The bus comes, and I sit down next to a guy speaking with a halting tempo. He is sitting with a big, shaggy dog. He is showing another passenger a picture on his phone. She asks what the picture is, and he tells her that it's a picture of snakes. "Snakes?" she asks. He says he is training the snakes as "therapy animals." I'm not making this up. The other passenger tells him that she trains service dogs. He tells her, someone who surely knows plenty about training service dogs, that training service dogs, "is...re-al...ea-sy. You...just...hold a trea-t." I'm waiting for a director somewhere to yell, "cut!" At a stop, a panting young woman jumps on the bus. She has orange hair, thick, round, black-framed sunglasses which appear as if they are over another smaller pair, a leopard-print jacket, neon orange gloves, and silver pants. I liked her better when she was called 1985. The driver asks to see her fare. I'm half-expecting her to give the driver fifty cents, which is what the fare was when I lived here in the summer of 1985. The driver mentions that she didn't have fare the last time. "I get it (the current month's bus pass) on the third," she explains, "I don't have it yet. I'm working on it, ma'am." She didn't have a pass for March last time? She rides the bus once a month? The driver asks to see last month's pass. She does not appear to hear the driver. Several passengers alert her. "Oh, I didn't show it to you because I didn't think it would work," she tells the driver. She is soon playing a little air guitar. I am now convinced that she has been thawed from a thirty year freeze. When we get to the train station, the guy walks the shaggy white dog down the aisle and out of the back door. Watch out for trained snakes, or sharks with laser beams attached to their heads...
When I step off the bus, my head is disoriented, and I am not even at work yet. I sit down at a gate for a connecting bus. At another bench is a young woman in a hijab. This transfer station has four gates, each posted with a letter; A, B, C, and D. When my bus pulls up, she calls to me, "C or D?" C. O. D.? "C or D?" There are a couple of trains, lines C and D, which run on a track on the other side of town. "C or D?" I get it. She wants to know if this bus is pulling into gate C, or gate D. Depending on which gate has a bus will determine the direction that bus will go. I have a feeling that this is going to be a long day. Thursday, I am at my new/old deathburger late morning. From where I sit, I watch through the window as a couple of middle-aged guys come down the sidewalk. One is wrapped in a baby blue blanket. At the same time, a regular elder lady with mental management issues decides to come my way and speak to me for the first time ever. As blanket dude and no blanket dude come around the mountain, this elder lady tells me that she is headed to the drug store across the street, and that her place is rent-controlled. The pair come inside, and the blanket dude wanders to one corner. His fellow traveller says to him, "Take that blanket off. Take that blanket off." When he takes it off, he reveals clean skin and a buttoned down shirt. The other one has dirty hair and skin. Out in the parking lot, the hood is raised on a Firebird. The driver is revving the engine and grey clouds of exhaust are blowing out of twin pipes. The rear end has an Arizona plate which is on crooked.
Friday is supposed to be my day off. I'm downtown at a coffee shop. I followed a guy inside who has some belongings on the ground in a plastic pail. He has a face like a Polish grandmother and no front teeth. He grabs a New York Times, with a headline about a deal between Iran and the United States concerning Iran's nuclear research. There is a photo with men in dark suits seated around a table. He holds it up and waves an index finger over the entire top half of page one. "See how they made it...sound so complicated...like we will benefit from new Chinese technology?" says he. Well, no, I probably won't see it. Not on this planet. I refrain from confiding this to him. He puts the paper back and tells me that he gets "caught up in...these deep...issues." I wish I had a pass to Meet the Press which I could give him. When his order comes up, he grabs raw sugar three packs at a time and tears them open at once. He dumps nine packs into his beverage. And then he tops it off with a dash of cream. Of course. 'Nothing like a damned good cup of coffee.' Shortly after I get home, I get called into work. I get up the street to my new/old bus stop. I see who I think is a fifteen-year-old crossing the street. He's busting some moves in a bright red hoodie and cap. When he gets closer, I can see that he has grey stubble. The bus is late, and when I get on, I hear the driver talking to HQ. He tells them that he's getting "slammed with wheelchairs" to pick up on his route. After a day at work, in which my customers included a young guy in a 1980's cardigan was telling someone at the other end of a blue tooth about travelling to Malaysia, taking Spanish lessons, and a co-worker complaining about employees not showing up to work on Good Friday, and another wearing sunglasses like Tom Cruise in Risky Business, except that they are, unbeknownst to him, crooked, I am on a bus home with a daytime driver who is unaware of a small detour on the late route. When he misses an extra loop to a senior citizen apartment complex, several passengers shout to him that he needs to go back to "Mosier Place!" On board is one of those very seniors, who, after a split-second pause, also shouts, "Mosier Place!" Fortunately, this lucky driver has a passenger here to show him "where all the drivers who fuck up can turn around." It's a miracle. And to think that this was supposed to be my day off.
Saturday. I am supposed to go in to work, but I may not work more than three hours (three hours and five minutes to be exact) as to avoid any overtime. I end up working an hour and a half before I find myself in an elevator at the train station. With me is a skinny little guy in cowboy boots and a cap with Ford on it. In both hands he has a box with an assortment of doughnuts. He volunteers to me that they are for his "credit union. I do nice things for them." ...and they are open on Saturday? Up on the platform, I see a couple of guys each with golf clubs.
"He's in jail. He jumped bail so they put him in jail. I went to see him. I put $30 on his books, you know. I felt like we were growing apart. He tells me that we'll get our own place when we get out. I get a call from this birch sayin', 'You better leave my man alone. We're married now. He's been callin' me from jail.'" One side of a conversation, on a bus home at twenty to nine PM on a Monday night. Right before we head out of the train station, a middle-aged guy with mental management struggles gets on. As he takes a seat, he says, "Uhhhh. Uhhhh." During his short ride, emotions play across his face.
New soccer shoes, new tires for the car and extra groceries for those out-of-town guests...we all know how little things can quickly blow the family budget.
Will there be flashing lights or loud sounds to startle him? Will the crowds upset her? Will we have to leave early because he's shouting? - Colorado Parent, 4/2015
The traffic in the morning is so chill. ...plenty of parking for friends to come over for dinner parties... ...some pretty crappy graffiti artists hitting the fences... ...and the dog parks are full of peeps who've got the latest on what's going on around the 'hood. There's a really active Facebook group...that organizes sit-downs with city council candidates, potlucks, kite-flying contests, and meetups at the neighborhood Beer Garden. - Out Front , 4/1/2015
A more recent push for increasing language immersion programs started in 2006 when the federal government realized that there are not enough Americans who can speak languages like Arabic, Chinese, Dari, Hindi, Korean, Persian, Portuguese, Russian, Swahili, Turkish, and Urdu... More...schools in Colorado...help students get a foundation in international business. - Asian Avenue Magazine, 4/2014
Late this spring I'll join forces with a young couple...on their half-acre permaculture farm...to live in community and lessen my impacts on Mother Earth, to be outside where I am most happy, and to do more work helping those who need help most deeply. It's a substantial transition, ad I am breathing deeply to be grounded for the next steps.
..right now you need to be making about $70,000 a year with some kind of debt to be able to live comfortably in Denver, and $90,000 a year to live debt free. The average median income in Denver is around $50,000. We need people who have equity in their place of work and that is why I will be a strong supporter of worker-owned co-ops. I have lived in the boom and bust that Denver once was. I led the effort to rezone and refinance LoDo. [The Lower Downtown Caucasian district - ed.] I made it legal for neighbors to sell extra carrots and zucchini to their neighbors... I own...local, community-oriented businesses in Denver... I have built all this from a period of homelessness eight years ago... - Washington Park Profile, 4/2014
...as steel supports etch the sky, giving structure to the mid-rises... ...a relic - is poised to feel even more like a time capsule, with its dark green tables and neon beer signs, its dim, subterranean feel, and a menu that's resisted...dining trends of local, seasonal and organic. ...it has morphed from smoky bar to burger institution...to grow into the warren-like beer-drinkers', game-watchers', everyone-is-welcome-here watering hole that it is today. Would price increases and Wagyu beef be next? Sitting...with...men straight out of wealth-management commercials downing beers next to guys with mussed hair and knit caps, I saw no inkling of the Joneses. Nowhere on the menu did I see shout-outs to local purveyors or mentions of house-ground or dry-aged beef. The combo plate, part of a small section labeled "Hotter!," was just as much a throwback as the burgers. - Westword, 4/30 - 5/5/2015
Tuesday. I am going to work by way of downtown. At a train station a middle-ages woman passes by. I hear her on her phone as she says, "...who cares? You and your fucking gay boyfriend..." Wednesday. My later schedule at work gives me the option of many more bus routes. I hop on a bus shortly before 10 AM, and I sit next to a guy in work boots and a Polo shirt. He appears to be absorbed with his phone. In back, I hear music so quiet that I wouldn't have noticed it. The driver says to whomever is playing it, "Whose music is that? Is that your music? Turn it down. I don't want to hear that." We've got a driver with the hearing of a Vulcan. Someone in back asks, "Do what?" The driver repeats what he said. The guy sitting next to me mumbles, "Thank you, driver." Someone else asks some kind of directions from the guy with the music. He replies, "I don't know. I already told you several fuckin' times." As we pull into the train station, the music guy asks the other one, "Know where we are?" There other one says, "No." "We're here, bra. We're here, bra." The day whizzes past, as it appears to do on my new schedule. It's just about ten hours later. I'm out of work and at the bus stop. It's turning into a wet April. On the way home, there is a gentle rain falling. Here in the dark, it's not exactly a conspicuous stop. Last evening and this one, I play this game with the driver. I have to wave him down to get him to stop and when I get on neither of us mention it. Thank you, driver.
...Watchathon
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You can search by title, genre, or actor... ...provides personalized recommendations based on what you're watching, so you can add to your list of must-sees. The latest episodes of the top 100 shows are preloaded and ready to watch when you are. ..UFC world championships and extreme WWE events.
Forgot to arm your system? Turn lights on while you're heading home, so you feel safer. ...you can set your home's temperature while you're on the go. Our certified central security station is staffed around the clock. carbon monoxide...and flood detectors constantly monitor for emergencies. get real-time text and email alerts when a door or window is opened. EcoSaver learns your heating and cooling preferences... - xfinity, the future of awesome, Spring 2015
Thursday. I'm back at my old bus stop, a little after 10 AM. There is a guy at the trash can who I have seen around. This morning, it's in the 40s F. He's in shorts and sandals. On top of the can, he has a coloring book, a zippered bag of colored pencils, and a soda can. Skip ahead to some ten and a half hours later. I am at the train station. Illuminated by a street lamp are a couple of down and out guys sitting on the ground. They are surrounded by backpacks and shopping bags. Both guys appear to be full of nervous energy. One wears a knit cap with big animal eyes and a couple of little cloth ears. A woman comes up. She speaks slowly, as if she is drunk. She asks them how long they have been here. One answers, "I've been here about forty minutes. There's been plenty of buses come by. I just don't have the damned dollar to get on it." A dollar? Fare is $2.25, and soon to be $2.50. And that's just one way, Mr. Dora the Explorer. One dollar may get you on, but you will have to hustle and jive for a transfer. He;s spinning his wheels with no place to go. And, when he gets to the end of the line, what then? And the woman is on her phone, repeating the same thing over and over. "I told you I was gonna jump on the lightrail."
The lady and myself get on the bus when it comes, and I get off at a stop at an intersection of my street. At the bus stop, a police car has parked behind an abandoned car with its emergency flashers on. They are parked right in front of the bus stop. I get out and walk past them, the police car's lights flashing in my eyes. Redblueredblueredblue.
...I witnessed a young girl thrown from her bike and have it stolen from her... - Nextdoor Westwood, 4/2/2015
...at the police station. I went in to report that someone went up to my kids and asked if they wanted I-pads... I have the license plate number and was turned away and treated rude. - Westwood Residents Association, 4/9/2015
We noticed a goose with hr eggs [behind an abandoned building in the neighborhood]. People have been throwing rocks at them. - Nextdoor Westwood, 4/11/3015
...The Meadows... The permanency of residents...in this mobile home community...is reflected... ...children in the neighborhood play outside on the main greenbelt... ...neighbors are around if anything happens. ...a five-foot chain-link fence is the only thing that separates...the sprawling light rail site that's going to come. ...vandalism...in the neighborhood has increased since light rail construction began. At the house next door, the word "Blood" is scrawled... He points to a white shed at the edge of his property overlooking construction. The word "Blood" has been written in cursive all over the side walls, despite his repeated attempts to paint over the graffiti. He said he doesn't put anything in the shed anymore because he's afraid it will get stolen. While residents say the construction has been a magnet for problems, city or police officials haven't told them that's the case. ...residents...were...worried about increased congestion along...the "Main Street" that serves the heart of the neighborhood with the greenbelts and playground... ...improvements will mean nothing unless there is...some measure of privacy installed. "It's going to be safer for the people using RTD (Regional Transportation District), but not for me." RTD spokeswoman...said RTD conducted an environmental evaluation...and found...The Meadows neighborhood did not meet the noise criteria to require RTD to build a wall. ...a manager with...the company that owns the land The Meadows sits on, said they also have no plans to build a wall. - Aurora Sentinel, 4/9 - 4/15/2015
"This is one of the most vicious gang wars the city has seen since 1993. We have a new generation of Bloods who were recruited because the Holly was burned out. We have kids whose parents were OG Bloods and Crips. It's not about...kids with their butts hanging out of their pants on the street corner. When you become a...Blood or...Crip, you are part of a tribe. Gang leaders are community organizers. They have barbeques...they're outside, they're visible, the organize movies and events. I wanted to be the guy who had the same tattoos, who wore the same hats, who had the same gang stories... There was no money for youth activities there. From Quebec to Colorado Boulevard, from Colfax to I-70, there was nothing for those kids to do." Preventing youth violence...takes careful screening of kids for proven risk factors, like problem behaviors and hanging with delinquent peers, and a network of comprehensive, evidence-based support and therapy programs. "These things take time. Community change is a long-term, sustainable process. It is going to take decades. Can we invest in preventative infrastructure, and keep investing in it to build our social systems in a positive way?" "...you have to put as many programs into the community as you can. ...it's really a collective approach." ...one currently missing element...people out in the community, on the streets, making sure that resources are being connected with the kids who need them the most. ...the street barricades that the city erected last June... The police hailed the move as a success, since there were no shootings in the area all summer. "It made our community look like Beirut. A local kid came up to me and said, "Are they trying to keep other people out, or are they trying to keep us in?" - Westword, 4/16-22/2015
Saturday. Ten to 5 AM. Saturdays I am scheduled closer to my previous early schedule. On this illustrious Spring morning, there is a guy standing motionless in a prime panhandling spot. It's at one end of the gas station across the street. He has grey in his beard and his hands in his jacket pockets. And he's just standing there. Motionless. Is he asleep or could he be dead? I take a bus up the street with a guy who has both a walker and a big suitcase on wheels. He's in a long, black coat. When we get off, he puts the big suitcase in the bus shelter before he takes the walker around to the side. To urinate. I take another bus to my new deathburger. Three or four young guys with beards come from up the sidewalk. A couple of them come inside. One drops his change on the floor. A third stays outside. He has on a leather jacket with a skull on the back. The skull has a beard. I head outside, where a small SUV parked in the lot. In the back seat is a young guy, asleep. ...with a beard. I get on a train, where there is a second derelict with a big suitcase on wheels. He has with him a transistor radio. As the dawn breaks, this guy with his Wilson Ultimate luggage, his Nike gloves, windbreaker, backpack, and long, grey beard, is listening to, "I can dream about youuuu..."
Eleven hours later, I am walking back the way I came, headed to the end of the bus line from where I worked today. I'm surprised that I did not grow a beard. I'm on a sidewalk overlooking a hidden street in a suburban neighbordood. It's lined with brick homes and green lawns. Three twentysomethings, two guys and a girl, are walking a couple of dogs. One guy is fashionable dressed in a matching blue T-shirt and blue knit cap. But it doesn't matter what they are wearing. I don't know them, but I should. The entire scene transports me back to whatever you call this kind of life from where I came. I didn't grow up among the crumbling asphault and broken concrete, and the drag racing pickup trucks where I live now. I come from the cared for Lanes and Places and Circles with heavy tax bases. Today is not the first time I've been past here. I've driven this parkway many times in the company van. This beautiful spring day is one of the few times I've walked it, the first time I've seen it as a portal to my own memories. The honeysuckle is blooming. Though this place is my memories on steroids. Even the wealthiest kids I knew never had a three-car garage or a multi-million-dollar home. They just keep building them bigger. And this street has an absolutely spectacular view of the front range. From every back deck in this neighborhood can be seen shafts of sunlight between the ridgelines, topped off by peaks breaking the shadow of an overcast sky, looking nothing less than like a painting. But the idea is the same; homes, gardens, kids, neighbors, SUVs, school sports, birthdays. An old story.
Monday beginneth another week. And what an introduction. I am now, for the first time in ten years, staying an hour and a half after we close at work. I got home after 10:30 PM. I'm nothing if not dedicated. But, alas, I'm getting ahead of myself. I take a bus up the street to my old deathburger. I take the short ride with a Vietnamese lady, to whom the driver tell to "pull the cord to (request your) stop, okay?" Inside the deathburger, seated at a booth, are a middle-aged Mexican male and, across from him, a younger female. She speaks Spanish very well. Listening to her speak it without the slightest trace of an accent makes me, at this point in my life, want to start laughing every time that I hear her open her mouth. She has a Macbook open on the table, next to her phone. She sits cross-legged on the seat, with her shoes under the table. Next to her seat it what looks like a big case for legal files. All the technology is hers. On the screen is some kind of document she fills out for him. He sits patiently with a smile. Some twelve hours later, I step off a train. My bus is scheduled to be here in forty or fifty minutes. Welcome to the new normal. Disembarking with me is a little guy in a white Polo shirt and white pants. He looks like Matt Dillon in Pink Flamingo. He has his arms crossed and he leans to the side as he walks or stands. His head is cocked toward the stars, as if he is contemplating his role in this world. As a cold wind blows, i spend almost an hour reading on a bench. When the bus shows up, there are a handful of us closing down the bar. After everyone is seated, the little guy shows up with an expired transfer. He tells the driver, "No, it's not expired, it's ripped." He speaks in slow English so broken that I can't understand most of what he says. As he heads toward the back, he gives the driver a long, slow string of unpunctuated sentences, capped off by his mentioning his penis. At this point, he is standing right next to me. The driver says something to him in equally unintelligible English. The little guy sits down and is quiet. The driver calls dispatch. A few minutes, there are a couple of police officers on the bus. They are young and thin, and look good in their uniforms. One stands at the front and asks the little guy if he will come along of his own volition. A second officer moves to the middle...right next to me. Why is everyone standing right next to me? This officer tells him to grab his stuff. The little guy goes with them, saying something about the driver making up stories.
Tuesday. I grab a bus just down to the next stop. I get out with a guy who puts a cloth bag into a stolen red shopping cart, before wheeling it down the sidewalk. I get on a connecting bus, and sit across from a guy with an unlit cigarette in his mouth. Behind me, i can hear a mom speaking to her toddler. "'For reals'? Who taught you to say, 'for reals'? Grandma taught you to say 'for reals'?" When I arrive in the neighborhood where I will working, I stop into a pancake house for lunch. The patrons reflect the Caucasian family atmosphere. At a table are a teenaged couple on some kind of lunch date. They have that aura, an excitement about the anticipation of adulthood. The girl is wearing a blouse I haven't seen in two or three decades. After lunch, I kill some time on a bench in front of a bakery. Four seniors ride up on mountain bikes, all with helmets on. They sit down at an outside table together. One guy with his helmet still on gets on his phone. It's a fine suburban late-morning round these parts.
Wednesday. Lunch at the usual deathburger with the local dregs. Half of the men and women have tattoos on their arms, hands, and necks. It's like a PTA meeting of gang members. One thin little guy is in a shirt which rads "STAFF." Another guy with a cane comes slowly inside. I recognize him from just about a year ago. Or has it been longer? Already, the police have pulled a car over, next to the parking lot. A detective in an unmarked car swings through the lot and parks across the street. The heat is on, dregs. Better keep it real. It appears as if the driver who was pulled over, a young guy, is trying to hold on to multiple copies of a ticket. He keeps dropping it on the ground. In jig time, both he and the police car are gone. The detective remains. Back inside, a guy has shown up who has his right arm sleeved in colored ink, along with the right side of his neck. None of his tattoos appear to be skulls, angels in bikinis, or simple cursive writing, so I assume that he not from around here. Out at the bus stop, a guy in a hat with a brim has shown up. He is standing at the curb and looking down the avenue, as if he's waiting for a deal to go down. On the concrete wall, he has a Sprite and an apple. A luxury car with some dents slowly pulls to a stop in front of us. The passenger side window is down. The young woman driving says to the hat guy, "Oh, I'm sorry, I thought you were my uncle." Does your uncle have a hat and a Sprite and an apple? The guy attempts to hustle a ride just down the street, and his would be niece takes him up on his offer. "Keep your eyyye...on the spar-ow." This neighborhood is like a 1970s TV show which I can't turn off. The bus comes to take me from one channel to the next. At the train station, I watch a train pull up and a couple get out. The lady has on pants, the left leg of which has been turned into shorts. She is painfully walking to a bench. When she sits down, I hear her say, "Owwww." She has a cigarette between her fingers, teeth missing, and a T-shirt for a band called Affliction. Some nine hours later, I am at the bus stop outside of work. It's a dark location where passengers surely appear...not at all. The is no longer a bench here. This evening, I give the driver a chance to see me before I wave him down. When I get on, he tells me, "good job." He's probably just happy that I didn't jump out in front of his bus. I have, as yet, not had to do so
Thursday. I am up the street, on my way to my old deathburger, headed past my old bus stop. On the day after Tax Day, the Spring snow is flying. I recognize the guy in the shelter, but this is the first time I have seen him in a wheelchair rather than with a cane. He asks if I want a sip from a bottle in his lap. I decline, and he tells me that he thought that he would ask anyway. Myself, I never drink before eleven AM. I've heard some say on these streets that they are not drunks, nether they are drinkers. Or so they say. This guy is beyond both. Perhaps a wheelchair is the safest place for him. I get to the deathburger, and I am back at the bus stop in a short fifteen minutes. The wheelchair guy is nowhere to be seen. And it's not even eleven. The bus whisks me to a train, which whips me to a station, where I have a twenty minute layover. A grey-haired guy with a hat with a brim is pacing in and out of the shelter. This neighborhood has its own brand of weirdos.
Friday. I am temporarily back to waiting for a train at a quarter to five AM. The past 24 hours have seen a mix of rain and snow. A young guy comes along just as the train shows up. He wants to know if I "smoke cigarettes?" His defence against the weather includes pants which are either Capri pants or are torn. I don't know, I rush past him in the dark and the rain. I spend a twenty minute layover at one station, and another twenty minute layover at another, before I get on my last bus to work. I haven't had breakfast yet and i am sitting behind the third guy this week wearing a hat with a brim. A grey-haired lady stands up and goes up to talk to the driver, as some passengers do, and as the occasional sign requests that passengers not do. She appears to be some kind of maven of the bus route. As a couple of passengers get out at a bus stop, she says, "See you later, Ashley, see you later Wayne."
Sunday evening, I went to see a local revival of Godspell. The set was covered in graffiti and trash. Four bums came wandering in. One pulled a bottle out of a stolen shopping cart to see if it had anything left. Then they sat down behind the instruments. The four guys turned out to be the band. Now it's Monday. 8:30 AM. My neighborhood. Have you purchased your pickup truck with raised suspension? How about your baseball cap? Have you seen Furious 7, with parachuting hot rods? Hey, bro, where you from? I get called into work early. I head up the street to my old deathburger, where I believe that i see one of the characters from the play last night. On the opposite corner is a couple. Thje woman is standing and shooting the breeze with the guy, who is sitting down and flying a sign. They appear to be having a good time. At my old bus stop, I wait with others, including a guy in basketball shorts, a cap, and a scowl on his face. My sister mentioned taking this route once. It was her first and last time. Myself, I wonder who it is he's going to visit with his scowl. Have a good day sir. A BMX bike pops a wheelie to get over the curb. I'm next to a young couple on the bench, down wind from each of their cigarettes. They are listening to a song about "bitches and champagne." When the bus comes, we all get on. The young couple sits in back. The driver asks them over the PA to turn their music down. The don't. A woman in a wheel chair gets on. A guy moves his seat for her. He looks like a hit man. Another woman gets on, and he moves over so that she also may have a seat, before striking up a conversation with her. He mentions his sciatic nerve, that he lives in Section 8 housing. She knows the woman in the wheelchair, asking her, "You know we lost another neighbor, don't you?" Suddenly, behind me, a guy says to a lady, "Marilyn Monroe's murderer confessed. That's crazy, huh?" He must either be on some news website or have a newspaper. Today is April 20. He tells her, "Up in Boulder, there's thousands (of pot smokers, either at a rally or in the streets.)" She tells him that she can't smoke pot. She has four and a half more years of probation and, after a six-month fight, just had her children returned to her from the state.
After work, it's been a long, nine and a half hour day. I run into a gas station next to where I am working tonight. There is a clerk there I know. She is from India, and tells me that one of her daughters is making movies in India. The other studies to be a doctor. I tell her that I will be looking for her daughter in the next Fast and Furious.
We must organize a system for relations with families. This friendly country is really beautiful and rich. Why are its people so poor? This area was liberated only recently. The people are kind but show no understanding of politics. . . . I feel here as though I were in a 'free area.' Enemy planes follow us. What are they looking for? ...I left my native place and all its ties with my family and friends to go north as a victorious fighter. Since that day, my spirit has matured... We built up a beautiful and prosperous and strong North. The construction sites and factories sprung up quickly everywhere under a bright sky... ...often I enjoyed songs and dances which deal with the healthy life of all the people in the North... 5. Do not take the liberty of listening to enemy broadcasts or of reading their newspapers or documents. 6. Do not have any relations with...evil segments of the population... - Raskin and Fall
"They...ridicule what the best people on the face of this Earth loved and carried out with passion flaming in their hearts. I swear by the one who holds my soul in his hands, I will not give this up even if the entire world turns against me." ...all non-Muslims were "kuffars,"...any Muslims who "watered down their religion" were "coconuts": brown on the inside, but white at the heart. ..."on the 'haqq'," or living the truth. ...to make hijra, or migration...inextricably tied to the idea of persecution...mandatory for...oppression by the country or system under which they live. It was a sacred and liberating duty. ...the chilled-out side of the caliphate...called "five-star jihad," full of stolen war booty...cuddly kittens...swimming pools. ...dozens of pictures of newly dead young men, all wearing beatific smiles. ...the smell of musk emanated from their bodies...their wounds continued to bleed for...weeks... ...Martyrs' bodies...didn't decompose... ...helping a number of Western girls get...advice...both detailed and practical...written during the first six months after...a 20-year-old Scottish woman...first arrived in Syria, in November 2013. By September, 2014, her missives had veered away from the practical to something more resembling fantasy. ...went on to list the war booty: refrigerators, ovens, microwaves, milk-shake machines, "...a house with free electricity and water provided to you due to the Khilafah, and no rent included. Sounds great, right?" - Rolling Stone, 4/9/2015
...how will these creative independent-thinking young adults find their way into a culture that suppresses individuality? How will those with a sense of truth be content where there is government censorship... When filled with a feeling of responsibility, we are driven to make a difference in the world. ...freedom of religion, freedom to speak out against the government, and so on. We can't fall asleep to the social work that still needs to be done. Worldwide, we are collectively living different degrees of freedom; there is no telling to the potential expansion of our imagination, sense of truth, and feeling of responsibility. May your spring be filled with all things new. ...the sweet Sankoh pasture...was a paradise with winding water and flowing river, slopes full of cattle, sheep, and galloping horses. I was amazed by the winding and bubbling springs coming from afar, like arteries and blood vessels...flowing out from the hearts. ...two rainbows appeared in the sky. ...a large group of white clouds appeared in the sky above, like a statue of Buddha who would bless the children and all of the people... - Lilipoh, Spring 2015
"Above all..."Godspell" is about the formation of a community. ...individuals, led and guided by Jesus...gradually come to form a communal unit. This happens through the playing of games and...absorption of lessons, and each...has his or her own moment of committing to Jesus and to the community." - Godspell The Revival 2012
It's a beautiful Spring day. I am at a train station where I see a guy grab a hamburger bun out of the trash. A young woman waits for the bus. A cool breeze wafts her long, dark hair. Almost twelve hours later, I am on a bus headed back to my neighborhood. I watched a couple get on. They were perfectly fine. Now, the woman sounds as if she is sobbing, saying something about the authorities looking to apprehend someone for murder, and about someone waiting to call the police. The next day, I am up the street and headed for the deathburger. On the corner is a guy who has been flying a sign here for days or weeks. He strikes me as someone who worked all their life in a train yard or some place. At the deathburger is a guy sitting outside, next to one corner of the building. He is talking to himself with a cigarette and coffee. I sit inside, at the window right next to him. He stands up and right away, somthing is wrong, such as his shoe being untied. He sits back down. When he notices me, he stands again and begins yelling his head off. It's not as loud as it cou;d be because his voice sounds as if it was destroyed by 100,000 cigarettes. I think he may have said that he's going to blow my head off. He makes his way inside, sits down, and begins talking in a loud, gravel voice, barely understandable. It almost sounds as if he is reciting song lyrics. I hear him say, "Rotten to the core," and something about, "getting off Castro's property." On my way out, I hear him say something about radon. I get to my old bus stop, when I hear his grating voice coming up the sidewalk. He turns to a kid standing there to tell him in a loud chainsw voice, "I'm gonna blow your fuckin' head off." He sounds like Jeff Skilling. The kid just ignores this guy. Best of luck to this pale-face in my neighborhood. He's gonna need it.
I watch as a pickup truck turns the corner. Like many before it, It has a ladder tied at one end to a rack over the bed and cab. We watch as, without the front tied, it slowly tilts back like a see-saw. When the back end of the ladder hits the pavement, the truck comes to a quick stop...in the lane where my bus approaches. The following morning, I am back at the same deathburger. I watch as a woman comes down the sidewalk. In both arms, she carries what appears to be white angel wings. She gets into a car with a confederate and she's off. Outside is a tall guy with short, grey hair. He has on red shoes, blue camouflaged pants, and a green turtleneck. Kneeling, he takes a photo of the roof of the deathburger. He comes inside to talk to someone behind the counter before disappearing altogether. Sitting behind me are a couple of guys speaking Chinese. I don't notice them vanish before another guy takes there place. He appears to be a commercial painter. He is on his phone telling someone that he's at the deathburger. "I've been here forever. Where are you? Well, I have to leave early because I don't have money for the bus. Don't...have...money...for...the...bus. You're out in the parking lot? I don't see you. Oh, wait, I see you." After work, I'm at a bus stop at the train station with a woman who shows me how she just had her tooth pulled, and a guy with one of his arms inside of his Polo shirt. For the past couple of weeks, trains have been hauling baseball fans out of downtown after home games. A couple of fans want to know how far to the end of the bus line? How much is the fare? May they have transfers? They decline to get on. Down the road, we stop at a bench. One guy jumps up and gets on, flashing a transfer. I see the other downing what's left in a bottle. The driver tells him that he can't get on with an open container. He has no fare. She asks him where he's going. He says that he just got out of the hospital, that he's lost both of his parents. She asks again where he is going. He replies, "Maybe a hospital?" She tells me that the hospital is the other way and that she requires of him that he knows where he is going. He sits down anyway. She says, "Oh my God." A guy with a grey goatee and green earbuds gets on. He sits across from the hospital guy. He says to him, "You alright, brother?" He holds his first up to hospital guy, as if to stay, 'Stay strong, you can't keep a good man drunk. I mean down.' Hospital guy mumbles something in Spanish. We approach my boulevard, and the driver asks him if he wants off here. H e replies, "I'm okay." The following evening, I will be on the same bus and ask the driver where he finally got off. She tells me that he asked her to call an ambulance to take him to a hospital.
The next morning, I am back at my usual bus stop. A collection of people are waiting for the bus, including a nonchalant-looking kid. When the bus comes, we all line up. We have to wait for a woman to get off. As she does, her Visa lands on the cement with a splat. The kid picks it up and gets on without so much as a word. I mention this to the lady, who gets back on the bus to ask who has her credit card. The driver chooses this moment to say to the kid, "Hey, you, with the credit card." The kid hands it to her, saying, "Oh, is this yours?" There is not another word spoken about it all the way to the train station. The next morning, I've made it to Saturday. Even if I am once again at my new deathburger at 5 AM. Only on Saturdays I have to be up this early anymore. I guy who's grey hair is sticking up comes in to get a free cup of water before he sits down and closes his eyes. Only the fingers on one hand moves. His nose is running and he wakes up to grab a napkin. He heads out to the gas station next door, where I never see him go inside. he comes back this way, all the time carrying a cloth bag, but does not reenter the deathburger.
...the head of communication and PR at Dior... I asked him about the future of Dior with Galliano out. I told Oliver that it was going to be Raf. I wanted to document his arrival. Raf's approach was very different, much more modern. His process was also like that of a painter. This film was a negative mirror of Valentino. ...he's reluctant to have any public presence... The slow-motion runway was inspired. The models seemed to just float! When I got the footage and played it the first time, I started crying I was so moved by the lightness. ...the level of emotion that Raf brought toward the end of the film, i was praying for that... - Out Front, 4/15/2015
Blurple...offers...an enjoyable cerebral effect...and tastes sweet, like homemade pie. Golden Goat is a cross between Island Sweet Skunk an Romulan that originated in Topeka, Kansas circa 1999-2000. - LivWell Reacreational (marijuana) Price Guide, 4/2015
Come explore [in the neighborhood next to mine, the] only grocery store this Sat. for a "customer appreciation" party. The flyer I saw when I stopped in for their addidctive homemade tortillia chips said there will be food prizes AND CLOWNS! - Nextdoor Westwood, 4/30
Sunday, I am at the gas station across the street from where I live. Inside is a clerk who has already had a long day. That's easy to have in this neighborhood. I am behind a woman, who is behind a guy purchasing $50 in gas, "On pump number...what number is that? See that white truck?" he tells the clerk, who gives him change in fives. "All you got is fives?" he asks the clerk, who replies, "If you want the fives, take 'em. If you don't want the fives, don't take 'em." The truck guy says to the woman, "He's gettin' jazzy with me." Tat's the second time I've heard that word "jazzy." The truck guy looks like a tired old guy with sad eyes. As he tells the woman his life story, the clerk counts back her change out loud as the two have some kind of verbal duel. Jazzy indeed.
Monday. I am temporarily back on my old schedule, at a bus stop shortly before 5 AM. Ahead of me is a twelve-plus-hour day. I watch in the dark as someone comes dancing down the sidewalk, in the dark, along the highway. A police car had just pulled a car off the highway and through a speaker asked the driver, three times, to "pull around the corner." I get on a bus and sit across from a chef whose pants are falling down. He's wearing headphones and humming. We both get out across from the train station and head that way. At the station, he walks in front of a woman at the kiosk and purchases a ticket. He then heads to an end of the platform where he is busting a move and playing air drums. At the opposite end of the platform are a couple of other guys. One came by to purchase a cigarette from the other. The other lets him have it for free. He takes it and goes back the way he came. The train takes me a few stops south, where I get out with a couple. The woman is hyper, swinging her arms and jousting the guy with an umbrella. As a transit system security officer strolls by, she suddenly calms down. At a quarter to six AM, I get on a bus where three women are discussing working for Subway. They mention one guy in the state who owns sixty stores. Some fifteen hours later, I am at a bus gate with a guy who is holding onto a light pole to keep himself from falling down. He's wearing a poncho or a cloak. On the empty ground is a cough syrup bottle with nothing left in it. He picks his moment to stagger across the street and disappears in the dark.
Tuesday. It's been a long, wet month. And it isn't quite over yet. I'm at my old bus stop, shortly after noon. A couple of guys are there, at least one of whom is drunk. As he speaks in both Spanish and English, he gestures with his arm. and slaps the concrete wall. He gets on the bus with the rest of us, and is pretty quiet until we pass his stop. He mentions to the driver, stumbling over his speech, that she passed his stop. She tells him that he pulled the cord to signal his stop only when they were passing it, and that she can't stop that fast. She lets him off on the corner. Another drunk gets on. He's wearing bell bottoms and a coat from the 1970s. When the driver tells him, "I can't give you a free ride," he put in some change and sits down. He gets up again to ask her a question before sitting back down. He's a young-looking guy, not far out of his twenties. He pulls the signal cord for the train station stop, without realizing that there is a stop between here and there. "Sorry, I want the next one," he tells the driver. Across from him is a passenger in a wheelchair, who is out of patience with this guy. He does want this stop, and tells the drunk, "You don't have to ask for the next stop (at the station), she stops automatically." As we pull into the station, we go past the now defunct temporary bus stops, moved here during some construction. This stop was refereed to as the Cherokee stop, named after the street. The signs have been moved down the street, but a bench remains. The drunk says, "Stop...driver... This is my stop. Cherokee..." She replies, "There is no more Cherokee. I stop down here now." He immediately responds, "Then why in the hell do they still call it that?" He gets out and shuffles across the street.
I grab the train to a bus. When I get on, I begin nodding off. Yesterday's twelve hours went past like a gust of wind. I'm listening to someone with either speech or mental trouble speaking to a co-worker. Behind me, I hear a guy call his wife to let her know when he will be home, and to ask her if she has "walked the dogs..." Eight hours later, I am back at the train station at twilight. I hear someone coughing and I smell marijuana. I am perhaps fifty yards from a residential building. Through a window in the lobby floor, I can see a big screen TV. Antiques Roadshow is on. The train takes me to a bus, and around a quarter to nine I am headed toward my neighborhood. A guy gets on at a stop to tell the driver, "Excuse me, sir. I'm trying to get back towards the skyscrapers." You meeean...downtown? A couple of days later is the last day of this month. I'm at a patio of a popular coffee franchise, on the first muggy afternoon of the year. This is the neighborhood I am working in. It can be quiet like mine; and it feels homey like mine. There the similarities come to an abrupt end. Outside of a curio shop is a croquet set and some weathered metal lawn furniture. I get the impression that the shop is attempting to appeal to Downton Abbey fans. Congress be advised, decorate your office or trailer with Downton Abbey props at a discount which only the Office of management and Budget could love. Inside the coffee place are a couple of guys on laptops, one of whom is grinning at me. He looks like an older, bespectacled Michael Stipe, in a T-shirt which declares his devotion to local and organic food. Outside, at a 'neighboring' table, are a trio of folks which includes a couple of grey-haired guys is Polo shirts. It sounds as if they are discussing a business plan for selling cookbooks. I rest my bones as I listen to one guy pontificate in an avuncular way about interest rates and executive business statements and three-year histories and financials and condensed financials and whatever else I've never heard of concerning cookbooks. Jesus H Caucasian. A mother and daughter come out of the door. The daughter pauses to answer a question. "Where are we going next? Europe." And...omg. Here comes a lanky grey-haired guy who hasn't been shopping since 1984. It's Big Brother himself. He has a pink zippered sweater over a turquoise button-downed shirt. Just as I am chastising myself that these people are not bothering anybody, an SUV pulls up. Instead of giant bottom-end speakers rattling every window within a 100-yard radius, I hear someone speaking over a phone. It's a conference call. Someone apparently wants a raise. Well, at least in this neighborhood, the Great Recession is over.
I retreat to a sandwich shop with air conditioning. It also has a couple of big screen TVs. A former Baltimore mayor is on CNN. He says, "America is failing America." I don't begin to know what the fuck that means, and yet I have the strange sense that, has his admonition not always been true? Cut to commercial. A middle-aged Caucasian couple is looking over their finances. They are not the same ones at the coffee shop. Each has an I-pad, and the husband is pointing something out to the wife. I'm having a premonition of being trapped. What's next, "stomach upset and a headachey feeling?" I suddenly remember a recorded rebroadcast of a radio show from the 1930s I listened to at work last night. "Dash my ship, and I'll drive the hulk into the storm's teeth. 'Tis a nightmare ship, with sails the hue of blood." What was it Nixon said? "No nation can embarrass the United States. Only Americans can do that." I hope so. As they say, "The whole world is watching." And what they desire each year is a translation of The Oscars. Marches now are gathering in at least a couple of major American cities. A TV camera person is walking along in one of them, and shooting it live. When the camera comes upon another camera person, with sails the hue of blood it quickly swings away. Six hours later, I am on a bus home. To my right is a woman in her fifties, dressed as if she is a teenager. Behind me is a woman on her phone, discussing a barbecue to celebrate a one-year anniversary of some kind. "It's uphill from here," she says. All my best to you both. She is talking about either her son or her significant other, mentioning that, "he came home after playing some video game. He won't stop talking about it. I was like, 'Here we go...'" I get home. I watch the president's marine corps band on Letterman, and I go to bed.
