Supposing, not surprisingly, that the more things change, the more they stay the same (as they say), I can report that evidence of this supposition has, of late--for, at least, the past three or so months--materialized (as Medusa arising before Perseus), as David and I walk, each workday, the stretch of road on 32nd Avenue between Federal Boulevard and Tejon. Yes, David walks to work every day from our old house near 32nd and Lowell to 17th and Lawrence. Each afternoon, Sarah (our Alaskan Malamute) and I walk the same path David takes in the morning, where we meet him on the other side of the newly opened Highland Bridge, over I25, just this side of the South Platte River. We then walk back home together.
Several times now--in as many months--as we walk 32nd Avenue from Tejon to Federal Boulevard back toward our West Highlands neighborhood, epithets have been hurled from passing vehicles and from passersby on the other side of the street. The epithets, of course, emphasize the word "fag," or "faggot," and, just this past Thursday, the tag-end of the now familiar harangue was: "You don't deserve to live!" Another epithet opined that faggots shouldn't be allowed to have that kind of dog.
Why faggots should not be allowed to have an Alaskan Malamute, slips beyond my--albeit feeble-- ability to understand the cogencies (or lack thereof) of those who strut their stupidity with such superb temerity. But, of course, such is the democratization of a politically correct society (or segment of society), where absurdity of thought is necessarily wrapped in respectability and given credence in spite of better minds suggesting the same is baloney.
Like Perseus, David and I do not directly confront the innate wickedness of the those who toss the epithets they surely, likewise toss as off-hand, extempore, screeching harangues at the face of their color teevees when one quarterback or tight end or wide receiver fucks the play. No, they are safe from a retort--perhaps physical-- from the little men in the teevee . They are also safe from David and me who, of course, intellectually conclude--without a word between us--that life is too short; dipshits will be dipshits and, besides, I don't have a conceal/carry permit for my Colt .45 automatic pistol which I may or may not (I'm not tellin!) carry with me on my daily trek down 32nd Avenue.
It is instructive, perhaps, to link here to pieces I wrote more than two decades ago with regard to the particular kind of hate lately emerging (or, perhaps, it's been there all along?), along 32nd Avenue. Suffice it to say, hate spewed from Latinos along 32nd Avenue and the "love the queer, hate the sin," hate from the religious Fundamentalists isn't much different, isn't much removed, one from the other.
Curiously, for more than the last three months, our daily trek has seen--beginning in Highland Park, at 32nd, between Grove and Federal Boulevard--drunks and derelicts, druggies and delinquents carousing, passed-out; smoking, popping, injecting their particular ticket to Nirvana in Highland Park while, on 32nd Avenue itself--usually along the stretch that borders North High School--soliciting funds (spare change, a dollar, a quarter), of passersby. Um, yes, they even side-up to the faggots (who, surely with such incredible disposable income, can spare what they've got in their pockets!), unabashedly claiming they need change for the bus or, incredibly, in one case, a young man claimed he had diabetes and he broke his blood-sugar tester (grabbing it from his pocket and holding in front us), and that he could buy a new one for nineteen dollars and couldn't we help him out 'cause he had to check his blood every other hour and ...
To the point: Stuff is goin' down on 32nd Avenue and in Highland Park.