Denver City Council - Kumbaya

Denver's City Council, indubitably to a person bend-over-backward imbued with the litany and ideology best described as liberalistic multicultural humanism (with the possible exception of Jeanne Faatz), emerged from their annual retreat defining "outcomes" they have set for themselves over the next year. That's fine. To be expected.

Two points emphasized in their "outcome" document read: First: "...Parks, the heart of the city, will become a focal point for Council in their efforts towards the development of a parks preservation plan to protect the City's green infrastructure." Second: "Recognizing the unique demographics of their citizenry, Council will also work towards policies that will serve to integrate all populations into the City and further develop their relationships with the Denver Public Schools, in recognition of the interdependence of the two entities in the development of a healthy, vibrant city."

I'll make this short.

Humbly I entreat, Denver's 4,000 acres of parks and parkways do not need another PLAN coming from a City Council which has yet to aggressively push for a means of funding for the implementation of the plethora of specific park Master Plans already extant. Those Master Plans have already been developed, have been placed on that top shelf--in some cases for years and years--where the dust weighs heavy. Hey, how's this for novel idea: There's really no need for another study, another plan. We've already got the studies and the plans. IMPLEMENT THE EXISTING MASTER PLANS BY INITIATING A MEANS TO FUND THOSE MASTER PLANS! Yes, I know, you, City Council, and your Mayor, John Hickenlooper, have chosen to submit to the voters this November a ballot issue that will impose a sales tax increase to fund pre-school education initiatives. No, there are no general obligation bond measures on the ballot that would fund the remediation of the disgraceful negligence of Denver's park's infrastructure, much less to fund park Master Plan initiatives. Instead, the Kumbaya mentality between Mayor/Council, has placed on the ballot a measure that is wholly outside the legal, codified responsibility of the entity, the City and County of Denver. Excuse me, but the Denver School Board--to which a substantial portion of Denver's property owner's property taxes are siphoned--is responsible for education initiatives in this city, not the Mayor, not the City Council--regardless of where, yes, your liberalistic multicultural humanistic (politically correct) leanings tend to lead. Excuse me but, SAVE WHAT YOU CALL THE "HEART" OF THE CITY BY PUSHING, FUNDING, SUPPORTING THE ALREADY EXISTING PARK MASTER PLANS!

Now, for the second issue: "Recognizing the unique demographics of their citizenry, Council will also work towards policies that will serve to integrate all populations into the City and further develop their relationships with the Denver Public Schools, in recognition of the interdependence of the two entities in the development of a healthy, vibrant city."

Okay, granted, a "...healthy, vibrant city..." depends, in part, on the quality of and citizen support for the city's education system. Resolutions from Denver's City Council supporting the Denver School Board and wunderkind, Superintendent Michael Bennett, is fine, appropriate, great stuff guys, Kumbaya for all. But, with the particular makeup of this Council, the words, "...further develop their [the Council's] relationships with the Denver Public Schools..." wreaks of the stuff that will see a ballot issue to increase Denver's sales tax to fund pre-school education. And, what else will be forthcoming from this Council which doesn't appear to understand their responsibilities under the Charter and Revised Municipal Code of the City and County of Denver? How much of Denver's General Fund will be earmarked for education initiatives that are indisputably solely within the purview of the Denver School Board?

Finally, the Council's intent to "...work towards policies that will serve to integrate all populations into the City..." is, for me, a winky-wink intent to (dare I mention this particular bugaboo) to further advance, support, probably fund the notion of SANCTUARY in this city. Having said this, and understanding the soulful, feel-good mantra of Kumbaya from this particular Council, I absolutely suspect the Denver City Council to create an additional seat in their august body for Denver's Catholic Archbishop Charles Chaput. Who better to articulate the specifics of what a SANCTUARY CITY (for illegal immigrants) should be? Of course, with Chaput on the Council, Kumbaya may be compromised in the area of a woman's right to control her own body and, oh my goodness, what about them pesky queers suggesting the First and Fourteenth Amendments to the United States Constitution should also apply to them.

Thank You, Mister Olbermann

Keith Olbermann (MSNBC), once again, provides an impassioned response to Dubya's and crew's shameful hucksterism. How ignorant do you believe the American people to be, Mr. President?

Daniel Libeskind vs. Denver's Civic Center Park

"It seems to me that architecture is, in fact, the machine that produces the universe which produces the gods. It does so not fully through theories or reflection, but in the ever non-repeatable and optimistic act of construction. The qualities of its resistance, which are as pragmatic as the materials from which it is built, form an irascible and volatile field whose smile is not that of Buddha." Daniel Libeskind

What the hell does this mean? It's either very, very profound (so profound that I am, in fact, having trouble digesting it) or is it so much bullshit from someone who likes to talk fast because, in doing so, he can just slipslide his way through the moment without really giving anyone an opportunity to contemplate what he's just said. I agree; it sounds good. But, what the hell does it mean? God is a product of the universe which is a product of architecture? I don't know...

It was instructive that both the the Rocky Mountain News and the Denver Post columnists, who usually write about historical preservation and parks and art and environmental issues, were less than enthusiastic with Libeskind's "conceptual vision" for Civic Center Park.

Voelz Chandler, News columnist, noted:

"You know you are in trouble when one of the first comments from the architect [Libeskind, during the unveiling of his 'vision'] is 'We left all the historic elements."

Forgive me, but did the epitome of architectural haute couture--Libeskind--actually believe the "...historic elements..." of Civic Center Park were available for removal; up for grabs?

Voelz Chandler continues: "That is true. The Greek Theater is there, and the Voorhies Memorial, and the balustrades. But they are obscured by so many other things that a statement like Libeskind's becomes as much apology as defense. ...This would be a busy, busy place -- not the serene ambience intended by a Beaux Art assemblage of buildings, sculpture and landscaping elements."

Let's look for a moment at Joanne Ditmer's column in the Denver Post: "Busy, busy, busy --and too much of a good thing.

"That was my conclusion after attending two presentations Wednesday on New York architecDanielle Libeskind's proposal for revitalizing 88-year-old Civic Center. Initially, his design -- with a major pondcontemporaryry fountains, glass house cafes, canopied walkways and a soaring bridge -- seemed fresh, exciting and imaginative. And it is. It would be a beautifulexhilaratingng park -- somewhere else.

"These amenities were not meant to enhance this cherished, historic public park and gathering place, tucked between Denver City Hall and the State Capitol.

"The look-at-me design is a showcase of a celebrity architect's fertile imagination, not a sensitive enhancement of a city park so special that it is on the Nation Register ohistoricalri Places, one of just 7 percent on the register with the rating 'site of national significance.' It [the Libeskind vision] is a frivolity superimposed on one of downtown's last green spaces..."

The Libeskind "vision" for Civic Center Park is an incongruous assemblage of disparate components that only do not enhance the preservation of the historical elements in the precious open space, but pose a kind of amusement park crassness to the space. (What on earth is the torqued extravaganza that Libeskindnd calls a bridge that spans from the park to Sixteenth Street? Was this inspired from a visit to Six Flags where the Sidewinder for the Boomerang--roller coaster type rides--bare a striking resemblance to Libeskind's "vision" for a bridge?) Ditmer, the Post's columnist, observes that the design of this pedestrian bridge looks something "...like a whale's skeleton."

One of the most curious comments with regard to the revitalization, remake, preservation, enhancement--whatever you want to call it--of Civic Center Park came from Mayor John Hickenlooper. When asked about the issue of all the homeless folk who tend to congregate in the park, the Hick said, "If we create a great park [shades of Federico Pena's, "Imagine a great city..."], people will fill it, and I guarantee you that the people who are struggling to get their lives together aren't going to stick around."

The comment is curious because the mayor'euphemism--"...people who are struggling to get their lives together..."--colors the reality that those folks who hang in Civic Center Park today are drug dealers, drug seekers, mall rats, homeless, mentally disturbed, criminals, crooks, crass cranks, and hopheads who--when, as the mayor says, Civic Center Park becomes "...great..." ain't gonna be goin' nowhere, your honor. You bring good, decent, hard-working decent folk into the park and guess who's gonna be hangin' around, hopin' for handout, hopin' for a transaction, hopin' to intimidate, plead, cajole or simply steal from the other half who most of these pitiful souls believe caused their problems in the first place.

There is a wee bit of comfort in knowing that I am not alone in wondering what the hell this Libeskind "vision" for Civic Center Park accomplishes. Indeed:

Two Blowhards

If you'’ve got a little curiosity about contempo architecture and you take a peek at its coverage in the mainstream press (as well as the specialist architectural press), you'’re probably running into names like Daniel (WTC-site) Libeskind, Herbert Muschamp, Rem Koolhaas, Zaha Hadid, and Coop Himmelblau. You'’re probably also running into a lot of photos of zigzaggy, blown-to-bits buildings that look a bit like an L.A. kitchen the morning after the big one.

Chances are that, unless you'’ve gone to architecture school or have been otherwise marinated in contempo "theory," you probably have some variation on what I think of as the "Huh? What the fuck?" response. The writing and thinking seem almost incomprehensible and, when comprehensible, engaged with issues and ideas that seem of no conceivable human interest whatsoever. The designs themselves sometimes seem kind of cool and flashy -- but, lordy, imagine having to live in, or work in, or even have to pass regularly by such heaps of self-referential showboating.

Or:

City Comforts, the Blog

Syncophants Arise
I can hear their shrieks now: Libeskind's Denver Art Museum Expansion
Now calm down. It's not that I am immune to the spectacular. I like the Rockettes and I like Liberace and I like the movie theaters of the 1920s. And I even like this Libeskind design, as much of its interior as is shown anyway. But as an advancement of culture it's so irrelevant...so nothing-to-do with the daily texture of life...so striving, so arty. But I grant him an A for intention: Libeskind would like to be relevant. In fact he writes about the importance of architecture:

It seems to me that architecture is, in fact, the machine that produces the universe which produces the gods. It does so not fully through theories or reflections, but in the ever non-repeatable and optimistic act of construction. The qualities of its resistance, which are as pragmatic as the materials from which it is built, form an irascible and volatile field whose smile is not that of Buddha.

The only problem is that his words are too unclear to have any real substance. It would be nice if a (probably) talented fellow like Libeskind could get down from his high horse and just talk plain English.

One does not suffer lightly the machinations of someone, an architect for christ's sake, whose mantra includes the poo-poo of any further consideration of form/function in the design of buildings/landscapes that folks are going to live and/or work in or around. That's probably because I've not gotten an architectural degree in the last five or so years from a university where, I'm told, the form/function given is no longer a given and, well, let your imagination go, young'uns. It don't matter what the functional necessities of the rabble who have to live with, in or around your designs want/desire. What matters is that architectural design creates the universe which creates God...as Libeskind has imparted to us.

What more needs to be said.

For Dog Lovers Only

Ah!

Keith Olbermann on Rumsfeld's (Dubya's) Fascism

This is as articulate as I've ever heard Olbermann. This video should be shown in high school civics classes, if, indeed, high schools still provide lessons is civics.

Imagine There's No Libeskind (It's easy if you try)

Vietnam War Memorial (Obelisk) in front of Capitol, originally uploaded by George In Denver.

This pristine view, from the center of Civic Center Park (in Denver) would be compromised by Daniel Libeskind's "conceputal vision" for the park with a pedestrian bridge that would right-angle over Broadway directly within this current wonderfully pristine line-of-sight toward the east, toward the Colorado State Capitol. As a matter of fact, the Libeskind "conceptual vision" wouldn't even allow for a picture such as this to be taken from the middle of Civic Center Park, because there'd be a 72 foot water and light extravaganza centered in the park. Oy!!!!

Piney Lake - Gore Range in the Background

Piney Lake - Gore Range in the Background, originally uploaded by George In Denver.

Just a Friday picture. Three-day weekend coming up.

Dear Lady Denver*

(Note: In 1981, after experiencing more than a decade of the destruction of Denver's historical crown jewels under the guise of "Urban Renewal," I wrote the following poem, which was published in Denver's "Out Front" magazine in July, 1981. I suspect that no one who is not a native of Denver and pretty close to my age will recognize the references I make. But, in light of my posts on the Libeskind "conceptual vision" for Civic Center Park, I thought I'd repeat this particular post from December, 2005. So, this pretty much represents where George is coming from: a deep, abiding respect for the significance of Denver's history and the representation of that history in the city's architecture, including parks. That history, of course, must be maintained, cherished and, certainly enhanced when necessary. As I don't/didn't believe the mindless rapaciousness of "Urban Renewal" was justified decades ago, I don't believe an "art for art's sake" remake of Civic Center Park in the Libeskind "vision" is a solution to the very real, serious issues extant with the park today.)

Dear Lady Denver

So,
tell me old girl
does the face-lifting still go on?
And
do those thick-fingered surgeons of
steel and stone
still build up
where your soul was torn down?

Now,
hear me out.
I am your native son
(and there are precious few of us).
So,
take some time from your
fancy modern gyrations and
listen to one who remembers.



I am one who remembers
when the Old Prospector
was as untouchable as the clouds
and as curious to a young boy
as a jet plane in a steep climb or
a Colorado Winter's first snowfall.

And now...
Now the Old Prospector has come down to earth.
He collects pennies at the Towers and
silently stares as he is touched by tourists
and passed by an endless parade
of fume-spewing autos.
I cannot help but think
his shoulders have stooped a bit.

Do you know Old Girl
that I am one who remembers when
there was no Zeckendorf
where noontime loafers putt
on fake green grass and
there was a time--I know you recall it--
when those long-robed
pony-tailed devotees of Hare Krishna
didn't dance their simple jig
to the tinny sounds of finger cymbals
on 16th Street.



Listen, Dear Lady,
Do you know
there used to be a Windsor
where Hayden Simpson and his friends
played Ragtime
in a room where the echoes of your youth
still haunted those
elegant high ceilings and
broad hallways?



And,
there was an opera house called Tabor
that was your pride and joy
'til the sleazy cinema
corrupted its foundation and
brought the bulldozers
to rid you of its plight.

Ah...
there is so much
to remember Old Girl.
And,
there is so much to be sorry for.
All that which used to be
could still be
if only...
If only you would have realized
what you were losing.

Excuse me, Dear Lady:
The wine is gone;
The music has stopped;
The fire is out.
I feel that I must be going.

But, Dear Friend,
The next time a high-rise
rises
let's get drunk on the heady wine of our memories,
to the sweet sounds of ragtime.

(NOTE: The Old Prospector used to stand atop the Mining Exchange Building. The Old Prospector now stands outside Brooks Towers. Status of the Mining Exchange Building - gone. Status of the Tabor Grand Opera House - gone. Staus of the Windsor Hotel - gone.)

*Yeah, I know, who wants to read poetry on a blog. But, I couldn't help it.

Libeskind's $75,000 "conceptual design" for Civic Center Park - OMG!

BWB - Both Ways Bob (Beauprez) - Republican Candidate for Colorado Governor

Ah, another wannabe soldier when it becomes politically expedient to put on the olive drab. Problme is, though, with BWB, Both Ways Bob Beauprez, never served. See, he had this ulcer thing in high school or college and, well... See for yourself.

You Know You're From Denver When...

The People's Republic of Boulder Does it Again!

First of all--not that it has any relevance to this post--I heard on the national news this morning Mississippi is the fattest state (people's girths), and Colorado is the skinniest. That's the good news about Colorado.

Now for the bad news.

It is, of course, no secret that the People's Republic of Boulder has, once again, thrust Colorado into the international spotlight, first with Mary Keenan Lacy's--Boulder's District Attorney--decision to go after the nutcase, John Mark Karr--who happened to be slithering about Bangkok, Thailand--as the murderer of JonBenet Ramsey. Much of Lacy's "probable cause" came from emails a University of Colorado journalism professor, Michael Tracey, exchanged with Crazy Karr and shared with Ms. Lacy. Tracey, by the way, has made one "documentary" on the JonBenet case that attempted to turn attention for the murder away from the Ramsey family and toward an outside "intruder." And, by the way, Tracey is currently hawking a book with regard to his delusional theories about the case. So, Ms. Lacy gets a warrant from a Boulder judge (dare we wonder about the competence of the judge who issued the warrant) and off to Bangkok the Boulder cops go--at the expense of Colorado taxpayers--and bring Crazy Karr back to Boulder, with a stop in California because of a kiddy porn case.

Curiously, Ms. Lacy was depending upon a DNA match to prove Crazy Karr was the guy, the murderer. Here's the thing about the DNA. There was a trace of "Caucasian male" DNA found in the poor child's panties. There was also DNA found under JonBenet's fingernails. But, wouldn't you know it, the DNA under her fingernails was compromised, contaminated--we are told--by a "dirty" scalpel during the autopsy. Now, it has been shown, demonstrated that there are traces of DNA in panties that have just been removed from the plastic wrapping in which they are sold at your local Wal-Mart or Target or--probably in the case of the Ramsey's--from Dillards or Lord and Taylor.

Okay. Still with me?

So, the Boulder cops get to Bangkok to, we are told, not only to arrest Crazy Karr but also to get a DNA sample--a mouth swab--from the nutcase. What happens? Well, it seems that the Boulder cops misplaced the DNA swab kit--or, perhaps, didn't even bring a kit--and no DNA test was conducted in Bangkok. In fact, the DNA swab was not taken until Crazy Karr got to Boulder from California. The Denver Police Department crime lab ran the DNA match test and WALLAH!--big surprise--there was no match.

I take no comfort in my prior posts--the first one on the morning the arrest of Crazy Karr was announced--that proclaimed no way, no how was Crazy Karr guilty of the JonBenet murder. I take comfort only in the fact that Karr is, indeed, crazy (sorry if I'm being politically incorrect, here) and will, hopefully, be institutionalized and, therefore, unable to destroy the innocence of children with his sickeningly despicable desires.

Yes, not only is Colorado the home of James Dobson's "Focus on the Family," Miss Chubby Pinkness, U.S. Congresswoman Marilyn Musgrave (defender of the sanctity of man/woman marriage in the U.S. House of Representatives), U.S. Senator Wayne--Dullard, Do Nothing--Allard who, of course, also plays to his Colorado flatlander base decrying the "homa-sex-yall" agenda; yes, as if we didn't have enough craziness to contend with, the People's Republic of Boulder shines resplendent today, as an international laughing stock.

Yeah, I know. Generalizations are empirically invalid. In fact, the University of Colorado is my alma mater--although I spent only one year in Boulder and four years at the University of Colorado, Denver Center. But, goodness, dare I ask what next, what absurd illogicalness will emanate from the People's Republic of Boulder?

And, remember, Denver ain't Boulder. Thank God.

P.S. "Fair and Balanced," here's a post from my bud Suz-at-Large that paints a wee bit different picture than I've provided with this post.

You Can Get Anything You Want (Great way to begin a Monday)

This came from youtube.com this morning.

With reflection on every damned thing going on in the world today, these short videos--at least for me--provide some evidence that within the heartland of this great country, there persists some modicum of charm, easy charm that cannot help but bring a momentary smile, a good feeling that life goes on in spite of the headlines, in spite of all the crap I read every day from the New York Times, AlterNet, the Rocky Mountain News, the Washington Post, MoveOn.org, etc. etc. etc.

This is John Young--somewhere in the heartland--on a vintage Martin 0018.

AND, his Pet Feeder invention is really cool.

Enjoy.

This-n-That

Alice's Restaurant

Pet Feeder

Civic Center Redux

If you have an interest in Denver's parks and Civic Center Park in particular please take a look at my friend Suz's post on this subject. The Libeskind vision for Civici Center Park (for which the Civic Center Conservancy paid, I believe, $78,000) will be revealed shortly and Suz has the schedule.

Suz also provides some editorial comment on Daniel Libeskind's "vision" that will open in October where, um, "art" will be displayed.

Fall

Fall whispers: a delicate, if not subtle susurration.

I have taken lately to sitting on the front porch of our old house this past week. I sip shiraz-cabernet and puff gently on the Swisher Sweets that, still being cigars regardless of their charming moniker, disgust David. I cannot explain why I've taken up the nightly puffing except that, I suppose, I'm passing through another phase (my "crotchety" phase, as some family members have suggested) and the little cigars with the plastic tips seem, well. appropriate right now. I am, after all, too young to be "crotchety." Or am I?

I listen to the cicadas (do we have cicadas in Denver?) or the crickets, in unison, pulse their hypnotic song against the darkening night and I wonder why they still try; why, this late in the summer, they still call to that, apparently as yet unidentified, mate; the primordial pulse of the promise of propagation. It is a wonderful sound. I lose myself in its monotony.

The giant and ancient Silver Maple that fronts our property appears almost black--the hanging branches so profuse this year, so happily replete with ten? a hundred?-thousand leaves. The black shape flows slightly with the breeze, moving ever so gently as an ocean tide at no moon.

The clutch of three Aspen trees that have grown thick and tall this spring and summer huddle there at the corner of our little yard. The coruscation of their leaves--caught in the gentle breeze--is a playful dance, reflecting the gleam from the streetlamp four houses down.

Did you know that an Aspen grove--six, seven thousand trees, or more--is the largest living organism on the face of the earth? Did you know that an Aspen grove will give extra nourishment and water to trees in its clutch which are failing, ill? Did you know that if the ailing trees in the grove do not respond to the good deeds of the whole, the whole will withdraw the extra care and let the trees pass on, die? Or, at least that is what our guide told us (Greg, Clayton and me) on our recent horseback ride at Piney Lake, in the Eagle's Nest Wilderness area of the White River National Forest.

Yes, and then there is the Blue Spruce that our neighbor, Sue, planted ten, twelve, fifteen years ago close to the fence that separates our front yards. It was so small, so beautiful then. She planted it close to our fence because, she said, it would grow to complement the extreme pitch of the roof of our old Victorian. And, now, as I sit upon the porch and sip my wine and puff the poison from my Swisher Sweet, the Blue Spruce looms huge, full, against and through the fence that separates our property from our neighbor's. The Blue Spruce is also--now, at night--just a shadow against the sky.

By the third of fourth summer of a total of ten summers of lifguarding at city pools (this was at least a thousand years ago, by the way) by mid-August, the signs, the portend of fall did not escape me. The daytime shadows moved and--albeit still experiencing days of ninety or more degrees--the very air, the sky, the precious paltry whiff of a breeze foretold the ineluctable adjoining of seasons. This lesson learned from all those hours upon hours of sitting, walking or standing--clad only in one brightly colored Speedo or another (green, blue, red, orange) with a whistle around my neck--and , with intense vigilance, caring (I really did care!) for the lives of the kids and the parents and the jerks and the idiots and the rest of them, including "tax payers," who took to the water; yes, by the third or fourth summer of eight to ten hours in the sun, the subtleness of the seasonal change became, perhaps subliminally at first, obvious.

Two things came from those long hours in the sun. One, like the other creatures of the earth, I learned to understand the hints of nature--hints, that to some species, send them south or from the highlands to the lower valleys or upstream or downstream or cajole them to gather the sustenance that will take them through the big freeze ahead. Two, the cumulative affects of all that glorious sunshine, all that ultraviolet contagion has left me with only half of the top of my right ear. Squamous cell carcinoma. I await the certainty when another part of me will be sliced away. (Please, don't let it be the nose. I have such a nice nose.)

I have four Swisher Sweets left. I've told David that once this box is finished, then I will be finished with the nastiness of what I have promised myself will not become a habit. I'm indulging in the puffing only because I'm going through my "crotchety" phase anyway. Aren't I?

I believe, though, I will continue to sit myself down in one of the two Adirondack chairs on our old front porch, sip the shiraz-cabernet and just simply be amongst it all, amongst the sublime mystery of it all.

Dear Marilyn Musgrave

Click on the title to see a video of the lady in pink explain why she should be reelected to the U.S. House from Colorado's flatlander district where God is in his heaven and all is right with the world.

Calvin

I noticed that my last "Letters to Melissa..." post included a picture of Melissa with an errant tail exposed in the upper right of the pic. With apologies to our big guy, Calvin--who passed from lymphoma several years ago (you'll notice the biopsy scar on the left side of his neck)--I thought I'd better get him in the picture, too. He was no less loved than Sweet Melissa. He, too, is missed still, always

Magnificent Fraud - John Mark Creepster Karr - Michael Tracey Does it Again

The Broward-Palm Beach New Times, a publication much like our Westword, provides this piece on University of Colorado Journalism professor, Michael Tracey, and his particular Ward Churchillish absurdly sickening grasp for fame (and money, of course).

Like I said the morning this fraud broke, Karr ain't the guy folks.

Letters to Melissa - Piney Lake (Part IV)

Sweet Melissa:

Sweetheart, we did it again. Yes, David and I went camping with John and Fred, Clayton and Richard and two "newbies," Greg and Daniel. I know, it's hard to believe that we would--for the third time, for goodness sake!--forsake the comforts of a warm bed, immediately accessible bathroom, fine restaurant, outdoor patio (a Maker's Mark and 7, in hand) framed by mountains of Pine, Spruce and Aspen in Silverthorne or Vail. But, we lived in a tent for two days. It was fun...mostly.

You'll be happy to hear that the attack of the voracious suicide flies from our July camping trip was not repeated. I believe an early fall is hanging in the air up there, quietly whispering of the big freeze just around the corner. The nights were cold. Indeed, that two or three a.m. bladder-splitting necessity to crawl out of the sleeping bag, open up the tent and shakily navigate through the profuse willow fields in order to release the goods, was, dear heart, icily painful. But, the flies have not really survived that cold. There are still some hardy suicide suckers buzzing about. But, they're now manageable. Thank God!

Yes, this camping event followed pretty much the established protocols: pack the vehicle with six days of supplies (clothing, food, booze) when the intended stay is two nights; drive the hour and a half to Vail, head north to Piney Lake (dirt road, pretty well maintained); unpack the vehicle; set-up the tent, the camp chairs; pour yourself a drink and settle in around the fire.

Then, there was the hike to the waterfall (Fred and the newbies went all the way; David, John and I went half way; and the rest took Roo and Sydney--the Golden Retrievers--to the lake for a swim); the horseback ride (Clayton, Greg and me); the obligatory press-on tattoos.

Yes, honey, we had fun. Again, many thoughts those days in the
hills were about how much you would have loved the experience--demanding proper respect and deference from the Goldens, of course.

Loving you still, always

George

Letters to Melissa - Piney Lake (Part III)

Dear Sweet Melissa:

Well, sweetheart, here we go again. Heading back up to Piney Lake where, the advance crew (our friends, John and Fred) have reported the flies are gone (too cold), and--as I said--it's cold and where, it's reported, there will be rain in the next couple days.

But, what the hey! There will actually be between nine to twelve of us up there together, doing what guys (gay or straight with the exception that, as you know, the gay guys don't kill things for the helluva it! Sport? You've got to be kidding!) do on a camping trip which I've explained in prior posts.

I bought a new lens for my camera and, hopefully, I can get some great shots this time.

Anyway, wish you were here; wish you could hop in the car with us and spend some time in that wee slice of paradise--(that is, if the flies are truly dormant).

Loving you still, always

George

This Is Absolutely Insane - Rocky Mountain News

The Rocky Mountain News has outdone itself today with an absolutely insane, absurd, crazy, asinine litany of nutty stories, cartoons and editorials attacking Peter Boyles of KHOW radio who has, since the murder of JonBenet Ramsey, maintained that this tragedy was not the work of an intruder as John and Patsy Ramsey, the parents, (as well as their official mouthpiece, the Rocky Mountain News) asserted/assert. Boyles further has identified the "confession" of John Mark Karr as the ramblings of a nutcase who had nothing whatsoever to do with murder of JonBenet.

Whatever you think of Peter Boyles and whoever is ultimately proven to have committed this heinous act, please consider some of the facts:

1) Karr claims to have picked JonBenet up at her school, taken her to the Ramsey home and therein did the deed. Fact: The murder occurred during the Christmas holiday. School was not in session.

2) Karr claims JonBenet's death was accidental. Fact: The poor child's head was viciously bashed with what was probably a flashlight. She was then strangled with a garotte.

3) Karr claims he drugged JonBenet. Fact: The toxicology report from the autopsy found no drugs in JonBenet's body.

4) Karr claims to have had sex with JonBenet. Fact: No semen was found.

Good people, Karr's confession--as well as the ramblings of the Rocky Mountain News, as well as the machinations of the People's Republic of Boulder's DA and police department--is (God, what's the best word???) absurd. Wish I had a better, more descriptive word. But, that's it.

Jesus, we live in strange times....

WHOA! Somthin' Ain't Right With this JonBenet Thing

Have you had a look at John Mark Karr who claims to have killed JonBenet Ramsey? Have you listened to his voice? Have you read the facts that led to his confession? Have you considered the relative merits of prison time in Thailand as opposed to the United States?

More later. But, good people, my gut tells me this guy is a nut.

No More Binkies

Okay. No more liquid-filled binkies on airplanes. I can understand that. I mean, some crazy son-of-a-bitch could stick the business end of an electrode attached to a battery or a cell phone detonator into the binkie and set off an explosion proportionate to... Well, I guess the amount of peroxide based or whatever liquid explosive the crazy (now, stupid!) son-of-a-bitch put in the binkie would, most likely poof pretty much like a beer fart and burn the guy's nose hairs, while scaring the shit out of the baby, for Christ's sake. That is, of course, if he had a baby and if he didn't, what the fuck was he doing with the binkie in the first place? Satisfaction of a fetish, maybe?

I'm wondering here if the issue of Preparation H came up in a Chertoff staff meeting. Although--thank the good Lord--I don't have to use this stuff, the wipes are smothered in some kind of liquid and, I understand, there are suppositories that, most likely, also contain some kind of liquid. What about hemorrhoids? If you're on a four or six or eight hour flight, I guarantee you that, if you've got the nasty buggers, hemorrhoids, you're going to need to soothe their certain-to-occur complaints during the flight. What about Prep H? Or, is one simply left with locking oneself in the toilet and massaging oneself with one's index finger which, most likely, will ease the discomfort for about five minutes? But, then, liquid hand soap has been banned, so what means of cleanin' up is okey-dokey according to Chertoff? Yeah, I guess the airline's supply their bathrooms with those little bars of soap. I wouldn't know. Of all the thousands of miles I've flown, I've never used the bathroom in an airplane, except, of course in my novel, "A Cirlec of Magic," available at... Never mind.

Today, I heard that those liquid filled inserts Dr. Scholls makes for your shoes have gone on the banned list. I've got a couple of those in one pair of my trail shoes and they're great for the stressed arches. I'm wondering though, if Chertoff and company are banning all electronics on airplanes, how would one detonate the peroxide paste-based explosive in one's shoes? Of course, this assumes that--the by and large non-English-as-a-primary-language federalized mafia who meet and greet us as we pass through the beeping machines--those pesky Dr. Scholls inserts haven't been spotted and ripped out and confiscated before we ever get on the plane.

Now, I'm hearing that mascara is a banned substance. Gawd!

This whole knee-jerk reaction from Chertoff and crew is, of course, reactionary and, sadly, really doesn't provide or invoke any real confidence that Chertoff and crew know what the hell they're doing. Remember Katrina, ya'll? Why'd Chertoff keep his ass on that one?

Recalling the initial hysteria with the onset of the AIDS pandemic, I'm reminded that, in time, hysteria kind of slipslides--for most of us--into a non-hysterical logicality that respects fact over fiction (and hysteria) and centers on what measures are really, truly effective in the fight against the demon, the bug, the fearfull entity that has been visited upon the human condition.

Fundamentalistic Islamic terrorism is the demon, the bug, the fearfull entity that has been visited upon us. Does one really believe that banning binkies from aircraft is the answer?

Forgive me, but I do believe there is another direction--political correctness be damned to the particular hell it deserves--that might be a wee bit more effective in assuring the safety of what Chertoff calls the "traveling public." Islamic Fundamentalists fit a profile. Or, at least the pictures and descriptions I've reviewed tend to indicate--100 fucking percent of the time--that Islamic Fundamentalists--forgive me--kind of all look alike. Would it be too much for Chertoff and crew to consider that reality rather than honing in on binkies and Prep H?

Letters to Melissa - Piney Lake (Part II)

Dear Sweet Melissa*:

Okay, I've told you about the first four parts of camping. Now, for the fifth part.

The fifth part of camping is, perhaps, the most important. This is the part where the "newbies" (those who are camping for the first time or are camping for the first time with US) sip their favorite beverage as the whole group stares into the magnificent fire with the close and holy darkness of forest caressing each of us, with the divine lightshow above--the ten-billion stars, pulsating, alive and framed by the tops of pines that surround the campfire. (Often, it's necessary to take a little walk out to the dirt road fity yards from the campsite, to actually see the astral fantasmagoria above.) It is, you see, incumbent upon the newbies to bare their souls before the round of boys sitting before the campfire. Those are the rules.

Baring one's soul has, in the past, focused on things as trivial as what one has loaded into their iPod or, indeed, what or whom one has, um, intimately interacted with in the most recent past--lovers, boyfriends, partners aside.

Now, dear heart, let me tell you that the newbies are not required to reveal anything. They're simply urged to do so as a right of passage necessary to the particular camping experience we've all come to love since we started the same (for David and me, just a year ago) but for John and Fred and whomever they've coaxed into the hills for years and years past, yes, this right of passage has been around for a while.

Okay. Here's a primer on what the newbie tell-all entails. Well, see, I was in this bar and they had strippers, okay?, and the strippers weren't really strippers but they were, well, boys for hire and all I had was twenty bucks and, well, twenty bucks don't get you laid in Denver, buckaroo--no matter how pretty you are--and, well, I had to go to the ATM and it was out of money and then I had to go to the bartender with a check for $200 bucks and he cashed it and then I went looking for him, the beauty who'd smiled at me, and, damn, I couldn't find him, so I went to the tubs, to the baths and the sights there were probably as disgusting as--tee hee--the group around this campfire and, well, I just went home and satisfied myself and fell asleep immediately without any actual physical contact with anyone, save myself and, well...

Ah, Sweet Melissa. You don't really need to know about this factor five of the camping experience. I think most of those tales told around the campfire are enhanced for affect anyway. And, besides, the doggies that have experienced this fifth component of the camping experience just sleep through it all, not caring a whit for the content or, indeed, recognizing bullshit when they hear it.

*Sweet Melissa was the absolute joy of David's and my life for twelve years and ten months. When her osteoarthritis became so bad that she literally could not stand up, she went to heaven, with the blessings of us all...

Elton - Sorry

Letters to Melissa - Sorrow

Dear Sweet Melissa:

As always, I know you already know this. You are, after all, there, ensconced in the trappings of painless, guiltless, serene acceptance and understanding of those things that we here don't fully understand or comprehend. But, I thought I'd just let you know that life here amongst the temporal machinations of human beings is still pretty screwed up; still pretty unfathomable by those of us whose perception of the world is encased in the essential worth of the full gamut of Western Civilization.

Seems China is killing dogs. There has been a five-day massacre in Yunnan province's Mouding county, that has taken the lives of an estimated 50,000 dogs.

The report is that since three human beings died from the affects of rabies from dog bites in this Chinese province, the solution is to kill all the dogs; 50,000 at least.

The CNN report of this horrible event reports that: Dogs being walked were taken from their owners and beaten to death on the spot, it said. Other killing teams entered villages at night creating noise to get dogs barking, then homing in on their prey.

About 360 of the county's 200,000 residents suffered dog bites this year, with three reported deaths, including a 4-year-old girl, the report said.

"With the aim to keep this horrible disease from people, we decided to kill the dogs," Li Haibo, a spokesman for the county government was quoted as saying by the official Xinhua News Agency.

Yes, honey, I know... The killing of dogs in China is nuts, crazy. Why can't they initiate a program to immunize the dogs against rabies? But, then, we're talking about a country where folks eat dogs.

Ah, can you imagine what my reaction would be if some "committee" or "team" tried to beat you? Yeah, it wouldn't happen. Or, yes, it would not have happened. Wishful thinking, I guess; wishing you were still here. (Sometimes I hear the jingle/jangle of the tags on your collar and I turn my head with a smile, knowing you have climbed the stairs to my second story lair, just to check up on me, just to suggest a goodie might be in order. But, I realize, of course, you're no longer here. And, I turn my head back to the computer, as a thousand images of your life with David and me course through my mind.)

So, anyway, I'm sorry this is happening. Eastern civilization confuses me. Always has. I think I got a D+ at the University of Colorado when I took a course in this complex and confusing subject. It remains complex and confusing.

Now, having admitted to being stumped by the gyrations of Eastern civilization--they eat dogs, for God's sake!--I'm reminded that I can't even explain as rational much of what this country, this jewel of Western civilization is up to lately. I mean , look at us. Look at the oaf in the White House who chews his food with his mouth open while talkin' tough pardner with the Prime Minister of Great Britain; the fuc_ing fratboy genius "world leader" who, heh heh!, gives an unwanted neck rub to the female leader of the German nation state. Hell, I would have been fired from my workplace if I'd layed hands upon a female coworker.

Well, back to the dogs.

I keep rereading this; I keep digesting this; I keep loving these words:

“We need another and wiser and perhaps a more mystical concept of animals. Remote from universal nature, and living by complicated artifice, man in civilization surveys the creature through the glass of his knowledge and sees thereby a feather magnified and the whole image in distortion. We patronize them for their incompleteness, for their tragic fate of having taken form so far below ourselves. And therein we err, and greatly err. For the animal shall not be measured by man. In a world older and more complete than ours they move finished and complete, gifted with extensions of the senses we have lost or never attained, living by voices we shall never hear. They are not brethren, they are not underlings; they are other nations, caught with ourselves in the net of life and time, fellow prisoners of the splendor and travail of the earth.”

Henry Beston, The Outmost House

The Death of Trees

This morning's Denver Post provided a piece on the tragic loss of the lodgepole pines in the White River National Forest. The devastation, the killing of these wonderful trees is the result of the voracious appetite of the pine beetle that, it is estimated, will eventually take 80 to 90 percent of the lodgepoll pines in the west. The picture at the left was taken (Ed Andrieski, The Associated Press) in Colorado's White River National Forest near Frisco.

I took the picture below last month also in the White River National Forest ten miles east of Vail. In both pictures, the lodgepole pines being attacked first lose their foliage and turn brown; they then turn gray and, eventually, fall to the ground.

Sadly, the vista on the right will probably disappear in the not too distant future.

Some say it's nature's way; that the fires that will naturally occur and burn away the rotted lodgepole pines will give new life to this old forest. That may be so. But, Mama Nature--from the short view--sometimes really sucks.

EXTRA! North Denver Tribune Removes George From Its Subscription List!

I, of course, asked for it. I dared to bring up some salient points in an emailed letter to the Tribune's managing editor, Elisa Cohen, with regard to the city's failure to provide for the proper infrastructure maintenance of Denver's Parks. Ms. Cohen took umbrage with my remarks that, by the way, actually, in my opinion, pointed out her lack of reportorial skills. HOW COULD I DO SUCH A THING! HOW DARE I DO SUCH A THING!

The picture of the beautiful welcome sign to Highland Park will become relevant as you continue. (If you do continue. I had a comment on one of my posts not too long ago that I ought to stop worrying about the parks; that I ought to just chill at the seal pond in Civic Center Park. Um, yup, now THAT would be chillin'. Denverites will know what I mean.)

Anyway, here's my letter:

Elisa Cohen’s, “Is the grass greener?” which appeared in the August 3rd edition of the Tribune recounts her “investigative” efforts to determine if Sloan’s Lake Park’s perceived grass/lawn/flower deficiencies are the result of some bureaucratic bias which favor—specifically, in Cohen’s piece—Washington Park. The conclusion? With the help of middle management Denver Parks' personnel, Cohen concluded that God is pretty much in His heaven and all is right and equal with the care of maintenance of Denver’s 5,500 acres of parks.

What bothers me most about Cohen’s piece is, I hope, obvious. To make the conclusions she made and to accept the relatively rosy rhetoric from the Parks folks by comparing two parks, Sloan’s and Washington, is akin to determining one can get a pretty good handle on Christianity by contrasting Catholicism to Methodism. (Spend a Good News Sunday over at New Hope Baptist and you’ll see what I mean.)

The problem with Denver’s parks is, of course, the infrastructure. The problem with the grass in Denver’s parks is pumps and pipes and sprinkler heads and crews to maintain them. This issue is endemic throughout Denver’s park system. Granted, a little less endemic in certain parts of town than others.

I was struck not long ago with the irony of an editorial in the Denver Post that heralded Denver’s Manager of Parks and Recreation, Kim Bailey, as a “diamond” of the Hickenlooper administration. Why? Well, according to the editorialist, Ms. Bailey has reactivated five of Denver’s water fountains (the one’s you sit and watch, not the ones from which you sip). The editorialist characterized this “accomplishment” as a rejuvenation of the City Beautiful movement…a legacy from Mayor Robert W. Speer’s administration.

The irony of the rejuvenation of fountains is that there is probably no more costly or maintenance intensive undertaking in any park, anywhere than that of a fountain. Fountains bleed resources. Yet, the grass doesn’t get watered, flowers don’t get planted, weeds infest with gleeful effusion, asphalt paths deteriorate, play areas fall into disrepair.

It would have been worthwhile if Ms. Cohen and the Parks folks had sauntered through Highland Park or Berkeley Park or Rocky Mountain Park, all of which are also in the Northwest Park District. It would have been interesting if Ms. Cohen had asked the Parks folks a few more cogent questions about what appears to be deliberate neglect of portions of each of the parks I’ve mentioned. (I’m not concerned about Sloan’s because, as Ms. Cohen reports, the Sloan’s neighbors are doing quite well in playing the role of squeaky wheel.) It would have been interesting if Ms. Cohen had asked the Parks folks if all that money spent on the rejuvenation of fountains might have been better spent, for example, on the replacement of the rocky, slumped, jagged, deteriorating path through Highland Park or, indeed, just the planting of one flowerbed.

Sloan’s Lake Park is a marvelous environment for people and critters. The pelicans alone, which grace the lake, are literally evidence of God’s good work. Unfortunately, the evidence of man’s neglect weighs heavy on other parks where the neighbor’s clout, the neighbor’s “…demands…” (as Ms. Cohen reports) are a wee less influential at City Hall.

Shamefully heartless, wasn't I.

Home is the sailor, home from the sea...

Actually, just home from the shore, the Jersey shore. Someone--my brother-in-law, I think--suggested that when one says they're going to the shore, it is universally understood (in the states, at least) that one is going to New Jersey, to the New Jersey shoreline where the Atlantic rumbles and spits, ebbs and floods; a robust gush of white-crested, moon-pulled saltwater that captures the essential fancy of even the most cynical.

The picture above, by the way, was taken about 7 a.m., about a half-hour to forty-five minutes after the sunrise turns from a basketball of orange fire to what you see in the picture. I pointed my camera directly at the sun--from the balcony of our bed and breakfast--and the affect of seeming sunset, the dark land, the coruscation of the sunlight on the sea is, at least, interesting.

Incidentally, as I titled this post, above, I googled the words just to take a look at the complete poem by A.E. Hausman and discovered--yes, I'll admit I didn't know it--that those words were first written (conceived) by Robert Louis Stevenson in his Requiem. Lest you think less of Hausman, he did acknowledge and credit Stevenson.

This is my third trip to the Jersey Shore, to Ocean Grove for the purpose of celebrating my nephew's birthday. He, Jack, became eight this year. Of all the pics I took of him and his sister, Kate, and their mom and dad and David, I'm fascinated with this pensive image of him as he and his mom and sister awaited the departure of ride at Point Pleasant Amusement Park which is about an hour south of Ocean Grove.
Yes, there are scads of pics with smiles. And, to be fair, here's another pic of Jack on the balcony of our bed and breakfast. He's a good boy, with a fine mind,
a wonderful sense of humor,
the ability to counter, tit for tat,
his Uncle George's quips and
comments, arguments and logic
or illogic, as it may be.

Much more to be said about the trip to the shore. But, as is my
habit, I'm going on here and probably losing your interest. So, I'll
end this post here and take up the adventure again in a future, or several future posts.

Back From the Shore - Back to the Routine

That's me in the orange pants! :-] I missed my treadmill!

Gone to the Jersey Shore

See ya'll in a week.

Mayor John "Mister Greenjeans" Hickenlooper and His Fantastic Tree Initiative AND the even MORE FANTASTIC Sales Tax Increase for Pre-Schoolers

I love trees and the shade they bring and the creatures who inhabit them or just land on them for a moment of look-see to determine where the worm or the seed or the field mouse might be. (Partial to field mice, too. But, it's a Darwinian thing that I can't do a whole lot about.) I love trees. I understand the worth of trees in cooling the planet and absorbing carbon dioxide. (Incidentally, I understand Mister Greenjeans took hold of this million tree thing after someone with the Denver Museum of Science and Technology happened to mention the worth of trees as a weapon against global warming. One wonders, then, where the hell Hick has been for, well, the last twenty, thirty years or more during which the worth of trees, as described, has been universally known even by old guys like myself.) I mourn the passing of so many giant and ancient trees that have been cut down (or fallen down in a high wind) due to old age and disease in our West Highlands neighborhood. (The old Silver Maple that fronts our 1893 Victorian was trimmed last year. The foreman of the crew told us that our tree probably has another four or five years left in it.)

A letter to the editor in yesterday's Rocky Mountain News caught my eye. It's from a fellow by the name of Isaac Smith out of Thornton. Mr. Smith has done the math on Mr. Greenjeans', excuse me, Mayor Hickenlooper's proposal to plant a million new trees in Denver over the next twenty years. Now, here's what Mr. Smith says: "1 million trees divided by 20 years equals 50,000 trees per year. So, the city of Denver plans to plant about 137 trees per day for the next 20 years? ...Maybe a brilliant reporter should ask Mayor John Hickenlooper where the water is going to come from for 50,000 new trees per year."

Let me take Isaac's math a step further.

If Denver is going to plant 137 trees per day for the next twenty years, then--after recently planting a red maple in my back yard--I figure it takes about an hour to dig the whole, prep the whole, prep the tree, set the tree, engorge the whole with enriched soil, cover the whole with dirt, water the tree, spread mulch in the depression around the trunk. So, we're talking about 137 hours per day, seven days a week. Given an eight hour day for city workers (with a half-hour lunch and two fifteen minute breaks, resulting actually in a seven hour day of productive work) then one person could probably plant seven trees per day. With me, here? Okay. 137 divided by 7 is, rounded off, about 20. So, twenty guys/gals a day, seven days a week will be needed to achieve Mister Greenjeans's dream.

Now, the mid-range pay for a Parks Seasonal Laborer is $10.76 per hour. Forgetting the 30+ percent required for FICA and other ancillary costs for these employees, and figuring that you can probably plant trees for about, oh, maybe six months per year, let's see what we come up with. Shall we?

Since Mister Greenjeans wants a million trees planted in twenty years, then we're going to have to double the number of employees for the planting because we've got only six months to do it. So, that's 40 people per day for six months. Given that (I think?) an FTE (Full Time Employee) works at least 2,080 hours per year, it is reasonable to expect the tree planters to work 1,040 hours during their six months of service. Still with me? So, let's see what the cost of these folks might be.

40 employees X 1,040 hours for six months of work at an average of $10.76 per hour= $447,616.08 X 20 years = $8,952,320.00. This, of course--as I said--doesn't account for FICA and workmans' comp costs and overtime for weekends, etc., etc., etc.

Now, we haven't considered the cost of trees. My new Red Maple cost about $90.00. You can do that math yourself.

Some of my prior posts have characterized Hizzonner, John Hickenlooper, Mister Greenjeans, the Hick, as a "snake oil" salesman. "Snake oil," is defined as poppycock, bunkum. So, the seller of snake oil is a purveyor of poppycock and/or bunkum. Agreed? Unfortunately and incredibly the Hick's popularity remains in the stratosphere. Left-leaning folks (majority of Denverites) buy the Hick's fantastical concoctions, hook, line and sinker, including, of course, the fantastic tree initiative.

Quite aside from Isaac's worry about where the water is going to come from to water all these wonderful trees, might I wonder where the hell the money is going to come from to remediate the disgustingly irresponsible deferment of park infrastructure repair/maintenance that has infested this city for so many years? While the Hick has discovered his Mister Greenjeans personae, can I suggest that part of that personae should be a concern about the disgraceful lack of interest in the rehabilitation of Denver's parks?

It's clear that Denver's parks are going to languish in disrepair unless the Mayor and the City Council place appropriate bond issues on the ballot. But, what have they chosen to place on the ballot this November! Nothing for parks. No, they've chosen to place on the ballot a proposal to raise Denver's sales tax by .0012 cents (1.2 cents for every ten dollars) to fund a pre-school program that would raise about $12Million to be exclusively devoted to a pre-school education program.

Not enough that Denver property owners are paying out the kazoo in property taxes for the Denver Public School system that keeps asking for more money and keeps failing at educating Denver's kids...in spite of all that money. No, now Hick is--in my humble opinion--severely overstepping/shirking his responsibilities to the citizens of Denver in suggesting that sales tax monies (the main source of Denver's operational revenue) be utilized to fund schooling programs. Now, if you can show me where in Denver's Charter or its Revised Municipal Code the Mayor has the responsibility for the education of Denver's children I'd be real interested to see it.

I'm thinkin' that $12Million Hick wants to spend on schooling programs would be a Godsend for Denver's parks. Indeed, most of the parks on my side of town have irrigation systems that are so compromised they either don't work at all or are so inefficient and damaged that they waste hundreds of thousands of gallons of water.

Consider this: Part of that $12Million could go to before and after school and summertime recreation programs for Denver's kids IN THE PARKS. You want to give Denver's kids a meaningful, life-nurturing experience? Get them outside. Get them in the swimming pool or the basketball court. Get them in the weight room. Get them into pottery and painting and sculpting and tennis and baseball and softball and golf. Get them into music programs and boating programs and, hell, get them into cleaning up the parks. Let those kids help plant those trees!

Just a last thought here. David and I don't have children of the two-legged variety. Our children have been exclusively of the four-legged variety and they have been as precious to us as I'm sure the two-legged variety are to our neighbors who have them. David and I understand the worth of educating the young in Denver. That's the responsibility of the Denver School Board and Hick's ol' buddy Michael Bennett, the superintendent of Schools. It's not the responsibility of the Mayor of Denver or the Denver City Council.

Let me suggest that this pre-school program has been in the works for quite a number of years and has been/is being pushed by Carol Boigon (God bless her good intentions) who has worked for a couple Denver mayors and is now on the Denver City Council. Mayor Wellington Webb, the Hick's predecessor, put the damn thing on the ballot and it lost. Now, here we are again and folks are just giddy with the prospect of the Hick pushing the thing over the top, slick salesman of the oil of snakes that he is.

Tapping into the city's main source of operational revenue to fund a program that has nothing to do with the sworn responsibilities of either the mayor or the city council is just simply wrong. If the Denver School Board wants to go to the people once again and ask for more money to enhance pre-school programs, then let them do it.

Let's fix this city's crumbling infrastructure. It can't wait much longer.

Oh, and by the way, it was Mayor Robert W. Speer--first elected in 1904, reelected in 1908 and 1916--who initiated an annual spring "Tree Day," where up to 20,000 trees were given out to Denver's citizens free of charge. Given Denver's population now, those 20,000 trees would surely today equate to, oh, say 50,000 or more trees.

I've got it. Mister Greenjeans can, at the city's nurseries and at secure locations in the parks, begin a tree growing program--from little acorns, mightly oaks....--that in a few years would surely provide those 50,000 trees that Hizzonner could give away to citizens to plant all over the city. Let's start up some tree farms. Whadaya think?

Ah, a solution for Mister Greenjeans following Mayor Speer's example, who (Mayor Speer) said (again, by the way): "We have had too much tinkering, running after false gods, and not enough common sense in our city affairs..."

Amen!

P.S. That's Mister Greenjeans at the upper right. Striking resemblance to... Nah. Never mind.

Letters to Melissa - Piney Lake (Part 1)

Dear Sweet Melissa:


David and I went camping last weekend. Camping is when you load up the car with food and shelter and blow-up mattresses (and the pump to blow them up) and toilet paper and snacks and booze (lots of booze) and flashlights and bug spray and seven layers of clothing and sunscreen and zip-up bags to sleep in and pillows and coolers filled with ice and a shovel (to bury you know what!) and a saw and a hatchet and fold-up camping chairs and hats and ten pairs of socks (they get wet!) and hiking boots and running shoes (for me, at least) and trail shoes and underwear (if you happen to do underwear) and cameras and feelings of adventure and good tidings 'cause you're going to be in the wilderness and might see Bambi and, well, lots of gas in the tank and air in the tires. But, sweetheart, that's just the beginning.

This is the second year we've gone camping (to Piney Lake north of Vail) with our friends John and Fred and Clayton and Richard and Bob (this year's "newbie") and Clayton's and Richard's two beautiful blond retrievers, Sydney and Roo (Kangaroo, if you were wondering). Honey, let me tell you that Clayton offered to leave Sydney and Roo home this time if we wanted to take you with us and we said, no, you just wouldn't enjoy such a thing and, well, you went to heaven before we went camping anyway. But, it was kind of Clayton to think of you. (I know honey. You would have gone to the ends of the earth for us. Even camping. But, your old hips just weren't up to it.)


The second part to camping is driving to the hills. We experienced (or, at least I did) a little trepidation about taking the Lincoln because once you take the turn off at Vail there's ten miles of dirt road that requires navigation and, yes, the Lincoln's air suspension aside, the possibility of bottoming out (like a boat on a sandbar) is something one does have to think about when driving a Lincoln on a dirt road in the Colorado Rockies. I'm happy to tell you that this second leg of the camping adventure was fairly uneventful; there were no incidents of bottoming out, as the dirt road had obviously been graded recently.

The third part of camping involves unloading, setting-up, erecting all the shit (sorry, but that's probably the most descriptive and universally understood word I can think of right now) from the car that you packed before you left home in Denver, some one-hundred and twenty odd miles to the east, on the other side of the Continental Divide.

David and I sat up our tent first after we sprayed OFF all over our bodies. You can see our pretty tent next to the Lincoln in the picture above. The erection of tents is a little more difficult than when I was a kid. I mean, today you've got all these fiberglass rods and metal and plastic rings and nylon sleeves and three pages of erection instructions sewn right into the tent itself that, if not followed explicitly might spell your demise from biting flies or biting bears (I'm not sure which is worse!). But, let me tell you that it took David and me only about three tries to get the damned thing set-up correctly as the picture above irrefutably proves.

Now, still on the third part of the camping experience, the next thing in the protocol is to unpack the rest of the shit: the food, the booze, the chairs, the sleeping bags, the clothes, etc., etc., etc.

Part four of the camping protocol is to join the rest of the group around the late afternoon campfire, dig out your favorite alcoholic beverage, settle yourself into your camp chair (canvas and aluminum fold-up, fold-out things that have a netted sock on the arm where you put your cup or glass or bottle) and then stare into the campfire.
The picture above does not really represent the impressiveness of the fire we usually kept going in the substantial firepit that had been left there by previous temporary residents of the campsite. But, it gives you some idea of the potential of the kind of magnificent burning we accomplished that weekend.

Not wanting to bore you, Sweet Melissa, I'll leave this missive at this point and take it up again later with tales of horses and flies and tattoos and flies and booze and flies and campfire trashtalk and flies and Bambi and flies.

Good-night, Sweetheart

P.S. One more picture. That's Piney Lake with the Gore Range in the background. This is where I would have liked to have let you run free. But, it was just too late, sweetheart. I suspect you've got even more majectic fields to explore, without my silly banter; without my maudlin missive that, by the way, is helping me to get through the ache of your loss. I know that ache will never completely go away; that it will just gradually taper off a bit day by day, year by year.

Stem Cell Presentation on Floor of US Senate - Topeka's Sam Brownback

This video (click on above title) provides one, if not the most absurd presentations I've ever seen on the U.S. Senate floor by, who else, Senator Sam Brownback from, where else, Kansas.

It's instructive to note that all the so-called "snowflake" babies who were carted into the White House for Dubya's veto of the DeGette bill on stem cell research, were white babies, the wanted babies, as Brownback points out.

There are so, so many unwanted babies, already born, yearning for a family. But, well, they ain't "snowflakes;" they're babies of color or babies with maladies, crack babies, AIDS babies; all waiting for a loving family to take them in. But, nope, Brownback doesn't even mention them. It's the frozen embryos that produce them cuddly "sknowflakes" that play to the base; that tug at all those lily-white, flatlander, Christian fundamentalistic wingnuts who, of course, will never have to deal with a family member coming down with Parkinsons or Alzheimer's. (Or, if they do, I can hear it now: "Well, yes, grandpa has Alzheimer's, but--praise Jesus!--we ask him if he wanted us to kill one of them little 'snowflakes' in the hope that it might make him better. And you know what he said! Well, he said, 'No.' Not only no, but 'hell no.' Oh, can I hear an Amen!)

Funny thing is, lots of gay couples tend to turn away from the "snowflakes" and take on the hardest parenting of all: those babies of color, those sick babies, those precious little souls who, otherwise--if it were left up to Sam Brownback--would sit at the back of the adoption bus forever. Now, with Dubya's "faith-based" funding of entities/institutions like Catholic Charities (which adopts out babies/children) and the concomitant flimsy line that's been established between church and state, even gay folk are beginning to be denied the opportunity to give good homes to otherwise "unwanted" children.

Ain't them "snowflakes" precious, though.

Some things just don't make a lot of sense, buckaroos.

DOGS - Great Shots (Click for Video)

Letters to Melissa

Sweet Melissa:

As I'm sure you know, we received your ashes from the vet several days ago. They came in a small pewter container that, Marilyn--the vet's wife--told us was skulpted by the gentleman who does the cremations for them. The top of the container was, indeed, skulpted: there were shapes of flowers and leaves dug into the metal. Not really beautiful, but a good effort. You would have taken a quick look and stuck your nose up in the air. You were so...discerning.

I had decided, when we let you go, that I wanted to plant a tree in the back yard where we would place your ashes. I wanted a red maple. What John--you remember John, you loved John who remodeled three-quarters of our house and also landscaped the yard--came up with was a maple that is green in the spring and summer, but turns a brilliant, deep red in the fall. He delivered it yesterday. I thought it would be the absolute perfect tree for you, given that you also, like the seasons, changed physically when the imminent threat of winter approached. Your coat became so full, so luxuirous when the season changed.

I had already begun digging the hole for the tree and, yesterday, when David and I carried it into the back yard, it was clear the hole needed to be enlarged. The tree was very mature, large. And, after dinner, David went to Target and picked up several bags of planting soil while I stayed home and enlarged the hole, assuring that I would have--as the tag on the tree indicated--between six and twelve inches of clearance between the side of the hole and the root ball. The root ball was in a fifteen gallon container. So, as you might guess, I had to make the hole quite large.

Yes, I know you know all of this already. But, believe me, it helps me to write about it.

Anyway, I went upstairs while David was at the store, and I wrote a little good-bye note to you and also printed one of my favorite pictures of you. When David got home, we put the pewter container of your ashes, the good-bye note and the picture into a plastic bag. We sealed the bag with duct tape and then placed the package into the bottom of the hole I had dug for the tree.

David and I sobbed a bit. We embraced. You were, after all, our child, our precious child who had given us so much joy over twelve years and ten months or our and your life.

We then placed the maple on top of your ashes and filled the hole first with the Miracle Grow David had brought home from Target and then topped it off with the suprisingly rich soil I had dug up from the planting spot.

Ah, we miss you so much, Sweet Melissa. But, you know that. You know that as you find that little pleasure in, once again, the domination of every move Calvin E. Rowe and Nikolai Blue Buck take up there as you did down here. Yes, somewhere beyond the rainbow, I've got a feeling Calvin and Nikolai just smile with your typical, controling antics. They love you, too.

I'll be writing to you in the future about other things: politics and parks and birds and camping and other stuff that David and I and I alone experience as we continue this odbyssey called life back here in the old house and amongst this mortal baggage that, at times, weighs so heavy.

Kisses, honey. We love you. We always will.

The Promise of the First Amendment

JFK on the First Amendment.

Piney Lake, Colorado

Piney Lake, Colorado, originally uploaded by George In Denver.

Piney Lake, Colorado (about ten miles north of Vail) is a wonderful, somewhat pristine area in the White River National Forest (Eagle's Nest Wildlife Reserve) where, yes, Colorado Columbines are prolific.

Piney Lake, Colorado

Piney Lake, Colorado, originally uploaded by George In Denver.

Camping this weekend at Piney Lake, Colorado. This--what I believe to be a--mule deer let me get within about fifty yards. He's a young'un. Note his antlers just beginning to grow.

Sweet Melissa

Sweet Melissa, originally uploaded by George In Denver.

Sweet Melissa went to heaven this morning. We'll miss you, sweetheart. Godspeed.

“We need another and wiser and perhaps a more mystical concept of animals. Remote from universal nature, and living by complicated artifice, man in civilization surveys the creature through the glass of his knowledge and sees thereby a feather magnified and the whole image in distortion. We patronize them for their incompleteness, for their tragic fate of having taken form so far below ourselves. And therein we err, and greatly err. For the animal shall not be measured by man. In a world older and more complete than ours they move finished and complete, gifted with extensions of the senses we have lost or never attained, living by voices we shall never hear. They are not brethren, they are not underlings; they are other nations, caught with ourselves in the net of life and time, fellow prisoners of the splendour and travail of the earth.”

Henry Beston, The Outmost House

Sweet Melissa - II

Sweet Melissa is having a fairly good day. At least she's no worse. She's getting the hang of how she must maneuver herself (sans the use of her left front leg, the limitations of her right hind leg and her bad hips) in order to sit and stand and lie down. The 1,000mg of coated aspirin a day appears to be working as well or even better than the Rimadyl or the liquid NSAID (nonsteroidal anti-inflammatory drugs), Metacam. Unfortunately, she's lost her appetite for all but the most tasty of her treats. She continues to drink sufficient water.

We brought Melissa home from the breeder when she was eight weeks old. This was near the end of October, 1993. At that time, we had only one dog, a Siberian Husky named Nikolai (Rimsky-Korsakov) Blue Buck. Nikolai was a gentle soul who also came from a breeder. But, it was our decision not to place little Melissa in the back yard with Nikolai. As gentle and good-hearted as he was, our fear was that Sweet Melissa--even at eight weeks of age--would try to assert herself and Nikolai would react naturally. So, Melissa spent several months in our house and confined to our kitchen during the night. Suffice it to say, generally at 3a.m., Sweet Melissa would awaken and fill the house with her pitiful cries. Either David or I would climb downstairs, give the little princess a goody and, always, toss her little ball across the floor for her to fetch...over and over again until she would collapse and fall asleep. Either David or I would then climb back upstairs and sleep until about 6a.m. when, yes, the little darling would, once again, wail into the dark of the morning.

Here are some shots from those early days.

Sweet Melissa - I

Sweet Melissa is the offspring of champions. We purchased her from a very, very discriminating breeder who required David and I to submit to an intensive interview before she would even consider the possibility of allowing us to purchase a pup.

We--David and I--were "approved" by the breeder and the beginning of this joyous journey with Sweet Melissa commenced, at the age of only four days, when I was allowed by the breeder to hold Sweet Melissa. She fit in the palm of one hand. Her tongue was unusually long, and, as she slept the sleep of the innocent, that pink appendage (her tongue) lazily extended beyond her mouth at least a half inch. She was a beautiful baby. And, as I held her that day--when she was only four days old--I knew she was special; I knew the joy she would bring to our--David's and my--life would be immense.

She did not dissapoint.

Sweet Melissa

There is a bittersweet joy in this passage--inevitable and unwelcome as it is, as they all have been--that conjures those moments, those precious moments that otherwise have settled themselves quietly, unobtrusively in the back of the brain, in that primordial soup that is memory; 'til now almost forgotten images, sounds, smells, touches that were, are the twelve years and ten months of her life.

Sweet Melissa.

We've understood that our Alaskan Malamute, Melissa Marie (Adaka's Autumn Amber II), has, for about the past year, begun the painful path to the eventual debilitating effects of osteoarthritis. Her left front leg and her right rear leg, as well as her hips, are the main culprits. Her spirit, her independence, her...majesty remain her strengths; the essence of who Sweet Melissa is and has been for all these short, short years.

Ah, today, at least for today, nothing really matters: not Iraq or North Korea or Dubya or Rove. No, not for today. What matters today and for, perhaps, the next few weeks or, God willing, the next month or two months; what matters is Sweet Melissa.

When Melissa stopped running with me because of the beginnings of a limp, we--David and I--began a modest aspirin therapy to ease what clearly was the development of osteoarthritis. That was over a year ago. Now, we've lived the history of ever increasing dosages of aspirin, the ineffectual results of Rimadyl, the worthlessness of the latest, greatest liquid "wonder," Metacam. And, now, we've gone back to aspirin: 1,000 mg. a day, that seems to be easing the pain somewhat which, incidentally, is more than the "wonder" drugs have ever been able to do.

So, if my posts to this site are seldom or maudlin or, indeed, boring, so be it. Sweet Melissa, David and I are struggling through another passage, another transition, another...grief.

Bear with us as those precious moments, those memories come as a flood tide. This, then, begins Sweet Melissa's story.

It's Okay

Sweet Melissa for This Week

Sweet Melissa, originally uploaded by George In Denver.