Hear no evil, see no evil, accept no gifts

October 2019

Mayor Jones, Councilman Yates, et al,

I wish I could say it was a pleasure to meet you both of at the Boulder Book Fair but here we are weeks later, ten months after my first letter, and nothing has come of my complaint as regards the matter of my being mobbed and convicted of ‘harassment’ at the Boulder North Rec. Center some five years ago. I get it, I understand, one of you is on your way out the door and for the other an election is scheduled for next month, so why make waves?

But it’s a shame that after thirty years of civic service in the case of Ms. Jones the best she can come up with regarding my particular case is a political answer; to kick the can down the road. Meanwhile Mr. Yates, as well as any of the other city councilmen, has yet to be heard from on the subject, despite almost a year of sitting on the issue. I’m beginning to suspect all of you may just be political hacks. Furthermore, I’m afraid these are the kind of representatives that have made Bolder Boulder what it is today, a money-making Machine, serving politically expedient narratives to the detriment of individual citizens.

What is it that makes my complaint so difficult to address in a straightforward manner? I’ve written each of the Council members individually, written a book on the subject of mobbing, and false allegations based on rumor and innuendo, An Immoral Imperative, citing both the legal and psychological ramifications, as well as its other long-term, deleterious effects on the accused and the community, and now have met each of these two individuals personally; all to no avail.

If I were female and making an allegation of ‘harassment’ against either John Stavley or Ms. Cole, would my reception by the City Council be any different in the histrionic, panic-stricken mania of the #MeTooMovement? Is it impolitic for me to start the #NotMeTooMovement on your watch, on Bolder Boulder’s doorstep, just before an election? What ever happened to equal protection under the law? Is that now, in light of Third Wave Feminism, just a one-way obligation? Are your politics following political fashions?

Do any of you feel put upon by these questions? Well, ironically, me too.

I say again, I didn’t ask for this fight, it was put on me, just like it was put on you, by the City’s Aquatics Director, Ms. Cole, when she gave legitimacy to a spasm of disparaging derogatory remarks against me as a ‘Toxic’ human being that was then fostered and given life by her staff, and that also slimed the City Attorney’s office and the Judge. I ask again, now that we have a manuscript that can put us on the same page, why can’t we all sit down and talk, like civil people, and have a rational conversation about the malfeasance displayed in the hearing?

The fact is you can’t kick this issue down the road. You’ve all, not just Ms. Jones and Mr. Yates, have had ten months to look into the matter, ten months to make a finding, and ten months to defend your city’s employee’s actions against my allegation of Ms. Cole’s administrative incompetence that resulted in a vigilante mobbing. Now that you have Coulder North, a complete book with a crime scene narrative to follow, the crime of slander, the cancer of a metastasizing cover-up of incompetence and bureaucratic entropy can be addressed; stat.

I say again, you are indulging in the same kind of willful blindness in not discharging your official duties as was undertaken by Judge Stavley. This continuing legal morass of covering up a vigilante mobbing is a cancer that is metastasizing and is slowly but surely engulfing both of you and the rest of the current Council members. The asterisk by Ms. Jones’ thirty years of public service will be what happened to her leadership, and the City Council’s, behind the Coulder North book case, on her watch? Did it get swept under the rug; thereby condoning and abating criminal acts of slander by city employees? Ditto Mr. Yates?

And what does this rather seemingly small injustice say about what Ms. Cole’s actions have taught all those involved? Is the City Council, by backing her actions, saying that lying to ensure a corrupting political status quo is okay if we can label and libel someone into silence? Even if it’s only alleged and never proven that he is some sort of toxic human predator? Buying into that lie, as the Council is doing by doing nothing, means that not only were the young lifeguards involved induced to lie, and the Judge enticed into perhaps participating in an ex parte conspiracy, but that each of you is now up to your eyeballs in willful blindness and yes, are now co-conspirators in a cover-up of official malfeasance. Did anyone on city’s staff ever read Shakespeare’s Lady MacBeth?

Do none of you see the writing on the wall? That I am currently building a case against the City Council with each open letter I send? Did you know there are now five open letters on my blog addressed to the City Council? Ms. Cole’s machinations and manipulation of the facts is now inducing the city’s leadership into what lawyers call willful blindness. The case itself is an open, publicly available file so why am I still, all these months later, just corresponding by one-way open letter format? Why aren’t we talking to each other face-to-face?

Why can’t we come together as fellow citizens concerned with where the culture of the city is headed in its reputation destroying jurisprudence and bring this problem of legalized lynching based on falsified and spurious evidence of ‘harassment’ out into the daylight and look at the particulars of this situation of ongoing public slandering by city officials with sober, unbiased, as in non-pejorative, perspectives?

For me, speaking from the outsider’s perspective of a writer who just happened to wander into your town on a peripatetic philosopher’s whim, looking for the days of old when speech wasn’t criminalized, the lynching of my reputation based on what I wrote in a few short stories looks a lot like the Ramsey case wherein the cover-up of institutional incompetence has ruled the debate ever since, and in that process of blaming the victim has smeared the town’s good name, not to mention the Ramsey’s reputation, over the role the city government took in covering for the incompetence of faceless bureaucrats in the DA’s Office and Police Department, from the beginning of the investigation; regardless of their institutional entropy and incompetence. Have the city leaders learned nothing these past twenty-plus years in addressing such bureaucratic fiascoes?

I remind you all, along with the accolades of office, along with the Chamber of Commerce awards, and the cocktail parties, and the visits to sister cities as representatives of one of the most touted cites in the country, touted for its natural beauty and high level of education, come the responsibilities you have to the least of your constituents, which are citizens like me, laboring under the tyranny of the clueless, gutless, soulless money Machine that Boulder has become. Profiles in Courage rarely begin by sweeping problems like these under the rug.

Rhetorically I ask, have all those years of public service taught you nothing about the human side of the job, wherein the great unwashed are as deserving of individual sovereignty, the right to write, just as much as the shiny, wealthy newcomers? Please, take off your politician’s hats for a few minutes and put on your human hats. I know it will be difficult at first because it’s been after all thirty years inside the Machine, but try to embrace your and my humanity, because we are after all, charged as human beings not to bear false witness against our neighbors, and that is because it’s good for all in the community, not just me.

Although I feel that it will be futile, this letter will also be circulated to both the local Daily Camera, and The Weekly news outlets, and is to be forwarded, as all my other correspondence is, to Capital City and National News outlets, because in the end it seems no one in Boulder currently sees it my way. This seemingly minor case reveals, in a grain of sand, a world of hurt for all those involved in creating a better world.

As I said, a storm is coming. The issue of the City’s legal liability and financial accountability, due to the damage done to individuals in giving legal sanction to false allegations against so-called ‘Toxic’ men by ideologically driven city employees with political agendas, based on the hearsay words of hysterical agent provocateurs, rumormongers, and acted upon by civic officials bent on trying to create a perfectly sterile culture by crucifying innocent men in the current sexual political hysteria of the times, like the Red Scare of the fifties, is going to reap the whirlwind of the #NotMeTooMovement.

I’ve offered now on three different occasions to get to the bottom of this particular case with like-minded people interested in finding a civil dialogue around identifying the social vectors of harassment and mobbing as legitimate issues that can be discussed openly, but there you are trying to tread water in the one case, and a foot out the door in the other.

As I said before, I’ve only begun to fight for my good name.

I won’t have Ms. Cole’s incompetence, or Judge Stavley’s lack of due diligence, or any other Boulder public official judge me capriciously, corruptly, incompetently without an open hearing in the court of public opinion. I’ve worked all my life with my hands to build a good life and a good name and I won’t have them, or any of you, take that from me without a good fight because hack bureaucrats and politicians decide that the topic of false allegations of a sexual nature, and a city employee’s sponsorship of a public mobbing, is too hot to handle in an election season. Just as a side note, I quit school when I was working on a Masters in Public Administration, which as you probably know is the educational background prep for city governance. I quit after a year for the very reason I see displayed in your current actions; I didn’t want to become a political hack.

Do the right thing now or expect that there will always be an asterisk by each of your names because I fervently believe that eventually the truth will prevail in this matter and some of those that participated will come forward to clear their consciences. So that in addition to the public side of things, I will become a flea in your ear, in your conscience, if you have one that is otherwise not political, and I will grow louder with each year; a niggling, nagging buzzing that will eat away at your accomplishments, because at the bottom of all of it, in my shoes, you’d probably fight the same fight if your name was dragged through the cesspool of an unproven sexual predation charge for the rest of your lives. Being libeled, being slandered for life by a kangaroo court, is no joke.

This issue of judicial overreach, for the benefit of an ideological and political sense of expediency in a perfectly politically correct utopia cascades through the whole city’s sense of its culture; just as the Ramsey case has forever stained the reputation of the city this case too I fear will come to mark an era in city governance for Bolder Boulder that none of you will be proud of because ultimately, if you tell the citizens that it’s all right to lie to maintain and protect this type of status quo, this type of culture of deception and manipulation of its laws for ideological purposes, well, then all the citizens will lie to protect themselves in an authoritarian, bureaucratic utopia and become apparatchiks, lying and reporting on each other for PC violations.

Ultimately you have to ask yourselves, is that really the agenda of the Bolder Boulder’s City Council and its Mayor? To be or not to be a society of apparatchiks (people that lie and manipulate the law to insure that the status quo is upheld, no matter how corrupted) and thought police, and that my friends is the real the question before you now, so quit playing politics and do the dirty work of the job you were originally elected to do! Expose the corruption and your children’s children will thank you for delivering to them what you inherited without really earning.

I have a different vision of the Boulder Book Fair if you are interested; I would hope all the outlaw writers from all over would come to Boulder’s next book fair, and the city would have tables and stalls ready for them along the creek, like the book vendor stalls on the Seine, you know, in Paris. But with the current climate of insular self-righteousness and lack of imagination there’s no chance … drat!


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The New, Softer Face of Fascism

Is a cocoon of gentrification, clean streets and new cars, lots of sports toys and well designed coffee shops the face of the new fascism? All the aesthetics are in place; lots of wood tones, industrial lighting, brick facades and well-maintained landscapes, all of which are very inviting, softly seductive.

But for me, now, it’s hard not to see the dark side, the exclusivity of this world of a certain strata of archetypes; we’ll call them ‘true believers’; living out lifestyles that are only reached by very few people. There is a new class of aspirational Bavarians rising up from the grad schools and law schools and high-tech campuses that is dealing heavily with the disgust factor of being human. These things are sublime and not easily seen unless you look past the Maya of Bolder Boulder; an advertising slogan that is agonizing to the ears in its Big Brother naiveté.

The cliquishness, the tribalism and moral superiority that comes with this package of politically correct bagging choices at the market not only informs the herd of the current politically correct viewpoint, but also separates the outsider immediately in his fashion choices; this is not, heaven forbid the parking lot of a Smallmart.

So here I sit, in the middle of a cocoon of a highly organized unreality where the best of everything society has to offer the up and coming Ubermensch, as he oils the Machine and massages the masses with logarithmic functionality, at his fingertips, feeling only the dark hands of men and women like Rupert Murdoch and Susan Wasserman Schultz.

I speak to the woman at the table next to me and broach the subject of my book. She asks me how I got it published. I answer that I did it through Amazon’s printing arm, Kindle, at which she screws up her face and says, ‘I don’t like Amazon’ and that finishes her part of the conversation. I tell her in a semi-pleading way that for an artist like me free publishing is a real luxury in my effort to speak truth to power. I also remind her that a ‘Thousand Shades of Grey authored by Erika Leonard, under the nom de plume of E. L. James, self-published her work before it took off. She was also given a microphone by Fox News, a notoriously right wing media outlet, which also helped; but of course this would’ve been too much for the poor soul to take in, so I let her comment pass.

This exemplifies the kind of problem a writer of the iconoclastic finds inside the cocoon, the web of incoherent, suppositious beliefs and ideologies held by this class of ill-informed, ill-educated but nicely irreverently coiffed tribe presents; not only is their the bias against my publisher, but it continues on down the line to who I am as a white, middle-aged, male writing about the Horrific Feminine. It wouldn’t help to tell her that it, the book, is really about how hard it is to write about contemporary issues critically in a world full of people with ‘normative’ left wing blinders, which I contend is just a neo-liberal brand of soft-boiled fascism; poor soul.

Another woman told me, after scanning the subtitle of my book, ‘I know all about that subject,’ as she handed my card back to me. I look at her and realize I’m looking at another know-it-all and I am undone with the level of intellectual snobbery the tribe exhibits when challenged to listen carefully and read critically. But this is what Boulder has become; an Alpine village charmed by its own cultural sterility. As I ponder the eternal predicament of the outlawed writer, the intellectual level of the masses in one of the most highly educated cities in America, sadly not the world, another writer approaches my table, having heard what I’ve said, asking questions. I am delighted at this prospect to explain my work as it unfolds in front of the lady that hated Amazon to the core.

He’s tall, thin, mid-twenties and has the deepest blue eyes you ever saw on a man, but I’m not gay, this is just the observation of a writer, so settle down. There is a humility in his demeanor that betrays a sensitive soul; again, not gay. He asks me what it’s all about and I tell him in the throws of a spitfire passion that it’s a story about the city, in which I randomly throw words like neo-fascistic and feminist ideology run amok, which he’s following but too slowly to keep up.

I overrun him in a coffee-fueled haze of a one-sided conversation that soon sees his eyes glaze over. Meanwhile, his buddy sidles up to us, listening somewhat disinterestedly and acting as a wingman. Silent, nonverbal signals are exchanged and his friend retires to their table and soon the author does too saying, before I finish the last thought of what I was working out, ‘sorry, man, I got to go, we have to leave soon and I’m in a rush.’ Then as an after thought, over his shoulder he adds, ‘and good luck with that book.’

Thirty minutes later he’s still there and I’m ready to leave so that as I’m packing my propaganda paraphernalia, because after all I am trying to persuade people of my authentic apprehensions of their world, I offer him a book for free, one writer to another, and he hesitatingly accepts it. I turn and pack the rest of my stuff, bus the table carrying my cup inside and return.

As I return he wants to return the book. He explains this by saying he has many other books to read, as he thumbs through the tome and contemplates the best way to spend the remainder of his time on the planet. Studying him as he says this I see that once again I’ve spooked the quarry; rejected by a writer that couldn’t get past the cover.

I don’t mention that when this book gets full exposure the city will come after me with a thousand arrows and that I had to see that at least five hundred of those efforts will not be launched; duds, because of the arguments I laid out in the text, or that it, the book, is really a writer’s guide as to how to save your artistic soul when a town as rich as Boulder comes after you, the kind of things they don’t teach you in writers school.

I say to him, ‘that’s ok, you’ll remember this moment when you’re selling your work and it will inform you in another way.’ It’s always that simple. I drive back to the house and say to myself, ‘this is the writer’s lot; nobody reads anymore and if they do the rest of the world has to tell them which ones they should read first.

Driving down Broadway, near the house, I see the small wooden sign that marks the offices of ‘The Weekly’ and, on the spur of the moment, I pull in. Inside I meet (imagine your name here) who is incredibly solicitous. She not only takes my book, card and brochure but asks simple questions like how long did it take to write, five years, as well as knowing, personally, about the connection to the transcendent the writer naturally comes by in his work.

After talking to the first writer, this second encounter with a true Romantic of the Bohemian class was a real boost to my lagging charge against the town’s parapets of indifference. I’ve seen this spirit of resistance several other times since I’ve returned; at the Laughing Goat, at the Trident, at Al’s Albums, as well as in individual encounters one-on-one, and now at The Weekly.

It would appear there are some souls in this town that understand what it is to be an outlawed artist and are willing to help in the effort to evolve the town’s philosophical underpinnings because they too can see the soft face of this neo-fascism; its seductive neighborhoods, its charming coffee shops, its snobbish literacy.

This is what it is to be a writer; it’s a hard sell to describe a more benevolent vision of the world, less exclusionary, more ‘really’ inclusive, in granular detail that is as much mythological in its essence as it is ‘real.’ It’s irritating and full of rejection, but although marketing is not writing I’m learning, and when I encounter those few rebellious souls that still remember what the town was at one time it can be exhilarating. The question is how many Bohemians are left in this town that still remembers the romantics, the chivalric writers and poets, the Ken Keseys and Neal Cassidys and William Blakes?

Is Bolder Boulder the new Orwellian slogan for the techno class of professional cogs that run the Machine out there, beyond the Green Moat, ensconced as they are in a cocoon that is both aesthetically fanciful and culturally sterile, disgusted as they are by the common man’s touch, by the funk and stank of life, unknowing and uncaring that most of the living and dying and grieving in the wake of the Machine is done beyond the city limits.

This is the Great Schism between those that are True Believers in the PC utopia of the new face of politically correct fascism, an Eric Hoffer reference, and those that know they don’t know a thing, a reference to Socrates; but then you all knew that I was going to say that because if this town is not the poster child for the new, softer face of fascism I don’t know my elbow from my …




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The Third Day in Country

Sept 20 2019


The third day in country and the landscape is becoming more challenging.

I went to the University radio station today to follow up on a contact I’d made the night before and spoke with (imagine your name here) about the book I dropped off the pervious evening. Her remark, ‘the anti-feminist book’ left me once again in that peculiar place of trying to un-ring a bell that sounded more like a dog whistle.

I’m afraid this is the kind of response I’m going to get from those that judge a book by its writer’s skin color and sex and age rather than do the hard work of reading the material and doing a real interview by asking pertinent questions.

I’ve worked in construction all my life and when a new guy comes on a job site you can usually tell in an hour whether he is full of it or can really cut it. A brief interview of just a half hour, maybe even fifteen minutes in the case of a person of seasoned perspective, like a person with a microphone held in the public interest might have, should be enough to come to some kind of discernment as to the ability of a writer to know his subject; however controversial. But alas, there were no questions coming from (imagine your name here,) and, I don’t know, maybe she just needs a little more time.

But this is exactly the kind of dismissive comment that indicates both the low esteem those that argue for sanity in jurisprudence when it comes to harassment cases are held in, but also that the pejorative wins every time in an Hysterical Age. It goes to show you how hard it can be to find anybody with a real interest in the free exchange of ideas concerning this subject matter, even on a college campus. Who’s in charge over there? Who’s running that show anyway? But seriously, beyond the rhetorical, the stories of those falsely accused of ‘harassment’ in these hysterical times is relevant and a legitimate topic of civil discourse surrounding the politics of Third Wave Feminism.


Next I then went down to Pearl Street and stopped into a couple of bookstores. First I went to Boulder Bookstore where I met (imagine your name here) whom I gave a copy of the book to, to pass among her staff and friends in an effort to get the conversation going. She didn’t seem to have much time though, because that is a very busy book store, so we didn’t really go over what conversation it was that I was referring to; so I’ll go over it here for you.

The book is not just about Third Wave Feminism any more than it’s about real life dragons and gorgons. The book is an existential metaphorical exploration of what it is to be alive in a world that is becoming more divided and intolerant on all levels of society almost by the hour, fragmenting itself so much so that this process of pitting us against each other is depriving us of meaning and sacredness and civility.

The problem is that we’ve lost the art of communicating, of finding the middle ground and putting ourselves in the other man’s shoes. I have a point of view that I am trying to communicate that addresses some of these problems and at every turn I see a narrowness of the conversation and a growing paranoia when we touch those sacred cows of feminism and authoritarianism and neo-fascism … no one wants to hear the bad news. Sorry but that’s what writers do, they pull down the sacred cows along with their self-serving, virtue signaling quislings. Besides, no one can really explain the politics of Third Wave Feminism in a three minute elevator ride.

Sisyphus like, I continued to roll the rock down the street where I talked to (imagine your name here) at Trident and the guy could not have been more welcoming and hospitable. He listened to my shtick, ask questions, and although he couldn’t let me sell my books out front Saturday or Sunday after the fair, it was only because other writers were already scheduled. And that is one rule I like because it shows respect for the work the other artists have put into creating lectures full of insights for their audience.

Atlas like, I picked up the rock shouldering the weight of my world and went around the corner to the Downtown Boulder Business Improvement District office on Broadway and talked with (imagine your name here) who again could not have been more hospitable. He was running behind on a meeting but he took my card and pamphlet and promised to get in touch Saturday as he too will be attending the Book Fair.

I sure hope he can read between the lines because if this book takes off, say in the Youtube Doctor, Jordan Peterson community, oh Lordie lookout!

Anyway that’s how it goes in the life of a writer, one moment you’re drowning in the abyss of obscurity and the next you’re up on your tip toes again reaching out of that abyss for the stars again. I hope (imagine your name here) and (imagine your name here) and (imagine your name here) figure out that I’m not exactly attacking them personally as members of the community, nor all the other citizens, I’m simply trying to start a conversation, one I think the good citizens of Boulder might be itching to have; like who’s running the show anyway, who’s driving the cultural bus (cause it sure ain’t Neal Cassidy) and where exactly are we headed with our old school values and meanings and sacred beliefs in this utopian Potemkin Village; is Pearl Street a sacred cow, is anybody or anything so sacred that we can’t laugh at the foolishness of this Dizzney Land approach to reality.

Who am I, you might ask, why ‘Nobody’ of course, as Ulysses put it to the Cyclops


PS. I’ll be doing an informal book signing at the Laughing Goat Coffeehouse both evenings after the Book Fair and Monday night too and I welcome all questions … signed copies will be twenty dollars … you might want to get one just to say you where there, then, when the counterculture began again in Boulder … also please, no surprise visits by process servers, Pharisees nor Sadducees of the law or other high priests or minor functionaries of the city … this time try to think a little harder before you swear out a summons

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Homelessness in Boulder

Homelessness in Boulder 2019


I’ve returned now five years after having tried to come ashore here once before and I see it all differently, but some things never change. When I arrived here lo those many years past I had a horse trailer that I converted into a sleeping caravan that I’d traveled the country with as a kind of modern Conestoga wagon. I’d done this for years and made it on the rough many times in many different towns and cities, and that’s how I ended up at the Boulder North Rec Center initially; for daily showers as many of the homeless in town do. After awhile I got a great basement apartment and came to the Rec Center as a citizen of the community, ‘proper.’

The thing about traveling like that is that you see a lot of things that appear normal, and are even taken for granted by the town folk, with fresh eyes. Even in a place as scenically beautiful as Boulder the darker parts of world can sometimes get glossed over and our eyes don’t see what is right in front of us. This brings me to the problem of homelessness in Boulder and why the city’s management can’t seem to solve this chronic problem humanely.

There are those that say the poor will always be with us, and those that claim there are welfare queens amongst them, that they are irresponsible and reckless and feckless and only have themselves to blame. We judge this as a problem of Biblical proportions that we as a community, or at least the best minds on the city’s staff can’t resolve, so we spend our resources on getting on with our lives, which, I contend makes us blind to their humanity. This seems to be a problem LA and San Fran and other large city’s can’t resolve either so we all, as a society spiral into the abyss of inhumanity due, I contend, to a lack of imagination and not a lack of resources.

What if I told you that there is one city in America that is actually handling the problem very well? That would be Salt Lake City, Utah. What does this say about the imagination, much less competence, of the Boulder city government? Homelessness is a multi-tiered problem that can be traced back to the time of Kennedy’s closing of the state’s asylums and has really became a problem when they took away the Nixonian block grants; yes, Virginia he actually did some things well, and with Reagan’s trickled-on economics the ‘problem’ of what to do about the disenfranchised has spun out of control and finally with Clinton’s omnibus crime bill we’ve come to the point of criminalizing all of societies ills.

The fact is I wasn’t really homeless in the common vernacular, I have a degree and I fancied myself as an adventuring writer, I had a carpentry job, I had a safety net, but I came close enough to the edge of that abyss of spiritual poverty to truly see what most people in this town would prefer to walk past. Is this because the citizens of Boulder haven’t experienced what I’ seen first hand by working with and walking amongst them; why they can’t see what I see? Is this because the city’s staff lacks imagination; the imagination to look around the country and see what is clearly in front of everybody’s eyes, or a lack of true compassion perhaps? Have they given up hope for the hapless or is something else at play; like a kind of benign elitism?

It’s not enough to recycle your trash and pick up paper bags at the grocers instead of picking up your share of the load in carrying your brothers and sisters over troubled waters.  What I see is moral elitism purchased on the cheap. When I see my brothers and sisters with wrecked-out souls barely making it in one of the richest towns in America it brings me shame, not on them, but on what we have become as a society. We don’t want to look. We don’t want to be burdened even when practical solutions exist elsewhere.

The Zen truth is that the place you don’t want to look holds the key to the answer. Facing our problems head on often by asking troubling questions allows us to expand our consciousness; it actually helps us, benefits us as a society to guide our brothers and sisters out of the desert of despair. This is supposed to be one of the most highly educated cities in America, forget the money, where is the creativity born of a liberal arts degree, born of the humanities? Is this a plutocracy of technocrats; a living breathing reflection of our true core beliefs in the invisible hand of the marketplace, read predatory capitalism, which seem to verge on willful blindness … has anyone downtown really looked around lately?

Clearly we want the city to take care of the ‘problem’ but it seems the city doesn’t have the imaginative high ground if all they can do is put one more planter box on one more street corner, relentlessly assaulting my sensibilities about Zen balance and harmony.  Don’t get me wrong, outdoor aesthetics matter, hugely, but what does it mean to keep the streets clean of trash when we don’t, or won’t  deal with the human tragedy we don’t want to see. I believe, like the Medici that cultivating outside urban areas is vital to the aesthetic health of the citizens.

The question becomes what kind of people we are if we can’t tackle a problem like homelessness with more nuance? What kind of people are we becoming when we condone the city’s lack of competence in this matter? Because they are after all good at placing planter boxes on the right corners and I want to give the devil his due. Do we fear the homeless? Do we fear someday we may trade places with them? In my cynical way I believe it’s a conspiracy of neo-liberal capitalist to keep us all in line and gloss over the marketplace mentality, predatory mentality, eat or be eaten mentality we’ve all grown too accustomed to in these fascistic times. The problems of the homeless seem distant and remote from most Boulderites but I tell you, and you can take this to the bank, we can find your own humanity as a community in facing our fears by looking closely at what we don’t want to even glance at.

When I came here I wasn’t conventionally homeless, and yet I was. When I went to the Rec Center I sometimes used the cabanas that are there for families. There are no families there at six in the morning so I took the privilege. In that early hour I could hear the blower attached to the other side of the wall beyond the shower stall. I heard it run constantly for at least twenty to thirty minutes, someone constantly hitting the plunger, and I wondered who uses a hand hair dryer for that long; to what purpose? Only on my last day there, the day I was served the summons for the restraining order, did I realize that a homeless man was laundering his clothes in the shower next door … as he stood in them. I work in construction and I always have extra clothes in my truck, I didn’t see him that day but I knew the next time I did I was going to offer him a clean, dry set of clothes. He was about my height and weight and in truth he could have been me but except for the grace of God.

I can’t help it but when I look into the faces of the homeless I always ‘see’ myself. I hope for the sake of the citizens of this so called Golden City on the Hill, that they are soon better served by the city administration because the homelessness ‘problem’ is indicative of failed personalities; not the homeless, the city’s administrative leaders, because there are workable solutions; either that or this ain’t Boulder its Coulder, Colorado. It’s a city of denial driven by the merchants agenda of ‘clean’ streets for the Potemkin Village look to beguile the suckers and squares and rubes from out of town.

It actually says that in the first bullet point of the downtown business alliance’s mission statement, not the suckers and squares part, I make poetic license, but the clean streets part. And who am I you might ask? I am a man, like you, that is troubled in his heart by what I see on this city’s streets, like you.

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why I’ve come here, again

September 17, 2019


I sit on the patio of an old favorite coffee shop that I suspect has been overtaken by the gays, or a slew of men that have been neurotically neutered because all they can talk about is their efforts at super masculine derring-do. But then it’s been years.

I move back inside and its worse, bad music and a calamity of cacophonous clatter between the incongruous conversation, the clang of bussed dishes and one particular woman sitting a chair over that doesn’t seem to have an inside voice.

But past the distractions the most poignant feeling I have is of being small in light of the power of the Machine. I mean this is a place with immaculate streets and mean-spirited souls; they obviously can afford both here.  There’s a lot of money in this town and you see it everywhere, and it makes me feel like a dog with his nose on the butcher’s window. The air is fresh and dry and the neighborhoods charming; it’s a life style I could have had and would have enjoyed.

This is such a foreign place to me now, these people are not my people, not because they’re not people like aliens, or because they aren’t deserving of grace, but because there is no general conversation to be had on the level that is exploring life, or consciousness, or the phantasmagoric nature of this reality.

They appear to be asleep mostly.

All of that sounds too judgmental, too snobbish, too insecure, too. I really am tired from the trip, two days on the open road from Austin up to Boulder. Two days wrestling with the wheel, the traffic, the constant consciousness of life and death defying driving. I’ve been focused on this dream for so long that each mile recounted my reasons for making my claims of individual sovereignty, but nothing prepared me for the overwhelming sense of defeat before I even start when I came face-to-face with the reality of how big and proficient the Boulder city machinery is and how easy it would be for it to crush me like an insignificant little buggy creature.

I need a quick look at the Bhagavad-Gita … Krishna to Arjuno … “you are worried about the wrong people … these bodies are immortal … and the whole Universe, like a string of pearls abides with in each of us … the day has been chosen and the time to act out your duty is upon you … or something like that.

The thing is that the Machine will be on Ms. Cole’s and Stavley’s side; forget that they were duped and dippy and full of them selves. But this is not about revenge; it’s about art and the place of the artist in a world being robbed of its idiosyncratic color and spiritual nuance.  I wonder, in silent ponderings, if it’s worth the effort to enlighten such dimwitted souls. I mean that who, among this great mass of dodgy cows and beta males, really cares after five years of wondering in the desert what happened to me, personally, except me.

Why do this thing when it can only harm me the most? Is my integrity, my artful life, worth defending on any terms? Who are these people I’ve come from far away to do battle with but my teachers? And if I’m willing to see the issue philosophically why can’t they come clean; quit the lying against my name and come clean? It’s not that easy. The City Council has not seen fit to treat me as an individual and instead opted for just ignoring the buggy bug.

Stavley surely knows by now I’m coming for him (I would have written that I’m gunning for him, but in these times every word is either self-censored or open to ideological scrutiny). That’s why I’m coming for him and thousands of other Judges that push people, like writers, too far; they’ve smeared the nuance of life into a tribal stupidity. In other words you can only exist in Boulder if you don’t exist in his mind first!

Ms. Cole on the other hand is a different type of psychological study and that is the kind of writing I do; psychological studies of the people I meet and she has a place of dubious distinction as far an inspiration goes. She is, or at least was, the perfect study of the horrific feminine; a quality of self-possession that has decide to castrate any male that isn’t already either a quisling or a beta. Mythologically speaking Percales was given a reflecting shield by Athena (the goddess of wisdom) with which to see the Medusa; in this case I give you a psychological reflection of her mean-spiritedness.

I’m tired, these people are wearing. But shall I shrink from my duty, my responsibility to my own life’s work? Should I lay down and play dead like the Mayor and her people. As tired as I am, as overwhelmed as I now am that it comes into my consciousness just how big and bad ass this Boulder Machine is, I think of the Ramsey family, does anyone remember they were a family once before this city got a hold on them, I still say yes, come what may, the price of a free and benevolent society is in what people are willing to do to fight for it.

They fired the last Aquatics Manager for his incompetence in not being perfectly politically correct, and this is what the city got that void. A pair of perfectly politically correct idiots. The current aquatics staff is mostly young and easily led, his staff was well rounded and had the depth of perspective that served the city for years, but now you have the wrong person in that job because she has the wrong temperament for the people problems that job requires; for her that office is a personal fiefdom with its privileges to be used and abused as she sees fit as she assails whom she wishes at her pleasure regardless of the law.

The Judge, on the other hand, destroyed my reputation with blasé indifference, but then that is what Boulder does better than any city I’ve ever seen … destroy people, so I do this for me, the Ramsey’s and all the other unnamed souls crushed by men like Stavley and the women like Cole, middling bureaucrats  of the town who go about their dirty little machinations unseen and unexposed and unaccountably so. So yes one more time into the breach for me my dear friends. I do this for art; and for all of the lost souls crushed by City Councils and Judges and slanderous bureaucrats everywhere.

Remember the Police Chief that made the Ramsey case national?

Fuck mediocrity; Boulder deserves better!


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subtle subtitles

There’s been some confusion expressed in the comments section of the blog as to the meaning of the term ‘Horrific Feminine.’ First off, I wanted to create a phrase for the type of reputation destroying female behavior described in my book that might be as effective as the term ‘Toxic Male’ has been for Third Wave feminists; however the term ‘Toxic Feminine’ just wouldn’t begin to cover the abasement of it.

You see, throughout history this type of female behavior has been described in everything from children’s fairytales to mythology, to literary critiques and so on, down to us in present-day horror stories we read in the papers. The wicked stepsisters envious of ideal beauty plot against their sister, that sweet old German grandmother that plotted to put Hansel and Gretel Cohen in the ovens as she flattered and fattened them for the feast, are but a few children’s’ literary characters embodying this horrific role. Mythologically there is the Medusa, from the Bible Jezebel, from the movies Scarlett O’Hara, and of course from the hand of Ken Kesey comes Nurse Rachete.

Look, the truth is every hero in mythology has an evil nemesis; it’s Shadow. For example, in Egyptian mythology the benevolent son, Horace, has his tyrannical uncle King Set to battle, as Cain has Able in the Bible; in both cases they work to illustrate the darkness that surrounds the enviable ideal.

In this adventure its Ms. Cole’s role that personifies the Nurse Rachete character and the description of her machinations behind the scenes of the mobbing madness that defines the Horrific Feminine in its most hideous form and beguiling fashion. What I’m saying is that if you want to call someone a misogynist, or a predator, even if that person is the President of the United States, you’d better have your facts right, and if you want to examine both archetypes of the truly horrific in one couple, I give you the Clintons; the male predator and his Lady Macbeth.

The attempt in this story is to update, with cultural nuance, an age-old feminine stereotype, the counterpoint character sketch to the Toxic Male stereotype. However, before I go on there is a set of behaviors that describes the Toxic Male phrase more legitimately in the ‘character’ displayed by the Judge in my case who was so intoxicated with his own narcissistic megalomania that he couldn’t help but fill the role of the Tyrannical King.

But the Judge is just an ancillary character, caught up in his own cynicisms about his fellow man, and delusions of omniscience, he acted out his part in the drama habitually, routinely, regularly, normatively and thus characteristically. His malevolence was ideologically-driven only in its self-serving virtue signaling aspects, and this particular story is not about the Judge per se, it speaks to the cultivation of nuance that tyranny, like the kind he practices, smears into oblivion.

The sad truth is, just as in the male of the species, some of the gentler sex are far more dangerous than one suspects on first blush, but this isn’t red pill talk; it’s just the mythological, biblical, literary use of an archetypal character to describe a vectoring characteristic of collective social and personally subjective malevolence; as in tribalism, elitism, collectivism and feminist utopianism.

Ms. Cole, through her actions toward the protagonist, Travis, displayed the perfect rendition of the Horrific Feminine in forming a vigilante mob to go after the alleged ‘Toxic Male’ in their midst; but then again, they all acted despicably so perhaps it’s unfair to single her out from the others.

Therefore, I want to state here and now that she simply serves my purposes as a real-life foil, an impenitent caricature, and what I do now, in calling her out for her actions is not personal, its just business; my business as a writer. I’m using her to describe how, through real people, an unnatural force of deadly malevolence can possess anyone in its passions; her, as well as her staff and the city bureaucracy around her, into forming a mob of hysterical cows and quislings intent on vigilantism by spooking the community with the dog whistle of “Toxic Male” on campus.

In the end they all wanted to be in on the kill of a fabled Toxic Male, and if bystanders, real people like a legendary white rhino writer got caught in their crossfire, in their zeal to kill all the ‘bad actors’ in their part of the concrete jungle, and died as collateral damage, well, well, that might just be considered an horrific culture-crime … thus the title.

All this public vigilantism and vilification brings to mind Monica Lewinski. I don’t think she expects Jay Leno, or David Letterman to apologize for all the rim-shots and innuendo, any more than I can expect an apology from the City of Boulder, given their track record thus far in the Ramsey case.

This is how the Horrific Feminine mindset, in league with a willfully blind, lackadaisical bureaucracy, uneducated as to the essential nature of the sovereignty of the individual to the health of the community in fighting tribalism, collectivism, and elitism, smears over the noble and enlightening and emboldening; it’s what politicians and bureaucrats and so-called ‘cultural’ trendsetters like the #MeTooMovement do so well with their doublespeak.

Monica Lewinsky, just for the record, is one of the most ennobling and emboldening women on the planet. She too is an outlawed artist because she refuses to be defined by the malevolence of small-minded people, the Press, the political hacks, the comedic hacks, the former President, and the horrific manifestation of the feminine in the wife of the former President.

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Ten Years On the Road

09-01-09 ……. 09-01-19

Ten years ago I began the greatest trip of my life, to seek my destiny in the lands of the imagination that lie beyond the horizon of all my experiences up to that date.

Today, I start another leg of that adventure by throwing myself yet again onto the great public stage of life to be tested and judged by the reader as to the veracity of my world domination seeking, coup-plotting co-conspirators; my characters. Not the ones in my head, for most of them will remain lurking in the shadows, but the ones put to the pen and to which I have assigned the odious chore of collecting the public’s opprobrium and accolades for their thoughtcrimes.

Ten years ago in a small Illinois town, one hundred and fifty miles east of St. Louis, I straddled an old ten-speed bike and headed due west setting out to find the Holy Grail; the experience whose contextual slipstream of expanded consciousness I could imbibe in ponderous philosophical and theological detail and thereby perhaps glimpse the luminous nature of the Numinous. I couldn’t even write a complete sentence at the time, some say I still can’t, but that day I made the most fateful decision of my life, to throw myself, whenever and wherever prudent and possible against the circumstances of my encumbrances, by writing about the outrages of the Man and the Machine, and thereby chart a destiny befitting someone of my range and caliber and unique talents.

In Boulder, Colorado I found that experience.

Ten years after that humble beginning I’m releasing of my second book, Coulder North, in which the reader will find my protagonist being attacked by a herd of hysterical cows and their quislings in a ideologically radicalized redoubt of the perfect PC utopia that has conquered reason in the once fabled and now bewildered Bohemian enclave of Boulder, Colorado. This is not the end of the trail for me though. I, as you will find in future parts of the trilogy, am as immortal as my words, but it is a point of interest, not just in terms of linear time, but also in terms of the discipline acquired and the imaginal landscape crossed in preparing to fight these dragons and gargoyles and goofs of the feminized collective.

I don’t know how this book will be received, nor can I see how the trail will bend and twist as it embodies a life of its own, so that the celebration tonight, for me, in this moment, is singular. Ten years on I’ve become, literally, the writer of my own destiny because come what may, I’ve put my eternal essence into my art.


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