In a stunning turn of events, Hilltop residents...through an intricate petition process, were able to force the Denver City Council to require a super majority in order to approve a...condominium project... - Glendale Cherry Creek Chronicle, 2/2019
"...we have far too many people using weapons to settle disputes at this time in Denver's history... Nobody's gonna be upset if you see someone arguing and call us. We want to restore order and peace." More people than ever live and play in Denver, stretching the blue line thin. The city's growth is another reason for the heightened violence... An unprecedented number of people and events have put "a lot of stress" on law enforcement... ...violence begins before anyone pulls a trigger. Mental health problems and drug use often fuel crime...as do[es] poverty. - Denver Herald,1/31/2019
We have a program..."Stay In it To Win." It's a dropout prevention program. We're trying to reach these kids through stories. ...an unbelievable story. ...still living at home, and...playing professional football. ...winning at the highest level, it's remarkable. ...our problems can be solved when you take emotion and aggression out of it, so that you can think rationally. I can't rely on solely me. As a competitor, it's hard to do that sometimes. In philosophy, there's no right or wrong.
...truly tone the body without adding unwanted bulk. ...transforming some of Hollywood's hottest bodies... - Mile High Sports, 2/2019
...courageous Colorado makers that put themselves out there, took a leap and ended up creating something we outdoorsy go-getters can't live without: killer gear, apparel, food products... To those Colorado creatives featured in this issue and to the rest of you sketching and shaping in your basements and garages, dreaming of transcending craft to career...
...escape from the bustle of city life. Multiple levels of stone... ...a balance of shared space and intimate alcoves. ...$27,000 custom-made 11 Raven ping-pong table. "If you don't have pops of color you're going to run into something really boring." ...the black with gold streaked cascading Belvedere granite countertop might be considered a bold addition, until you look up and see that the distressed wood on the ceiling mimics the same color and movement patterns. - Breckenridge, Winter 2018-2019
...we're all about devouring the Colorado experience as often as possible. You might say, "we love us some Colorful Colorado."
"Making wine in Colorado is chaotic. It's my job to make order out of chaos."
"We do forward-thinking happy beers and forward-thinking pseudo Belgian-esque sour profiles, and we have been unapologetically adherent to those specialties." - Thirst Colorado, January-February 2019
It's a new month. I'm out of my door and on my way to work. Down the sidewalk comes yet another Caucasian walking a dog, this one a young woman. I arrive to work, and after a couple of hours I am at the Greek diner next door on my break. I spend my break standing in line with other customers. We're behind a woman who appears to be ordering for her entire office. Welcome to downtown. Her issues with her order are unknown to the rest of us. The deficiencies of Greek food are the secret of a single Caucasian office employee. While I am standing, and standing, a conversation reveals itself. A couple more Caucasians are here, two middle-aged men sitting at a table. One, in a buttoned down shirt, listens in silence. The other has a shaved head and a black long-sleeved T-shirt, and he's prattling like an endless voicemail. He sounds like one continuous sentence. His story is that he was incarcerated, but says not where. He claims he had a view of a golf course, and mentions something about "ten weeks." I can't make out what this refers to. His incarceration resulted in his being minted as a Jesus crispie. He uses an amalgam of words, the likes of which are all too familiar to me after my hours spent recording 'Christian' radio. "...bondage and darkness and hopelessness..." I'm surprised he doesn't say that he "was searching and running." Naturally, his bondage and darkness and hopelessness led him on a high-speed wireless link to Jesus, who gave him "lungs to speak." The other guy must be waiting for his own lungs. I haven't heard him say anything.
I'm out of work early and use the time to take care of grocery shopping. I'm at the stop for the bus to the supermarket. A trio of Caucasians arrive, surely from the apartments across the street from where I live. They are in overcoats and shined shoes. Three detectives looking for the bodies. Actually, I'm sure they are Jehovah's witnesses. When we board the bus, a passenger says hello to them. He then realizes who they are and says he thought they were Transit System Police. One of them begins talking to a passenger, asking him how it's going. The passenger is on his way to work. What does he do for a living, the Latter Day detective asks. The passenger says he models. The guy responds with "cool. Yeah, yeah..." Tuesday of a new week. On my way to work through the neighborhood between my home and the bike trail. I pass a Caucasian couple out for a cold morning walk. In the same neighborhood is a new big condo-like dwelling I spotted earlier, which appears almost to have dropped out of the big White sky. When I will be headed back home through here after work, I will pass said condo. It's not yet occupied and i can see inside the enormous front window. There is a huge light, or range fan over a counter or stove, and a designer faucet. A developer who doesn't have it already sold, and expects to sell. Or, a test of this neighborhood as a potential market? This morning, I'm down the street, on the trail, over the bridge, and downtown. I stop by the deathburger homeless central. I'm reading a local neighborhood newspaper story about the police response to a rise in violent crime in the city. Past the window comes a guy in a bright lemon yellow jumpsuit. He's carrying a sign I've seen before which appears to be handmade. It reads, "FUCK COPS." He comes inside and appears to know one of the customers. His sign folds up for inside dining. I listen to a few seconds of him talking to the other customer. He's smiling and sounds as if he's sympathetic to daily homeless life.
The following day. More snow. When I come home from work, I see the guy I've seen outside smoking and looking at his phone. Before I've been coming home from work early from my new job on these snowy days, I've only seen this guy a few times over the past couple of years. He's out here again this evening, in the cold and the snow. Sitting on the same concrete block. On Sunday, I am on the way to pick up some odds and ends which I forgot yesterday at the supermarket. I'm back in the neighborhood with all of the Caucasian dog-walkers. Today I am rolling past a young guy with his shaggy hair greased, and in a light brown jacket worn by The Fonz on Happy Days. And he's walking his dog.
"In the new world of mobility solutions, the wants and needs of customers and cities are changing rapidly." ...a micro-transit company... The Cherry Creek route was filling in a need for people working in the area... "Cherry Creek is one of the largest employment centers for lower-income workers... Employees struggle getting to and from Cherry Creek because it is too costly to park and transit is somewhat limited..." "Most people in Denver don't go more than three or four miles a day..."
Last month, The Denver Foundation awarded a $20,000 grant to...support the Irving Street Women's Residence...located in [my neighborhood] helps chronically homeless women with disabilities or mental health issues. ...also victims of domestic violence.... - Life On Capitol Hill, 2/2019
It's all personal if you're alive... It's also always political. ...the personal...the political and the present and the historical...can never...be separated. When more voices are published, when more stories are told. ...read on the subway and talked about in book club and are not silenced and are not censored and are not said to be unworthy, we have a better chance at achieving an equitable democratic state. - Westword, 2/21-27/2019
...union negotiators made clear...that there are better ways to improve...high-poverty schools: smaller class sizes, less punitive discipline policies, hiring more teachers of color, and an evaluation system that doesn't penalize teachers for low student test scores. - Denver Herald, 2/21/2019
Monday, I watch striking teachers walk past where I work. They're headed to a rally. On Tuesday, I am leaving the house when I hear traffic honking at someone or something on my corner. It's striking teachers lining several yards of my street corner. They are chanting and cheering. When I get into downtown, I'm on the pedestrian mall. Anyplace downtown, it's hardly unusual to see homeless or the mentally ill. I'm not surprised by a guy who comes along shouting about something. he isn't angry, but rather upset and in tears. When I spot him, he has laid down on the sidewalk and is slapping the tile with his hand. He gets up and says something unintelligible, he's so upset. I can only make out the word "disability," and I get the impression he's saying something about a government check. If he is without an address, this makes it problematic to get such payments. he has an open would on his forehead, which many street people have on their heads and/or faces. He has a grime-covered face and missing teeth; nothing unusual there. It's the fact that he's so upset while he has a cigarette between two fingers. It makes the entire scene that much more odd. The following evening I am on my way home along the bike trail after dark. Up ahead, I spot a couple of trail-users. One is walking a bike. The other is pushing a shopping cart and holding a flashlight which is on. As I pass the pair, I can see the latter is in his early twenties. He has bushy eyebrows which, along with his other dark hair, contrasts in the sharp light against his white skin. He looks like the homeless son of the Wolfman. In a couple of days, I am out of work early. Some time after 7 PM, I'm at the stop for the bus to the supermarket. I can see a Caucasian on my corner, out for a run with his dog. As he waits for the light to change, I see he has his own light on his head.
Sunday is an adventure to drop off film at the only place which processes black and white, which is crosstown. I'm almost there, turning up a residential street where a trio of sisters are playing basketball. I'm in my balaclava and mittens. They are in hoodies. One is in bare feet on the concrete of the driveway. These guys are my heroes. A couple of hours later, I connect with a bus for a short ride down my street. A guy onboard begins asking individual passengers if they need his bus transfer. No one appears to respond to his unsolicited offer. He says louder, "Transfer! Anyone need a transfer?"
...heeding the advice of a local coffee shop owner... A woman...drove over the Colorado National Monument, with CPR's classical music station blaring out her windows... Colorado became her home on that fateful morning... ...the winter holidays are a welcome reminder of the camaraderie in our community. We are all connected by a love for western Colorado, and the lifestyle...
When I...don't need to have a guard up, or feel that I need to impress. - Spoke + Blossom, Winter 2018-19
...the district kept schools open throughout the strike using...paraprofessionals, substitute teachers, and redeployed central office staff. But about a quarter of students stayed home, and some of those who did go to school reported...overly simplistic lessons to chaos. At several large high schools, students walked out in support of their teachers. - Denver Herald, 2/21/2019
Monday. It's well below freezing. It's spitting snowflakes. The snowfall from yesterday has all but melted today. I have a cold and the medicine does not appear to be helping. I'm homeward bound as the hour of 8 PM approaches. Right before I turn off from the trail, I see a ghostly figure under the streetlight, approaching from the other direction. It's a little old guy slowly pushing a shopping cart. It's piled with stuff which is completely covered with a white blanket. The blanket almost appears to be billowing. It gives the cart the appearance of the Flying Dutchman. The following morning, I've had some sleep. I still feel sick. When I get to work I will barely be able to stand up. For now, I am across the street at the bus stop. It's freezing cold again today, and it continues to spit snow, which it will do through to the evening. Along comes shuffling a guy who has a pair of earbuds for sale. he claims that he "found them on the bus," but appears to know the brand and other details. I turn out not to be his mark. On the bus up the street is a homeless Vietnamese guy I recognize. This morning, he is speaking in Vietnamese. He steps aboard and takes a seat. At one point, he yells a word in Vietnamese.
The following day, I wake up after three hours of sleep. In spite of this, I don't feel nearly as sick as I did yesterday. The sore throat is gone. I ride downtown, stopping at a Circle K before heading over to the gym before work. Today is perhaps the coldest day this winter. Before I left home, my backyard thermometer read ten degrees F. When I get to the Circle K, for once, I'm early. I go inside for a snack. In line is a tall guy in a camouflaged jumpsuit and cap with the same design. He has an unlit cigarette between his lips. The manager is stocking a low shelf behind the register, and this guy tells him something about how he "must be having fun." He purchases...whatever he's purchasing before he goes to his vehicle and sits inside with the window down on a ten-degree-morning. Outside, at one corner of the place, is a woman who is unloading the contents of her car. She's placing a collection of cleaning products onto a towel she's laid on the freezing concrete. Cleaning products, spray bottles, sponges, a vacuum cleaner. Mine is not to question why... I'm off to the gym, where I wait along with a basketball coach and a handful of her teenage players. She asks them, "What'd you guys do during the (teachers') strike? Watch Judge Judy and all that stuff?"
My First Marijuana Dispensary, ISIS, Pajamas, and a screaming kid speaking in tongues
The morning after, I am headed to work a little early. The boss needs me in. I stop at the deathburger homeless central downtown. I order in Spanish. The cashier responds by asking me if I know anyone who can help her with a visa. I get to work just as a homeless woman comes to the back door. She tells me that it "smells good" inside where I work, which is a drycleaners. She asks to walk through our business to the front door, because it's warm inside. When we decline, she then goes around and comes inside the front door. She wants to know if we have a lost and found. I ask her if she left something inside of our business. She claims that she slipped and fell outside and, presumably, her coat fell off and she couldn't find it. I tell her we didn't see any coat outside. She takes a piece of candy. Friday, I get another ride home from work, as we are slow. It's the manager who takes me home, but first we must stop and get his sleeping pills. He mentions them to me for the first time. I think we will stop at a Walgreens, but we pull up to the first marijuana dispensary I've been inside. There is a tiny lobby, such as a doctor's office except with groovier magazines. To enter the shop, we must present IDs which get scanned by a kid with hair and a beard so long that he appears as if he's a character from some story. The manager where I work is purchasing his CBD drops when I'm approached by a middle-aged employee. He and the hair guy are dressed in the identical T-shirts of the dispensary. They both appear as if they are on the same church softball team. He's characteristically overenthusiastic. 'Do I have any questions?' "Yeah, where are we eating after the softball game? Village Inn?" As I have no questions, this father-and-son-looking duo go stand in their matching shirts and watch the flat screen on the wall. The program is some kind of female "athlete" in an obstacle course covered with a lot of foam padding. She falls and they both exclaim, "Oh no!" After I get home, I get out to the stop for the bus to the supermarket, just as tiny snow flakes just begin dusting the earth. Before I begin shopping, I hit the customer service desk for some more discounted transit system coupons. The clerk behind the desk is talking to the guy ahead of me. She may be my age, or younger. Her hair is dyed white and moussed to appear like she's deceased and frozen outside on the ground. It looks the way I feel this week: I have a cold and don't have enough sleep. Another customer gets in line behind me. He's in a hoodie with the name of the city's football team on the front. I haven't seen any heavy duty outdoor cold weather gear, London Fog or even Patagonia stuff, not in this neighborhood. I don't know what it is about the groovy Caucasians in this town who love to where shorts when it's cold. They think this makes them local I guess. For the rest of the neighborhood residents, hoodies are the gear of choice for snow of below freezing temps. ...and plenty of camouflaged pants and jackets and hats. A favorite of the customers who come in here from the trailer park next door: half pajamas and half camouflage. It's almost as if, once they are finished performing in an ISIS video, they're ready to jump back into bed. The customer behind me is talking to himself about the one ahead of us. "Don't take too too long..." He mentions how "It sucks that they only have one person (working customer service.)"
The clerk is smiling and chatting happily with the guy I'm behind. She's telling him about her ex, who beat her up, would call the police and make false accusations about her, and still comes around to tell her he loves her. She's grinning, flirting with another employee. Somewhere else in the store, I hear a little kid. He's alternately making quick screaming noises and unintelligible sounds. He would fit right in with the mental passengers on the bus which runs my boulevard. When I come out of the supermarket, it's coming down snow leopards and arctic wolves. Speaking of the bus, and the kid, he's out in the shelter for the bus home with a young guy who I assume is his dad. An avuncular-aged stranger has attached himself to the young father and is blathering nonstop to him. We all board the bus when it arrives. The dad and kid sit across from the other guy, who says, "I've done plenty of warehouse work. Some is better than other kinds. I worked in a warehouse where it was 20 degrees (F) all the time. During the summer, that's not good for you." The kid is making rapid vocalizations. The guy says, "Some religious people would call that 'speaking in tongues'. They'd tell you that you need an interpreter." I.m reminded, as I so often am, of one particular quote from the late George Carlin. "I am a professional comedian...as opposed to the kind...you meet at work...ALL...DAY...LONG!" The kid does a short loud piece of a scream. A passenger in back responds. Along the way a drunk gets on. At the next stop, a kid on crack gets on. He has no coat. He gets out at the next stop, as a couple steps on. When the kid is half running and stumbling though the drifts, the lady mentions him by name and tells the guy he has no coat. The guy replies that the kid "will be okay. I talked to him." It turns out that the drunk also knows the couple.
Saturday, I'm working. I decide not to fight the snow with my bike. I take the bus downtown. I stop into Jeremy'e the manager's coffee place. i see a guy someone refers to as Jeremy. He doesn't look like the Jeremy who introduced himself to me, told me to move my bike, and rousted a couple of homeless. He isn't, and when I ask him, is unaware of any other Jeremy. I am at last on the same page with the manager of this place. He and i are both just as confused. After work, I take a bus home down the avenue to a deathburger where I will catch a connecting bus home. I run inside to grab dinner. I've been stopping by here off and on over my almost three decades in the city. I don't remember it as a place with service worse than any other. This evening, the employee in charge appears to have found himself stuck with the unceremonious duty of running the place for the time being. He doesn't sound happy about it. He's using profanity with his kitchen crew. "Are the machines not working?" he asks. A customer tells him that he ordered his food for here, not to go. I find myself complaining about this on a regular basis. The employee interrupts him as he tries to hand him a plastic tray. "Here's a tray...here's a tray here's a tray." I order at a kiosk. He gives me my food. I ask him for my beverage. He gives me a water cup. When he is distracted, I go behind the counter and grab a cup which is the size for which I paid. He has his hands full with not having any skills, and there's nothing more tough on the hands. The guy behind me has trouble speaking and asks to see a manager about his order. It sounds as if it's a breakfast order. It's going on 7 PM. He asks his crew, "Did someone promise this guy this order?" I exit stage left.
The following morning, I awake with enough sleep for the first time since the beginning of the previous work week. I head across the street to the Mexican place. The place which serves traditional Mexican. Pulled meat. Menudo. No coffee. No kale juice. This morning, I am presented with a new extra menu separate from the regular one in Spanish. This menu is in English. It's the first English which I've seen within these walls. It has items such as "country potatoes" and pancakes. They have created an emergency menu for the newly transplanted Caucasians who wander in here for breakfast. I have a conversation with my waitress in Spanish. I'm not bilingual, so I don't understand much of her answers to my questions. But I believe that she tells me they are serving more Caucasian customers, and that only a small number of them enjoy traditional Mexican food.
Monday. I'm headed to work, first through the neighborhood between my own and the bike trail. I approach a corner in this residential area. Sitting on the curb in a middle-aged homeless guy in a hoodie. He's with a dog and a cane. I think that the look on his face says, 'I know I don't live here.' It's just a short ride from there to the bike trail. As soon as I'm on it I approach an underpass. Squatting underneath is another homeless guy. He has a small propane tank he's left directly in my path. I can see at the other end of the underpass is a Parks and Recreation pickup truck being maneuvered by the driver. I come out the other end and pass the truck. Immediately behind it are another pair of homeless guys. One grey-haired guy looks familiar. He stares at the truck with a mostly toothless open mouth, as he tucks his shirt into his snow pants.
On my way home Tuesday, I'm off the bridge over the light rail tracks. I enter the trail from a small parking lot where you can park and ride or walk the trail. In the evening, shortly after 7 PM, there is always one car parked right at the entrance to the trail. Sometimes the engine is running. Shortly after I get on the trail, there is a stone picnic bench. Usually, the same homeless guy is sitting there with his cane and his dog. One evening, it was a guy with two cats. Tonight, he nods at me. Tomorrow evening, he will say "Hi." This evening, I am approaching the place where i exit the trail. I'm coming up behind a guy pushing a shopping cart full of stuff and with a blanket draped over everything. I wonder if it's the same Flying Dutchman Shopping Cart?
"Mr. Dennis"
Thursday. I'm at work when I run over to the Greek restaurant next door. It's standing room only for lunch. I grab a menu with the phone number and phone in an order. A disembodied voice answers the phone. I mention the name of the restaurant to make sure I have the correct number. The voice verifies that I do. I place my order, a salad with beef and lamb meat. The voice tells me it will be ready in 20 minutes. In 20 minutes I go back over to the restaurant. It's even busier and there is no salad. I leave and return a few minutes later. Still no salad. I call again from work and this time reach the cashier. She's unaware of my order. She explains that there is a "Mr. Dennis" who answers the phone for her when she is busy with customers at the counter. He is supposed to write orders on a sticky note and give it to the kitchen, which he probably forgot to do with my salad order. I replace the order with her, which she tells me will be ready in five minutes. I head back after 5 minutes but forget my wallet. I leave the restaurant but the way through the patio back to work is blocked by a trio of homeless friends. I hop over the patio railing, grab my wallet, return to pay, and take my salad back to work. I discover that it's not a beef and lamb salad but a chicken salad. i consume it before I return next door to let the cashier know it was not the salad i ordered from Mr. Dennis. She tells me that, on the phone, she thought I ordered the salad she gave me. She tells me that they will make me the one I wanted for no charge. Nice guys which they are. I wonder what Mr. Dennis does when he isn't taking the incorrect orders. My late father's name was Dennis.
Later in the day, a mental "customer" comes into work. He's frantically looking at the computer, at the counter, everywhere. He claims we 'altered a pair of pants and that's it right there (points to a blank wall) and it should be like these and I'M A SURGEON AND WHEN SHIT HAPPENS I DO IT FOR FREE...' He is told to call the manager here in the morning. This is enough to get him out of the door and back off planet Earth. The month ends with what couldn't be a more quiet scene. I'm on my way home in the evening, on the bike trail. In the distance, where I usually leave the trail, is perhaps the Flying Dutchman Shopping Cart. But there is no cart. It's just a little guy standing on the trail. He has a backpack and grey whiskers on his chin. He's standing and having a smoke. Just standing there in the light from the street lamp, on the trail.
