It's a G-G-G-G-Ghost!

I might not of mentioned this before, but we live in a tastefully decorated condo overlooking Denver’s most haunted park. Spooky. Well, mostly it’s bothersome because there is a constant parade of hipster type people taking up parking to go wander around the large sea of green with EVP grabbing voice recorders in their little alt-ironic Slayer tee shirt wearing hands. 

Picture it, Denver. As Denver grew up just after the “toss your dead into the closest river” fad, the town needed a place to bury its cowboys and strumpets. It started a cemetery and buried both rich and poor way outside of town. After a while the town grew closer and closer to this out of the way cemetery. The city graveyard began being used for poor, or poppers graves, and gasp, Chinese, Jews, and Catholics burials. The WASPS began burning their fancy dead in a farther away cemetery, and the city graveyard fell farther into disrepair. With more mansions being built closer and closer there were soon calls for the graveyard to be emptied and moved. 

The history of what happened next is well documented. There are nine-hundred Youtube uploads about this history. All of which use the same, not quite right source material. 

A fraudster who won the contract to move possibly thousands of graves, cashed the check and then pulled some of the dead out of their “final” resting place and left them laying them around everywhere. ‘You moved the headstones and left the graves!” When the city, state, and the federal government got involved everyone decided to just grass over the whole situation and begin building their new park. Leaving thousands in the ground. 

It has been very well documented about the spiritual rift this caused and the ghost stories of the unsettled dead. **Eye roll** Not that I am discounting this at all, there have been many documented reports in the area. I’ve seen a couple of things myself. 

Flash forward one hundred and fifty years and Youtube is invented. With this new media comes the phenomenon of the amateur ghost hunter. For the cost of a handheld voice recorder and a flashing thing called a “spirit box” anyone can post “real evidence.”

October is spooky season. This is the time where these local Hipsters come out of the dark to meet and began their annual rituals. Complementing each others band tee shirts, and to hunt for proof of the undead. This is also the season for us to sit on our balcony and watch the bobbing lanterns float around the dark on formal ghost tours and independent adventures. Random screams and skreeks of delight as something extra scary happens. It’s very delightful to watch. Some choose to not walk around and instead take the full bus tour of “haunted Denver” and have a guided tour of all the ghoulish scenes. This includes a stop in the park below our balcony where we can hear the tour guide speak of the haunted buildings surrounding the park. Uh… Bitch, where?

Okay, there was that time someone tapped The Amazing One on the shoulder when he was home alone. And the shadow person. Meh. “If they ain’t paying your bills, pay those bitches no mind.”

 

Here is the plan; White sheets at the ready, when the next tour comes by, we toss on sheets and dance around on the patio like crazy ghosts. Cultural Appropriation, but they will be able to say they saw a ghost.   

   

 

The Balcony that Changed Me

Okay, one more story about the building I live in, then we can move on. Well, maybe. How about one last historic story before we move into the modern era. 

Picture it, Cheesman Park 1990. I was living in tiny attic space in a victorian on Downing St.  My best friend lived on the other side of the park so anytime we wanted to hangout one of us would trek across the green expanse of lawn. This means I would have to traverse a main street leading in and out  of the park. The same building I live in now was on this path. Balconies line the front of the building overlooking the street. As I crossed in front of this building I noticed a guy leaning on a balcony railing. I noticed him for two reasons, I had been introduced to the art of Tom of Finland, and this guy was a spiting image to one to one of the gentleman in this art, and two; he was pointing at me and hollering for me to come closer. So I did. He kindly requested that I go to the front door and buzz his apartment. Walking to his door there would be no way of knowing that 1,000 years in the future I would live there. Well directly upstairs. He met me at this apartment door.    

He was was very old in my young eyes. But we was probably forty, meaning fifteen years younger than my current age.  I would later learn that he would be classified as a levi leather dom. Sooooo, let’s skip the details, you know what happened. We can say he created and formed my lifelong views, tastes, kinks, needs, fantasies, and standards in one amazing afternoon I still think about often. With one man’s tongue and smelly underwear my life began.   

They say you always remember your first. And why he wasn’t my first boy. He was my first man. I carry his torch and try to live in his footsteps. 

The Pavilion

When I was just out of high school and fresh to living out on my own, I spent my early days of  freedom sunning in the park, walking to Taco Bell, and generally being lazy with a lesbian named Michelle. We would spend hours on the steps of the park’s pavilion dreaming, of our future loves, and lovers. Somehow this involved a move to San Francisco. I would meet the love of my life in the mythic city. These were solid plans. Plans that turned out to never move from the marble steps of the pavilion into the world of reality. I think bout how easy a move would of been to pull off in 1990. Everything I owned would fit in the back of my ‘68 Mustang. No strings to tie me down. As of today I cannot actually tell you why I never did it, fear I guess. Fear of the unknown; of failure, maybe of this love of my life not existing in the real world. 

I started adult life in Denver. I got many-many jobs, slowly went through college, grew my hair out, shaved it off. Grew a beard, shaved it off.  Had string of boyfriends both bearded and un-bearded. It’s funny about my experiences with boyfriends during this time we will call Steve’s adult life. With every “love of my life” I had a sense of forcing the idea of love and companionship. Like that over-used song says, “ I would tell myself they were right for me, but I would feel so lonely in there company.”

During this long chapter I would find myself returning to the steps of park’s pavilion and find myself gazing off into my future countless times. These steps were my daydreaming space. I soon settled on the fact that this was, actually what love was. A cheesy song by Gotye about being in and out of love.  

This, without warning and without my approval, changed when I agreed to a lunch date with a man we will call, “The Amazing One.” Within the last couple of years The Amazing One and I started walking, these walks seem more and more end up at the pavilion in Cheesman Park. I sit and chat with the most amazing, talented, warm, smartest person I ever met. Every second I am filled with gratitude. As I sit and daydream with this amazing human, I think about my first summer sitting on the marble steps and how long it took to really find my place of contentment and pure happiness. The hows and whys don’t affect me any more. For the first time it’s real. As solid as the marble steps. 

The Blue Light Project

During the darkest days of the AIDS epidemic the community in Denver was devastated. To cope and indicate our strength many houses placed a blue light in their windows. The Blue Light Campaign.  You could drive around Capitol Hill in 1988 and whole streets were lit up with blue light bulbs glowing from windows. During this time I was in high school and rode the number 10 bus every day, riding early in the mornings way before the sun would rise. As I left my safe neighborhood to head to the grey suburb I would count the glowing blue bulbs. One building next to Cheesman Park had every window lit up with a blue lamp marking the defiance to a disease. I would stare at this building with a sense of belonging, solidarity, and fear for the future of the disease.  

Then the violence started. 

Rocks began to be thrown through windows shattering the widows and the lights. Somehow attempting to stop and deny the solidarity in a time of crisis. The news refused to cover the growing violence, community leaders started civilian patrols. I remember meetings at the gay community center trying to build some sort of protection. Not only were we fighting AIDS we also had to fight roving bands of rock throwing nasty hate. But, the building next to the park never stopped shining their blue lights. Window glass was replaced and the lights were still lit. 

One morning on the bus to school I saw that a large picture window in this building was shattered.  On the ride home that day I noticed a sign. It read “WHY? You will not break us!!” I cried the rest to the ride home. The sign became my mantra. My driving motive to get involved in the movement. All of my belonging to the community was started and formed on that day. They may throw rocks, but will not break us. 

I thought about that day a lot growing up. So it was surreal when I stood in an empty bedroom on the other side of that window where the sign was posted. The window I looked out of was once shattered by hate. The blue light sat in the condo where we were touring. Thirty-five years later I stared onto the street below where someone once stood and threw a rock. Someone bravely lived in this home we were deciding to make our home. My partner stepping up next to me seeing the look on my face as I stood thinking about that day. “You okay?” He said. “Yes, we need to live here” I said. We moved in soon after. 

I have blue lights decorating our balcony. I am 100% sure no-one knows the significance. But I do. It’s for the person who hung up that sign in the window. 

The Park

We live in a tastefully appointed condo overlooking the gay park in Denver. Well, it was gay. 

In the sixties the counter-culture hippies gathered in the park to smoke weed and worship the moon. In the seventies the homos came to this park to smoke weed and worship dick. In actuality gays and lesbians came to the park, named Cheesman due to repressive zoning laws meant to keep Denver white, conservative, a safe place for their idea of a nuclear family to not feel oppressed. In most parts of the city, unmarried individuals could not cohabitant. If you weren’t married you just could live under the same roof. The area around this park was a tiny area not restricted to this zoning ordinance. The gays gravitated to this green open space to find any resemblance of freedom. 

I literally stepped off the number 10 bus in the summer of 1989. I too was seeking freedom, and I unknowingly found it. An oasis of grass, grass, and ass. The time spent in the park made me who I am, the friends and culture gave me my foundation in life. My entire adulthood has had this foundation that draws me back. So, when we discovered that a condo overlooking the park came to the market, I think it took three seconds for us to contact and set a viewing. After moving in and settling into our new house, I had floods of memories of our new building. I walked by and gazed at our future home ever since that summer of ’89. A unattainable pipe dream to live life on a balcony opening up to a sea of green trees and lawn. Now I sip coffee at 3am on that balcony, casting a gaze onto my home. 

 I soon realized that the park was very different. This center of gay culture, with it lurid cruising and circling cars blaring Madonna, was missing one thing. The gays. Everyone has many opinions  as to why the gay neighborhoods across the US have be come….less concentrated… The best being we don’t need to live in fear in a gay sanctuary part of town.  The  worst opinions being “online apps” No matter the reason the park seems, to me anyway a very different atmosphere and experience. As we walk around the park now-a-days, I will casually say, “I used to get plowed on that tree” to hear, “the tree with the family picnicking?” “yeah” I will sigh.  

The passing of time changes everything. 

So, Hello.

Ever wonder where old media goes to die? No. no-one wonders that. You're watching a Vine video on your humongous desktop, thenYoutube blows up, then dies, then blows up. The winds of self-indulgent communication blow gently, and yet consistently. The written word morphed into live streaming, the journal turned into  live streaming shorts.  

There's an ancient art that happened just after cave scribble, it was called "Blogging"and yes, this is where I say "back in my day" as I rattle my cain in your direction. I am big! it's the screens and attention spans that got small!

Let's skip the junk about kids these days and how everyone once blogged and now walks around with live uploads to their platforms. I was a blogger in the past. A popular one. But, then life moved on. I live by the mantra which states, a sign of a healthy life means there is no sign of it on line. I am having a healthy life. I am with the MOST amazing partner. I thank my lucky stars every day that we are together. Now, why am I typing these words. I miss writing, I miss telling my stories. Sometimes the same stories I've told a dozen time to this amazing partner. Let's call him "The Amazing One"

My Dad was a story teller. Not all stories were true, but the truth can be a killer in a good story. But I learned story telling from him. Which may be the only thing I learned from him. Which brings me back to my writing tool, my Macbook. My companion through my college years and stage era of Japanese suit porn. Term papers and blurred business men in the past just as Nice to See StevieB blog posts.  Blowing the dust off the keyboard and seeing if the Blogger platform still exists. I does. Oddly enough to find out. 

So, hello. Hi. Let's see what happens. 

Rim-Shot and Trixie Motel

How can it be June already?  Riveting journalism this is for a blog post; but, really? June? There were several goals, and deadlines that had to be met when I stepped into 2023 possibly move to a better place, closer to the park, go on the epic vacation that was planned in 2022, and finally, break down and buy a rim chair.

 

Here we are marking the sixth month, halfway through the year, and I am done with all three goals. We went to LA for a weekend, ditched Dragcon as it was.... a drag, and had an amazing weekend staying with The Trixie Motel in Palm Springs. So much pink. The hype for the hotel was justified. However, the service, in comparison with other high-end and super-expensive hotels, was simply lacking. A two-night stay and there was no personal service. I got snipped at for wanting a cup of coffee before 8AM or after 10AM But, I walked in to check in with a backpack and dirty jeans, so go figure. Palm Springs was amazing as we did brunch-bitch poolside at a historic hotel with new friends.  

Moving was surprisingly easy. If not overly expensive. Inflation hit the moving industry just like everything else. Just yesterday I unpacked the last box. In all my moves, which there have been way too many, it seems like the books just sit and wait to be placed on a bookcase. Also, after to purge all the stuff you realize you‘ll never use again, you move and end up with a whole new stack of stuff for Goodwill. Every time wondering “Why did I move this?”   

And as for the rim chair.... well... There comes a time when you realize you need the right tool for the right job. I like to consider myself an... expert in the field.... and need to step up, or lie down to the major league. To do this I need the best tools.  

Structure

 I am finding more and more that my life has distinct stages, or eras to be more precise. These stages can easily be demonstrated by Structure. I mean, yes, the structure of my life, but I mean Structure the early 90’s men's clothing store. It was a mall staple and would of been found by the massive Corinthian, or sometimes Doric columns marking the entryway. Also, by the smell of cheap cologne and the blaring sound of C+C Music Factory. It was the height of men's fashion and the only place to buy your masculine 90’s club wear. Eventually, I will go on to date three different men that worked there during their college years.  

During its heyday, I was the target demographic to sell their cheap dress shirts, belts, and high wasted jeans. But, just out of high school, my budget did not agree with my choice to expand my fashion statements. So, Structure remained that fancy men's clothing store with the clothes I could not wear. So, I would cross the Doric columns and get ideas of what was cool, then travel to...Sears maybe... I’m not sure I even remember anymore where I shopped. In retrospect, I should have been one of those gays that worked there to get the discount. And apparently to pick up boyfriends.  

In the present I now have more than enough disposable income to blow at Structure, buying all the paisley double-cuffed fancy shirts I could ever want. I have grown to understand those are fashion choices I do not desire, however. Two reasons; the first is that I do not care if the world judges my fashion. My success as a human does not come from outward appearances. Spending my leisure time in tight tee-shirts and gym shorts, I could not imagine leather-woven belts, vests, and manly berets as a choice. The second reason is Structure sold out eons ago to Express, and those Corinthian columns went the way of the Greek originals.  

But why do I bring this up? Well, I just bought a new car. 

And for the first time in my life, I doubted my need to have the very best. I am not saying a demanded Euro-luxury. I mean how I needed (wanted) all the bells of whistles or be judged for not having all the accessories due to me. Like the self-parking option, which I used possibly four times in four years. Or the navigation which I never used because iPhones are better.     

 I once bought the fancy “off-roady” package of a Jeep Wrangler, making my car payment $750 a month, and it never actually left the pavement. So, I am proud of my new car purchase choice, it has me feeling very grown up. Like I don’t need to buy the over-priced fancy dress shirt just because of the hype of the perception of success. Let’s say very well appointed, and yet I did not let myself get sucked into any hype of

needing every add-on I will never use. How do we measure our success? It is not the clothes we wear or the car we drive.  

Panic at the Salad Bar

One of my first jobs out of high school was at a trendy salad bar restaurant, named Healthy Habits. They were all the rage back then, as the Earth had just cooled and salad was plentiful in the Paleozoic era. I worked with a small group of other homosexuals, as one does right of high school. We would joke and tease, but mostly talk about the cute boys coming in to eat at the salad bar. For a time we had a manager, we’ll call him Ken. Due to the fact that he acted like a Ken doll… well looked like a Ken doll, and acted like Barbie. As the crew joked and around and teased each other, we just assumed Ken was a flamer, like the rest of us. That was until the day Ken had enough of the horseplay and called me into the office to inform me that he was, in fact not gay. A Heterosexual, if you will. He did not appreciate being lumped in with the common staff during conversions.

As he spoke I had, for the first time in my life been blindsided in my judgement of another person.  It was more than 90’s gaydar gone astray.  I went down the list of why I assumed he was a homo…… 1990 Celica in powder blue – check. L.L. Bean cable knit sweaters – check. Frosted tips – Check. Wrists that wobbled around like a lazy weathervane in an August heatwave – double check. The soft-spoken “Sssssss” that even as he said, “I am not a Homosssssssssssssexual” were fem and antebellum like – check. All of my internal judgement of how I classified Ken as a fudge packer was quickly being called into question. He stopped when he saw the blank stare on my face. “I’m sorry- I’m just not… like you.” His left hand dismissively waving me off like a flea.

Modern me would have turned my head slightly and exclaimed “Sure, Jan.” But nineteen year old me just clicked my tongue in my cheek and said, “Thanks for clearing that up.” I adjusted my flat rimmed felt Panama hat and returned to work.

This was a major lesson in my life. About how we – how I, classify people quickly, and sometime get that wrong. This conversion started my path into Human Resources as a career, it awakened in me the ability to read peoples’ body language, and to understand what’s said during the unsaid parts of a conversation.  We all have our own path of self-understanding, regardless of society’s vague and surface judgements. Ken’s path included handcuffs as he was forcing the special needs boy who worked in the kitchen to masturbate on camera. At work. During dinner rushes. Without washing his hands.  

 

There is story to every person we encounter.    

Snowy Morning

This morning I sipped coffee at the patio door watching the morning snow. Our neighbor across the street (we call "The Gays") came out of his bungalow and began the legally required morning task of clearing the sidewalks of snow. A Hugo Boss peacoat, unbuttoned without a shirt, loudly printed plaid pants, a headband to cover the recent hair transplant procedure, and hightop sneakers were required. Apparently. 

I called out to the boyfriend who was starting waffles only to discover we were out of eggs, "I fricken' love our neighborhood!"

Today is our last day of self-isolation vacation, and I think that's for the best. 

Deep in Vogue

Earlier in the year I headed back to 24Fitness as my primary gym. By this I mean I started going only to 24 verses Planet Fitness. This was prompted by many reasons.  The largest was an entitled 20-something woman who saw I was racking up weight on bar but still dropped her designer bag down and declared she “needed” the machine. At this point I decided I “needed” to not workout in a gym that doesn’t have homosexual gym goers as the majority. Yes, in that very instance I realized that I needed to be with my people. So back to 24 Hour Fitness I went.

As you may recall, during the pandemic all gyms were closed. And Stevie lost his pump. The first gyms to re-open with Planet Fitness. So I joined up. 24, who was already finically struggling re-opened only a fraction of their locations much later then Planet. Somehow Denver’s “gay gym” survived. I can’t explain why I continued to go to Planet, I guess it was a habit, or self- abuse. During this time I was slowly losing a lot of muscle mass, as planet is machine based with no free weights or plates to push. Until a sorority girl push helped me with her entitlement.  

I laughed about this again today as I was pushing through my last set on the preacher bar. There was a guy wearing, possible his little sister’s gym shorts and a half shirt with the word “Whore” written across it. He was at the mirrors on the free-weights full on voguing. Like full on “I’m gonna let you have it” voguing. This is when I knew that nature was healing and all was right in the world.

Cars

I am honestly amazed that my car is over four years old. I just seems like I bought it. On Saturday we went for Pho and as we left he restaurant and attempted to start my car I only heard that ominous CLICK_CLICK_CLICK sound. Dead batter? Really, it’s still new…. Oh, well I guess not really. I was tempted to actually and finally press the button in my headliner with the wretch icon and ask for VW service. Call forth the German gods of service to bless by German wagon.  But, a fifty-something man appeared declaring his wife bought him a charging block for his birthday and was yearning to use it. Cis white male boomers were finally good for something.

Bought a new battery, and after secretly watching a YouTube video to make sure I was doing it right, the power of the Germanic Pantheon has returned to my Volkswagen. But, this started thinking….

My declared plan was that my next vehicle would be full electric. So I’ve been waiting. Mostly for the VW ID4 to actually be made; and without the massive IT computer problems pledging them. Or any other Electric vehicle - EV that’s not sixty grand and not made by that Muscky Bond villain. So I was content on waiting until the right EV came along. My secret hope was for the ID Buzz, the VW van to get realized and come to my corner of the world. BUT, if needing replacing the battery is a sign of ramping up small annoying items needing to be fixed, I may not wait.  

 

 

Adolf and Rudolf

When I first met Patrick, BFF for life, I mentioned that I has a tennis shoe fetish. This was not a literal sneaker fetish. I have a laundry list of those fetishes, but shoes is not on that list. It was more a figurative, almost spiritual need to have cool sneakers. In my last move a lowered my inventory from fifty (literally) to about ten pairs (figuratively speaking.) I also had shifted my Puma allegiance to Adidas. This had everything to do with what drives most of my motivations in my life, the seething hatred of Nazis.  I this case it is the story of Adolf a.k.a. Adi and Rudolf Dassler.  

The story of the Dassler brothers came into my desire for cool gym shoes.

These Brothers, had a well-established athletic shoe company (their shoes were worn by athletes in the 1936 Olympics) before they started feuding. Rudolf never gave up on a suspicion that his brother Adi was behind his conscription into the army. Selling out his brother into a conscripted fighting role with German forces in Poland. This led to Rudolf’s imprisonment by the Allis when Poland was liberated. So, Rudolf was drafted for the war and served his time on the frontlines of the battle. On the other hand, the German government had deemed Adolf’s usefulness as a shoemaker as more necessary, and so he was not sent to fight for Germany. Rudolf was very angry about this and saw it as his brother making money and selling shoes, while he was on the frontlines with his life on the line. A jerk brother move selling shoes while Rudolf was fighting a war. Not only did this make him angry, but he believed his brother Adi had something to do with why he wound up there. So when the war ended, Rudolf told the Allies that Adi assisted the Nazi war effort.

In fact after the war ended, the Allies wanted to take revenge on the remaining Nazi soldiers. This meant that Rudolf had to plead his case to the authorities. His brother Adolf snitched on him that he was working with the Nazis, and this caused Rudolf to be imprisoned for another year, while Adolf was making profits. Rudolf tried to snitch on his brother as well, but Adolf’s charges were dropped. This essentially ended the Dassler brothers.

Adolf became Adidas and Puma was started by Rudolf. Over the years I have aligned my alliance to Puma then Adidas depending on the latest paper I have read about the story. Somehow determining which brother was less-Nazisish. I mean, I could avoid the whole situation and buy Nikes, but ew no. What’s the fun in that.

Cialis and Steve

Okay, I have turned on comments again after almost two years. Let's see if the bots have forgotten me. There is nothing worse than fifty comments about my pressing requirement of Cialis. 

Comments on this blog and the comment section in general remind me of a spouse of a former friend who honestly believed his comments were completely anonymous. He then spent valuable and limited time in this world to dog me out for silly reasons.  I would suggest not being a bot in this life. Namaste   

Watermelon

 So I just attempted to explain who the comedian, Gallagher was to my boyfriend.  “See… back in the 70’s he was a popular comedian. His deal was that he would smash watermelons with massive hammers. If you sat in the first couple of rows, you get covered in watermelon bits…. He was famous For this.” Uh. Okay.” The boyfriend turned back to his book. “He was really famous.” I added. “He was also a huge misogynist, homophobe, and if I remember correctly a antisemitic dick.” “Oh…” the boyfriend raised an eyebrow. “So now he’s dead? Sorry for your loss.” Truely he’s the comedian in this house. 

Fifteen Years of StevieB

Wow. It’s been 254 years since starting this blog. Today, marks my blog anniversary; or, blogiversary. Well I guess it’s only been Fifteen years, a nice number I never dreamed I would achieve. A ton of changes have happened to my world since November 11, 2007. Even the changes I blogged about have then changed. “Long-term” relationships have come and gone. Friends have come and gone to be replaced with truer and healthier friends. This blog is a perfect testament to the quote, “If you live long enough, you’ll experience everything.”

This year finds me happy as a clam, which makes me like Melissa Etheridge. As we know Melissa’s music suffers and can be classified and not heartfelt when she is happy and in a stable relationship. It’s only when her life is unsatisfying does her music have driving rhythms.  As my world is content I tend to blog less. This is not a good characteristic.  But, blogs about finally perfecting my taco seasoning for my Breville pressure cooker are not inspiring me to write….

 Boring topics for Steven to blog about since his youth internal conflict has dissipated….

The drunk lady upstairs blares her 80’s rock; but, won’t play the whole song

Black cars… never clean, am I right

The cat will never sleep on my side of the bed. Likes Brian better

So much Voguing going on in the free-weight section of the gym

Why bother getting into a show, it will be cancelled as soon as you care.

Twitter is dead

So you can see there are an endless supply of topics I can blog about. And since all other social media that took me away from my blog is slowly dying, or being taken over by James Bond-like villains this blog has just sat and waited for me. I long ago turned off comments as it was nothing but spam.  Shall we try the comments again? Like Twitter but without the crumbling of society?

So, my dear faithful reader let’s go forward, "One day, I shall come back. Yes, I shall come back. Until then, there must be no regrets, no tears, no anxieties. Just go forward in all your beliefs and prove to me that I am not mistaken in mine." – The Doctor

Yesssss God Boots the House Down, Mmmmmkay

 I have the Spring vacation all planned. I actually did it right before Christmas to surprise Le Boyfriend as one of his Christmas presents. Dragcon 2022 in May. The premier RuPaul’s Dragrace annual convention. A full dragqueen gathering event. I am so super excited to go to L.A. for our trip, finally after two years of hunkering down for the pandemic. I haven't air-traveled since the pando began, and my Southwest air miles were burning a hole through my wallet, begging to be used. I cashed in a bunch of miles that had been self-isolating deep inside my Southwest Airlines credit card. Finally, they are free. Depending of course on any new zombie apocalypse that may begin before May. 

There are very few conventions I attend. The scattered Dr. Who convention, Comic-Cons, ya’know nerd stuff. For the record, I am skipping this year's Dr. Who con in L.A. happening this weekend really based upon safe data from a month ago. But, meh. There’s always 2023. But, I figure May should be safe. That and the L.A. Convention Center has much more free space to distance than the L.A. Mariot Hotel filled with sci-fi nerds.  

Hotel and cars are sorted West Hollywood, you’ve got a big storm coming.

Death Drop

Ravenclaw / ISTJ

I once interviewed for a Human Resources position with an agency dealing with state employment counseling. The director interviewing me was very much a cut-and-dry HR consultant which I quickly picked up how much of the corporate Kool-Aid they had consumed. There were several hints and statements on the accomplishment of me being a  Myers-Briggs, (MBTI) Certified partitioner.  It was transparent that this person was told to get someone certified, and thought it would be just easier if they hired a warm body that had already had it completed. 

They also attempted to slowly move the conversion into a quick and free classification of their personality. I was met with examples of their extroverted or introverted personality highlighted their career. Reading the writing on the office wall, I began to explain how the MBTI personality questions, with its skill to dynamically add understanding to one's personality drives and differences to a team's dynamics to improve a team's strengths, held no more benefit than the Hogwarts house sorting quiz. How the Sorting Hat had the same potential of identifying strength in personality traits in a team setting. My Ravenclaw status had just as much indication of my skills to a team group and any project being complete than my ISTJ. Clearly, the interviewer did not like my comparison of these two, equally as standard and relevant, programs. Let us say I left the interview happy to be proving my Ravenclawness and my J-ness. 

In thinking back to this encounter, I like to believe two things happened. One possibility is that there is an HR consulting firm utilizing the Harry Potter hat sorting quiz to build better teams, or there's a Reddit post labeled “Craziest interviews I ever had” that I made.   

 

To Build a Park - the Central 70 Project

I have become a little too attached to strange men. Well, construction workers. Well, highwaymen. highway-persons. I don’t know their pronouns, we’ve never met.

In the center of Denver Colorado, during the early 1960s, The state of Colorado decided to split a deeply rooted multicultural neighborhood right down the middle. This was done for two reasons. The area is getting too uppity in asking for rights, meaning the black and Hispanic culture of the time was gaining and claiming cultural significance. The second reason was they could not be bothered running a new interstate highway going from East to West just several miles north as this would mean bothering industry and a fledgling industrial area. So out came the bulldozers and in came a massive highway through churches and low-income homes. 

Flash-forward fifty years. The outdated and unsafe elevated highway had to go. With this project came words like “healing the wounds of a neighborhood” and “reunite the two halves”  This meant removing the unhealthy highway and helping rebuild a suppressed community.  Reroute the highway to the north where it should have been laid. Or, tunnel the highway under the residential portions. Orrrrrrrr. Just widen the highway and take more land and homes. The same homes that barely survived the 60’s bulldozers. The irony is that the city could not move the highway north as it proved too expensive to buy out the industry area that was just starting in this first highway game.

To paint a coat of understanding on the widening project, the highway is sunken below grade, with many, many cement crossings, and next to a school they are building a two-block park for the minority children to play during recess. Over the highway. Yep, if your family and culture are rooted in the community, your kids will soon get to take a recess on a grass field over I-70. Unlike you, who had to take recess next to an elevated interstate route. Oh, progress. But really it is the best answer to modernizing the area. 

The project of capping the highway is what I have been following. And by following, I mean obsessed. The “Central 70” project has a webcam which I have open on my work computer at all times. I’ve watched in real time the removal of elevated I-70 and building all the new bridges. I have watched the construction crews come and go and lay tons upon tons of concrete. I started naming the people about a year ago. I mean the “Construction Cam”  is far away so it’s tough to make most of them out. I usually identify them by the cars they drive and park on the already completed part of the covered highway. Some folks show up at the same time every day. They don’t work weekends, so the project is clearly not in a rush. And lunch is exactly from Noon to 1 PM. As they work in the art of rebar, I give them conversations. Mostly where they are going on vacation with the partners;  How KeyWest has lost its charm. How to improve the draining cycle of their dishwashers, and if they would ever climb one of the 14ers. They each live deep, spiritual lives. How could you not, after being crouched down twisting metal strap all day. 

Soon the construction will be over, and the re-development of the area will be done. And civil and city planners will pat themselves on the back and give each other awards for planning and implementing such a healthy and healing project. And then the low-income kids will take a recess on a grass-covered field over a highway, and breathe toxic fumes from the interstate.  

Central 70 Project

  

 

2022 Nerdventure

So what was my New Year's Resolution(s)? Since 2007 it seems that I list out my resolutions for the new year.  I don’t necessarily believe it’s healthy to only have plans to better oneself at the first of January, but an ongoing plan to grow into a better human should be our natural state. But hey, sure dedicate to a better plan at the first of the year. Who am I to judge?

My major resolve is to break up with Amazon. Yes, online shopping was the best plan during the 2020 pando, but I have become accustomed to click-click-click and new things appear at the door. I don’t feel I’m giving my money to the best company when I need USB cords, or a cat riding a narwhal into battle themed shower curtain. So I have promised that I will find alternative sources for items in my quest to fill my emotional pit of want and need with material goods. 

But, shopping via Amazon is nothing compared to my connection to the beast via technology. Mostly through lightbulbs. Well, and smart, talking home assistants. As you know I started with smart-home tech way, way, way back. Being able to time and remotely switch lighting was the ultimate in cool for me. The ramped up tremendously in the early teens. Around 2015 I invested heavily in a system using local networks and internet hubs to automate lights, sensors and really anything that was home techie. Without going into too much technical detail every light in my house was automated. This means that Amazon’s home assistant could operate via voice control. I could ask Amazon to turn on the bedroom lights to a pre-set scene while I walked down the hall to the bedroom. It really is amazing. 

The future technology of never touching a light switch also means that Amazon’s networks have access to my home network.In simplistic terms.  And more and more it’s striking me as odd. I’m not even sure why. Yes, the assistant is listening 24/7 to human speech, waiting for the command word, but it's also about having an internal network versus a cloud somewhere. So….. this means I have to learn stuff. And I always avoid learning new stuff. I will now have to learn PC stuff, as you know I’m a mac fangirl. So here goes my 2022 nerdventure. Wish me luck as I learn home automation tech. Godspeed.