Simple Math

Even though it'll be a good quarter century before I hit retirement age, I started worrying a long time ago about what happens when I become a doddering old jerk. And already kind of live like a doddering old jerk right now. I worry about every penny I spend. All of my clothes come from Target. I've never owned a new car. I have no credit card debt. And I've owned two houses --- both of them were purchased way under market value because they needed a ton of work, which I did my myself. I put a good chunk of my paycheck in a 401k and a little more of that in a Roth IRA. Why do I live like this? Because I know that some day, the money will run out. At some point, nobody will hire me, probably because in my advancing years, I'll become more of a jerk than a doddering old dude. So what I'll have left when the work runs out is my 401K proceeds and a social security check. I figure I'll pay for random life expenses out of the 401K, like car repairs and my trips to the doctor to get a prescription for the anti-jerk medicine that will be developed in the future. And I'll pay the light and grocery bills with my paltry social security check. That's cool --- I can adapt my lifestyle to my income level.

So last night I'm listening to Bush explain his social security plans on T.V. I actually give a crap about this because I'm such a Nellie when it comes to my impending retirement. He says to save social security, we may have to give less payouts to rich people who don't need social security. Sounds good, as I'll likely never be rich. Then he says that private investment accounts should be part of any good plan to save social security. He says I should have the freedom to invest a portion of my social security in the stock market. Sounds good. I already do that with 401k. But wait a minute. Maybe that'll increase the amount of money I've got for my random life expenses, anti-jerk pill fund. But what about the light bill fund? So I sat down and did the math. Let's say I can invest 10 percent of my social security deductions in the stock market. That means that there's 10 percent less money for the light bill. And the less people pay into that fund, the faster it burns up. Uh oh. Why am I able to figure this out so quickly? I'll tell you why. Because I'm the guy that's going to need that light bill money. When social security reform decisions are being made by wealthy people that don't really need social security, it's probably not going to help me much.

So now I'm banking on the development on the anti-jerk pill. Maybe that way, when I hit 65, I won't be as much of a jerk as I anticipate. That way, Walmart will agree to hire me as a greeter and I can pay the light bill.

New NO

As I type this, I'm listening to New Order's brand new "Waiting For The Siren's Call." I preordered it a long time ago and it finally arrived today in a cardboard package, two days after the album's American release date. It's such a pleasure to listen to a favorite band's new album for the first time. And while I order new and unfamiliar music all of time, New Order is one of the few bands that requires an immediate purchase as soon as a new product comes out --- no questions asked. I've bought every new album they've issued on the week it was issued dating back to 1989's Technique, which is my one of my favorites. This new album will go straight to my car's CD deck, where I'll listen to it over and over again. Then it will be placed in my CD collection, only to be pulled out again months to a year later and listened to over and over in my car again. Because I've been listening to New Order for so long, they've become a soundtrack to my life. "Technique" came out my last year in college when I was suffering through a horrible breakup with a girlfriend. "Republic" came out when I lived in Arlington and was spending my nights running from crime scene to crime scene as a newspaper reporter. "Get Ready" came out when I was living in my first house in East Dallas. And now comes "Siren's Call" at a time when I'm happily married, accomplished in my career and have a great group of friends. Maybe this album will become my favorite for the place it's fallen in my life.

My Baby

There's really only one hazard to being born on April 27th. Seeing as that's my birthday, I know it well. When the celebrity birthday list is read on the radio on this glorious day, I'm appropriately reminded of how many fellow spares I share a birthday with. I can recite their names by heart. Quincy's Jack Klugman. Drunken U.S. President Ulysses S. Grant. The kind of cool and funny looking but talentless Kiss guitarist Ace Frehley. But of all my fellow birthday mates, the one that always plagues me for the remainder of the day is forgotten 80's poptress Sheena Easton. Mention her name, and I will invariably have "My Baby Takes The Morning Train" on a continuous soundtrack in my brain all day long until I go to sleep at night. Why doesn't her name trigger the Prince-written "Sugarwall" in my head instead? By the way, what's "Sugarwall" about anyway?

Should Have Left Them As A Memory

On Saturday, I had nothing else better to do with my evening, as my wife was attending a convention, so I headed to Fort Worth for a low rent music festival. It was only $5 to get in, and the headliner that night was The Smithereens, whom I used to like, so why not? There were probably 90 to 100 people there, splitting their time between two stages set up at opposite ends of a parking lot. As I walked in, The Flametruck Subs were bashing away at their peculiar brand of psychobilly. I was drawn in by their stage antics. They're a four peice band that cultivate the 50's look and sound, complete with a girl drummer who stands while she plays, and that requirment of any retro-themed band --- the stand up bass player. Their musical ability was marginal at best. But I did like the twin punk rock go-go dancers they had performing at either end of their stage. They really added some strange sex appeal to the performance. I couldn't take my eyes off it.

I wish I could say the same for the Smithereens. I liked these guys when they came out in 1985 with "Especially For You." I played that album over and over. I saw The Smithereens once, in 1987, and then I was done with them. I can't even remember why they fell out of favor with me. Twenty years later, time has not been kind to their lead singer. I remembered him as a smallish, New Jersey dude who was losing his hair prematurely. Today, he's added at least 100 pounds. He's freakin' enormous, and not in a muscular way. I was sort of uncomfortable watching him rock while pulling on a cigarette. I feared a heart attack could hit him at any moment. The band sounded good. But then I remembered why I stopped being interested in them --- as competant as they are, The Smithereens are basically a bar band. They produced a few rock anthems, but not enough of them to sustain a complete show like Cheap Trick can. So I headed home during the encore. I might have stayed for the last two songs if the Smithereen's had em' some go-go dancers.

The Documentary

I love the documentary film. It's always the fail-safe option for me when the 120 movie channels I get are all playing 15-year-old Patrick Swayze movies like "Road House" and "Point Break." Last night, the Sundance Channel came through for me. First up was a hour-long doc about this building on the lower East Side of New York that has essentially become a artist and squatter residence over the last 20 years. It was sort of irritating watching a bunch of super young leftists protest and talk about their squatter's rights. Excuse me, you don't own this building, so you have no rights. But I watched anyway. I actually like this sort of reality television --- you know, the kind with real people who aren't trying to become celebrities. Next up was a doc called "Disbelief" which was much more up my alley.

Disbelief focuses on the 1999 bombing of a Moscow apartment building that Russian President blamed on the Chechens. For the uninitiated, the Chechens are Russia's answer to Osam Bin Laden and Co., a Muslim region that wants to break away from the Russian federation. They do use terrorism. But as this documentary explains, the Chechen's connection to this bombing was tenuous at best. Putin's approval rating went through the roof after the apartment bombing --- he vowed to crack down on the Chechens and did, sending tanks and troops after them. What was really disturbing is that police officers found a huge bomb in another apartment complex a few months after the Moscow bombing in another Russian city. The cops shut down the building and neutralized the bomb before it exploded. And a telephone operator intercepted a call that the bomb planters made after the bomb was found as they were trying to exit the city. The call was traced to a building occupied by the Russian secret service agency --- the one Putin headed before he became the president of Russia. Secret Service officials claimed that the bomb was fake and part of a "training exercise." What? Why would you place a fake bomb in a building where people lived? The police said the bomb was no fake. I'm not sure who's telling the truth. But one thing is for certain --- politicians can benefit greatly by scaring the hell out of their constituency. If you have to have portray yourself as the protector against the bogeyman to win support, be suspicious of that person. Sound familiar?

Easy Listenin'

I think I spend more money on old, sort of obscure music rather than new obscure music. And this isn't really some sort of statement --- I like plenty of obscure new music. For example, I just got a copy of David Baerwald's excellent "Triage" album in the mail today. As usual, I paid $4.99, including shipping, on Half.com. This album came out in 1992 and is similar, and maybe better, than David & David's "Boomtown", a stunning 1986 release by Baerwald's one-album-and-done band. Both are beautiful musings about urban and moral decay. The trouble is, nobody buys David Baerwald's music these days. Triage had no hit and never sniffed the charts. So what good does it do Baerwald if I buy the album 13 years after its release for a bargain price? So it makes me wonder what relatively obscure, yet new band I should be investing in. Would my money be better spent on Johnathon Rice's new album? He's got some buzz right now. If I paid $14 retail on his CD could Rice avoid the slow fade that seems to strike anyone with talent? This is a terrible burden for me to carry. Screw it. You may suffer for your art, but I can only pay $4.99 for it.

Prowling Part II

Thanks to Rob, I went out and got a Dallas Library card during lunch. If you've got a card number, you can get onto the Library's newsbank system for free via the internet and search old newspapers. I use this system to search stuff about historic abandoned houses. Before I had to go to the library or pay to use the service So thanks for that Rob.

I found out a bunch about the house on Park Row I looked at Saturday.

The house was originally the Dallas Hebrew School, built in 1939, for $30,000. Park Row and South Boulevard was once home to much of Dallas' Jewish elite. The school taught culture and Hebrew lessons. The house is 3,200 square feet and has an auditorium that will seat 150 people --- which I find hard to believe unless it has a basement or the entire upstairs was once the auditorium. By the late 1950's, I believe, most Jewish families left this area of town for greener pastures. By the 1960's, well-to-do black people moved into the area. And the Park Row house was a single family residence. In the 1960's a man who owned a funeral supply business lived there until his death in 1969.

Voting

I used my lunch hour to early vote in the Dallas municipal elections. Over the years, I've come to believe that municipal elections have a lot more effect on your daily life than voting for the latest empty suit that wants to be in the White House. My previous councilperson helped keep a historic home a street over from my house from being knocked down, has stayed on top of code enforcement, prevented a big box grocery store from bullying their way into my neighborhood and has supported efforts to get my part of East Dallas named historic district which will stave off those who want to build ugly McMansions next door to my house. It's sad my councilperson is term limited, but three very fine candidates are posed to replace her (a fourth guy is a perenial candidate.) Like any good citizen, I read up about all three candidates, actually met one of them at a neighborhood meet and greet, and cast my vote for the person who best supported my interests. So I walk over to City Hall to vote during lunch time and there was only one other person there voting. Sad. Even with all the pub about the strong mayor initiative, I was nearly alone in my trip to the polls. I shudder to think how many people who vote have actually done any research into the candidates and the issues. Sometimes I think democracy is too good of a system for this country.

Prowling

I made another trip to south Dallas on Saturday morning to scout an abandoned house --- or houses actually. There's a whole block of them on Park Row, just east of I 45. And it completely mystifies me why these houses are boarded up and empty. Park Row has many middle class black home owners who take really good care of their houses. And I think some gay couples are discovering the greatness of this neighborhood. One of the homes in particular that's abandoned could easily be on Swiss Avenue. I walked up to it, scanning for the homeless occupants, and briefly considered climbing up to a second story balcony to gain entry and then chickened out. I'd do it, but not by myself. The house next door is also of high quality and has recently been boarded up. Another home next door burned a few months ago, but it had been occupied. Two others are also boarded up but at least one of them is for sale. Why would anybody just leave a perfectly restorable house and board it up? If you don't want to live their or rent it out, why don't you sell it? Maybe the owners are dead, maybe they live out of state and don't care about the place or maybe they're just plain stupid. But I almost went inside this house just so I could see what it was like before it burns like the one next door.

Here's the house I looked at. I hope the link works.

http://www.dallascad.org/AcctPhoto.aspx?ID=00000147142000000

The Mix

Since early adolescence, I've been a crackhead when it comes to new music. I get bored easily with the song or style of the moment and constantly jones for something new. And long before the days of satellite radio and internet downloading, I had the Minter Mix tape, the occasional compilation of songs my buddy Rob liked. Generally, I liked everything on the tape. Sometimes the band was completely unfamiliar to me, like say Yo La Tengo, and I liked them instantly. Or maybe I knew the artist, but hadn't heard the song. For example, I've always loved Lloyd Cole, but Rob put a song "My Bag" on one mix tape and to this day, it's my favorite Lloyd Cole song. There are always a few songs on a Minter Mix tape that will hit you unexpectedly. The latest one for me is "Texas Holdup" from an artist I'd never heard of --- Prince Buster. From the sound of it, Texas Holdup is a very old song. You can tell because the recording lacks the depth you hear on modern audio. And this song is really bizarre. It starts off with gunfire and ricochet sounds. Then some guy says: "This is a hold up. Don't nobody move." Then the bebop begins. At first it's got the feel of a novelty song. But on a second of third listen, I noticed there's a lot going on in this song --- latin brass, an uptempo jazz beat, and then of course the bizarre gunfire sample and callout. I looked up Prince Buster. He's from Kingston Jamaica and started making music in the early 60's. He's a forefather of Ska and widely revered by his fellow reggae countrymen, even though there's nothing really reggae about this song. How could it, when for no reason, Prince Buster keeps yelling "Dallas Texas!" Thank you Prince Buster. And thank you Robert Minter.

The Homeless Part II

There are so many things that are great about working in downtown Dallas. I never have to get on a highway, I live 2.8 miles from my office, I love walking down the street to some independant restaurant to grab lunch and it's great to be down here watching the city and investors breathing some life into the center of Dallas by restoring old buildings and holding events down here.

The only thing bad I have to say about downtown Dallas is that the brand of homeless that occupy this portion of real estate are more irratating and more violent than anything I ran into in Austin. You don't even see the same ones often enough to give them funny names, like Rob did in Austin. They always rotate. So you never know if the random shambling dude walking on the sidewalk is going to scream at you, ask you for spare change or do nothing to you at all. Interestingly, on the drive to work, I see hundreds of homeless people line up in the morning at a place called The Stewpot which is run by the First Presbyterian Church. The Stewpot offers job training, medical help and food every morning and afternoon. And of those hundreds of people, I'd guess that maybe 15 of them wander into downtown proper and bother people. So that's why I have no time for the stray homeless who approach me during the workday. I know there is a place in Dallas where the homeless can get help and food because I drive past it everyday. And I bet the geniune homeless hate the a-hole homeless as much as I do. The genuine homeless doesn't want to be that way. The a-hole homeless does.

The Homeless

Yesterday, I headed home from work late, about 7 p.m. And I walked the regular route the parking garage, which is about 5 blocks from my office building. I'm walking on the sidewalk, opposite the downtown Neiman Marcus, and I see an obviously mentally ill homeless guy about 50 yards ahead. And this guy is agitated. He's yelling at me, but I can't quite understand him. As I get closer, he says "You better not cross this line motherfucker!" So I chose not to engage the guy in conversation and ignored him. He continued screaming nonsense things like "Don't smile at me" and "I'll beat you". I kept on walking. But I felt pretty threatened by this insane person who could obviously could do me a lot of harm. There was no one else on the street at this time, I had no weapon other than my car keys and my parking garage was still a half block away. I kept on walking and the guy, thankfully, didn't touch me. So this experience is exactly why I don't feel real sorry for the homeless in downtown Dallas. I'm sorry for anyone who's mentally ill because they can't help that. I'm sorry for anyone who has the will and means to work and can't get employment. And I've accepted that the homeless are never going to leave downtown Dallas without some major breach of civil rights laws. But do I have to feel threatened for my own safety when I do something as common as walking to my car?

Why Do I Have A Car Payment?

I own two vehicles ---- technically only one because I've got a year and a half worth of payments left on my Mustang. But my other trusty vehicle is a 1983 Ranger pickup I bought off my
Dad a couple of years ago. I own it free and clear. And I drive it more often than I thought I would when I first bought it. It always starts, the A/C works, you can haul tons of stuff in it, and it's really cheap to maintain. In fact, I've spent very little on this truck, other than putting a $98 dollar Blaupunkt CD stereo in it (which sounds unbelievable for 98 bucks) and putting a $200 set of tires on it (which will last forever because the last set had over 40,000 miles on them and still had tread left, but were starting to dry rot after about eight years of service.)

This morning I drove the truck to work, which I always do when it looks like rain because smacking up a $1,000 truck on a rain-slicked street is a lost less painful than smacking up a car which you still don't own and has a $1,000 insurance deductable. While rocking to the new Minter Mix CD (I particularly enjoyed this old song about a robbery in which the guy keeps saying "Dallas Texas!") and rolling effortlessly on a new set of tires, I was convinced that the 1983 Ranger was one of the best investments I've ever made. The next time I've gotta buy some wheels, I'm goin' cheap. And I'm picking out something that's hopefully as reliable as the Ranger. Better to own and pay an occasional repair bill than string yourself out on $300 car payments for five years.

All My Rowdy Friends

Does Monday Night Football's move to ESPN mean that we can finally be spared the Bocephus intro? Please, let this be true.

Don'tcha Hate To Get Gas

This morning, my truck was low on gas. So as usual, I stop on the way to work to fill up. I've come to accept the reality of $2 gas. But do gas stations have to make it even harder to top off the tank at these prices? I pull into the shady 7-Eleven on Columbia. Of course, the pump that's on the side of my gas tank is out of order. So I back in to the opposite pump, pull out the debit card, and slide it in. The screen freezes after I punch in my PIN. So I proceed to try and cancel the sale. No go. So I do the next natural thing --- punch every button on the keypad to get some sort of response. Finally, the screen says the pump is "Out of Order. What? Why didn't you tell me that to begin with. The next pump that seems to be working has a car parked in front of it. So I pull behind it and wait. And wait. And wait. Finally, some middle aged dude comes abling out with a cup of coffee. And I wait some more while he fills up his tank. Finally he's done and I slide up next to that pump. Again, I put my debit card in, and this time the screen tells me "Debit Cards Not Accepted Outside." WHAT!!! What is the purpose of this? It's impossible to drive off without paying if you're using a credit card. And it's impossible to get the pump to work unless you know the PIN. So as this news is frustrating the hell out of me, of course, some Clocky approaches me with: "Hey man. Can you help me out with some gas for my Cadillac?" Anytime you spent more than 5 minutes at the Columbia 7-Eleven, you will be panhandled. It's just a fact. So I respond "Dude. I can't even get gas here and I've got money. So, uh, No." I go inside, hand the clerk my debit card, and finally get the precious $2.16 a gallon regular unleaded, after 20 minutes of my life were wasted.

The New Jukebox

During my evenings out in lovely Golden CO, I came across a new invention that I'm pretty sure is not a great benefit to the greater drinking community. Both of the standard CD operated jukeboxes in the pool hall and bar we visited had been replaced by a modern updated version that pulls it's selection from the internet, allowing the customer to download choices from thousands of artists. But this is no automated old-style Napster machine. I had to test the machine's ability by asking for the Close Lobsters and got nothing in return. But I did get about Talk Talk 20 songs to choose from. So I selected "Life's What You Make It." Then I discovered how wrong I was to play that song. Imagine listening to a beautiful emotive song that brings up all sort of emotions, while endulging in a pitcher of Miller Lite and playing a game of cut-throat pool with your friends. Sometimes it's better to be limited by the choices of your drinking establishment's music box. I love Talk Talk. But the old poolhall jukebox featured a legally-required copy of Back In Black, and "Have A Drink On Me" was really what the moment called for. When we encountered another one of these machines in another bar, I wised up and played some drinking music. The Pogues "If I Should Fall From Grace" got spun. The lesson I learned is it's not always good to trick up your music machine. Besides, this thing cost me a buck a song. So wrong.

Return

I got back from CO last night. As much fun as I have in Colorado, I'm glad to get back to my own bed, and for some reason, my responsibilities as a human being. The yard look like hell because I didn't mow it. And Karen needs some attention too.

Plenty of skiing happened, first at Vail, which was a complete success. I went after it for about 4 and a half hours, enjoying a perfect 50 degree day, wide open slopes and soft snow. This near perfect day was capped off by a fantastic rock performance by Dogs Die in Hot Cars (sorry for this name Tara, but that's what they call themselves) at a really cool old converted movie theater in downtown Denver called the Bluebird. Dogs Die have their XTC imitation down pat, sans Andy Patridge's master song writing ability. But nevertheless, all of their songs are catchy and they were quite engaging on stage.

Day two of skiing was a little less satisfying. I went to Arapahoe Basin, and my friend Will wisely suggested that I take a shortcut through Loveland Pass to get to this ski area. Loveland Pass is a beautiful two lane road that runs right across the Continental Divide. This road is steep and takes you through a craggy twist of snow-capped mountains. When you get to the top of the pass, you'll wish you hadn't forgotten the camera because the view is ridiculous. During the winter, this road is nearly impassable unless you're rolling on snow chains. But since it was 50 degrees outside, and the roads were completely dry, I figured my Mustang would have no trouble on this pass. That was almost true until I ran into a shady spot, hit some nearly invisible ice, and had the rear end come out from underneath me. There was no gaurdrail where I was, so I was about 10 feet away from becoming a Colorado causality, by plunging my car off about a 700 foot drop. But I regained control, just as about about 1 pound of adrenaline pumped through my body. I made it to the ski area unscathed. But after two runs, I was completely worn out. Adreneline rushes will do that to you. So I headed back to my friend's house --- avoiding Loveland Pass --- and gladly called it a day.

Arrival

I pulled out of Dallas about 2:30 yesterday, earlier than I expected, and headed north. It was sort of weird because all of the times I've made this trip, I usually get up at the ridiculous hour of 4 a.m. and drive straight through. It's sort of disorienting for me to be driving through, say, Bellevue Texas during daylight hours.

I planned to car camp, meaning I was going to pull over and sleep in my car with the back seat folded down. I had a sleeping bag and everything. I read somewhere that Walmart doesn't mind if you do this in their parking lots. So my entended ending point for Tuesday evening was the Walmart parking lot in Childress. The trouble was that because I left so early, I got to Childress during daylight. And there's nothing to do in Childress except shop in the Walmart. So I drove on north and abandoned the car camping idea. I stopped in Claude, a tiny town south of Amarillo, and pulled into the L.A. Motel, one of those independant one-star joints that nobody ever seems to stay in. I paid my 35 bucks and took the key to room 210. And I have to say, it wasn't that bad. Seemed clean enough, the bed was big enough and the shower worked. Those were my only requirements. But a story my co-worker Mark told me kept going through my head. Several years ago, Mark and his son were on their way home from a camping trip and stayed at a similar small independant motel. He too said it seemed clean enough. But the next day, he and his son both started getting itchy because there were some sort of bugs in their beds. So of course, I've been self conscious about this all day and have been hyper-sensative to every itch I feel, thinking it's the result of insect infestation in room 210. Really, I think I have what LaMont and Grady dreamed up during and episode of Sanford & Son. To get rid of Grady's cousin Emma, who showed up at the Sanford residence and started freeloading, LaMont and Grady acted like they had the "Junkman's Itch." Emma got lost. And I'm pretty sure I've got it too.

Bad Boys

The Backstreet Boys and the Oak Ridge Boys are playing in the Metroplex on the same day in different venues tonight. What do you suppose would happen if, say, both sets of Boys got into an altercation during dinner at Campisi's? How would that go down? I believe that the Oak Ridge Boy with the big ass beard would take out Nick Carter with a kickboxer roundhouse foot to the face. Then the rest of the Backstreet Boys would back off. Then Amber Campisi would get naked. I think.

The Road

Today, after work, I'll fire up the Mustang and drive 900 miles of open highway to Golden Colorado. I do this at least three times a year. And it never gets old. Half of the fun of the trip for me is being alone in my car, listening to a ton of music and weird talk radio and watching the scenery roll by. I generally take the same highways on the trip because the one I take has the best mountain views. But I always mix things up a bit along the way. I usually stop in a random town and explore. I'll drive through a residential neighborhood in the middle of nowhere and ponder what life is like for the average townsfolk. I also like to photograph abandoned farm houses, poking through barely thriving stores on the town square and eat in Mom and Pop cafes. The long road trip may beat most people, but it's the best way I know to see the real United States. Give me the highway over being stuck in coach sitting next to some dude who smells of B.O. any day.

War

I'm sort of numb to the right wing theology which spews out of Washington D.C. these days. Usually, I just take note of the latest radical shot and try not to let my blood boil over. This too shall pass, render unto Caesar what is Caesar's, or some other worn out phrase is all that I have to comfort my outrage. But lately, the right wing's war on the judiciary has pushed me way over the edge. I make a living writing about the judiciary --- the decisions they make, good and bad. Often, I disagree with those decisions. But I've never lost sight of the reason the judiciary exists --- it's a place for cool reflection where a jurist can examine a conflict and make a decision based on the rule of law. Congress and the White House are not allowed to impose their will on this branch of government. It's a place where politics are not welcome. So the right wing's vow to get even with the judiciary for not jumping on the country's most recent highly political case disturbs me greatly. Federal judges are given lifetime appointments and are very hard to remove for a reason --- so they won't be influenced by politics. The right wing, seemingly, now thinks this is a bad idea --- that somehow when the court don't rule the way they want, it's automatically "judicial tyranny." Well, here's a tip Mr. and Mrs. Right Wing ---- why don't you read the decisions before you label it as tyrannical? Tyranny involves an imposition of will without regard for law. And that's not what's happening in our modern federal judiciary. So dial it back a bit, stop with the radical threats, or I'm pretty sure your war on the judiciary may translate into unchecked Congressional power. And that's when the real tyranny will start.

2806 South Boulevard

http://www.dallascad.org/AcctPhoto.aspx?ID=00000150697000000">

The House That Haunts Me

Because I'm a residential architecture and history freak, I often spend my Saturday mornings driving the streets of inner city Dallas looking for cool old houses. I usually head to South Dallas, mainly because there's lots of undiscovered greatness in that part of the world. South Dallas has been neglected forever --- it's too poor, too crime ridden, and too far gone in the estimation of people who don't live there to justify investment. But the upside of this bad reputation is that developers haven't come in and destroyed all of the turn of the century houses in the name of retail shopping.

Year ago, I stumbled on 2806 South Boulevard, a once stately imposing 3,000 square foot two-story structure that surveys a particularly scary corner near Malcolm X Boulvard. 2806 caught my eye for a number of reasons. It's in terrible shape, but I can easily see what it once was. It's a rare transitional Prairie style home built in 1910 --- the period between Victorian era of the late 1880's and the Prairie four-square style that became really popular in Dallas in the late teens. 2806 has three distictive gables in a configuration I've never seen before. And it has double bay windows on the front facade --- upstairs and downstairs --- another distinctive feature. You can still see the French doors in an upstairs bedroom that likely seperate it from a sitting room. The house's exterior is comprised of wood novelty siding, which I've always thought made a home looke a bit more warm and inviting than the more costly brick. The other notable feature about 2806 is that it's been abandoned for at least 10 years. A homeless guy now sleeps on the front porch and derelects occasionally enter the house through broken floor boards and do God knows what inside.

2806 has a fairly interesting history. It was built by a man named Wathan who was an officer in the Confederate Army. Later in life he built railroads. And he was responsible, I believe, for building the Santa Fe tracks that cut through the center of Dallas. He died about 1926 and his widow continued living in the house up until the 1940's. South Boulevard was once one of Dallas' finest streets --- Stanley Marcus and the Marcus family lived there, as did a number of other prominant Jewish merchants. But by the 1940's, most of the weathier people left the area for ritzier Highland Park, leaving their homes and memories behind. The neighborhood near 2806 began to decline big time in the 40's. The last thing I could find during research on 2806 was that a drug bust happened there about 1952 --- three guys that lived there were busted with 60 grains of marijuana (grains?). I'm sure that in the 1950's and 1960's, 2806 was likely a rent or boarding house of some sort, and a low rent one at that. Then it finally became abandoned. It was claimed by the City of Dallas --- likely because nobody wanted it.

When Karen and I were looking for houses before we got married, we looked all over East Dallas for a house like 2806. There were plenty to be had, but most were either ruined by bad remodeling or were restored and completely out of our price range. When we were worn out by our real estate search, I suggested that we actually buy 2806 and move it to a lot in East Dallas. But we couldn't find a lot to place the house for less than $60,000 ---- way more than I had estimated. Add in that 2806 needs well over $100,000 worth of repairs and that moving costs would be another huge chunk of cash, forced us to abandoned that idea, just like someone did to 2806.

I've never been inside 2806, and I may never get the chance. I mean, I've been tempted to crawl inside many many times. And I've already met two crackheads who crawled out of 2806 while I was contemplating that move. I'm sure there's little left inside except trash and rats. Scavengers have already taken many of the wood windows on the sides of the house and I doubt there's a fixture left in the whole house. But I still feel the need to go inside. I think if I did, it would satisfy something inside me. I want to do nothing more than walk around and get a feel for the place, as trashed as it is. Even in it's current state, I've never understood why a place like 2806 would go unclaimed for so long. And I wish it was me that could claim it, bad neighborhood or not. That, my friends, is why 2806 haunts me.

Popped

Is the American radio audience afraid of the new pop song? Think about it. When is the last time you heard a new pop song on a free radio station? Today, for example, I heard Green Day's "When I Come Around" which was recorded about 1992, on some station supposedly aimed at people my age. But I've yet to hear "Street of Broken Dreams", wildly popular Green Day song off a the wildly popular American Idiot album, on any free radio station. That's because the song was recorded a few months ago. It must be because today's pop radio --- usually the "Mix" or "Jack" format ---- is aimed at suckering people in with false nostalgia. People seem to get some sort of jolt out of hearing Wham!'s "Wake Me Up Before You Go Go" because they like to believe the song takes them back to a much simpler time. For me, that is depressing, not because it's a bad song, but because it makes me relive nuclear war fears, voodoo ecomonics and hair mousse. But this rejection of everything new doesn't dominate all free radio. It sure isn't happening on the so-called urban statuibs. No programmers are still pushing Coolio and Eric B. & Rakeem. It's all about the latest. Even country music stations, as much I loathe them, have long bumped off George Strait for Kenny Chesney.

So I'm awaiting the day when somebody finally puts a bullet into the "Mix" format. I'm thinking that by 2115, everybody's going to admit that they've heard all of the Wham! they can take.

Useless

At the nondistinctive office building where I work downtown, there's a guy, Freddy, that works at the front desk in the lobby. In the two years I've worked in this office, it's always been a mystery to me what exactly Freddy's job entails. I know that he requires all visators to sign in. Hmm . . . . maybe security? But no, not exactly. When a woman who works in my office had her purse stolen out of her office last year, she called office managment to complain. Specifically, she asked why Freddy hadn't stopped some scruffy thief from entering the building. "Security is not Freddy's job," she was told. "He's a greeter, sort of a customer service person." What?

So greet he does, sort of. Usually Freddy is on the phone. And it's a daily beating for me when Freddy looks up from his phone conversation an acknowleges me. Usually, all I can muster for Freddy is a simple "Hey." I should be nicer, but I find that hard to do for somebody who's essentially useless and contributes nothing to the greater good.

Today, I gave Freddy a chance to be useful --- a shot at redemption if you will. Long ago, I lost my office key and I haven't replaced it. I usually get to work early, but I don't need a key because there's always at least one person here who's already opened the door. So I arrive this morning, and nobody's here. The doors are locked shut. So I go down and ask Freddy if he'd kindly let me in my office --- you know, the one you've seen be go in for the last two years. His replie is: "You have to call your office manager before I can authorize that." What?!?! You know I fuckin' work here. You know I get here at 8 a.m. every morning. Thanks for the "customer service" sir. So my defeated reply is "Oh. O.K." I go across the street get a stupid cup of $1.75 Starbucks and wait for somebody to open my office up. I walk back to the office, where Freddy acknowleges me. I stare straight ahead.