I’ve voluntarily traipsed to hospital emergency rooms three times in my life. The first time was when I received a cogent message–about the sixth of such missives in a period of a year–from my gallbladder that trouble was brewing; a pain, I am told, not unlike that experienced by soon-to-be mothers. I had already consulted a surgeon about the pains, and had put off surgery for some time. But the last time that message surged from my right side to my brain, it was cacophonous; an articulation of severe intent, a warning that my brain deciphered correctly: EMERGENCY! Long story short, I had developed an infection at the site (the ducts, the gallbladder itself), and there would be no laparoscopy for me (those little holes they poke in your belly, and conduct surgery by watching a camera image of your innards as they laser cut the offending organ). No, I ended up with a four inch scar at the top of my abdomen…gallbladder gone, no more pain. I had successfully delivered that ornery baby, in a manner of speaking.

The second time I visited a hospital emergency room was when my asthma flared up, and no amount of Albuterol (that thing an asthmatic sticks in their mouth, and sucks in the pressured spray, likely destroying a tiny part of the ozone in the process), was easing the wheeze. So, off to the emergency room. After two “cocktails” of cool mist laced with Albuterol, and maybe something else, my wheezing stopped. I was sent home. Happy and healthy.

The third time, Lawd, the third time is the kicker.

Wednesday, three weeks ago, started out fine. I’d spent some quality time with my horse, Shy, who finally is beginning to settle into a life with people…something he’d not experienced in the scrubby hills of Routt County for the first five years of his life. I worked him fairly hard, with good results. At home I wrote some, did some chores, maintained Sarah’s (our Alaskan Malamute) routine–walkies at noon, ball chasing, dinner around three-thirty. At four-thirty I commenced my routine of walking from our West Highlands home, toward downtown to meet David, my partner, as he walked home after his work day. All was well with the world until I went to bed at about eight (I know, I know… But remember, early to bed, early to rise!). After an hour or so of reading, I turned off the light and settled in for sleep, and, almost immediately, a ferocious ache surged from the lower left portion of my back; below the ribcage, above the hips. Turning on either side, lying flat did not alleviate the intensity of the ache. I, of course, had experienced the gallbladder scenario, and the conclusion I made that Wednesday night was, yes, EMERGENCY! I pulled on the clothes I had worn during the day: shorts, a blue t-shirt lettered with “Kennebunkport ,” my tennies and my New York Giants ballcap. I then shook David awake. He started to pull on his robe. No, I said, get dressed. We have to go to the hospital.

The ride to the hospital seemed an eternity. I kept my eyes closed, not wanting to cogitate on how far the nearby hospital was. The pain in my back roared, bellowing like the robot in the old t.v. series “Lost in Space,” EMERGENCY! EMERGENCY! I believed if I stifled sight of the passing known landscape, the arrival of salvation–a hospital emergency room–would appear, WALLAH!, so much sooner. It didn’t. Indeed, when we reached the hospital, there was no signage indicating the location of the emergency room. (We apparently had not traveled far enough on West 38th Avenue, where, we were told, there is signage.) David pulled our vehicle alongside the main entrance, parked, opened my door and off we went in search of the emergency room. We walked the quiet halls of the place, heading toward signage that indicated we might be on the right track. We encountered a nurse, in scrubs, walking toward us. David asked her where the emergency room was. She replied, Well it’s down this hallway to your left, then take a right, then another left and… Well, we trudged on, taking the lefts and rights and finally arrived at the emergency room waiting area. The area was packed. No chair vacant. Scores of folks, wide-eyed, scrutinized our arrival as competitors in a desperate game of precedence: Don’t EVEN think you’re nudging us out of line, simply because you’re obviously in dire straits.

And, now that I think about it, this was a Wednesday night. Not a weekend when mayhem reigns on the streets. Even though my cognition of the world that Wednesday night was impeded, I did not see in that waiting room full of grim-faced folks, any blood or guts, gushing wounds, obviously broken limbs. Were those folks simply using the ER as the only avenue to health care open to them? Did they all lack  insurance? Were they all strangers to the less costly option of making an appointment with a primary care physician? I don’t know. I do have my suspicions, though.

I must admit I was in a pain-induced fog through much of what next transpired. I know we were rather quickly in-processed by the outer-office crew of the emergency room. I know I remained hunched down in my chair–somehow, David had found me a vacant seat–my arm across my eyes; the lights of the place seeming too bright, seeming to exacerbate my pain. Some gracious soul in the outer-office crew must have noticed my severe discomfort, and we were moved from the outer-office to the interior of the triage area of the emergency room. Once again, we were seated in chairs where a nurse soon approached us, asked some questions, then inserted an I.V. needle in the crook of my right arm. She soon administered an injection into the I.V. nipple (Dilaudid, I believe), which did not alleviate the pain, but gave some little comfort that I was being treated, albeit sitting in a chair, slumped over, my arm across my eyes.

Backing up here a bit… We arrived at the emergency room prior to 10:30 p.m. David tells me that we sat within the triage area for at least two hours. I recall the kind nurse who administered the first injection of pain-controlling medication, told us several times that they were very busy, that no beds were available, and that they had identified me as a priority, and I would be put ahead of some who had arrived well before we had. In my state, however, the words meant little. I didn’t care if I got a bed or not. The pain I was experiencing trumped everything. I didn’t care if I got a bed. I simply wanted relief.

After two hours sitting in a chair, I was finally moved to a bed. Actually, it wasn’t a bed, just a cot in one of the curtained cubicles of the triage area. The injections of pain medication did not assuage my discomfort and, with my arm still covering my eyes, I lay–admittedly stoic–suffering the continuing pulse of the ache in my lower back. Soon, blood was taken, x-rays, a CAT scan. I remained in that curtained cubicle until about seven o’clock in the morning.  Almost nine hours. Sometime around five in the morning, David left, knowing that Sarah was in the house and probably desperate to get outside in order to conduct her business–pee or poop. He returned shortly thereafter, reporting that when he pulled up outside our home, he immediately heard Sarah singing–howling–from inside the house. He let her out, later discovering that she had peed on the carpet in the dining room. I cannot imagine her angst with the necessity to pee on the carpet. She is that kind of dog. She understands that the house is not the proper place to conduct her business. But she had. And, I will forever after rue the circumstances that necessitated her breach of house rules. She is a precious presence in our lives. I cannot even begin to fathom the discomfort, the horrifying discomfort she must have felt when she squatted on the carpet to relieve herself.

During the fog-filled hours on the gurney in the Lutheran Hospital triage center, folks came and went in the curtained-off space next to me. Even through the fog, I remember distinctly two arrivals and departures. The first was–and I was only hearing this, not seeing it–an obviously young mother with an infant who told the ER physician that her baby had not eaten that day, he was drinking fine, did not have a temperature and was not fussy. My thought then: Not sure what the emergency is. I recall the attending physician pretty much mirrored my thought, and very kindly told the young mother, after checking vital signs, that there was little to worry about, that these things are normal, and if the refusal to eat continued through another day, then she had best make an appointment with her pediatrician.  Good advice, I thought. I then wondered if the young mother had any idea, any concept whatsoever about the enormous cost of emergency room visits, as opposed to simply an office visit with a physician. Does anyone teach young mothers these kinds of truths? Oh, I understood the young mother’s absolute devotion to her child. I understood her concern. But, utilizing an emergency room as opposed to an office visit to a pediatrician?  My conclusion: No, no one teaches young mothers these things.

The second visitor to my next door cubicle, was a young man and woman. The young man explained to the ER doctor that he was feeling weak and hadn’t had a bowel movement in two  days. Vital signs were checked. No fever. BP was fine. Oxygen level fine. When the nurse and ER doctor left the young couple alone, something was said–I couldn’t hear exactly what–and some giggling followed. The young man then told his companion that there was no way he could pay for this. When the clerical rep entered the cubicle to gather information on the young man, he announced also to her, that he would be unable to pay for his care…at least for now. The clerical rep responded, “Oh don’t even think about that. We’ll get to that later.” Uninsured, I thought. I made no conclusions about the young man’s condition: weak and missing two bowel movements. I did wonder, though, if he didn’t pay for the visit who would? Would the premiums I pay for insurance chip in to pay for his inability to pay? Would the cost of my little visit to the ER be inflated in order  to contribute to the cost of his visit? I suspected so. Universal health care? Maybe. Public option? Maybe. A certainty, however, that the cost of health care in America needs a wee bit of a fix; that the uninsured need to be insured some way, some how and not to the detriment of folks who work hard, struggle to keep up premiums so that when their time comes to visit the ER, the cost of their care will not see a surcharge, a fiscal piggy-back of sorts because others are either not able or  determinably inclined to let others pick up their tab.

I noticed that today, the Senate Finance Committee’s version of a health care reform bill excluded a public option. Apparently five Democratic members of the committee voted along with the “Just Say NO!” Republicans. Tell you what folks, Democrats have got to grow a pair, better sooner than later. I am, to say the least, disappointed in Obama, the Democrats and, I suppose, the whole effing political system. Where the hell has America gone?

I don’t recall who it was who first voiced the imperative that since I was a Kaiser patient, I would necessarily have to be transported to St. Joe’s Hospital, because St. Joe’s is THE Kaiser hospital. In any event, about seven the next morning–after almost nine hours with the folks at Lutheran, a two-man crew showed up with a gurney to take me to St. Joe’s. These two guys were employees of a private ambulance service. They were immediately characterized by me as a Mutt and Jeff duo, cracking  jokes and trading insults, one to the other, as if they were on a vaudeville stage performing for the masses, or at least the mass of folks ensconced in the hard-backed chairs of one ancient theater or another. In any event, they loaded me on a gurney, wheeled me to their boxy vehicle and transported me to St. Joe’s Hospital, to roon 814. During the trip to St. Joe’s, Mutt and Jeff opined on the silliness of moving me from Luther (a Humana hospital), to St. Joe’s (another Humana hospital). They informed me that the cost of transport was over $300. They opined that the transport was unnecessary. Costly. That the care I would receive at Lutheran would, most likely, be the same I would receive at St. Joe’s.

I didn’t think  much about it at the time, but for most my life I’ve had a silly infatuation with numerology. Later I would realize  that the digits 814 added up to 13. Not a good omen for someone who dabbles in numerology. I mean, look… Whenever I’ve flown anywhere, I’ve obsessed about the numerology of flight numbers. Never have I been on a flight with the digits of that flight adding up to 13. I’ve always thought that a good thing; an indication that all would be well, we’d land safely, and be on our way to whatever delights the termination of the flight promised.

Room 814. Horror. (There’s a short story in here somewhere!) My “roommate” had, some time ago, undergone a colectomy….a removal of portion of the colon. Apparently, a tear had occurred at the site of the colectomy, and he had undergone a second surgery to correct the problem. Besides that, he had a bladder infection, was catheterized; had a horrendous cough that erupted every five minutes; belched largely every ten minutes; kept the t.v. on constantly, even through the night; and, incidentally, weighed in at 350 pounds, although he was only thirty-eight years old; and, AND, to top it all off he was a fan of Fox News and did not hesitate to opine on the “truth” of the Fox view of the world. Egads!

My “roommate’s” condition required the movement of nurses to and fro about every ten minutes, through the day, through the night. And, whenever there was a need to drain or “bleed” my “roommate’s” colostomy bag, there ensued a conversation between my “roommate” and the nurse about the consequences of not tending to the colostomy bag regularly. Something I did not know, but, now that I think about it, is self-evident: If a colostomy bag is not “bled” of gas on a timely basis, there is the possibility of an explosion that, no doubt, would send watery waste high and low; a shitty mess, if you will.

Then there was the specter of hearing the nurses dump infected urine into the same toilet I was expected to utilize to do my business, not to mention the dumping of the contents of the colostomy bag into the same toilet.

Let me pause here for just a second. Never once did I not, through this whole ordeal, at  the back of my mind, consider my “roommate’s” travails in the context of “There, but for the grace of God, go I.” I could not even imagine what it would be like to, at thirty-eight years old and 350 pounds, suffer through what my “roommate” was experiencing. I could not fathom the pain, physical and emotional, that he was confronting. I prayed for him. I tried, oh how I tried, to let go of my discontent with being placed in the same room with the unpleasantness of his situation. But, please forgive me when I say this, at the same time I considered my own state, my own need for care, for sleep, for a quiet environment to recover from my ordeal. My needs were necessarily obviated by the needs of my “roommate,” reposing there, to my right, not five feet from my bed. The proximity of his state–the constant hacking, the non-stop t.v., the constant in and out of nurses, the conversations about exploding colostomy bags, the splash of infected urine and watery shit into the toilet I was expected to use; all of it encapsulated one of the worst experiences of my life. Indeed, my “roommate” had already gone through two other “roommates” who had been moved to other rooms. I understood why. If I had had to stay in the hospital any longer than I did, I’m sure I would have insisted on being moved. I know. I know. One  can’t simply pick and choose his own room in a hospital. But, supposedly, healing is at least one of the important outcomes of a stay in a hospital. How one could possibly even hope of beginning a healing process in the hell of room 814, is beyond my comprehension.

It did not help that the Dilaudid I was receiving at Lutheran, was replaced with Percocet. Due to the ever-increasing distress that room 814 inflicted upon me, I did not realize that the Percocet may have exacerbated a great deal of that distress. It was not until I was finally home and, after popping two Percocet tablets, did I realize that this medication makes me crazy…almost quite literally. After taking Percocet and falling asleep, I awoke after about ten minutes trying to remove myself from the most bizarre, horrendous, hideous dream I’d ever experienced. Back to sleep, awake in ten minutes, shaking off another nightmare of monstrous proportions. Another ten minutes of sleep, another nightmare. Another ten minutes… Well, you get the point. In a follow-up appointment with my primary care doctor, he related that some of his patients see little green men walking on the ceiling after taking Percocet.

Back to the hospital. I was kept in St. Joe’s overnight, even though my level of pain had decreased from about a ten to a four or five on a ten point scale. I’ve already described the “environment” through which I spent that night in the hospital. And, as soon as the Kaiser staff doctor visited with me the next morning, I related to him that I was 100%, that I was ready to go home and, by golly by gee, I felt like a million. He agreed to discharge me. As soon as he left room 814, I quickly pulled off my hospital smock, dressed in the clothes I’d pulled on when the EMERGENCY had first arisen, called David to come get me.

When David arrived, I walked into the nurses station area, stopped a nurse who had taken my vitals that morning, and told her I had been released by the doctor, and I was ready to go; that my ride had arrived. I also asked her when someone would take out the I.V. needle in the crook of my arm. Well, her eyes narrowed to slits, studied me in my Kennebunkport shirt, shorts and ball cap, and informed me that I would just have to wait, that sometimes the discharge process takes quite some time. I told her–and, admittedly, I may have still been experiencing some after effects of the Percocet–that I wasn’t waiting, that I was leaving. Thank you very much. I returned to room 814, pulled out my I.V. needle, placed it in the Sharps container, tore off my wrist band and told David to come on, I was leaving. As I passed the nurses station, the nurse I had confronted had obviously told the bevy of nurses seated in the station that some “nut” was demanding to be released. All heads were turned toward me. As I passed the nurses station, I asked the wide-eyed heads staring at me if I needed to sign something, that I was leaving. It was probably the head nurse at the station who asked me if I was alright, if I needed assistance leaving. I said I was fine. She then informed me that the “release nurse” had to generate some paperwork that I had to sign. I stepped over to where the head nurse indicated, and another nurse immediately printed out some paperwork, and, reading from the computer, confirmed with me  all the medications I take regularly. I signed the form she presented to me, turned and walked out, got on the elevator and was on my way home.

God is good!

Conclusions. My back pain–although no medical tests were conclusive–was, most likely, caused by the passing of a kidney stone, or a “spasm,” (Yeah, right!), or just something weird that medical science could not detect. I really didn’t care if modern medical science had identified the cause of my discomfort or not. It was over. Although I experienced quite a number of days of the subtle reminders of what had taken me to the ER in the first place, the relief in being home and away from the horror of room 814 was enough to console my soul that all had become right with the world; that the nightmare was over.

Another conclusion. Avoid hospitals. You’ll get sick, or sicker, in a hospital. Indeed, I came away from the hospital with an upper respiratory issue that, to this day, manifests itself in an ugly, phlegm-filled hack (not unlike that my “roommate” spewed every ten minutes).  Yes, think twice about heading to an ER. No, belay that. If you believe you need to go to an ER, by all means do so. Perhaps you won’t end up in room 814; perhaps your ER adventure will be, um, more uneventful than mine.

P.S. Cost for nine hour stay in Lutheran ER: $14,500; cost for 24 hour stay at St. Joe’s about $5,000; cost for transport to St. Joe’s from Lutheran about $450. There were other miscellaneous charges. I have insurance and, of course, was responsible only for a $300 co-pay. Those without insurance, though, but a reasonably good income? Well, methinks the stories about bankruptcy due to medical costs is not a fairy tale bandied about by the left. Methinks such is the all-too-real consequence of the sad state of America’s health care system. At least that part of it that holds no quarter for the uninsured with assets (a home, a car) and a steady income.

There is something spiritual in the eyes of horses. Dogs, too. But this is about Shy. A horse. My horse.

The foal to the left is a beautiful paint, who nibbled on my fingers, perhaps hoping for some milk. I could not accommodate him. It was a privilege, though, to be in this foal’s proximity, close enough to have my fingers between his lips, to see the peaceful, perhaps knowing substance of his eyes.

“…I believed deeply in the sightedness of horses. I believed that there was nothing that they did not witness. I believed that to have a horse between my legs, to extend my pulse and blood and energy to theirs, enhanced my vision. Made of me a seer. I believed them to be the dappled, sorrel, roan, bay, black pupils in the eyes of God.” Mark Spragg, “Where Rivers Change Direction.” It is beyond me to be more eloquent with this notion of what it is in the eyes of horses that captures my interest, my imagination; humbles me somehow when in their presence. Spragg’s beautiful words are worth the read. I urge you to let yourself get lost in those words, the conclusions of a man who knows horses.

Here is Shy. He is a five-year-old bay stallion. Unbroken. He is half-wild, but is curios about people. He will allow you to approach him, but will step gently away if your reach for him. He does not know your intent is harmless. He does not know your intent is to fulfill something in yourself, some need to inch closer to the goodness of the world, by simply touching him, sliding your hand down from his forelock to his muzzle, to scratch his neck.

Horses know, of course, that, in their world, predators have eyes in the front of their heads, looking forward. Shy’s wariness of people is understood. My yearn to assuage that wariness is valued not so much as a challenge, but a responsibility, much like a human parent nurtures their infant’s want, need to eventually stand upright, to walk on their own…fearless with the effort. Shy, of course, stood upright minutes after his birth…a natural imperative for a horse. The fearlessness I seek for Shy, is in his relationship with people.

Fulfilling a dream from childhood, I jumped headlong into the opportunity presented not long ago to own a horse. No, that isn’t correct. I do not believe one “owns” a horse. I believe one is only provided the opportunity to make palpable the essence of a dream,  to become intimate with a fantasy made real. Sure, there is the bill of sale; the ledger of costs already accumulating; the worry about this and that. And, to top it off, Shy is still 150 miles away from my touch. But, then, how does one begrudge the cost, when it buys a dream?

Shy will soon be gelded, inoculated, wormed; then be broken (I really don’t like that word!)… Rephrase: …then he will go through the process of gentling, staying with the trainer for a month, possibly two.

Then, if all goes well, I’ll somehow get him down here to Denver, get him set-up at a boarding facility nearby and, well… I suspect that will become a “story” all in itself. I’ve never done this before. What surprises await!

Yes, that’s Shy’s ferocious face. More likely he’s just tasting the air, or showing off, or just stretching his jaws. I have so much to learn about horses, about Shy. Oh, yes, I have read the books, like Spragg’s, and have come away with an admittedly idealized notion of relationships between horses and men and women. Not that I am so much seeking that idealized relationship, but, rather, I suppose I am just seeking the opportunity to inch a bit toward that idealized notion.

I would be remiss in not mentioning that this new, exciting, worisome, extraordinary, costly phase of my life was enabled by some precious friends and their friends and relatives up in Southern Routt County. They have been so helpful, so accommodating, so patient with my obsessiveness about the ordeal of the dream that has unfolded for me, now in my, ahem, middle-age years.

Finally–I love this picture–we see Shy and his girlfriend. Whether or not it is significant (I really don’t know), when I last saw Shy, he was content to simply hang-out with this small mare, while the other stallions were chasing and nipping each other, all intent on gathering their harems, all imbued with the call of spring, the odor of mares ready/willing to be seeded.

So, I suspect there will be more to come with this story. I suspect my obsessiveness, my worry about the eventual outcome of this story will consume some little space on the old blog. But, then, I am sorely weary of the esoteric subject matter that I’ve posted for some many months (years, even). A new phase, a new reality in my life? Yes, of course. Turning inward, I suppose; an urge to grab–as a kid on a merry-go-round grabs for the golden loop–the prize, the prize of self-fulfillment.

Please, anyone reading this who has advice for me, please don’t hesitate to comment. I believe I’m going to need all the help I can get.

Danger! Danger! Very Esoteric Post! Beware!

NOTE: Over the next several days (weeks), I will append sections of this post with information, observations that I believe to be relevant to the subject matter. Those supplemental “gems” will appear in blue.

The imbroglio with regard to the impoundment of an active duty Iraq War veteran’s vehicle, has become heady fodder for Peter Boyles, whose morning show on KHOW radio has trudged through this particular saga for days.

The proverbial nutshell provides the following: Airman Brian Furman was stopped by a Denver Police officer for a broken headlight. Furman had just returned from a 13-month tour in Iraq, had just purchased the car–a 2004 Subaru–from a fellow soldier. Long story short, the officer asked for Furman’s license, proof of insurance, etc., and determined that Furman’s driver’s license had expired. Furman argued that Federal law provides a grace period for military personnel to renew their licenses, but the officer was hearing none of it. In spite of Furman’s service to his country, in spite of Furman’s contention that Federal law prevailed with regard to renewal of his driver’s license, (and, I’ve found no authoritative data to support Furman’s contention) the officer chose to invoke his discretionary authority under Denver Revised Municipal Code (DRMC) Section 54-811 (10), which is the codification of Initiative 100, passed by the people in August, 2008. This section of the DRMC speaks to drivers of vehicles who do not posses a valid operator’s license, specifically addresses “illegal alien[s]” driving without a valid operator’s license and, as I noted, gives the “attending police officer” the discretion to issue a summons to the offender or, yes, impound the vehicle. DRMC Section 54-813 (c) provides that if a vehicle is impounded under DRMC 54-811 (10), described above, a $2,500 bond must be posted in the city’s favor and said bond shall be held for one year and will be forfeited if the vehicle is again operated by an unlicensed driver within that year.

So, whether or not you believe the “attending police officer” in this case to be an asshole of the first order, or you believe that he was simply doing his duty, using his discretion in impounding Furman’s car, the consequence of that act created a multiplicity of onerous issues for Airman Furman which, for an entire week, were detailed on the Boyle’s morning talk show on KHOW.

Long story short, Furman’s vehicle was released to him yesterday, with the charges for the impoundment and storage being waived by the manager of safety, as provided by DRMC Sec. 54-813 (b), with the exception of a $400 charge assesed for… Who knows?

Now, to more fundamental issues with regard to Denver’s processing of abandoned/confiscated vehicles.

Abandoned and confiscated vehicles for which no owner or lien holder is forthcoming–as the vehicle sits in the impound yard, accumulating daily storage charges–are eventually (DRMC 54-816 (b)) “delivered” to the manager of general services for disposal. “Disposal” of the vehicle can take four forms: sale at public auction; conversion to scrap; sale by sealed bid; or conversion of the vehicle for use by the Denver Police Department. Undertaking any of the four options requires the manager of general services to “…[take] into consideration environmental protection and the recycling of resources.”

Okay. “…environmental protection and the recycling of resources…” Let’s talk about this codified requirement for a moment. Suffice it to say, my experience with the disposal of abandoned/confiscated vehicles by Denver is extensive. The every-other-Wednesday auctions of these vehicles by the Purchasing Division of the Department of General Services, enables the grossly unpleasant specter of putting fume-spewing, most likely unsafe, used and abused vehicles back on the streets of Denver without regard for “…environmental protection and the recycling of resources.” If you don’t believe me, just attend one of the auctions. Indeed, the “terms” of the sale for these vehicles sets-forth the following provisions:

All vehicles, including City surplus vehicles, are sold “As Is, Where Is” with no warranty or guarantee expressed or implied.  …All abandoned/confiscated vehicles are sold as “tow aways” and without an emission test or 45-day permit. If you buy an abandoned/confiscated vehicle, you are responsible for having the vehicle emission tested. …Be advised that Denver Motor Vehicle will NOT issue temporary permits for vehicles sold as “tow aways.”

Okay. It’s the “honor system” with regard to the new owners having these vehicles emission tested. Or, it’s the “dishonor system” of simply slapping dealer plates or, indeed, stolen plates on these vehicles and going your merry way. After all, if you’ve paid only three or four-hundred dollars for one of these heaps, why bother with the emission nonsense. When the car poops-out, hell, your investment was minimal, the junker got you where you wanted to go for a few months and when it dies there are no regrets in just parking the damned thing, knowing the city will probably impound the car again, maybe sell it again and… Well, the vicious cycle is obvious.

Of course, there are responsible folks–dealers and just plain folks–who attend these auctions in order to get a deal on a reasonably well-kept vehicle that can be resold on a lot or given to a son or daughter who’ll use the car to go to school, college, the mall, wherever. These responsible folks will follow the rules, get the vehicle emission tested, title it and marvel at the “deal” they were able to get at the impound lot auction sale.

It was no secret, in my experience, that may of the vehicles sold at the impound lot were purchased specifically for transport to Mexico, where regulation of things like emission control and titling are not something one need be concerned with. And, it was obvious that many of the attendees at the auctions were, um–let me be gracious here–most likely not American citizens and, in many case, used surrogate buyers–those with a valid driver’s license (you have to provide your driver’s license to the auction personnel in order to buy a car) to complete the purchase. These most-likely-not-American-citizens carried rolls of cash in their pockets, handed over the cash to the surrogate buyers when pay-up time arrived. I read some time ago, that Mexico was restricting the number of  “used” vehicles entering that country from the United States. Whether that restriction is still in-force, or whether that restriction has put a damper of the above described practice is unsure.

The Hickenlooper administration revels in “Green Initiatives,” from everything to disposal of dog poop in our parks to LEED certification for buildings. One would think, or at least hope, that Green scrutiny would be applied to the sale of junkers from the city’s impound lot. So far, I don’t believe the Hick and minions give a damn about what is driven, pulled, pushed, towed out of the impound lot after the every-other-Wednesday sale.

There is a requirement, DRMC 54-816 (c) that requires the proceeds of the sale of impounded vehicles be used to “…satisfy the claim of the city for such charges or removal and storage of the vehicle…the balance, if any, of the proceeds shall be paid into the…general fund…”

This section of the DRMC, quite rightly, requires that a divvying up of the proceeds be made; that the impound facility be directly compensated for the charges and storage fees accrued by the impound lot. This requirement of the DRMC, to my knowledge, has never been fulfilled. Proceeds from the auctions are deposited directly into a general fund account. Whether or not the Budget Office undertakes this divvying-up is uncertain. I suspect it doesn’t. The problem, of course, is if a vehicle sells at auction for $300 and the accumulated charges and storage fees amount to, oh, say a $1000, then what’s there to divvy? How do you divvy a net loss of $700. But, again, this doesn’t happen. This section of the DRMC is either archaic or just simply impracticable to enforce. The logical question here becomes, “Well, why did the impound lot keep a vehicle that, in all likelihood, would absolutely not provide a reasonable return on the investment the city had made in that car–towing fees, impound charges, storage charges? Why would the impound lot retain a vehicle for over thirty days, with charges accruing daily against that vehicle, knowing the moment it was towed across the threshold of  the impound lot that they had a losing proposition on their hands; that they’d lose their ass on the sale of the vehicle? The answer, naturally, of course, resides in something called “due process;” something that is spelled-out, step by step in the DRMC. Hopefully, in the next few days I’ll get to this “due process” requirement. A requirement, by the way, that according to my calculations, can see a vehicle tarry in the impound yard for up to fifty or more days.

Yeah, I know. I know. If any city budget guy/gal is reading this–fat chance!–they’re muttering something like, “You moron. The vehicle impound operation is budgeted via the general fund. It’s not an enterprise fund. So, what’s the difference if the money is divvied up or not; it all goes into the general fund.” Well, the difference is, the DRMC specifies how auction proceeds are to handled–the divvying up part. And, oh, by the way… The personnel complement for the vehicle impound operation amounts to $3 million plus change. And, of course, there are other costs for the operation not included in the personnel complement. Anybody wanna give me odds the vehicle impound operation would not survive the year if it depended on the DRMC-specified divvying up of auction proceeds to pay its way?

There is also a section of the DRMC, Section 54-816 (d), that requires the department of general services (the purchasing division) to sell no impounded vehicle for less than the accumulated charges and storage fees accrued during the vehicles repose in the impound lot. If the total of those charges and fees is not realized by the amount bid at auction, then the ordinance requires that the vehicle “may” be declared sold to the city and “…placed in the custody of the department (general services) for the sole benefit and use of the city.” Once again, this section of the DRMC is either archaic or impracticable. In my experience, there has never been any effort on the part of the seller (the purchasing division of general services) to comply with this code requirement.

In actuality, the standard practice over the years–it may have changed–was that no vehicle be sold for less than $50. No, it didn’t matter what charges had accrued during the vehicle’s repose in the impound lot–$1,000, $1,500, whatever–the bottom line at auction was $50. The bottom line: get the damned vehicles out of the impound yard, sell them for whatever you can get, ’cause, by golly, by gee, we’ve got three vehicles waiting for the space in the impound lot once occupied by that $50 loser. Get ‘em in, get ‘em out.

Lord, I could go on. But, I’ve probably hit some of the high points with regard to the sale and disposition of abandoned/confiscated vehicles by the City and County of Denver. And, as always, I’ve gone on too long here. But, if the City Council is to take up the codified operational requirements of the process the city utilizes to dispose of abandoned/confiscated vehicles, then, I hope, I’ve provided a little food for thought; a little nudge in the right direction. There are certainly more nudges to be made with regard to this codified process. But, hell, I guess I’ve got better things to do right now.

North Carolina Congresswoman Virginia Foxx commits here an effrontery that cannot be forgiven.  Shame, shame on you Congresswoman.

The eloquence of Matthew’s father at the sentencing hearing for the two young men who ended Matthew Shepard’s life, is comment enough. I could do no better. Any commentary I could provide would only pale next to the words, the grief, and ultimately the forgiveness expressed by Matthew’s father.

Dennis Shepard’s courtroom speech (… to remember Matthew Shepard on the 10th anniversary of his death)

The background from Wickipedia.

As you may know, Mayor Hickenlooper has required city employees (non-safety personnel) to take several unpaid “furlough” days, in response to the lousy economy. As you may also know, the fiscal health of the city’s General Fund depends primarily on sales tax revenues, an acknowledged regressive tax that ebbs when economic times are tough.

I’ve read that each unpaid “furlough” day city employees have been and will be required to take, saves the city about $4 million.

Sales and use tax totals for February of this year brought in about $28 million, about $4 million less than the same month in 2008. March figures came in at about $26 million, again about $4 million less than the same month in 2008. Obviously, unpaid “furlough” days are utilized to make-up for the slump in sales and use tax revenues.

There is, of course, appreciation for the sacrifices made by city employees.

But now comes the specter of Mayor Hickenlooper’s outrageous (yes, I’ll use that overused word) snub of all those city employees who have made the above-noted sacrifices, by hiring a new communications director, Eric Brown, at a yearly salary of $99,929. Mister Brown is the former city editor of the now defunct Rocky Mountain News.

I’m sure you don’t need me to tell you, but a communications director is to the mayor what a press secretary is to the president. A mouthpiece. A wordsmith. A spinner of reality whose job it is to present the mayor in the best light possible.

I’ve got to observe that Mister Brown’s bona fides are not that impressive. Prior to becoming city editor for the failing Rocky, he was a copy editor and reporter for the Greeley Tribune, as well as being a reporter for the Corpus Christi Caller-Times and the Abilene Reporter-News. Yes, he found a niche in Texas.  Academically, Mister Brown holds a B.A. in journalism from CSU.

Now, the Hick had a communications director named Sue Cobb. Did she go away? Did she get her pink slip? Nah. Miss Cobb has now been moved–a kind of musical chairs thing–to the position of senior advisor to the Hick, who will–according to a Denver Post article by Christopher Osher–”…manage special projects including coordination of communications and outreach relating to progress of the city’s bond improvement campaign…”

Let me understand this. Although Hick has hired Mister Brown to be communications director, Sue Cobb will still coordinate communications. What does that mean? A little overlap here? Or, does the Hick feel some comfort in having two mayoral appointees protecting his ass, spinning his agenda, and, again, placing him on that pedestal–iconic figure and all that–he has so fervently established for himself?

Let me understand something else. Since Miss Cobb will be outreaching with regard to the “… progress of the city’s bond improvement campaign…,” does that mean Miss Cobb’s salary, in whole or in part, will become another burden on the administrative costs buried within the $550 million in bond projects approved by voters in November, 2007? I don’t know the answer to this. But, what I do know is if the recent broken promises with regard to the Denver Museum of Nature and Science are any indication of what’s in store for us all, Miss Cobb’s charge from the Hick is surely in anticipation of, um–excuse me in advance–the shit hitting the fan with regard to bond projects in general. Suffice it to say, the worth of a dollar in November, 2007,  ain’t anywhere near the worth of a dollar today. And, the Hick being the Hick certainly needs all the help he can get to spin the bond project saga to his advantage.

Again, we should thank city employees for their sacrifice in these hard times. Again, we should take a look at the Hick as an egoistical presence in city hall who will unabashedly squat on city employees, while assuring his butt is covered, wiped and kissed by not only his “communications” sycophants, but by those who–and I don’t understand this at all–still believe this skinny dork is the saving grace for Denver.

Think about it.

Okay. So there’s this fellow, Bill Airy, who apparently has endeared himself to the management of the Department of Parks and Recreation (DPR) with the promise that Denver’s parks could become dog-poop-free if only DPR memorializes a contract or agreement with Mister Airy to provide biodegradable poop bags that would replace citizen-provided plastic bags–newspaper bags, primarily–that are currently available, usually from half-gallon milk jugs, hung on fences or poles within our parks. The rub here is that Mister Airy’s bright idea would also require that DPR allow Mister Airy to place advertising (presumably from for-profit companies, corporations) upon whatever poles or devices he will provide to dispense his product…the biodegradable bags. Mister Airy’s website provides a quite altruistic intent for his endeavor, including the incredible notion that, by utilizing his services, Denver’s Parks could become poop-free.

Dare I be skeptical?

I’m reminded of the quote from George Washington Plunkett of New York’s Tammany Hall fame who, when asked about his success within the organization, noted: “I seen my opportunities and I took ‘em.”

First off, I’m not certain if Mister Airy’s and DPR’s contract or agreement is a done deal or not. I am certain that DPR is dealing with Mister Airy as a “sole source” for this service, which is to say this contract or agreement has not been bid, has not seen the light of competitive bidding which is the hallmark of governmental “best practices” procurement.

That said, another important observation is that Mister Airy’s selling-point that Denver’s Parks could become poop-free if his services were to be utilized, is about as logically sound, realistically achievable as the proverbial “peace in our time,” in a world full of contradictions and opposing ideologies, principally theocratic imperatives, that beg scrutiny as to the elusive nature of the same. My point here–which I think survives my exaggeration–is that Mister Airy’s suggestion that Denver’s parks will become poop-free is nonsense. Those responsible dog owners have, do and will continue to pick-up after their pets…whether they use biodegradable sacks or newspaper wrappings. Irresponsible pet ownes have, do and will continue NOT to pick-up after their pets regardless of whether biodegradable bags are made available or not. Fact of life.

There is a fundamental question that I think we all need to consider. Do we want to sell Denver’s parks to the entrepreneurial machinations of those who would wish to make a buck off the utilization of our OUR PARKS for their own self-gain? That’s an easy one for me to answer. NO! (You do notice the exclamation point!) In fact, as unsightly as dog poop is in our parks, methinks the presence of for-profit advertising in our parks is just as unsightly, just as disturbing.

The Department of Parks and Recreation has announced their plans to go forward with this project. The relevant components of the program, as well the trepidation for such a selling of our parks endeavor, is provided in a recent news release from the INC, Inter-Neighborhood Cooperation, that reads as follows:

FOR IMMEDIATE RELEASE

Neighborhoods Oppose Denver Plan for Commercial Advertising Signs
on Dog Waste Bag Dispensers in Public Parks

Denver, Colorado (April 11, 2009)

By a vote of 18 to nothing, with five abstentions, Inter-Neighborhood Cooperation (INC) delegates are seeking a moratorium on a plan to put up advertising signs on animal waste bag dispensers in several city parks. INC is a city-wide association of many of Denver’s largest and most active registered neighborhood organizations.

The request for a delay in implementation of the pilot project comes in a letter to be sent to Parks and Recreation Manager Kevin Patterson. His assistant, Angela Casias, attended the INC delegates’ meeting Saturday to explain and defend the proposal.

Casias says the plan focuses on the areas with the greatest problem of animal waste, the Rivers and Trails District and the Northwest District. City Park is not on the original list of parks to get the dispensers with advertising but, “all parks are still under evaluation.”

The letter says the requested moratorium would be in effect “until RNOs (Registered Neighborhood Organizations), other interested parties and the Parks and Recreation Advisory Board have been included in a process to discuss the proposed pilot project. In the process, information could be shared on the assessment of the impacts and desirability of the dog waste project, the exploration of other alternatives that would help with the management of dog waste in parks and the project’s adherence to the intent of the City laws, regulations and policies.”

Casias claims dealing with dog waste in the city’s parks may cost the city up to $100,000 per year. She explains that the company called Poo Free Parks would be “totally responsible for maintaining signs and dispensers, and keeping the dispensers stocked with biodegradable bags.” Sign advertising presumably would pay for operating the dispenser program and the city would get no additional revenue.

[Excuse me if I interject myself at this time. I'm curious about the $100,000 that would still be required of the city to deal with dog waste. I'm curious about what kind of numbskull would go into a contract or agreement with an entrepreneur and not demand, or at least investigate the possibility, that the city, you and me, would get a piece of whatever profit is made on this endeavor.]

Casias acknowledged that Parks and Recreation policy prohibits “permanent” signs, but the signs to be placed on the poles holding the bag dispensers are “temporary” because “the contract requires the company to offer only six-month sponsorship agreements.”

Because the bag dispenser operation is what Casias calls “kind of a new business,” the company headed by Bill Airy was selected without competitive bidding. She says the project would be open to competitive bidding after the first year if there are any other interested operators. According to Casias, the City Attorney’s office has been asked for and has given its blessing to these unusual interpretations of city ordinances and regulations.

Some of those attending the meeting indicated they didn’t think “voluntary” homemade bag dispensers set up by concerned residents were effective. “I’d rather see a well-maintained sign instead of plastic bottles full of newspaper wrappers,” said non-delegate Ken Beaudrie.

A northwest Denver delegate, Bill Johnson, says the “integrity of our parks system” is the real price. “The overriding issue is, and has been, private advertising in public parks,” comments Johnson. “Are we going to be crossing the Rubicon (by allowing the signs)?”

Several members of the INC Parks Committee and other critics contend the plan to allow advertising signs conflicts with Parks Department guidelines. Opponents also say the bag dispenser project could be contrary to the City Charter’s language which grants decision-making authority to Parks administration.

In spite of the resolution to seek a moratorium until the plan can be fully and publicly discussed, Casias maintains Parks representatives have met with various neighborhood groups and “we’ve gotten positive response.” She says samples of the signs were not previously available “because the contract was just finalized last Friday (4/10).”

Casias did not present any example of the signs. She also did not explain why the proposal is not presented on the Parks and Recreation web site. Casias says Parks did not want to present the plan to the citizens’ Parks and Recreation Advisory Board until the contract is finished.

The original proposal calls for up to 150 signs in five to ten parks. Casias says it’s more likely there would be 100 signs, meaning each of the ten parks in the pilot program would get approximately 10 signs.

Now, back to Mister Airy. Mister Airy’s LLC, Poo Free Parks, is registered with the Colorado Secretary of State. That registration occurred on February 23, 2009. (“I seen my opportunities!) The description of business to be transacted under the LLC filing is noted as, “…Advertising and Marketing Services.” Nope, nothing about environmental endeavors which–if that had been part of the description of business to be transacted–to my thinking, would indicate some altruistic intent, some notion that money is not the only object here. But, nope. Just advertising and marketing.

I suppose it’s also important to note that, after a review of the Secretary of State’s on-line documentation, Poo Free Parks LLC, has or had had some connection with a company called, Dean Arrow and Associates LLC. Yup, you guessed it. Dean Arrow and Associates, a web integration service that concentrates on building one’s business, marketing, accounting. Nah, nothing about environmental endeavors.

I’ll let this one go here, with the suggestion that the concerns expressed above by the INC are notable, important. I especially appreciated: “A northwest Denver delegate, Bill Johnson, says the ‘integrity of our parks system’ is the real price. The overriding issue is, and has been, private advertising in public parks,’ comments Johnson. ‘Are we going to be crossing the Rubicon (by allowing the signs)?’”

Ah, indeed, Mister Johnson.

April 14, 2009. Update.

Yes, I understand the issue which this post deals with is not something that excites, is in no way akin to, oh, what’s going on over at American Idol, or what’s up with the trade of Jay Cutler to the Bears (or was it some other team? I don’t know. I don’t care.), or the Rockies home-opener win (Yikes!). But, this post does deal with, perhaps, more fundamental, more inherently substantive subject matter than what captures the interest of most. That said, let me bring those who do have an interests up-to-date.

As the below post reported, the Denver Museum of Nature and Science approached the Denver City Council with an amendment to their Funding and Assignment Agreement for new construction–a necessary consequential component to the $30 million in bond funds Denver voters approved way back in November, 2007.

As the below post explains, the bond measure, 1H, was touted by its supporters as being the best deal since sliced bread, that, if approved, the “supporters” of the Denver Museum of Nature and Science would ante-up $23 million in matching funds (private contributions) to assure the integrity of this public/private endeavor. The “new construction” for the Boettcher concert hall was also part of the 1H bond issue and, just like the Museum’s promise, private donors would match city funds to, again, assure the integrity of the public/private endeavor. The total for the promised matching funds was touted to be $145 million, to the city’s $70 million bond commitment.

Well, last month, the Denver Museum of Nature and Science approached City Council with an amendment to their Funding and Assignment agreement with the city, that essentially gutted the promise that the matching privately raised funds ($23 million) would be available and divvied out upon the first draw of bond monies dedicated to the project. In essence, what the DMNS was asking for was that city bond funds be used, expended, exhausted without any commitment that the promised $23 million would be available as promised.

Suffice it to say, Hizzoner, John Hickenlooper, has been pushing for quick starts to bond projects; something that he believes is necessary to boost the economy in these hard times. And, implicit in the DMNS’s proposed amendment to their Funding and Assignment agreement, was just that: a quick start to the project.

Okay. Hope you’re still with me.

Now comes last night’s City Council meeting where the final restructuring of the Funding and Assignment agreement for the DMNS was passed on a 12-1 vote, (Jeanne Faatz being the lone vote; a vote of conscience that surely came from her sense that promises should be kept, especially if they were made to the taxpayers of Denver. Denver Direct provides video of Ms. Faatz’s comments).

The new Funding and Assignment agreement, passed on first reading last night. And, guess what? That “quick start” to the project that was the selling point for the amendment in the first place, is now kaput. Yes, seems George Sparks, CEO and President of the DMNS, scurried about city hall recently, and advised our city mothers and fathers that a “quick start” to the project would not be forthcoming, that the ever-dropping sales tax numbers–which, of  course, in part, funds the SCFD (Scientific and Cultural Facilities District) at 1/10 of 1% sales and use tax–precluded a “quck start” because, well, there were up-front cost to get the project going and, well, the money just isn’t there and, well, won’t you please, please, please allow us to renege on our commitment to the taxpayers of Denver and maybe, possibly, sometime in the future we’ll make things right.

A lick and a promise. I looked up the etymology of that phrase: “A superficial promise made without care or enthusiasm.”

Enough said.

NOTE: Necessary updates are in green.

You will recall–how could you forget–that a $550 million bond package was passed by the voters in November, 2007.  You will also hopefully recall, that several big ticket items in that package dumped a goodly sum into what is referred to as “The  Culturals.” And, part of that money to the culturals was for NEW CONSTRUCTION: Boettcher Concert Hall ($40 million), and Denver Museum of Nature and Science ($30 million). And, yes, you will recall that ballot issue 1G provided for much needed infrastructure repairs to the culturals. But, it was 1H, the NEW CONSTRUCTION for the culturals that, in Bob Ewegen’s column in the Denver Post of October 7, 2007, dangled the proverbial carrot for Denver’s voters. Ewegen reported:

As an extra bonus, 1H is heavily leveraged with private funds. If Denver taxpayers approve the $70 million seed money, backers of the museum and symphony have pledged to raise an additional $145 million, matching Denver’s dollars more than two to one. No other item on the ballot includes such private matching funds.

Okay. Promises were made with regard to the public/private NEW CONSTRUCTION endeavors for  Boettcher and the Denver Museum of Nature and Science. Those promises of raising “…an additional $145million, matching Denver’s dollars more than two to one…” by “…backers of the museum and symphony…” were, ahem, not included in the bond language presented to the voters. However, when such a public/private endeavor is undertaken by the city, something called a Funding and Assignment Agreement is necessarily entered into by the city and the publicly/privately funded enterprises, in this case,  Boettcher and the Denver Museum of Nature and Science. Those Funding and Assignment Agreements presumably–I have not seen them–detailed the mechanism to assure your and my tax dollars (bond funds) were protected; that the largesse of the “backers” of both entities would own up to their promise and not leave Denver taxpayers holding the bag for NEW CONSTRUCTION undone by either enterprises’ inability to raise  private matching funds. My presumption that such language is in the current Funding and Assignment Agreements is somewhat affirmed by what is going to happen today happened yesterday, March 23, in a Denver City Council Committee meeting with an ordinance proposal that will–yeah, you guessed it–modifying the Agreement to renege on the promised “matching” private funding mechanism encompassed in the Agreement. To wit: (Here’s the link to a video of that meeting. The subject matter of this ordinance request is next to the last item on the agenda. However, you should start at about 21 minutes into the video, as there is a very interesting discussion, initiated by Councilwoman Jeanne Faatz, that focuses on the dearth of information councilmembers consistently receive regarding projects/contracts; a lack of detail that, one might say, keeps councilmembers just slightly in the dark about what really is occurring with those projects/contracts.)

ORDINANCE/RESOLUTION REQUEST

1. Title: (Include a one sentence description that clearly indicates the type of request – grant acceptance, contract execution, municipal code change, supplemental request, etc.)

An ordinance to amend the Denver Museum of Nature and Science (DMNS) Funding and Assignment Agreement.

2. Requesting Agency:

Better Denver Bond Program

3. Contact Person with actual knowledge of proposed ordinance who will present the item at Mayor Council

Name: Don Hunt / Stu Williams

Phone: 303-725-5949

Email: dunt@anteronet.com; stu_williams@matrixdesigngroup.com

4. Describe the proposed ordinance, including what the proposed ordinance is intended to accomplish, who’s involved, scope of work, duration, location, affected Council district, benefits, and costs. (This is intended to give a brief overview of the ordinance. For additional background and history, please attach an executive summary).

This request is to revise existing Funding and Assignment Agreement to allow DMNS to expend bond funds prior to, rather than concurrent with, expenditure of museum funds. Bond funds will go toward the construction of the Storage and Education Facility Project. The reason for this request is to recognize the challenging fundraising constraints caused by the current economic recession. The Amendment will permit the core and shell Facility to be built with bond funds, and allow DMNS to continue to meet their $23 million fundraising obligation over time to complete the Facility.

5. Is there any controversy surrounding this ordinance, groups or individuals who may have concerns about it? Please explain.

No

(Completed by Mayor’s Office): Ordinance Request Number: Date:

Some information you probably need to know. The city hired CH2M Hill–a respected worldwide conglomerate that does pretty much anything, anybody, anywhere needs to have done–to manage the 2007 bond projects, including, I believe, approving the dispersal of monies relating thereto. Their presence within City Hall is called: Better Denver Bond Program. The head honcho for Better Denver Bond Program is a fellow named, Don Hunt.

You will note that it is Don Hunt and Stu Williams are the “contact persons” for the proposed ordinance that will codify broken promises by amending the present Funding and Assignment Agreement between the City and County of Denver and the Denver Museum of Nature and Science. The City Council Bond Implementation Committee meeting will occur at 3:30 p.m. today. You can watch it live at (Drill down to “Upcoming Videos”):

Here’s the link.

Backing up to April 28, 2008, when Hizzoner’s Deputy Chief of Staff, Amy Mueller, and Asst. City Attorney, Jen Weflen set-forth what they perceived to be the essence of the Funding and Assignment Agreement that was entered into by the City and the Denver Museum of Nature and Science that assured–apparently in rather nebulous terms–NO CITY BOND MONEY WOULD BE SPENT ON NEW CONSTRUCTION UNLESS/UNTIL THE DENVER MUSEUM OF NATURE AND SCIENCE PROVIDED THEIR PROMISED SHARE OF “MATCHING” FUNDS AND THE GUARANTEE THAT THEY HAD, IN HAND, THE PROMISED $23 MILLION AND NO DRAW-DOWN OF BOND FUNDS WOULD BE MADE WITHOUT DIPPING INTO THE MUSEUM’S PROMISED “MATCHING”  SHARE OF FUNDS. I used the word “nebulous,” above. If the Agreement lacks any specificity as to how the Museum was going to assure the city their “matching” funds were available; what instrument would be provided by the Museum to give the city some comfort level that promises would be kept, then my only conclusion is that the Denver City Attorney’s Office was guilty of sloppy lawyering on this one.  The video is here and you should fast forward to about nine minutes: Here’s the link.

What bothers me most about what Ms. Mueller and Ms. Weflen have to say in the video, is my perception that they really don’t know what the hell they’re talking about, that they’re not really THAT SURE what exactly is in the Agreement. You will note Ms. Weflen turning to some unseen person each time she makes some “authoritative” statement about how the Museum is going to assure the $23 million in “matching” funds is secure and in-hand. Of course, we later see that Ms. Weflen in turning toward the Museum representative in the room, a Ms. Peggy Day.

Stepping back to October, 2007, I suppose it is instructive to note I was adamantly oppossed to 1H, the NEW CONSTRUCTION for the culturals. It is also instructive to note what David Harsanyi (Denver Post columnist) had to say, in short:

The museum [of Nature and Science] argues it needs more space. Well, join the club. Perhaps it’s time to scale back your expectations. You know, throw something out.

Many folks will tell you that failing to support institutions like the Denver Museum of Nature and Science means you’re an inferior member of “the community.” But no other major city has used tax increases to keep similar facilities afloat.

Okay. Cutting to the chase, here. The language in the ordinance request to be presented today at the March 23rd meeting of the (video linked above) City Council’s Bond Implementation Committee meeting notes, as above: “The amendment will permit the core and shell Facility to be built with bond funds, and allow DMNS to continue to meet their $23 million fund raising obligation over time to complete the facility.” Talk about nebulous. “Over time…” What the hell does that mean? Is there a suggestion here that, hey, let’s just use those bond funds to do what we can, then when the bond funds run out and the facilities remain unfinished, well, we’ll just let the facilities sit unfinished until either we raise the promised “matching” funds or–and here’s the kicker–we’ll just wait until the city bails us out, maybe in another seven to ten years when another bond cycle comes around. Believe me, this is not out of the realm of possibility.

Sure, times are tough and fund raising is lacking. But, wouldn’t it be to the city’s advantage to say wait a darn minute here? Wouldn’t it be to the city’s advantage to ask the Museum how much money they have raised toward the effort? Wouldn’t it be to the city’s advantage to forgo CH2M Hill’s (Better Denver Bond Program) request to just forget about promises made and, well, maybe “over time” the Museum will honor those promises? Wouldn’t it be to the city’s advantage to say, okay, you’ve only got $10 million in the coffers for the effort, so we’ll amend the Funding and Assignment Agreement to reflect that the requirement for “matching” funds be modified to allow the Museum to infuse a lesser amount than originally anticipated, but that ultimately, the full promised $23 million will be required before, BEFORE bond funds are exhausted?

There is, of course, the likelihood  that this proposed modification to the Agreement between the city and the Museum is only the proverbial tip of the iceberg. What about Boettcher’s (the Colorado Symphony) efforts at fund raising to provide the promised “matching” funds? Will modification of  the Boettcher NEW CONSTRUCTION Funding and Assignment Agreement be next on the Bond Implementation Committee’s agenda? Methinks it’s likely.

And, what about all the other bond projects that were included in Hick’s $550 million package of November, 2007? That $550 million ain’t what it used to be, folks. The diminishment of the worth of the dollar surely bodes ill for completion of many of those projects. Better Denver Bond Program?

Maybe the Hick and his minions should consider revising the moniker to: Maybe a Better Denver Bond Program if the Shit Don’t Hit the Fan, Y’all!

The outcome of the March 23rd meeting of the Bond Implementation Committee meeting was, as you will see if you watch the above-linked video (occurs at about 1 hour on the video), a suggestion from Commitee Chairman Michael Hancock that the language of the Funding and Assignment Agreement be “tweaked” to reflect a more specific intent by the DMNS as to the use of unrestricted capital funds raised by the DMNS to be dedicated exclusively to the Bond Project 1H anticipated. There was general agreement that the same could be accomplished. I guess we’ll just wait and see.

(Image: Britannica – Advocacy for Animals)

Greenwood Village, Colorado–the most affluent, wealthiest community in Colorado–has passed an ordinance that provides $60 an hour for hired guns to shoot and kill coyotes who have, of late, exhibited the temerity to expose themselves in public areas; areas that are, well, reminiscent of what the High Plains used to be; areas that are touted as representative of “nature” and, therefore, somewhat unspoiled by development (although certainly surrounded by development, human development). Nevertheless, the idea of a “greenspace” here is to maintain as pristine some small slips of the good earth to, in a small way, enable folks to “experience” these enclaves as representative of a balanced ecosystem. Yes, plants and critters alike, who, in their wisdom (yes, even wild plants exhibit a quietly intense understanding of their place in the whole scheme),  learned long ago the value of balance, the value of respect for the land upon which their lives depend.

The codified killing of coyotes by the well-healed of Greenwood Village, a gruesome perk of the privileged, grates as fingernails scraping against a green-board.

I am reminded of Nickel, a singularly unique bison that was born to the City and County of Denver’s Genesee herd (they have two herds, one at Genesee, and one at Daniel’s Parks). I recall the memory of this special critter as a thing of wonder and love; a thing of respect for the essential worth of critters whose claim to the land, to Colorado, to the Great Plains supersedes any human notion of ownership or suzerainty over the spread of what once was the vast ocean of  untamed  land that was nearly eviscerated by Horace Greeley’s charge: “Go west, young man. Go west!” (Before you wish to correct me, I acknowledge that the attribution to Greeley is incorrect. It was John Soule, writing in the Terra Haute Express in 1851, who coined the line: “Go west, young man, and grow up with the country.”)

But, first, before the story of Nickel, it may be instructive to mention the specter of the eradication of Native Americans from America, a despicable outgrowth of the white man’s trudge across the nation that resulted a near genocide more gruesome and shameless than that of coyotes in Greenwood Village.  (And, it wasn’t just the west. It was all points east from the Atlantic to the Pacific; north and south, from the Gulf of Mexico to the Canadian Border.) I believe we all know the shameful greed and mendacity and loathing and ignorance that characterized the white man’s move westward as he “dealt” with the “Indian Problem.” Native Americans were here long before any of our “white” progenitors, who may have been some of the first to set their foreign feet on American soil: Spaniards, Italians, English. Not so much incredible as it may be, but certainly indicative of how the “white” man viewed Native Americans is–one instance only–that it wasn’t until 1924 when all Native Americans were granted United States citizenship, but did not receive voting rights until 1948.

The concept of voting was, of course, not something essential to Native American culture. Indeed, in the case of the Ute Indians (one of the major “tribes” in Colorado) there were more fundamentally hoary imperatives than what the ballot box represented.

In the Ute Indians’ traditional view of the natural world, Father Sky created the sun, moon, stars, and the Earth. Mother Earth provides what is needed by those who show reverence and respect. For Utes, there was a vast and varied land–sometimes gentle and sometimes severe–where they survived by living respectfully in harmony with their environment, whatever it might be.

Before there were people, Senawahv, the Creator, made buffalo and deer, berries and pinon nut trees, and everything the people would need to live. Then he cut up sticks and put them in a bag. He meant for the sticks to be different peoples to whom he would give equal portions of the land and its good things, but Coyote, the curious trickster, opened the bag to see what was inside, and people scrambled forth in disorder, speaking may tongues. Senawahv looked inside and saw the remaining people, the Ute, and he declared that they would be so brave and strong that they would be able to defeat all others.  “The Ute Indians of Utah, Colorado, and New Mexico” – Virginia McConnell Simmons – University Press of Colorado, 2001

Well, the Ute Indians were not stronger than the flood of white men seeking wealth and opportunity as they moved west. The Ute Indians were not stronger than those who sought to solve the “Indian Problem” with, for the Indians, the absurdity of Christian concepts anathema to their understanding of their place amongst the synergy that Father Sky and Mother Earth provided. Indeed, it is significant to note that primarily Mormons, and other “Christians” provided the means to the U.S. Government’s end to clear the west of those pesky Native Americans. The Indians were seen as interlopers, as savages, as an un-Godly presence upon the land that they, the good “Christians,” the divinely blest privileged of their time, were charged to corral, to eradicate from the good earth because, well, because they were in the way. Indians simply didn’t, couldn’t–after thousands of years of a harmonious respect for the good earth–fit the mold that the Great American Expansion demanded.

Then there were the buffalo, or American Bison.

We are told by an eminent historian that during the 1870s the “ruthless destruction” of the American Buffalo proceeded in Colorado with the help of bored travelers who, “In the name of sport, shot buffalo from the windows of the railroad.” He goes on to say of the general destruction of the buffalo that, “in the early (18) seventies one account gives 4million as slaughtered for their hides alone. Another indicates that in three months in the fall of 1874 over 50,000 buffalo hides were shipped on the Sante Fe railroad and total shipment on this and the Kansas Pacific were 125,000. In 1874, the Sante Fe railroad also carried 3,400 tons of bleached bones picked up on the plains to Eastern Fertilizer and button factories.  “Colorado, The Centennial State” – Percey S. Fritz – Prentice Hall, 1941

Then came the eradication of wolves.

With the gold rushes of the 1840s, 1850s, and the 1860s there came teamsters, bullwhackers, and mule skinners to transport ore and supplies. In winter when the wagons couldn’t move easily these idled men turned to wolfing. It was easier than buffalo hunting, which required moving around looking for the animals and wrestling with large carcasses. All the wolfer had to do was set out strychnine and gather in the dead at two dollars a hide. …In…1875 to 1895, [it was then] that the slaughter of wolves on the plains reached its peak. Spurred y the promises of substantial state and local, as well as stockmen’s associations, bounties, a market value for the pelts, and the possibility of hiring on somewhere as a wolfer for wages, thousands of men bought up enormous quantities of strychnine and rode out pell-mell on the range. They lay down poisoned meat everywhere, in lines as long a 150 miles. …Ranch dogs died. Children died. Everything that ate meat died. The greed, the ready availability of poison, and a refusal to consider the consequences generated a holocaust. …No one knows how many animals were killed on the plains from, say, 1850 to 1900. If you count the buffalo for hides and the antelope for backstraps and the passenger pigeons for target practice and the Indian ponies (by whites, to keep the Indian poor), it is conceivable that 500 million creatures died. Perhaps 1 million wolves; 2 million. The numbers no longer have meaning. “Of Wolves and Men” – Barry Holstun Lopez, 1978

Native Americans, bison, wolves, coyotes. Does George bask in the melodrama of it all? Perhaps. Perhaps not.

The Denver Mountain Parks system was, apparently, first envisioned in 1910. The “idea” behind the establishment of the Mountain Park system was, understandably, to enable city folk the opportunity to experience nature in its pristine form, its unspoiled splendid form. There is the further justification for a mountain park system, in about 1914, that further argued for such a “wilderness” presence, in that the introduction of a bison herd, as well as elk, to the system would provide sustenance for soldiers fighting the Great War, WWI.  Livestock raised in the mountain park system would, some argued, be Denver’s significant contribution to the war effort.

Fast forward to the nineties, and the saga of Nickel.

Nickel was born on the Genesee Park land in 1986.  Due to death of his mother, he was raised by the resident caretaker of the park, who was housed on-site, in a log structure that dated back to, I believe, the 1860s. Nickel became an orphan and, as is the want of those who value the simple gifts of critters, the caretaker took the young calf in, bottle fed it, raised it within and around his home. No mystery about the naming of the calf, Nickel. U.S. currency provided the apt name.

Nickel grew-up with dogs and, as a consequence, came to view himself a member of that species; mimicking the particular nuances of dogs as a natural thing–chasing cars, romping through the scrub, playing, as all dogs will, within the holy domain of their particular view of the world. When he began to grow, he still sought the comfort of the caretaker’s home, bulling his way through the house as he’d done as an infant, but now, older, much larger, creating some little havoc within the old house. It was, I was told, at this point the caretaker’s wife drew the line. No bison in the house, honey! So, Nickel was banished to the confines of the meadow where the rest of the herd spent their days.

I was told by the caretaker of Genesee Park, that Denver cops would occasionally visit Nickel, once he was put out to pasture, where he chased cars along the fence line that separated him from his earlier environment. Just like the dogs, he continued to run with the cars, snorting and huffing against the intrusion of the fume-spewing behemoths along the road that paralleled the fence line. The cops would bring soda pop with them and delight in watching Nickel grasp the open end of the pop in his mouth and guzzle the contents, tipping his head back to get the very last drop. Nickel had no fear of humans. He allowed himself to be patted, scratched by the cops and certainly by the Mountain Parks crew who, perhaps, felt blest to be able to do such a thing.

On my parent’s fiftieth anniversary–a year before my father’s death–I arranged a visit to Genesee Park where the crew accommodated an outing–within a pick-up–into the bison pasture, where Nickel sided-up to the vehicle, allowed my father to pat his head as he sniffed the interior of the cab (he was full-grown at the time). He then would pace the pick-up and, several times, run in front of the vehicle, lay down in the dirt and wallow on his back, raising a cloud of dust, and then stand up, shake and return to the window of the pick-up, sniffing and snorting…celebrating his unique status amongst the herd. The herd stood off in the distance, seemingly oblivious to the goings-on in the meadow where Nickel, once again, exposed his special understanding of, and his bond with human beings.

Nickel, of course, was a “freak.” And, in saying that, I mean to convey that his perception of the truth of himself was unnaturally formed by his upbringing. A human error, if you will. But, who among us would have abandoned the orphaned calf to fend for himself within the cruel reality of the herd, where an orphaned calf would have little chance of survival? Oh, yes, most likely those who surround themselves with walls, live next door to a golf course, sip single malt Scotch at the country club and bemoan the intrusion of coyotes within the open spaces which purport to provide a “natural environment” for their leisure; yes, most likely those folks would have, under the moniker, “The Wisdom of Nature,” let the calf perish. I am wary of generalities of this sort, knowing there are, certainly, some amongst the privileged of Greenwood Village who would have seen the worth of nurturing an orphaned calf to adulthood. And, certainly, it is probably those folks who see the killing of coyotes as a thing to be disdained; an unsavory response from a community that, perhaps, has lost touch with the essential lessons nature teaches; a community that, perhaps, sees no shame in the what was done to Native Americans, bison, wolves and, of course, coyotes.

Why, in the context of this post, mention the story of Nickel at all? Two reasons: First, my friends of Greenwood Village, nature assigns you, along with the rest of us human beings, the moniker “freak.” But, goodness, we have surely adapted with our BMWs, 12,000 sq. ft. homes, indoor toilets, three irons, fences and walls. We, my friends, are the interlopers on nature. Secondly, I like the story. It makes me smile.

Coyotes are a natural part of the ecosystem. When communities intrude upon the territory of these critters they adapt. Coyotes, in fact, adapt very well. If the hired guns kill two coyotes, then the species will produce four coyotes to take their place. That’s fact. Observable fact. Larger litters will ensue in response to any attempt to control their numbers. Ah, nature responding to the imperatives of the unnatural.

For Greenwood Village there are options. Strobe lights, air horns, moth balls, ammonia-soaked rags, throwing rocks, waving sticks, shouting, all of these options preclude the shameful specter of hired guns. But, then, it is so easy to just pay the $60 an hour and be done with it. But, unless it is the intent to exterminate every last coyote in the area, the killing field you have created, Greenwood Village, will only serve to kick-in the primordial response of a critter, the coyote, to preserve and protect the species. They were here long before you arrived. They will be here long after you have gone.

As an update to my earlier post, “Denver Cop Kills Dog – ‘Threatened by a Yellow Lab’ – Give me an effing break!” it is heartening to see that the owners of the dog, Rocky, have given notice to the City and County of Denver of their intent to sue, asking for $250,000 in punitive damages.

And, why is it heartening? Simple answer: It is the job of a Denver cop to serve and protect citizens and their families and their property from the incursion of those dregs of society who would, and do, threaten our homes and families, our businesses, our vehicles with their particular sociopathic behavior which, inevitably, leads to broken hearts, and broken confidence in the rule of law. There is nothing anywhere, that I know of, that precludes the characterization of a particular cop as a “dreg,” a “sociopath.” And, AND, when it comes to serving and protecting our families, there is no relevant argument that excludes our critters, our four-legged “children” from that encompassing word “family.”

So, the “heartening” thing about this intent to sue the City, is that Rocky’s family is acknowledging, by it’s action, an affirmation that (as I noted in the above linked prior post): “You shoot a three-year-old yellow Lab to death who is running away from you, but you shoot anyway, because you know you can get away with it by simply reporting you felt ‘threatened,’ is a cowardly act by someone who has lost their humanity. Period. You, mister Officer-whoever you are-should be ashamed of yourself, should turn in your badge. Next time it might be my dog, or, hell even my next door neighbor who you, mister Officer–fuckin’ cowboy that you are–would surely feel justified in murdering because, um, you felt ‘threatened.’”

“…there is that acknowledgment that there are more than a few beefed-up, hard-as-nails (or scared shitless, masquerading as hard-ass), trigger-happy half-wits who never, ever should have been given the blue and the badge and the gun. I’m thinking there’s more than a few of these guys and gals puffing up their chests and gritting their teeth who never, ever give a second thought to preserving and protecting their own humanity, much less that of whom they are charged to serve and protect. These are dangerous people.”

My friend, Dave Felice, was kind enough–some time ago–to provide me with information that Richard Rosenthal, Director of the Office of the Independent Monitor, said he expected to get the report on the Golden Labrador shooting ‘any day now’ (this was in November, 2008), from the Use of Force committee (an internal entity of the Denver Police Department). He said investigators had learned that Golden Labs ‘bite people more frequently than other breeds.’

Okay.  Firstly, Mister Rosenthal, let me suggest, just posit the suspicion that your investigators were out to search far and wide for some data to support–as justified–the shameful killing of Rocky. Regardless of whether they believed or didn’t believe the offending cop’s story, I would bet a latte that your investigators were hard at work developing a plausible justification for that cop’s action.

I don’t know, Mister Rosenthal, where your investigators gleaned the “stats” that Labs ‘bite people more frequently than other breeds.’ But, see, here’s the thing about “dog bite” stats: They’re not reliable. And, in fact, your conclusion about the frequency of bites from Labradors is just not accurate. What about Rotties, Pit Bulls, German Shepherds, Dobermans, Chows? Indeed, what about four-pound Pomeranians? Given the right, or wrong circumstances, any dog will bite. And, most often it isn’t the dog’s fault.

Statistics on dog bites rarely provide the full story. Statistics simply track reported bites, most often neglecting to provide an explication of the circumstances under which those bites occurred. Was the dog being taunted? Was someone ignorantly invading the dog’s territory? Was someone allowing their small child to abuse a dog–pulling its tail, its hair, trying to climb on top of it, etc.–with the predictable result the dog responded with one of the few defenses it has: biting. It’s that “fight or flight” thing that even human beings still find themselves responding to; something as primordial to the preservation of the species, any species, as eating, drinking, sleeping.

Be that as it may, the blarney about this cop feeling “threatened” by Rocky is, well, blarney. We are told in an item in the January 31, 2009, edition of the Rocky (Daniel J. Chacon) that “Rocky was shot in the back and in the head… His wounds were later determined to be consistent with the dog having been shot from behind while fleeing from the officer.” This quote comes from Rocky’s owner’s claim against the city.

Then there was the earlier recounting of the incident by a witness, Serferino Quintana, who said the dog never turned on the cop. Quintana reported that the dog was running into a side yard when it was shot. “Bam, bam – that was it,” Quintana said. “The dog was running for his life.”

The facts on this one, Mister Rosenthal, appear to be pretty clear-cut, in spite of what your investigators and the Use of Force committee might have provided to you.

Oh, by the way, that’s my niece, Kate, at about one-year old with her  buddy, her protector, her best friend, Charley. Yeah, another vicious Lab.

My short story, “Drogan’s Things,” is included in the February issue of Nossa Morte.

I think I’m going to cease referring to this kind of post as “shameless hype.” I am proud that my work in being noticed…by some. And, this particular little story is one of my favorites. So, if you’re inclined, take a look.