Walking with my Sara on Colfax Avenue late one night, there’s a phantasmagoria of the crippled and insane all around us. People shit their pants at the bus stop and vomit on the steps of the church. One man stands in a shadowy entryway has his briefs around his ankles and no pants on, puking up what appear to be… Spaghetti-O’s? A fat man in a basketball jersey calls me a “faggot.” An old black man tries to trade me an oversized margarita glass he found in a dumpster for enough money to get a hamburger. Someone else demands a cigarette… or at least some onion rings! Morons in pickup trucks cruise past making loud guttural noises at us, shout that they want to fuck us both. Mouthy niggers say obscene things to my girlfriend, then threaten me when I react.
Back at home we enter the high security gate and I say, “There are a lot of people like that in the world. That’s why you need a gun.”
In deed, every time I go up to the roof to smoke a cigarette, looking down on Grant Street and Colfax Avenue I’m visited by visions of wild riots breaking loose on the street below, and I’m holed up on the roof with a riffle and a case of beer, helping the police pick off degenerates. Sometimes I wish someone would sterilize these fucking maggots. But then Colfax wouldn’t be any fun anymore.
Denver
March 12, 2009
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