More important, evil signs in the world may not [indicate] the "end time" at all, but mere "seismic shiftings," "shadowy reminders" of the possible. "If we lie around weeping... It is not enough, not human. We were called upon to do more in the world than weep about the state of affairs. With that stance, there is no impulse to resist Armageddon." In short, Armageddon is overrated.
...a papal decree forbidding further elective political activity. ...Pope John [Paul II] had become increasingly disturbed about the political involvement of priests in Latin American revolutions...and wished to send a symbolic warning... ...in the past the church had associated itself with the upper class, now it is identifying with the poor. "There will be more situations like Nicaragua, where the church will promote political liberty and economic freedom. The Catholic Church does not stand aside... Inevitably you're going to have political revolutions. ...if there is no relief... That's okay, if the Nicaraguan model is followed. Nobody wants a Communist state or heavy Cuban influence. There is no one model for the future. But all over the continent, priests are telling people, "Cry for justice!"
"Discord is not going to decrease. Time will come when you have to take up the sword against your neighbor or flee to a few havens in the world where there are solid communities to promote peace." ...seek to live a saintly life in the midst of turmoil and with the expectation of war. "No one should rejoice in war, but it is part of the prophetic future."
...his big dream...deemed by many as the perfect marriage of religion and Hollywood. An autographed photograph of John Wayne...near one of Billy Graham and the snapshot...with the Pope. Sitting in his office...gazing out on the freeways and office buildings and the hot plain where [he] says 500,000 "hurting" people hunger for spiritual upliftment. I feel as if I am with the hotel magnate who started out with a simple root beer stand. ...this message...his "theology of self-esteem." And it sells. "In the latter part of the twentieth century we are experiencing nothing less than a theological reformation as deep and abiding as the event in the sixteenth century.,"...alluding to the Protestant Reformation. "Self-esteem is the central verity, the north star, the central mark of the emotionally healthy person." - OMNI Magazine, 12/1981
Herb...Caen lived and breathed the city. ...he was always trying to find the city's heart. ...he always imagined he was writing...for a simple housewife... And, to the dismay of his high-society friends, he raised a ruckus over the massive high-rise developments that were beginning to overshadow the gleaming white skyline he fell in love with as a boy. Sometimes it's necessary [of] the city's business class, the columnist later remarked, to remind them that a city...is more than just a real estate opportunity - it's "a precious, special, fragile place." Caen was the city's convivial conscience... - Talbot
If there are two hours in my three years and three days at United Artists that remain in memory as pure unambiguous pleasure, they are these two. (...the movie's title appears only as the blinking neon sign of the Manhattan Hotel)… The defensive, neurotic behavior, the angst - real or imagined - of those overeducated overachievers... ...the movie is about...faithlessness...from urban lyricism to sentiment. What I found in these two hours...too cynical to expect anymore: some kind of enchantment. I left the screening room...down a nearly deserted Sixth Avenue. The skyscraping piles of steel and glass that in daylight seemed so forbidding and faceless navigated with city lights. I could hear Gershwin...or thought that I could [among] the empty street and..purple sky, I remembered all the reasons I had always wanted to be in the movie business. - Bach
Day 39. It's a hot day, and I'm out on my bike. With the exception of the loss of thousands of human lives, all would be right with the world. In spite of a rather steamy late Spring. I can't torture my broken bike anymore, it needs to be repaired, or else I need another. I do have its predecessor in the basement. This other one hasn't been right since I attempted to pass a young Caucasian pedestrian couple on a sidewalk. In an attempt to get onto the grass, I didn't anticipate the raised edge of ground to be so tough, and the horse threw me. I was fine. The bike suffered a rear rim warped in two places. It still rides, but the rear rim scrapes. And both sets of brake shoes need replacing. But this one has real suspension. I notice the easier ride as soon as I climb on it. I'm proud of a rear reflector which I jury rigged out of a handful of spare parts. The original rear reflector is on the original seat, which I switched out for this softer one. The bike I ride to work is the standard 28 inch wheel base. The broken one is 29 inches. This one is 26 inches, and I had to raise the seat post dangerously high. But the shifters are in fine shape, like night and day between this and the broken bike. All it needs is air in the tires and I'm off. It's out to grab a soda from my restaurant friend before I head to the park for the lunch I brought with. Then it's back over to the downtown supermarket for a couple of items before I head back home. Along the way, I stop at a 7-Eleven for another soda. Inside, I spot a ginormous Mother's Day cards. I no longer purchase for my own mom, who is no longer with us. But I know someone special with a son. The trick is figuring out how to secure it to the bike rack with a single short bungee cord. But, I'm good at this. If a single bungee cord is good enough to take my mom's walker to the rec center, I should be able to decipher this puzzle. And secure it is. I don't recall if the tires on this bike are road-hazard-resistant. I don't get any flats and it's clearly a smoother ride. And in spite of a rattling back rack, this ride is much quieter than the loud, grinding one of the broken bike.
Day 41. A Facebook friend mentions that today is Nude Hiking Day. I'm headed west to stop by the sister's place, to drop off some supermarket coupons. Along the way, I'm coming down a residential street. An SUV is stopped in the middle of the street, in front of an intersection. A handful of young adults are huddled close around the car. One young adult guy is lying on his back in the opposite lane. A young woman carried a skateboard around the front of the vehicle, past the guy on his back and over to the sidewalk. A second SUV is stopped at the intersection, on the intersecting street. At first glance, it may appear as if these two vehicles were part of an accident. But this does not appear to be the case. In fact, I don't see any other vehicle which appears to be involved. Someone in the other SUV asks the group if the guy on his back is okay. I don't hear any answer. The other SUV drives off. An oncoming SUV slowly passes the one stopped in the street. No one appears to be offering the kid in the street any immediate assistance.
Day 42. Beginning yesterday, judging from the increase in traffic, many have decided to accept the mayor's original invitation to return to work on the 1st of this month rather than the 8th. I don't quite ride the distance today I otherwise would, all the way to work and back. But I have an overdue appointment at the copy place, and more to do than I have time to ride today. I first stop at the post office. I was there yesterday. I wasn't sure if they were open, but I have a giant Mother's Day card to mail. I planned on dropping it in their postal box. I have a small postal scale at home and used what I believed were enough stamps. It turns out that it's too big to fit through any slot. I checked the front door and discover that they are open Monday through Saturday. An unwashed guy with scraggly hair is perched on a bus bench in front of the building. He looks like a TV character from the 1970s. So I must return today. I'm in the copy place before any other customers. It fills up shortly thereafter. I'm working at one machine, which appears to be the only self-service machine upon which all cylinders are firing. One old guy is waiting and waiting for the single fax machine to either send or to receive. Every so often, he quietly says out loud, "Jesus Christ." Another old guy comes in, or is it the same one? He just needs a couple of copies and can't get the other copier to work. A guy comes in with his young kid. To make copies he wants to know, "Do I put them face down?" I get my business taken care of. and I'm headed next door to the supermarket for a skinny hot chocolate. In line at for the barista, I can hear a clerk wiping down shopping carts. She's telling customers without face masks that they must have one on to do their shopping here. A young woman come loping inside. Her mustard colored stretch jeans slung low, the sides of her head are shaved and she has dreadlocks down to her butt. She gets turned around and comes loping back with her mask. One guy sneaks past unnoticed, with shoulder-length grey hair. I grab my beverage and spot the guy checking out. I'm curious what will happen to him. I mention that he slipped past to another clerk and discreetly identify him checking out.
Day 43. Cinco de Mayo. I'm headed over to a supermarket next to the copy place, where I was yesterday. It's the same chain as the one up north, which has the single product my regular supermarket doesn't carry. After I grab said product, I'm headed across the avenue... I found a closer yogurt place! And, they've reopened. I will still need to make the 30 mile ride to get my brand of sunblock, but this place is on the way to work. When I return to work. And they have their toppings out for use, which the other yogurt place doesn't have. This place is still take out only, but I see people sitting at the tables outside. The other place is located in a different municipality, which may have a different timeline for fully reopening. Reopening. Another word with a new meaning. Today, I do go all the way past work, to see my pal at the restaurant. He tells me that it has been decreed: tomorrow, masks will become mandatory for everyone inside of a business. I remind him that I would never know any of this unless I come here and he tells me. He says he should be charging me for his information. He also tells me, they hope to be open for dine in business beginning this Monday. I do a kind of loop, heading home the way I would from work. I stop and the downtown supermarket for a few things along the way. Along the way home, I pass a kid outside of his home. He's washing the seat of what appears to be a kitchen chair with soap and water. Is he sequestered at home from school and his mom is inventing things for him to do? I turn a corner and see a motorcycle with a Mexican flag on the back. I see the occasional American flag on a truck or mounted outside the odd home. But with gatherings cancelled, a lone rider literally shows the flag. Home again, I put away the food and go out to check the mailbox. At the apartments directly across the street, a couple of the young Mormon missionary residents are returning home themselves. They are identically dressed, except for one kid. His wardrobe includes a thin navy sweater, and a ten gallon cowboy hat. I don't know how they roll next door in Utah, but I believe this is the very first sweater and ten gallon hat I've ever seen.
My then network was an echo-chamber... ...woke, progressive, social justice-driven... I...read about...Andrew Yang...who proposed The Freedom Dividend, a universal basic income (UBI) of $1,000 per month...a response to the automation of...jobs across the US... His wife was beautiful...supportive and well spoken. His boys brought positivity...for future generations. The entire package represents the modern American Dream. ...the candidate with it all... [Myself and another Yang supporter] canvassed the 16th Street Mall together...and packed hundreds of sack lunches for the homeless... - Asian Avenue, 3/2020
"...the Uber drivers and the restaurants and the hotels and the museums, the art and culture and the retail...we need these people."
Her experience has led...to trust the homeless, the disenfranchised and the poor more than the rich, the government, service providers and especially the police. …"yuppies"...give her anxiety. "People don't want to use the same bathrooms as us; they don't want to be seen around us. Homeless people are being looked at as the virus." ...many people have been left on the streets, or rounded up into the new consolidated shelters at the National Western Center and the Denver Coliseum.
"You could see the skyline. There was nothing but tracks and Union Station. That was seventeen years ago." ...he documents the city's communities that are being pushed toward extinction by predatory development. "A lot of the new buildings are going up in places where eighty-year-old homes stood." ..what they call "digital gentrification" - the way communities are pushed out of a city, not just...priced out...but also by being ignored in the photographic record shared by urban boosters online. "When I go to L.A....they have no idea that there's a lowriding scene here. ...that this place is full of Chicanos who have been here for generations. Over the past decade...photographer Armando Geneyro...has documented the west side's working-class Chicano community, indigenous dancers, lowrider clubs, poets, artists, parks, activists and more.
[My boulevard's Business Improvement District] is the smallest in Denver...stretching only [for five blocks.] ...most federal, state, and city relief funds have been funneled through banks, and if business owners don't have close relationships or loan officers, or if the paperwork and application process prove too confusing, their shut off from the possibility of economic aid. "...many of these minority- and women-owned small businesses"...lack the resources to get the word out that they're still open through social media or advertising... - Westword, 5/7-13/2020
...a Denver Division of Public Safety cadet, helps set up a library inside the makeshift shelter for unhoused men at the National Western Center. - Washington Park Profile, 5/2020
...washing...hands... I'm coming clean... ...gee whiz people, are we taking this too far? The odds of getting run over by a bus are really close to biting the dust at the hands of the coronavirus... ...has anyone ever cancelled a sporting event - or a sock hop, or an ice cream social - because of the flu? Has the flu otherwise taken a healthy economy and chopped it off at the knees? ...does this craze reek of ratings and political positioning? ...tell the truth... I wouldn't want to cash a check if it was given to me for creating global pandemonium. - Mile High Sports, 4/2020
Even before the pandemic hit, rents were skyrocketing in the Baker neighborhood and business was slow... Plenty of surrounding businesses had already boarded up. "It made it kind of harder, so things were a little thinner. But it was still survivable and I still wanted to be able to sell it and walk away from my investment with something. But that's not what happened." ...he envisioned...something like the CBGB of the West, a spot that could encourage a local music scene and bands touring the country in their vans. ...the spot...was for sale... ...the timing of opening...was pretty amazing, as both the area and the music scene were on an upswing. "We got in at a really good time and had great local support and great neighbors. It couldn't have been any better. I just wish it didn't end the way it did." ...a lot of bar and restaurant owners...complain about turnover, and we just didn't have that. We had good solid people." ...he has no idea what will happen to the space... "There's going to be a real estate issue. That thing could sit for who knows how long." - Westword, 5/21-27/2020
Day 44. I'm on my way home from a last quick trip to the copy place, a stop for more yogurt, and another visit to my pal. I'm headed for my avenue when I meet another cyclist at a corner. It's a young and cute Caucasian mom. She's in a pink Polo shirt and pastel blue shorts, and she's pulling a bike trailer with her child inside. I compliment her bike. She's the first mom I can recall giving her child a ride with her bike and trailer. I suspect that this will be the summer of the Caucasians. Speaking of which, the following day, in my mailbox appears a mailer advertising homes for sale. These homes are located in the neighborhood adjacent to my own. Day 45. It's another ridiculous 100 mile bike ride. And I even forgot to pick up more sunscreen, which was the reason for the long trip to begin with. However, I did get some last minute copying done. And along the way home, I had an early dinner at a big park with a lake. The sun sparkling off ripples, and a clear blue sky. When I get home, I have a couple of messages from my boss. When I reach him, he tells me that he can't remember what he wanted.
Day 45. It's back toward the one pharmacy in the greater metro area which has my sunscreen. Along the trail, I turn off at a strip mall. I stop into a giant Target for a snack. Then back down the trail. I exit the trailhead just before I enter a ritzy neighborhood. Since I've been riding this way again last month, I've various mansions along the way are forever having remodeling done inside, or having carpets cleaned, or some such van is parked out front. One tall bush next to a front door has a red "Make America Great Again" cap on its peak. I remember the Christmases of 2015 and 2016, when I worked at this shopping center with the yogurt place and the pharmacy. I would ride home through here in the dark. Everyone would had their Christmas lights up. The yogurt place is a bakery which also makes sandwiches. When I worked down here, the original owners sold it to new owners, because they wanted to spend more time with their kids as they grew up. Now the bakery has a new sign on the door. The current owners are themselves looking for new buyers for the same reason. I head home up the boulevard rather than the trail. When I get a couple of city blocks north, I turn down a street to scout out a path back west. Then BAM! I recognize this route. Was it the summer of 2015? I spent it working at another location for the company. And I crossed this boulevard and came down this very street on the way home. I've stumbled onto yet another previous route I used to ride to and from work. Eastman Street. And late in the afternoon I'm retracing familiar twists and turns. I forgot this neighborhood had attractive women out and about, as it does today. Another long ride, and I'm home again.
Day 46. In the morning, I do a short ride out to a supermarket where I pick up the single product I can find only at this chain. It's early evening when I get another call from the general manager where I work. He wants me to meet with he and the owner at our plant on Monday. WE are to discuss the details, but the plan has come down: we are reopening all our stores on Wednesday. God. The time has flown by. I suspected as much would happen. Day 47. I head out to refill some vitamins and grab a skinny hot chocolate for desert. With whipped cream. And peppermint. I'm at the supermarket where the guy snuck in without a mask on. Posted on the front doors are notices requiring customers to wear masks inside the store. There's another customer in the checkout line. He has a mask hanging off one ear. A clerk tells him he must wear it inside the store. The customer replies that he's fine wearing the mask, but he expects all customers to be told. I don't see any other customer not wearing a mask. I'm out of the hizzy and up to my friend's restaurant. I thought they were open on Sundays during the sequester. They ain't. I'm outta there and stop to take a quick look at my store, scheduled to reopen on Wednesday. There's a new plant just inside the door. I head over to my gym, where there is one new posting on the door. It says everyone coming inside must wear a mask. No new info on when they will open. Curious talismans abound. And I ain't seen nothin' yet. I head for the trail from downtown back home, but I turn west instead of south, toward the sister's place. She called to tell me that her husband made me a face shield to use over my mask. I haven't heard about these yet, but I may as well pick it up in case it materializes that I'm suddenly expected to use one. So, I'm coming down a street I've never taken. I'm walking the bike up a steep hill. near the crest, I see a shirtless middle-aged homeless guy in jeans and work boots. He has a camp with a blanket and an easy chair. He's scooping something up in a snow shovel. He has filthy blonde hair to his shoulders and love beads around his neck. He's listening to his phone. He greets me by letting me know he's listening to a documentary about an old band called Ratt. He's cradling the shovel as he asks me if I saw a dumpster behind the corner of the building I just passed. "I just can't handle the glass the civilians leave behind," he tells me. (Civilians?) I didn't notice any dumpster, and he joins me in my hike up the hill. He compliments my bike and tells me he had one like it. Someone stole his "tires and cables." He doesn't say if it was the brake or the shifter cables. He's engrossed in his phone's documentary. Ratt's 1983 album cost over $100,000 to make, he says. I crest the hill and cross my boulevard before I'm across a bridge over a highway. I turn through a park. Strewn across the trail is an overturned shopping cart. It appears to have rolled down a steep embankment and tipped over. Most of it's contents are still inside. A couple turns the corner of the trail on their bikes. The mom is pulling a bike trailer. I tell her to "Watch out for the odd shopping cart."
I explained that the...physical universe is essentially crystalline. ...music also...crystalline...constitutes an important "seam" between the spiritual and the material worlds. ...a longer or a more vital life comes to those who...find the crystalline harmonies undergirding the "whole" of Nature. "The volcanoes surrounding us...they're 'frozen music'... The entire physical universe is God's dream...inscribed as a secret crystalline music. You and I are parts of the dream that have awakened. We must awaken the rest. We must draw the music of God's thought out of the physical..." - "Vox Olympica", by M. Bishop
Day 48. I'm out the door and headed for a dentist appointment. I'm across my boulevard, all the way past the park, and coming up on a steep downhill. Around a corner comes a baby animal which I believe I recognize right away. I don't comprehend as quickly as I should, because I'm not used to seeing farm animals roaming the streets of either my neighborhood, or among the rest of the greater metro area. When it makes a noise, then I get it. A lamb is going "Baaa" as it steps along the sidewalk. Just then, an SUV blows through the stop sign and comes to a halt. We're facing the opposite direction from each other, stopped dead center of the residential intersection. A young mom is at the wheel and her window is down. I ask her if she's looking for a baby goat. "It's mine," she replies. One of her young daughters jumps out and chases after it. My comprehension continues to lag behind my recognition. Is a 4 way stop sign intersection being blocked by both an SUV and my bike? Did I, for the first time in my life, even during the 12 years I lived in Oklahoma or the 2 1/2 I lived in Kansas, just ask the driver of an SUV if she is looking for a lamb? And is a young girl chasing a lamb down the street? The girl is chasing the lamb, the SUV takes off after the girl, and a police cruiser pulls up to the stop sign on the street perpendicular to us. Don't look at me, I'm going to the dentist. As often as I'm at the dentist these days, it's a familiar crosstown ride. I'm in and out in an hour and a half, with a new temporary crown and clean teeth. ...and it's raining. First I'm in the middle of a lamb chase in front of the police, and now it's raining. I should mention that I didn't bring my poncho. Fortunately, it's not bad and I'm home in plenty of time to eat a quick lunch, before my meeting with the owner and general manager where I work. It's not a long ride to our plant. I arrive just as the owner shows up. He says we don't need the manager to let me know that I can return to work as soon as tomorrow. And he's giving me full time. Through his own intrepid and tireless efforts, he has qualified for and secured a business loan. Allowing him to rehire me and open his stores, with the purpose of jump starting the business again. The only thing is, I will being working at a store a bit further. But it's the store he purchased from the guy I used to work for, and the store where I worked for just about two years. So... So ends the first furlough during my working career. I've enjoyed the time off, but it's good to be working again. I can't believe that my days were filled with things to do. This must be a good sign for my eventual retirement. But I'm getting ahead of myself. Way ahead...
I'm done with this "Day" followed by a number stuff. Some have lost their jobs. It's the middle of the month, and I'm doing the same ride to work now that I was doing occasionally over the previous two months. It's 25 or 30 miles one way. On Tuesday, my first day back to work, I remember doing the ride in as little as an hour and fifteen minutes. This morning, I'm hauling groceries with me to stock up the fridge. I'm dismayed when I arrive some 13 minutes late. Wednesday, I give myself more than two hours to do the ride. Today I'm carrying canned beverages. It takes me a solid two hours. And this isn't all. My furlough together with my doctor check up has allowed me to reorganize my diet. Working six days a week, my entire schedule has changed. I have to figure out when to both grocery shop and prepare meals for the week. And I'm starting my shift either two or three hours earlier and having to set my alarm clock (depending on the day of the week) for the first time five years. I somehow knew my beloved afternoon shift couldn't last. This could last for four months according to the owner. Who can tell? I've written about this particular store elsewhere here in this blog. It's been more than a decade since it's loved manager Mrs. Lilliana Castaneda passed away from Lupus. Inside of two months. Leaving behind a six-year-old and a husband, and who knows how many friends. Just last summer I visited her grave. She worked under a previous owner. I've written about the following owner, the madness of his tenure, and my 2 1/3 years at this store while he owned it. I worked here Saturday, 8/23/2017. The following day, the general manager called me to say that 1) the company was closed, and 2) I had a new job waiting for me the next day at the owner's store way up in Northwest Denver. That following Monday, 8/25/2017 began another 1 1/3 year adventure. Until the owner admitted that he had that store on the market. Which precipitated my first job search in almost 14 years, my efforts to update my resume and searching the businesses in expanding radii around my home, before I found my first ever job online.
On Thursday, I'm locking the door after we close when I see a guy I know. He works at the restaurant a few doors down. I give him the short version of the above story. He tells me he bought the restaurant with his daughter, and they open on June 1st. It begins to rain and I put on my brand new poncho. By the time I get to the trailhead, I'm riding in pouring rain with the sun out. Only in Colorado. I've been grabbing some groceries on the way home, including the single product I can get only at a particular grocer. The trail will eventually take me close to one. I' headed inside with a customer who has no mask. A couple of employees stop him and mention the policy. "I was in here yesterday without a mask," he replies. Then it's back on the ride home. Yesterday, the Chinese place across the street from home opened for take out, for the first time in a couple of months. I'm across the street from there now, and a couple of police cruisers are parked next to each other, blocking the entrance from my avenue. An office has one of his passenger side doors open, and he's holding a skinny handcuffed guy with tattoos on his face. I don't know what the guy's story is, but I notice he has no mask.
Friday. For the first time in five years, instead of sleeping at 4:30 AM I'm shaving and then working out, with cinder blocks, until the rec centers open again. And I don't expect to be back at my old rec center as long as I'm working where I am. After procrastinating for the first quarter of this year, I finally bought an annual pass to the gym there. A few days later, they closed down for the sequester. I'm out the door to work some time after 5. I'm cruising past the bus stop across the street. In the shelter are a trio of homeless. Two women sit on the bench as a guy stands. He's wearing neon yellow camouflaged pants. I have this ride to work down now to an hour and forty minutes. I roll into the shopping center and over to a Starbucks, for a skinny hot chocolate. When my drink is ready, a young woman pulls up and gets out of her car. She's in a crop top and instead of abs, she's gone for a successfully sculpted stomach. But the striking thing about her is the virtual digital seamlessness of her even tan. She could pass for a loaf of wheat brad from an Easy Bake oven. Fridays and Mondays are scheduled as nine-hour days. After I arrive home, I run out to water the flowers and run back inside, before I run out again to grab food from the Chinese place. Standing on someone else's porch is the son of one of my Vietnamese neighbors. It's the wacky son who walks around the parking lot slowly and panhandles at said Chinese place. The porch belongs to another Vietnamese family. He having a smoke.
Saturday. My bike is low on brake fluid once again. I need to retrieve the extra brake fluid I left at my old store downtown. After work, I'm through the old money neighborhood and down the trail. I'm headed past the waterpark. I called yesterday and spoke to my old rec center when I worked down here. They also sell the season passes to the waterpark. They tell me...they may in fact open sometime this summer. If I'm working down here through the summer...I could go swimming every day. Once again. A man can dream. I turn off the trail and head for the train. The transit system has suspended it's fares until further notice. This is the first time I've been on it in a couple of months. A train comes along in jig time and whips me to another station where I grab a train into downtown. I ride to my old store, grab the brake fluid, and stop across the street at the Muslim pizza place for takeout fish and onion rings. Then I'm off the park next to my old rec center to eat it. Late in the afternoon, I'm sitting in the park and watching who I suspect are some of the young residents of the new condos nearby. There are three guys and a young woman tossing around a football. She's beautiful in her simple cropped shirt, shorts, and hair in a single braid under her ball cap.
Writing is personal, but it also builds a connection with people... "For some, it's a way of self-expression." ...a free course for people who have recently experienced or are currently experiencing poverty, addiction, homelessness...and free workshops for essential workers "designed to help nurture personal insight and emotional grounding." …"students...they're willing to write about everything in their lives." - Washington Park Profile, 5/2020
I had read and approved the script of..."Manhattan"... [I was invited] to Michael's Pub on Third Avenue, where Woody and his friends played Dixieland jazz on Monday nights. I...took along with me a list of the allusions peppering the "Manhattan" script...fearful that some of them were too esoteric...dependent on some degree of literacy. …"Jokes"...unlikely to roll them in the aisles of Des Moines. The list read: "Strindberg, Mahler, Jung, Dinsen, Fitzgerald (Scott and Zelda), Kafka, Cezanne, Flaubert, Mozart, Nabokov, Whitman, Coward, Boll, Brecht, O'Neill." Michael's Pub was bouncing. The concentration of energy on the music seemed an attempt to efface both the room and his own star celebrity... ...Woody scrambled down to meet us at the table. Woody was finally reprieved by the intrusion of a tourist, a German woman who...thrust into his face a copy of "Der Spiegel," containing a good review of his book... He was gracious and modest...when she ordered him, in a...Teutonic accent...to keep the magazine. ...I fought...out onto the sidewalk...in the hot evening air heavy with the smell of melting asphalt. I spotted in line a young couple I knew. ...as representative of the general public as anyone was likely to meet that night. I...read...my list of names. The only one they didn't know immediately was Heinrich Boll...
Six days later The Polo Lounge at the Beverly Hills Hotel [knows Michael] Cimino... [The Lounge] attracts a conspicuously Guccied and Cartiered crowd, drawn by...the sun-dappled atmosphere...under the leaves on the patio outside. Cimino's choice [of restaurant] seemed...curiously establishment (the younger crowd...calls it the Polio Lounge)… Cimino may be a maverick, I thought, but clearly not a rebel.
[I] might be undercut by...Dino De Laurentiis...in his impeccable silk tailoring and that whatever personal glory I had been spinning webs to ensure might be swept away in a flourishing gesture of that fine Italian hand. Dino...turned the conversation to...promotion [of his film. United Artists president] Albeck deftly turned aside any commitments for expenditures until his "boys" (distribution) had seen it and estimated its grosses. Dismay lifted Italian eyebrows. "How can you estimate grosses without knowing what you will spend for marketing?" De Laurentiis asked. He swiftly began spinning success around the picture like linguine with a fork. De Laurentiis method was always to assert that he was inches away from a deal with Paramount, Universal, whatever... Albeck wasn't playing the game... I wanted to applaud the performance and kill the performer. - Bach
Monday. I'm on my way this morning to a physical exam with my primary care physician. From home, I cross the street to the bus stop where I toss some trash in the can. A guy on the bench tells me, "That was a good drop off." In jig time, I'm at a major train hub. A train pulls up and a homeless guy gets off. He lifts the lid from a trash can with his fingers and flips it through the air. It lands on the concrete. he walks off. I replace it on the can. That was not a good drop off. Some eight hours later, I'm riding home through an old-money neighborhood. It's late afternoon. I see more than one dad sitting in his back yard, on a patio lounge chair. They are both in shorts. One has his kids nearby. I turn onto a horse trail. Back yards appear behind trees lining the trail. I pass one middle-aged woman watering foliage. On the trail and onto the connecting trail, I'm close to exiting this trail. I'm approaching an underpass when I'm passed by a homeless guy. He's on a bike pulling a "trailer" rigged from a wheelchair. Wednesday. I'm off work and have just turned into an old money neighborhood. Right behind me are a trio of Caucasian guys on ten-speeds. We're all in black cycling shorts. The trio have the complete outfit, including patterned cycling shirts. They've passed me and we all cruise past a new mansion, under the finishing touches of construction. The guys working on the home are all in Carhartt gear, and I hear them conversing in Spanish. One of the trio says to the others, "When I get my home built, I want...(blah blah blah)." Saturday. I'm up earlier these days. Around 4 AM, I hear what sounds like someone emptying the magazine of a handgun. Some four hours later, I'm unlocking the door at work. A couple is slowly walking their dog past me. The guy is speaking to the lady, and I believe that he is discussing when the local pools will open. He mentions the date of July 1st.
"Get A Real Job, Faggot Security Guards!"
Sunday is the day before Memorial Day. I run down to the supermarket and return before the first rain comes down. Stores are reopening. My camera place is open again. They are not open today, but they claim to be open tomorrow. That's a longer crosstown ride and back. Today, instead I decide to run over to the local hardware place. I'm out of weed killer. Rain is forecast, but I neglect to take my poncho. Not only this, I'm convinced that it's somehow a bit warmer when noon comes around. So I'm out of the door in a T-shirt and windbreaker. It's 60 degrees F. I stop along the way to grab a quick lunch, and I take it to a bus shelter to eat it. I have the shelter to myself. Some rain is coming down now and it's as good a shelter as I can hope for. It's on a busy avenue, and behind the shelter is a big empty lot which stretches from the street to a concrete wall. The wall has murals of stylized urban views. Against the wall is a perpetual homeless tent and bicycle camp. From my perch in the shelter, I watch one guy riding down the sidewalk coming from under a train bridge, headed my direction. He has his left hand on the handlebars, and with the right, he's holding the frame of another bike. This frame has a single wheel, which is rolling on the ground as he holds it. The rider crosses an off ramp for the interstate and begins to cross the avenue. He has a red light, because the traffic he's crossing through have both a green left turn light and a green light. They honk but wait for him. He returns back from across the avenue with only the frame which has the single wheel. He left his bicycle somewhere on the other side of the street.
Past the shelter comes a handful of cyclists, followed by a pair of homeless riders pulling their own homemade bike trailers. The first of this pair of homeless sojournants has a long sign attached to his rig. It announces his efforts to clean up the street corners where he stops. His trailer contains a rake for leaves among yard other tools. I passed him parked on the bridge over the interstate. The second homeless, trailer-hauling rider I also passed along the way here. He walks his rig past the bus shelter. He's younger and doing the dreadlock thing. His own sign is on the rear of the trailer, where a license plate would otherwise be. I can't recall what it reads. He heads across the off ramp from the interstate and holds up from the rain on the sidewalk under the train bridge. Then I watch as a police cruiser comes off the interstate and slowly pulls into the lot with the homeless camp. A female officer steps out and speaks with the guy rolling the one-wheeled bike frame. The officer is shortly speaking next with a homeless female. I watch the officer, who appears to be checking on the residents of the tents. The rain has let up. I approach the corner where I will cross the avenue to the shopping center, with the hardware place and a supermarket with a Starbucks...which has a skinny hot chocolate. I can tell a derelict is walking through the intersection. Then I can tell he's been rousted from somewhere in the shopping center by security guards, from a pair of parked vehicles. The guards are trading words with the derelict, who is telling them to fuck off. I cross the avenue when I hear a second derelict across the street yelling, "Fuck you faggot security guards! Get a real job faggot security guards!" I get my skinny hot chocolate and make my way to the hardware place. There's a tiny line to get in. The guy ahead of me is asking the security guy at the door, why are there so much security in the shopping center? I'm inside and find the weed killer, and I almost get a pair of Wonder Woman gardening gloves. When I come out of the place, the rain is coming down. I decide to wait out the worst of it. It will turn into a nice rain for the rest of the afternoon. As I wait for it to receede, I watch a pickup truck do doughnuts on a section of the wet parking lot. It doesn't look as if it will quit, and I decide to make the soggy trek home. I'm quickly soaked, and the drops thrown up by my front rim are high enough, they hit me in the face. I also have rain in my eyes. When I get home, my outdoor thermometer reads 40 degrees F.
"Sure darlin'"
Memorial Day. I'm off to the camera store with a couple of rolls of film to drop off, and a pair of new rolls to purchase. It turns out that they reopened on the 8th of this month. I'm ready for more black and white photos. I stop in to the supermarket next door for a quick lunch. Across the street is a Staples, where I pick up a storage case. Then it's up the street to hook up with the bike trail which will take me downtown to my old store, where I use the restroom and grab a homemade ball of soap I left behind there. I head out toward the park, but I run into the downtown grocery, to see if the Starbucks there will make me a skinny hot chocolate. They still don't, because there is a walk-up and drive-through Starbucks across the street, which does provide this beverage. There is yet another Starbucks a couple of blocks the opposite direction, which is closed down for the time being. I make my way across a thoroughfare to the open one. Their walk-up window was closed. It turns out that they are open for mobile order only. I take a chance and pull my bike up to the drive-through window. I lie and tell them I don't have a mobile device. The guy at the window keeps referring to me as "darlin'." He agrees to take my order. I ask him if he wants me to pick it up on the other side of the building, at the mobile order window. "Sure, darlin'." I spot a charge machine on the ledge, and the window at the opposite end of the building is unreachable. I ask him if he wants me to pay here. "Sure, darlin'. Do you want half and half, or all six pumps?" Why would I want any fewer pumps than the price allows? "Dos it matter what kind of milk?" Well, if he has fat free... Then I make the half-circumference of the establishment. Someone else pokes their head through this window. "Are you picking up a mobile order?" "I ordered at the other window." He retreats inside. My beverage comes out. It needs a stopper for the hole. I'm on a bike. I wait until a third guy sticks his head through the window. "What's happening?" "I need a stopper." I get my stopper.
Then it's off to the park next to my old rec center. My old store, my old rec center. As long as I'm working where I am, I don't expect to be coming around this skinny hot chocolate desert. I'm going to miss this little rec center. I wonder how Christie is doing. She the one-woman crew keeping the place operating. And this park is a nice place to eat on the way home, if you happen to be furloughed. Or on Memorial day. At one picnic table is a homeless guy with his stuff overflowing. he's soon joined by another. At the next table is a Caucasian family gathered in the park for the holiday. The brand new condos across the street, at the south end of the park, have banners up announcing that the hour is late to get in on the ground floor of the last available units. I wonder if this is where these white couples and families are coming from. Across the street on the east end are homes from the turn of the previous century. This dichotomy extends the three blocks south until this street ends. I spend my holiday reading about San Francisco half a decade ago, eating some chicken nuggets, drinking diet iced tea from an old plastic canteen, and polishing off the festive meal with my hard earned beverage, complete with stopper. Then it's down the street with divide's each side into separate centuries, up over a long bridge to an entrance to the bike trail. Under a tree is a grimy-skinned young guy with a copious growth of black hair and beard. He sits cross-legged in dark pants and a dark buttoned down shirt. He's in contrast to the colorfully adorned cyclists populate this trail. I exit the trail not far beyond. Shortly thereafter, I'm passed by four oncoming Caucasian ten speed cyclists, then by another Caucasian couple from behind. I short while after, I reach my street and go a couple homes beyond to see if an old friend and previous coworker is out on her porch. So she is. I stop and catch up on her own furlough, mostly in Spanish. She's back at work, only a couple of days a week. I mention that the extended neighborhood is turning white. She confirms that she sees the changes in spades.
Tuesday. I ride a broken bike to work, and after work I take it to my newfound bike shop on the way home from where I work now. When I get there, I realize that I forgot they are closed on Tuesdays. The following day, it's the same drill. When I get back there after work, it's only today that I notice a second sign on the door. They were closed on Monday, on Tuesday as usual, and they are giving their employees an extra day off today. The sign claims that the shop will be open tomorrow. After I get home today, the phone rings. It's the Republican National Committee. They address me by my first name. At first, I assume they have mistaken me with a donor on a list. They have not. I don't ask, and they don not reveal why, but they decided that I am a potential donor. Further evidence of a changing neighborhood? The following day, I am indeed able to step inside of the bike shop. Powerful testimony. (What is now one of a pair of my) standby bike(s) is now in the hands of this newly discovered shop. I was here for the first time the previous week. I thought I tasted an ideological flavor to one tech's answer, when I mentioned to him I had a bike which needed work. A bike from the department store. I first heard the phrase "department-store quality" some fifteen years ago, at a shop with an owner who refused to work on such a bike. He appeared to be about 40 years old and had frosted hair. Upon this afternoon, the tech takes a glance at my bike and mentions a potential "liability issue." The right side of the crankcase sits at an angle...which it ain't supposed to do. The crankcase connects the crankarms, each of which have a pedal at one end. He may have to rethread it, which may be a problem because the metal on this bike is "medium-grade." Well, I don't know from liability, and I don't know from grades of metal. I do know that this bike is a good ride when the parts work (and when the shop is open. The two are related.) He tells me he will do his best. He may have to keep it for a couple weeks. Not a problem. I know that bike shops are swamped. I like to think that I'm understanding, if not a purist metal grade convert. We shall see how long my patience holds out. I also ask for new brake pads. He notices my seat is broken, which I've never even heard of. But it explains why my butt keeps slipping off the back. My visit here last week was to have them look at my good bike, which I ride to work. The owner of where I work has been full on fixing this bike himself. He identified a brake fluid leak and suggested I have a bike shop look at it, and he originally suggested I get a rebuild kit for the brake. He even came back to ask me if I had ordered it yet. He's rarin' to get to work on it. He's an amazing guy. The shop actually suggested a new brake. When I told my owner, he's undeterred.
Friday. I'm on the trail to work, on one of two days of the week when we open earlier than the others. My guess is, it's just about straight up 7 AM when I'm rounding a long corner. On the east side is a big recycling plant. On the west side is the Platte River, open for the second week now to swimmers, kayakers, and fishermen. But I've never seen anything like the group I'm about to roll up on. About twenty young men are lined up along the edge of the trail with the plant behind them. Each is in a red Polo shirt and black shorts. Not a one is six feet apart from the other, and none have a mask. On the west edge is an older guy in the same gear. he does have a mask. To his right is a guy in a black T-shirt and shorts. As I cruise between the twenty and the pair, each of the twenty says to me, "Good morning sir." I assume they are greeting every runner, cyclist, and pedestrian. Sunday is the end of the month. I look out at my outdoor thermometer It's at 60 degrees F. It only seems like minutes until I take another look, and it's jumped 10 degrees. Yesterday was the first day I left behind my long pants and windbreaker, gloves and balaclava, the last of any cold weather gear. I stopped into a deathburger on the way to a dentist appointment before work. Their lobby is open for takeout. Last Sunday, I went into a favorite restaurant on the way to the supermarket. They reopened for take out. Early this afternoon, I go back there for another take out order. They plan on reopening for dining in a week from today. I take my lunch to the park in the neighborhood next to my own. I return home and decide to see if the lady who cuts my hair has her shop open. She does! I didn't know how long it would be (down to my shoulders?) before I could get into her shop. As she uses her clippers, I ask her how her business is doing. She matter-of-factly tells me, "Oh, I'm in debt." I ask if she got one of the federal loans for restarting businesses. "Nope," she tells me, "those are only for the big guys." When she's finished with my hair, she stoically sweeps up with one hand before she floats over to her register. At the risk of sounding like Peter Fonda, commenting on the commune in Easy Rider, I think she'll make it. When early evening rolls around I head over to the Vietnamese place, open for takeout. They plan on opening for dining inside two weeks from tomorrow. Today, one of the managers or the Vietnamese owner takes my order. I notice he has an automatic handgun tucked into his pants. I ask him if someone walked up and tried to hold him up. He says he hasn't, he's being careful. He also lets me know he has a permit. It's almost as if the city wants to greet the equinox with an offering of goods and services. Let this be a season of consumption.
