a fifth in a pickup and return. The nine of us pile on the bus when it arrives. The family in black is odd. They hardly speak. The guys stay close to the grandma. The leather jacket guy who yelled at the car asks the driver for transfers. The magenta grandma tells the driver, "We paid for four people. This is our first time riding the bus." She thanks the guy, who she refers to as "son." She appears to be filling out a job application. I notice that she's wearing a pentagram necklace. Another guy seated across from them is on his phone with his parole officer. When the family gets out, the oldest guy is stumbling to stay close to mom, and appears relieved when they are off the bus. After a quick huddle, mom is leading the way. They must be my neighbors, somewhere within walking distance of my home. Twelve hours later, after work, I get on the same bus going home. There is a guy in back talking to a guy I got on the bus with, telling him about this driver. This is the forth time he put the bus in park to go to the bathroom. "'I have to go to the bathroom. Is that okay?' Well, you're the one driving the bus." He laughs, suggests the driver is getting high in there. "He must have some really good shit." He laughs again. Perhaps the driver is throwing up, I don't know. When he comes back and we get going, he honks the horn. "He's been doing that too," the guy says. "Fucking paranoid."
Finding a home has been particularly challenging for buyers with a price point under $400,000
..."historical-critical thinking," or the understanding of how people of past eras conceived of their own eras based on the forces of their day. You have to know the forces in that trajectory... - the profile, 11/2017
Sometimes I'd hang around with Sean Flynn and Dana Stone (...combat photographers missing in Cambodia since April 1970.) Some of the best female reporters had to pay their way over... ..legends, like Kathy Leroy...and Dicky Chappalle...killed the year before. We kept out of each other's way, we really didn't like each other. ...I was freelance. ...identified with a paper you instantly have much more status and respect. The Vietnam War was filled with these weirdo freelancers, hippie guys who...said they were working for some paper and never wrote anything. - Maurer
Paint, fabrics, flooring and accessories mimic nature this year... ...bold rather than reticent... Tile has...culturally-inspired, geometric patterns... ...nontraditional arrangements with extended family or aging parents living in the household. Kitchens...remain the family entertaining center of the home. "Coloradans...active, outdoorsy people...want...easy-to-live-with upholstery and rustic, usable case goods." The urban infill psychographic consists of the desire for walkable locations close to hip retail areas... "...urban farming, co-working spaces and clubhouses...bring neighbors together and build a sense of place." ...1 gigabit high-speed internet...in select parts of Denver. "That's probably a lot more speed than most people need, but it is...what we call 'future proof.'" "There's less than a 30-day supply of homes priced under $500,000 and nearly two-thirds of homes in Metro Denver are priced at $400,000 and up." Thousands of qualified home buyers are frustrated... "We've seen buyers...settling for houses they're not excited about for fear of missing out." - 2017 Denver Parade of Homes
More than 93,000 families in Colorado rely on...(mobile) home[s]... They...must rent the land... ...manufactured home parks across the country are being sold for redevelopment, and the people in these parks are left scrambling to find another affordable option. ....owners of manufactured homes are organizing to empower themselves. ...the state's Mobile Home Park Act...is weak when it comes to...arbitrary eviction, short notice before park closures and retaliation from landowners. There is precedent for a manufactured home HOA, but only at the local level. ...bills in the state legislature to strengthen mobile homeowners' protections have all failed to pass. ...opposition...includes lobbyists for landowners... - Boulder Weekly, 11/23-29/2017
Wednesday morning. 7:30 AM. 30 degrees F. Bus stop across the street from where I live. Three guys show up wearing nothing but hoodies. One is a high school kind on his phone. He's asking a friend to meet him to purchase a marijuana product called "dabs." "Sixteen, seventeen, eighteen bucks each, bro. Be there!" He must need dabs to get himself through the school day. Thirty-five years ago, in Oklahoma, it was chewing tobacco. But I digress. The trio catches one bus, and a senior comes along. He's wearing a cap, part of a deathburger employee uniform. In the cold, the wind chill feels as if it's 10 degrees, he is cleaning a CD. The bus arrives to scoop myself and my bike. Some distance along, the driver stops to help a passenger in a wheelchair disembark. A guy outside gives him a story about leaving his wallet on his last bus, and can he have a transfer. Hustle and jive in the mayor's "world class city." He gets his way.
Thursday. I make it on the 8 AM bus up the street. It's an overcast morning. In a back seat is a bald guy with a goatee and sunglasses. I listen to him on his phone, talking about his "old lady" being upset. "Girls can't take it. They're sensitive. I had to call her cab." To dispatch her from his undoubtedly non-sensitive male life. This guy has yet to meet either my boss...or her boss. Two women who are not known for their...sensitivity. Another 12 hours later, it's after work. I'm back at the doughnut place for another Middle Eastern hot chocolate experience. This evening, it tastes like more hot water than chocolate. I wonder if it's running out again. The gas station across the street from here has a hot chocolate machine which is broken. I need to find a neighborhood with fewer hot chocolate patrons. As I savor the last vestiges of this apparent local delicacy, the clerk beings singing a tune in Arabic. A soliloquy no doubt. Men must be more sensitive from his part of the globe... The bus comes, and when I am almost home, a guy gets on with a big microwave oven and a bag with a camp stove. Both appliances appear to be from the ARC. The camp stove is in an ARC bag. I recognize him as my neighbor from this past summer, the one who told me about his domestic problems. He tells the driver that his wife made him go out (at 8:45 PM) to get a microwave oven. We both get out at our stop. I hear him ask a taco stand employee if she will let him park one of the stoves at the stand while he takes the other home, after which he will return for the other. I don't think she let's him. I see him carry both home at the same time.
The following morning I make a 6:30 AM bus, make my connection, and have time for a workout, breakfast and a quick trip to a Sprouts. I'm leaving when I'm approached with a trim, grey-haired guy in a nylon fleece jacket with a Fire Dept. logo embroidered on the breast. He sees me with my bike and simply asks me, "What's your favorite bike shop?" I mention the one I go to downtown. He's restoring a vintage bicycle and is looking for some help with it. The following morning I am out the door and headed for the bus stop around 8 AM. Grocery shopping time. Across the street from my home is a building renovated into apartments. Full of the only Caucasians I see in my neighborhood. Out come a guy to walk his dog. No one in this neighborhood walks their dog. Ever. I get back from shopping. Crossing the street, just off the bus, hauling groceries from the supermarket in a box on a dolly. Following me across the street is a middle aged guy with stubble on his face, long hair, and a denim jacket. He tells me, "I got luggage..." (wtf?) He explains that he will be having a yard sale, including luggage, so that I won't have to use my box and dolly. I drop the groceries at home before I head out on the bike toward downtown. I bike up the street to the drug store where I drop some film, grab a battery for another old camera, and just make a bus to the train , which takes me downtown. On the way to the train, I notice a Vietnam War memorial in a Vietnamese shopping center which the bus goes past. I grab lunch downtown before I head to the library to exchange some DVDs. Along the way, I notice in the park between the state house and capitol what appears to be a gathering of people. I'm in and out of the library. I head over to the park, which is not a gathering of people, but a few people hanging winter hats and scarves on bare tree limbs. The items are for the homeless to take and use. I ride back home and stop at a coffee place close to my street. I'm in line behind a Caucasian guy talking to a Caucasian woman. He's telling her that he is a marketing consultant who subcontracts marketing work from his home. He tells her that, when they get the coffee, they will park "and talk."
I remember antiwar posters on people's lockers, like pinups. ...the enlisted men...tended to be...collage dropouts... We talked about the war and passed around books. ...Johnson's speech when he said he wouldn't run again. ...in the hospital this cheer went up. ...corpsmen and doctors yelling their lungs out. They thought the war was over, the Johnson had admitted he was wrong. - Mauer
The TOC was the nerve centre in which the Brigade staff...monitored every activity. ...large plasma screens... ...I had been allocated a desk beside the chaplain and next to the army lawyers. At the chow hall, the...(American Forces Network) [was] on a large screen, broadcasting subliminal messages. ...liberty, freedom and heroism. - Sky
The following Tuesday evening I am on a bus headed down my street. Headed home around 8:30 PM. I am sitting in the middle of the bus. We are almost to my stop. A guy gets on and sits up front. His legs are blocking the aisle. He is either drunk of mental, as he says, "I you don't like the Broncos or the Rockies," [the city's football team and baseball team respectively] "then you [sic] gay. If you don't have a job, then you [sic] gay." Anytime I ride the bus with my bike on the front rack, I always exit through the front door, so the diver knows I have a bike. This means that I have to step on the seat (for the first time in the 26 years I have been using the city's transit system) to get around this guy. In doing so, I hit my head on the ceiling.
The next morning I am on a bus up the same street at 8 AM. There are many riders on board this morning. Two women get on who know each other. One tells the other that she is moving because she has completed "phase two" of a sobriety class. It sounds as if they are both in the same class. The other tells the first that she is "taking A.J. to a strip club because he's never been." I change buses and a huge woman comes on board with a huge stroller. She mentions to a couple that someone stole her pack of cigarettes. I reach the end of the line where I cross the street to grab breakfast before work. The beautiful waitress here serves me today. As I order, she guesses exactly which substitutions I wish to make. We both smile at her exceptional memory. At the next table is a handful of people having an office meeting. The boss is an overweight guy with a voice like a droning motor, monotone and ongoing. "You set up the IT account," he says. "Do you want these like payroll sub-accounts?" someone else asks. "No...we can always do that later...if we want..." he concludes. At work, I run to a sushi place next door at lunch time. At a table next to me are three guys having a business meeting, as Sade comes over the sound system. "My partner has a Master's in Tax Law," one says to another. "I just need a small retainer to do the research. I'm out next week..." Around 8 PM, it's after work. I am at a corner on my street to catch the connecting bus home. I stop into a chicken place. A young, hip looking guy comes in. He has sideburns and a pea coat. He tells the employee that, earlier this morning, he ordered gravy and mashed potatoes, and he was never given his gravy. Hmm. 1) Gravy and mashed potatoes...for breakfast? And 2) who comes back 12 hours later for...gravy? If it's a scam, and I think I can pretty much dispense with the "if", it does not work. No "if" about this either. "Well," he asks, "can you give me some water, please?" Water the employee can handle. Free gravy, though, would be...the gravy. I head out to the stop with my food. He comes by shortly there after to ask me if I "know of a hotel around here that's like a tavern?" Dude, this isn't Lord of the Rings. Take your water and go find some secret sauce. Take your pea coat and go hang out at a coffeehouse with a lot of books on shelves. I soon see him across the boulevard, walking back the direction of the planet from whence he came. The next morning, around 10 AM, I am riding the last mile to work. I pass a shopping mall mostly devoid of shops. Outside the corner of one of these is the first homeless person I've seen in North Denver, asleep in a sleeping bag. That evening, I am again on a bus headed down my street, around 8:30 PM. I hear one woman say to another, "I wish my momma would stop fuckin' with me." The other answers, "My daughter's in jail. You know that?"
...there were two civilizations in Tam Ky. There were the local folk...basically Buddhist and Cao Dai... But all of the Saigon administrators in Tam Ky were catholic. They were corrupt. The local people...knew they were despised by these big-city Catholics. ...two completely different societies within the same town. The Vietnamese have a saying...from the era of the French missionaries... ..."When your rice bag is empty, you adapt your religion to feed your kids." ...you converted to Catholicism. Which was to become Western. It was an East-West war, but not in political terms. - Maurer
...in Ward 1...in Aurora... About 50 percent...is Latino, and there...were no - Latino city council members. There was...a lot of intra-party fighting - the old guard and new guard... [Ward 1] has a very high concentration of immigrants and refugees. It...at one point was very-military heavy. But that's slowly evolved. The median age is in the thirties... Housing is expensive and... People from Denver are moving to our neighborhood. Ward 1 residents' cost of living has increased, but wages haven't. ...the challenge: managing growth that's inclusive of the community that lives in Ward 1. Home ownership. It's a process, and we need to identify people and give them the right resources. - Westword, 11/16-22/2017
It's the Saturday before Thanksgiving. I alternate Saturdays off from work, and this one I have off. It's my girlfriend's birthday, but she can't get together until next month. I decide to forgo grocery shopping this morning, in favor of hitting the used book sale at the main branch downtown. I drop off a present on her porch before heading back to the bus stop with the bike. A bus takes me to a connecting one which drops me downtown. I grab breakfast at a diner, where my waitress tells me I "killed" my order by finishing everything in jig time. Hey, I got a used book sale to go kill next. The winter sale is where I usually purchase fewer books than the summer sale, but I still collect five. Then it's lunch downtown before I jump on a train with bike. I'm headed to the shopping center where I used to work, for some yogurt. I miss the daily yogurt. Off the train, I get a quick workout in at the gym I used to go to before work. Then it's down the street and on the trail I rode to work for two years. I've seen dog walkers and homeless all over this trail during that time. This afternoon, as I cross a wooden bridge, I see the very fist photographer and model I've ever seen out on any trail. My old place of employment for the past two and a half years is now an empty space. I elect to take the bus home. At my old stop at the shopping center is a young woman who, it turns out, tells me that she is headed the way opposite from the bus which stops here. I tell her that she needs to cross the street.
The next afternoon, I await a train at the station, to see a documentary about the Mideast refugee crisis during the past few years. One arrives, packed with fans on their way to a home national football game. I squeeze my bike in where bikes are supposed to be, among some five guys in standing room only. I listen to a discussion of players and coaches. One tells another that he is in stadium section 513. Another replies, "I used to be up there." The first answers, "I like it up there. I like the people. The other says, "I had a great time up there." The first mentions that someone brings him blankets and food in this section. "We went home with four extra beers." After the movie, I get off the train at a different train station, this one across the street from the city football stadium. As usual, transit system security is checking fares. One officer is asking questions in English to a guy who only speaks Spanish. The guy is keeps telling the officer in Spanish that his son is his caregiver or his helper.
...the rise of the Democratic Socialists of America (DSA). It is not a political party. This month, 15 DSA members were elected around the country. They ran...as Democrats. This is in addition to 20 elected members already in office. In Virginia...the state [Democratic] party establishment abandoned [one DSA candidate] when he wouldn't tone down his anti-corporate message... ...the advice that Democratic party strategists give to candidates...in a suburban district...they should be corporate-friendly "moderates." - Boulder Weekly
I said, "...I'm here with a church agency and I can't be part of the war effort." One of my literacy teachers... Her father said..."I'm working for the CIA. I've seen your file. ...you're getting in their way. The CIA has decided to put out the word that you're a deep-cover agent. They're hoping the NLF get the word." By the end of my three years I felt like I knew too much. I was much more afraid of being killed by the Saigon political forces than by the NLF. - Maurer
It's Black Friday. After working a ten hour day, part of a crew with two people out for the holiday, I am at the stop for a connecting bus home around 8 PM. A drunk comes along with a raspy voice and begins pontificating. He is followed by a pensive young woman. I head for the door of the Middle eastern doughnut place. Lights are on, sign says "open." The door is locked. An employee comes out to unlock it. I order a hot chocolate and he gives me two doughnuts for free. He tells me that I may sit inside. But I have miles to go before my seat... He sits down and is watching something on his phone. It sounds like the voice of G. W. Bush congratulating someone on their new baby. Outside, the drunk has scared off the young woman. he in turn disappears. Another drunk, a woman, hobbles up. She sees me writing this and mentions something which "sucks." She asks me if I have a journal. When I tell her that I do, she replies, "I don't think so," telling me that she has "a real journal." We both get on the bus when it arrives. It takes her a few passing streets to dig out all the change for her fare. The following morning, I am out early at the bus stop, 6 AM. I want to hit the gym before work. I wait for the bus with a guy on his phone. It sounds as if he is speaking Punjab. I get to the gym around 7:30. A couple of guys going in are discussing a clothing line called Marshall Lynch as well as GQ Magazine.
Saturday is my biweekly turn to work. On the way home, I am on my first bus home around 4:30 PM. It's been a while since I have listened to anyone in a local band. There appears to be a local band member on the bus this afternoon, on his phone. He is telling a friend that, from what I can tell, the band formed itself into a company. They have to estimate their taxes, including tax on their van. He himself broke up with a girl named Octavia, and another band member is now dating her. He's spending time with her instead of getting ready for a show coming up in a week. This guy is home from college and seems to think that all he has to do on his break is hang out with Octavia. The guy on the phone describes this other guy as "Hemingwayesque," and as someone who became defensive in an IHOP about a favorite philosopher of his. The guy on the phone relates on his phone, in a Caucasian kind of way, that he is down with "nihilistic philosophers." He mentions a metaphor about changing a note in a chord as a kind of metaphor for life. He mentions NIck Jones at the CMA (Country Music Awards). I don't know who Nick Jones is, but having watched a couple of country singers on a broadcast of the Macy's Thanksgiving Parade, I don't know who they are either. He mentions LSD and that so-and-so "is a slut." His conversation is heavily detailed, and he goes on as if he is ignorant of the world beyond his conversation. he spends the rest of his ride going on and on and on about South Park the TV program.
Of course, by this time we had lice and ulcers all over our bodies, and we were getting pyorhhea - teeth getting loose and our gums oozing...It's what you get with beri-beri. ...we went to a political indoctrination camp for the Viet Cong. They kept me and the missionaries caged up. So it was just the girl and me. Her name was Betty Olsen. She...had been brought up in this missionary atmosphere. She went to a religious school and a missionary college up in Nyeck, New York. That had been her whole life. She was curious about how the other part of the world lived. Of course, missionaries looked at me as being very hedonistic. I ran around with the natives and drank rice wine and slept with them and ate their food and went through their ceremonies. She was twenty-nine or thirty years old... Hell, she'd never eaten out in a good restaurant. - Maurer
Tuesday. Some time between 7:30 and 8 AM, I am on the bus up the street on my way to work. Along the way, a guy gets on. He is wearing a construction helmet, and work boots with shin guards which reach above his knees. Over his jeans, he has on a long khaki skirt with buttons down the front. He has red polish on the nails of his right hand, and blue polish on the nails of his left. Embroidered on the breast of his winter jacket is MMFL, Market Men For Christ. We both get out at the same stop, and I watch him go into a gas station to purchase scratch tickets. I head to the stop for my connecting bus to work. i see the same guy there who I saw a month or two ago. Back then, he was sitting on the bench, complaining that the cigarette which someone gave to him was menthol. When the bus came then, he never got on. This morning, he is going on and on, complaining about his life to another guy listening to him. He got something called a PR bond. I don't know what that is. It sounds as if he may have been arrested, because he tells the guy that he had his ID taped to his shirt. He opens his coat to show the guy the tape which is still on his shirt. "All my clothes are in my case manager's office," he says. "They took away my wallet. I pawned a $1300 guitar for $40. It cost $48 to get it out." He mentions several times that he borrowed $50 to pay the $48, from someone named Mr. Martinez. Mr. Martinez sounds like a loan company. If he can't make the interest payments to a place like this, he may as well give Mr. Martinez the guitar. He takes off his cap to show the guy that it's held together with tape. "It's fucked up isn't it?" He mentions going into a bar and being told to clean up some trash he deposited there. "I told 'em to shut the fuck up and they kicked me out of the bar." Late last night, he awoke to the sound of banging on his door. A woman yelled, "Give me my cigarettes!" It turned out to be the wrong door. As the bus approaches, he hobbles away.
Some twelve hours later, after work, I am inside the Muslim doughnut place. There are three middle-aged members of the same family here as well. I walk in and find one on her phone with the police, asking that an officer come there. From what I can gather just by paying attention, the three expected to meet the mom of the one on the phone, here. The mom has dementia, I hear the woman tell the police. A forth person, a guy who strikes me as mental and unrelated to the others, is a witness that she was there and left in a cab. The employee behind the counter verifies that she showed up and left in a cab. I purchase a hot chocolate and head outside to the bus stop. Next door is a car wash, and someone sits on the curb at the edge of the parking lot. A police officer is next to this person. The officer is speaking into his radio mic as he stands next to his car. One of the family members comes outside, perhaps the husband of the woman with dementia. He spots the police car and walks over. I no longer see the officer but the car is still there. The husband walks to the car before coming back. When I look again, the police car is gone. The individual sitting on the curb is now alone. I see through the window of the doughnut place that the officer is coming out with the family. I hear someone say, "She probably gave him the old address." I see at least a couple of the family members drive away, and the police car leaves thereafter. Down the sidewalk come a couple of individuals, each with a shopping cart. The carts are loaded with what appear to be blankets and clothes and who knows what else. They go past and are on the way. The mental guy comes out and walks the circumference of the doughnut shop, coming out from around the other side to ask me if I have a smoke. He heads down the sidewalk. The only one left, the one on the curb, gets up and walks away as my bus approaches.
The next morning I am making an early start for the last trip this week to the gym. I'm on my connecting bus, where I don't notice a passenger in the back. It's the nail polish marked man for Jesus guy. He's wearing the same gear, with the only addition being a khaki trenchcoat. At the gym, I am as usual working out with mostly seniors. The talk among a couple of senior men on the machines is about a gunfighter executed a century and a half ago. The other talk, among a trio of senior women, is about an HOA. Ladies, all I can say is, I will be in hell before y'all even have breakfast. The evening of the next day, I am on a bus just up the street from my home. I look out of the window, and in the dark I can see a section of a street taped off by the police. Each end is blocked by a police car with lights on. Lights for the holidays, and stories from retirees about gunfighters shooting remarks while standing at the gallows. No exactly the Hallmark Channel, but it works for me this season.
