#county approved squalor

[mikeo56]

Nicole and Kyle Ball would like to announce their new mascot for their Real Estate Empire: "Mr. Hanky".

In the words of Kyle, "Eat shit children, it tastes good and it has vitamins."

Owned Employee

[plethoraworldatlas]

A measure to keep factory farms out of Sonoma County, California was approved for ballot — giving voters the chance to better protect cows, pigs, sheep, chickens, and other farmed animals in their community come November.

This news is the direct result of advocacy from the Coalition to End Factory Farming — a coalition which Lady Freethinker is a proud member of.

If the Prohibition on Concentrated Animal Feeding Operations ordinance passes in November, “large” concentrated animal feeding operations (CAFOs) — or “factory farms” — will be phased out over three years. Small and medium farms will not be impacted. The EPA’s definition of “large” depends on both the type of animals and how their animal waste is handled.

Approximately 2.9 million animals are currently being held in atrocious conditions in Sonoma County’s two dozen factory farms.

Throughout the U.S., approximately 1.7 billion animals are being raised the fastest and cheapest ways possible on factory farms each year, living in squalor in tiny, extremely overcrowded confinements — where the animals often succumb to injury, illness, or starvation. Females are being impregnated multiple times, only to have their babies ripped away almost immediately. Many animals raised for slaughter never even get to see the outdoors. They are often denied the natural social and physical behaviors that are so important to the wellbeing of these sentient beings.

[prurientpuddlejumper]

A Punchable Face That I Want to Kiss, Ch. 8

<- Chapter 7 | Chapter 9 ->

Summary: Snapshots of life with a fussy brat over the three-year time jump. Including: a few holiday specials. 

3,949 words

With the lease up on your apartment, Frederick invited you to move in with him. It seemed like the next logical step in your relationship, especially considering how frequently you slept there anyway—though he had to justify the choice by saying he “could not stand seeing you live in squalor.” The house was certainly big enough for two people (or several less-wealthy families).

It was nice living with him, because you lived very different lives. Rather than finding it stifling to be trapped in the same house, it was freeing that you could spend so much of the day apart—or weeks, as it often was, traveling for cases or book promotion tours—and yet always be connected by the home you would return to at the end of it all.

You were planets of the solar system orbiting the same sun. 

The stability of that was comforting. So much had changed—Will Graham left and cut ties with the FBI, Hannibal Lecter was imprisoned at the Baltimore State Hospital for the Criminally Insane where Alana Bloom now held Chilton’s old job, and you were considering following Will’s lead and pursuing new career options. It made you glad to have someone familiar to keep you company, and always be there when you needed him. 

For all the good, living with Frederick Chilton was not always easy. He was a shameless snob who did not believe in laundry chairs, and panicked when his state-of-the-art kitchen was filled with sugary cereals with cartoon characters on the box. There were many clashes of egos early on, some of which never fully disappeared. Now that his star was rising, he insisted you dress a certain way when you were to be seen in public together—particularly at any sort of publicity event or psychiatric conference, but anywhere really that he might be recognized. He was yours, and that meant you reflected upon him. He updated your entire wardrobe like you were starring in an episode of Queer Eye, and had your hair professionally styled.

You couldn’t even be annoyed at the controlling implications of it—you were never great at dressing professionally, and it was exciting to see yourself looking so sharp in the mirror. You could surrender that to him. He enjoyed sophisticated things, like the opera and restaurants where celebrities eat, and now you didn’t feel so out of place when you joined him.

“You actually look quite elegant,” he nodded in surprised approval at your new attire.

You stuck out your tongue.

“Do not tempt me with that,” he said with a feline wiggle of his shoulders. “We have engagements to get to, and I do not want to re-do my face.” He wrapped the hand not gripping a cane around your hip and kissed you, coaxing your naughty tongue into his mouth with a lustful growl.

Any time he was too fussy and judgmental to the point of being unkind, you were quite practiced at flicking him back down to earth. He rarely apologized, of course, but would look up and purse his lips in thought before admitting, “You may be right.”

He was a sassy bitch, but you knew that. It’s why you loved him.

You loved him.

You did. It was strange to realize how much you loved someone you used to hate, whose traits you would normally find incompatible with your own. He was a miserable little rich boy with a self-satisfied sneer, a flare for drama, and perpetually questionable ethics, yet you would do anything to keep him safe. You wanted to stay by his side forever.

And there was something to be said about his difficult personality when you were not on the receiving end of it. 

Being on his side was fun—his hand at your back as he verbally destroyed someone with a catty insinuation that left their eyes glowering with indignation. That used to be me, you thought. Now you were up on his throne with him, and the view was much better.

You wanted to stay through all the medications, physical therapy, and regular hospital visits to tweak his prosthetics and make sure his remaining organs were all still functioning properly. You wanted to stay even as you questioned how much of your affection for him was pity in disguise, as he had suggested the first time you slept with him in a fit of explosive passion—that you liked wounded birds.

If it was pity, and being pity meant you would have to leave, then you resolved to stuff your fingers in your ears and ignore it. No psychoanalysis would make you give him up. You wanted to keep orbiting the sun together.

  *****

Calliope music paraded through the air with aggressively cheerful pneumatic whistles that grabbed your eardrums and pulled them screaming into the 1920s. Shrieks, laughter, bells, and shouts rushed by.

Frederick Chilton stuck close beside you and mistrustfully held a greasy paper plate like it was a venomous snake.

It seemed only fair that in return for dressing up, you made him dress down and do normal-person things, like go to the county fair and eat deliciously greasy fried foods. It was like a cultural exchange program.

“Every moment I am not writing my next book is another moment the world goes without a groundbreaking revelation on the human psyche,” he had snipped when you first suggested the outing. He barely looked up from his computer, where he sat typing in a suave leather office chair.

“Oh come on, you owe me,” you persisted. “I am sick and tired of fancy museums and fancy restaurants and fancy psychiatric conventions. Next time we’re in a hotel, there should be Star Trek costumes involved!” He straightened like you’d shoved a rod up his spine, and you chuckled inwardly at his petty aversion to being seen at that type of convention. “Come on, it’s just the fair,” you rubbed his shoulders and he groaned with annoyance. “Nobody important will be there. You’ll be totally incognito. Be a commoner with me.”

“I suppose it is the least I can do,” he caved in at last, leaning his head back to rest on your chest, glancing up at you through his eyebrows. “Since it is so important to you, I shall partake of your proletariat festivities.”

“Don’t say proletariat when we’re at the fair, you bougie dork.”

He wore a plain black t-shirt, and his hair wasn’t quite as primly styled as usual, letting a few strands fly free. The less he stood out from the crowd, the less likely a professional acquaintance or fan would recognize him.

Even living with Chilton, it was rare to see him dressed so casually, and you had expected it to be disconcerting. Instead, you found yourself drooling. He was sexy in a suit, but so was everybody with the correct fit. The unstructured t-shirt hugged his broad chest and revealed those alarmingly muscular arms that were usually a secret hidden under sleeves.

It was odd seeing your private Chilton—reserved for nights and mornings—out in the world, and a reminder of how lucky you were.

He managed to look dapper even with powdered sugar on his shirt.

“Funnel cake?” he cringed, as if the word itself was in poor taste. “Are we certain this is food?”

“You are ridiculously hoity-toity.”

“I do enjoy the finer things in life,” he boasted in a smooth, self-congratulatory hum.

You were about to sass him when you realized his admiring eyes were fixed on you, and he wore an expectant smirk on his lips. Your scowl cracked open into a tender laugh, and you linked your arm with his, giving him a playful hip bump.

His eyes widened at you in mock horror. “You would attack a man with a cane?” He awaited your answer with that same peevish smirk, but you didn’t have anything clever on your tongue, so you pulled him into a kiss instead. He melted against your lips, having gotten what he wanted.

Frederick refused to go on any rides, citing safety concerns and his delicate viscera, but you perused a hundred breeds of chickens, pet the World’s Tallest Clydesdale, watched pigs racing, browsed local artwork, and sampled craft beers which he had to admit were pretty good. You paid far too much money to shoot water guns at a spinning target faster than other carnival-goers so you could win an oversize plush of a corgi, which turned out to be filled with disappointing foam stuffing.

After finally placing a piece of sugary fried dough in his mouth, his eyes closed, and when they opened again, he declared it “not terrible.” Then inhaled it and spent the rest of the fair surreptitiously looking for another funnel cake stand.

When you got home, he confessed, with his most stern and dignified demeanor, that he may have, perhaps had fun, juvenile as it was. Then he quietly suggested that he would make an excellent Spock.

  *****

“I am never going to be perfect enough for you, am I?” you cried after another petty argument over another petty thing like stacking the cups in the cupboard in precisely the correct order. “How do you live with me? It must drive you crazy.”

Months of feeling inadequate bubbled to the surface all at once. Everything he did was so controlled, so exact, you really did wonder why he would ever be with someone like you.

“No,” he frowned, and as he gently took your shoulders his heart was crumbling in his eyes. There was a sorry on the tip of his tongue, but this was not the lottery-winning occasion he would say the word itself. He didn’t need to. He would say it in other ways.

His warm lips pressed your forehead as he rubbed loving circles on your arms with his thumbs. “Do you know who was perfect? Hannibal. I would rather live with a hot mess than a cold-blooded monster. One of us should be warm, anyway,” he gave a self-deprecating smile. “I must do better to remember the beauty of imperfection, because you are perfect to me.”

  *****

The front door opened well after the sun had disappeared and the stars had begun to come out. Frederick came home drained and exhausted from being on his feet all day trying to dominate professional rivals who were all, in turn, out to get him.

Conferences were invigorating, an exciting place to strut one’s superiority, make connections, and scope out the competition… until they were not, and they became whichever circle of Hell it is that makes one have to continually defend oneself to people for whom one will never be good enough.

You looked up from the book you were reading. You didn’t get up from the couch cushion’s gravitational embrace, but smiled with stars in your eyes, and called, “Frederick!”

Home.

He crawled onto the couch next to you, and laid his head in your lap. You set the book aside and ran your fingers through his hair, listening to the sweet, sleepy noises of pleasure the action evoked. Fantasies of this moment had kept him alive all day. You caressed his neck and the prickly stubble along the side of his jaw, and he turned his face into your palm and kissed it. He adored the way you touched him with your gentle, caring hands. Yawning, you reclined into the deep, plush cushions, and he shifted so you were both laying next to each other, content in each other’s embrace. He cuddled into your chest, face buried in your shirt.

“You smell like tacos.”

It was unclear how peevishly he intended the observation, so you simply replied, “I made tacos for dinner.”

“The cheap American kind that are nothing but ground beef, shredded cheese, and an insult to Mexican culture,” he said, voice muffled by the fabric.

“Mm-hmm,” you said.

“They are not real food.”

“Do you want some?”

“God, yes.”

  *****

With physical therapy, Chilton was finally able to walk comfortably without assistance again.

Technically, he had been able to for a long time. The cane was a crutch—in the figurative, not the literal, sense. In the literal sense it was very much not a crutch, or even a cane. At best, it was an expensive, silver-topped walking stick. He clung to it like a security blanket, or as a prop to garner pity, or simply because it was a dramatic accessory. The threat of physical therapy simply convinced him to let go of the pretense.

Like the spiral staircases of his home, some things about Dr. Chilton were fussy and theatrical for no reason.

It was almost a shame, you thought. That thing was the epitome of his dapper style (he might as well put on tap shoes, a top hat, and put on the Ritz with Fred Astaire), and it brought to mind such kinky images.

It was not one of those lightweight BDSM canes, and therefore was far too heavy to do any spanking with, assuming you wanted to be able to sit down any time in the next month. However, you recalled with some excitement his tapping it on the inside of your heels to get you to spread your legs open, using the pommel to gently tip your chin up to him, or running it slowly along the inside of your thighs.

You would miss that cane.

You still argued sometimes—but not as often. You were accustomed to his haughtiness and felt less need to try and change it, and he knew you well enough to relax when the two of you were alone. He took your advice that life was not a competition... but only when it came to you, not to his career and public reputation.

He was still obsessed with proving his superiority to the world. Still obsessed with seeing Hannibal Lecter grow old and feeble inside a cell. Those edges were so integrally a part of him you could never smooth them out.

  *****

You were good for his book tour.

Though he never raised his voice or threw insults around, Chilton still had the journalist sitting in your living room on edge. She gripped the recording device harder, nails turning white. Flanked by imposing towers of leather-bound books, he stared her down like a shark, bragging about his psychiatric achievements and describing grizzly details of the Lecter case with a heartless detachment—he smirked when the more graphic parts made her squeamish.

Dr. Chilton was (contrary to his own opinion) not the best mind in the psychiatric field, but there was one thing he was the preeminent expert in, and that was leaving people with the impression that he was a callous douchebag who thought he was better than everyone else. Which was more or less accurate.

When you entered the room, his whole demeanor softened.

“Hey honey,” you poked your head in with a plate of cookies. “Sorry, I didn’t know you had that interview today. Should I come back later?”

“Nonsense, darling, come in.”

The haughty stare he’d been giving the journalist broke and turned to a warm gaze and a kind smile as he crossed the room to escort you in, his hand on the small of your back. You sat down on the sofa next to him, and set the plate of good-will-bribery cookies down on the coffee table between you and the journalist. She politely refused, at least until the recording was over, but instantly seemed more relaxed, loosing her death-vice on the recorder. You quietly leaned your head on Frederick’s shoulder and discreetly clasped his hand on the cushion between you through the rest of the interview, which he spent blushing and unable to maintain the coldness of his stare.

You brought out a side of him few were able to see. Whenever you made an appearance during his book promotions, the article published was always just a bit more favorable.

  *****

“Gotta go!” you called across the house, slinging a pack over your shoulders. Dawn was barely cresting the purple sky, and Frederick was barely awake. He didn’t even have his prosthetic maxilla in yet; he was only up to say goodbye. “I’m going to be in the field for ten hours straight today!” You thought about that for a moment, and groaned with anticipated exhaustion. 

“You have water?” 

“Yes, mom.”

“You cannot blame me for worrying,” he smiled with some pride at his gallant adventurer. You were wild in ways he would never understand, and it terrified as much as thrilled him. He smoothed a few wrinkles out of your shirt—a rugged garment for outdoor wear—and said you looked presentable enough for what you were doing. You kissed him, and wished him luck with the book signing he was attending that day. 

He wandered into the kitchen to search for breakfast, when an idea occurred to him.

“Take some of my meal-replacement bars,” he offered, opening the pantry. He had the organic superfood detox variety that he was able to digest. 

“I already did, thanks!”

He sighed with annoyance. “I noticed. It looks like an animal went through the packaging.”

“You love me,” you grinned cheekily in the doorway.

He prowled up to you, eyes narrow, trapping you against the door. He growled. He wrapped his arms around you and buried his face in the crook of your neck, kissing you and sucking a small bruise just under your collar. Yeah, he loved you. You purred, arching your back so you were pressed more firmly against him, and breathed in his scent. If only you didn’t have to leave.

“Come home safe.”

  *****

Halloween was your favorite holiday. Perhaps it was gauche for one involved in investigating real murders, and real dead people, but then, that might have been what made it so appealing—on Halloween, all the blood was corn syrup, the skeletons danced to 80’s rock, and the serial killers wore their identities on their sleeves and carried plastic weapons. It had been your favorite holiday as a kid, and it still was.

“No.”

“Please?” you begged, drawing out the E. “It would be so awesome!”

“No.”

“But—”

“I am a bestselling author. An esteemed expert in my field. I will not be subjected to such an undignified, childish display.”

“But you would have the best costume and nobody would know!”

He wasn’t sure how you talked him into it. It must have those adorable pleading eyes he could never resist, or the enticing appeal to his ego that it would be an extraordinary costume, certain to leave everyone guessing how the effect was done. Somehow, he was walking into a Halloween party as a zombie. Without his contact lens or prosthetic jaw.

He frowned. It was humiliating.

You were dressed as an apocalypse survivor with an infected bite, and were hamming it up, telling the other guests you were fine, totally fine, with a shaky panic-edged voice and a tremor in your limbs. You had done an impressive job on the makeup, too, giving your complexion a sallow haze and reddened eyes. The bite itself was a gory masterpiece constructed from latex and tissue paper, with dark veins spider-webbing up your arm.

He didn’t have to ham it up. He only needed to walk in the room and Shrek and Fiona, Pennywise the clown, and a sexy velociraptor all gasped in horror at his face. How was that meant to make him feel?

“So cool!” someone said before he could turn on his heel and walk out of there. Words like, “There isn’t a contest, is there? I should have put in more effort,” and “did you hire a movie SFX artist? No fair,” started to get tossed around—including toward costume elements that you had designed and had nothing to do with his natural grotesqueness. Then they offered him a drink and moved on to the next impressive costumes and regular party chatter.

You were right. Nobody knew it was real, and while it stung to be stared at and called grisly—you would later apologize profusely for being too gung-ho and not thinking through what would happen—he had never imaged being able to have a normal conversation in public with his real face exposed. There was something daringly vulnerable about it. He had never imagined not being ashamed, but at least in this niche context, his old injury made him the leading man of the evening.

By the end of the night he got so into it, he was chasing you around snarling for your brains, and getting a kick out of scaring trick-or-treaters.

  *****

He took you to Paris for Valentine’s day. Last time it was Italy, and you strangely suspected he was touring the shadow of Hannibal Lecter as much as he was trying to impress you. You had suspected, that is, until you asked, and he rather bluntly admitted to it. He hadn’t expected you not to notice by the time you got to Florence, although Venice had been purely about romance (he loved all those touristy gondola rides that he swore he hated and were just for your benefit).

Now that he finally had the chance to lavish his considerable means upon someone, he was throwing himself heart and soul into the holiday, and would not stop until he had spoiled you senseless. When he was single and accustomed to spending the day alone, he used to loathe February 14th—Valentine’s had seemed a cruel joke directed specifically at him. He couldn’t even spitefully ignore it by staying late at work, because the more perceptive inmates always took notice.

“You do not know hell,” he told you, “until a man convicted of raping his mother’s severed head taunts you about your lack of sex life.”

This year, he treated you to everything Paris had to offer: the Louvre, Notre Dame, an opera at Palais Garnier, a morning stroll through the gardens of Versailles, delicious bakeries, cafes, chocolate, and macrons. You insisted upon seeing the Catacombs, of course.

When you went to the Eiffel Tower and he showed up with roses and dinner reservations for sunset in its refined first-floor restaurant, your gut clenched. You were terrified he was going to propose. Of course he would make a grand gesture! You carefully inspected every champagne glass for hidden engagement rings, but found only bubbles. After dinner, when you ascended to the top of the tower to watch Paris light up at night, you knew that was when the proposal was coming.

But it didn’t. And you found yourself disappointed.

You had never talked about it, so there was no reason to assume it was something he wanted. It seemed far too soon to you, too, until it was snatched away and you realized that after three years together, you still couldn’t imagine wanting a life without him in it.

Arriving home at last, you breathed a sigh of relief into the still air. Paris was exciting and rich with history, but you were glad to be home in the peaceful familiarity of that snobbishly oversized house with its ridiculously spiraling staircases and its somewhat-less-fastidiously-pristine rooms, which now accommodated both of your things. All of the picture frames that once held impersonal stock photos displayed real snapshots of your lives together.

You weren’t even going to shower. You were so tired, you just wanted to rip all your clothes off and drop into bed. Frederick pulled his tie off. Hair frumpy from the long plane and taxi rides, his fingers worked to undo the top buttons of his shirt as he lumbered to the bath. He stopped at the door and turned back. You were taking a sip of water before leaving the cup on your nightstand.

“Marry me?” he said.

[samanthasroberts]

‘A tableau of suffering’: seaside city of San Diego faces a dark homelessness crisis

The southern California city has a reputation for beaches and beer. But amid a dramatic spike in homelessness, people are coming to terms with a new reality

A tableau of squalor and suffering isnt what comes to mind when people think of San Diego, a town with the motto Americas finest city and a reputation for its craft-beer culture and miles of beautiful beaches. But thats how Dan McSwain, a columnist for the San Diego Union-Tribune, described the citys homelessness crisis in a piece last year, the first in a series pillorying city leaders for not doing more to address the issue.

Since then the situation has, if anything, worsened.

about the series

A recent count found a dramatic 104% increase in tents and hand-built structures located downtown,for a total of 418, compared to 2016. Driving through East Village, a gentrifying neighborhood on the edge of downtown, its tough to find a street that doesnt have a tarp or tent or dozens. People with neither tent nor tarp fashion makeshift shelters out of shopping carts, storage bins and blankets.

Helming the city during this crisis and also the focus of criticism for what some onlookers call a failure to address it effectively is San Diego mayor Kevin Faulconer. A moderate Republican in a predominantly Democratic city, he acknowledges that homelessness may be the defining issue of his term.

We cannot just do what weve always been doing. Its not working, he said recently from his downtown office. Just before his interview with the Guardian, he had attended one of multiple weekly meetings focused solely on homelessness.

The issue is not new in San Diego. Nearly three decades ago, then-mayor Maureen OConnor spent two days sleeping on the street, incognito, to get a better sense of the problem. But ambiguity over who is responsible for providing the bulk of homeless services, namely the city or the county in which it is located, has resulted in years of finger-pointing and stagnation.

A homeless man pushed a grocery cart with his belongings in San Diego, California. The city has seen a 104% increase in tents downtown since last year. Photograph: Alamy Stock Photo

There has been a steady increase in the homeless population under Faulconers watch; about 5,600 homeless people were recently counted in the city, and the countys numbers place it among the top five US metro regions. Still, it would be tough to argue this is Faulconers fault.

Other large west coast cities with high housing costs have seen similar increases; in San Diego, apartment rents average more than $1,700 a month. And since 2003, more than 5,000 residential hotel units, often considered the housing of last resort, have been demolished or converted into boutique hotels.

The situation has prompted frustration on all sides, and proposals that are a little off-the-wall: a pair of businessmen recently suggested banning camping downtown and restricting it to a site 13 miles outside the city. (They called it Camp Hope.) It may not be helping matters that the mayors point person on homelessness left her post last week without explanation.

A southern California native, Faulconer started off in 2006 as a city councilman who had an uneasy relationship with homelessness. He repeatedly opposed locating a temporary emergency shelter in his downtown district. And he voiced support for arresting or ticketing people who sleep in public overnight. But since his election as mayor in 2014, Faulconer, either by will or force, seems to have grasped the severity of the issue.

Critics says San Diego mayor Kevin Faulconer has failed to address homelessness effectively. Photograph: Mike Blake/Reuters

In 2016, for instance, he allocated $3.3m to homelessness programs on top of the federal funding the city receives. He has also proposed an increase in the citys hotel-room tax, a portion of which would go to homeless programs. The tax would need to be approved by voters, but Faulconer says he has the support of hoteliers and the citys tourism industry, whove complained that homelessness is impacting their bottom line. One hotel manager said he recently had to scrambleto stop the cancellation of an event worth $500,000 after a planner said she didnt feel safe outside.

But while many San Diegans might wish for a quick fix, it is proving difficult to bring people off the streets.

Despite the rising homeless numbers, shelter usage is actually down, even on rainy nights when the city makes additional beds available. Most folks out there, they think the best thing they have going is their tent, said Bob McElroy, CEO of the Alpha Project, one of the citys largest homeless services providers.

Alpha Project has submitted a proposal to the city for an intake center with a sleeping courtyard that would accommodate up to 150 people and a camping space with room for 25 tents. Over a three-year period, the project would expand to include 700 units of permanent housing.

The idea of a safe space to pitch her tent is appealing to Lawell Brooks, a 29-year-old who sleeps under a blue tarp. On a recent morning, it was one of more than two dozen tents and tarp structures pushed up against a fenced-in empty lot in East Village. I could probably have gotten a job by now, she said, but I dont want to leave my stuff.

Volunteers check in hundreds of homeless people to a temporary downtown shelter in San Diego. Photograph: George Rose/Getty Images

The contours of her life are defined by her living situation. Each morning, she makes a quick trip two blocks over to a facility called Father Joes Villages,to take a shower and get dressed so she doesnt appear to be residing outside. Shes been arrested simply for sleeping under her tarp, a violation of a city law banning any vegetation or object from being in the public right-of-way. Now she pays close attention to the signs on fences and light poles announcing when police and city workers will be conducting a clean-up.

Michael McConnell, a homeless advocate who lives downtown, regularly documents these sweeps on social media; his posts suggest their futility. They show that a street cleared by mid-morning will be full of tents again within hours.

Addressing homelessness means recognizing that one size doesnt fit all, he said. McConnell supports the idea of giving people a safe place to sleep and having street outreach workers, not police, keep tabs on folks. Some might only need a few months of rental assistance, or help finding a landlord wholl accept a housing voucher, he said. In other cases, it could take months before an outreach worker gains someones trust.

He is realistic about the citys future.People are not going to just disappear, he said.

Source: http://allofbeer.com/a-tableau-of-suffering-seaside-city-of-san-diego-faces-a-dark-homelessness-crisis/

from All of Beer https://allofbeer.wordpress.com/2018/08/26/a-tableau-of-suffering-seaside-city-of-san-diego-faces-a-dark-homelessness-crisis/

[adambstingus]

‘A tableau of suffering’: seaside city of San Diego faces a dark homelessness crisis

The southern California city has a reputation for beaches and beer. But amid a dramatic spike in homelessness, people are coming to terms with a new reality

A tableau of squalor and suffering isnt what comes to mind when people think of San Diego, a town with the motto Americas finest city and a reputation for its craft-beer culture and miles of beautiful beaches. But thats how Dan McSwain, a columnist for the San Diego Union-Tribune, described the citys homelessness crisis in a piece last year, the first in a series pillorying city leaders for not doing more to address the issue.

Since then the situation has, if anything, worsened.

about the series

A recent count found a dramatic 104% increase in tents and hand-built structures located downtown,for a total of 418, compared to 2016. Driving through East Village, a gentrifying neighborhood on the edge of downtown, its tough to find a street that doesnt have a tarp or tent or dozens. People with neither tent nor tarp fashion makeshift shelters out of shopping carts, storage bins and blankets.

Helming the city during this crisis and also the focus of criticism for what some onlookers call a failure to address it effectively is San Diego mayor Kevin Faulconer. A moderate Republican in a predominantly Democratic city, he acknowledges that homelessness may be the defining issue of his term.

We cannot just do what weve always been doing. Its not working, he said recently from his downtown office. Just before his interview with the Guardian, he had attended one of multiple weekly meetings focused solely on homelessness.

The issue is not new in San Diego. Nearly three decades ago, then-mayor Maureen OConnor spent two days sleeping on the street, incognito, to get a better sense of the problem. But ambiguity over who is responsible for providing the bulk of homeless services, namely the city or the county in which it is located, has resulted in years of finger-pointing and stagnation.

A homeless man pushed a grocery cart with his belongings in San Diego, California. The city has seen a 104% increase in tents downtown since last year. Photograph: Alamy Stock Photo

There has been a steady increase in the homeless population under Faulconers watch; about 5,600 homeless people were recently counted in the city, and the countys numbers place it among the top five US metro regions. Still, it would be tough to argue this is Faulconers fault.

Other large west coast cities with high housing costs have seen similar increases; in San Diego, apartment rents average more than $1,700 a month. And since 2003, more than 5,000 residential hotel units, often considered the housing of last resort, have been demolished or converted into boutique hotels.

The situation has prompted frustration on all sides, and proposals that are a little off-the-wall: a pair of businessmen recently suggested banning camping downtown and restricting it to a site 13 miles outside the city. (They called it Camp Hope.) It may not be helping matters that the mayors point person on homelessness left her post last week without explanation.

A southern California native, Faulconer started off in 2006 as a city councilman who had an uneasy relationship with homelessness. He repeatedly opposed locating a temporary emergency shelter in his downtown district. And he voiced support for arresting or ticketing people who sleep in public overnight. But since his election as mayor in 2014, Faulconer, either by will or force, seems to have grasped the severity of the issue.

Critics says San Diego mayor Kevin Faulconer has failed to address homelessness effectively. Photograph: Mike Blake/Reuters

In 2016, for instance, he allocated $3.3m to homelessness programs on top of the federal funding the city receives. He has also proposed an increase in the citys hotel-room tax, a portion of which would go to homeless programs. The tax would need to be approved by voters, but Faulconer says he has the support of hoteliers and the citys tourism industry, whove complained that homelessness is impacting their bottom line. One hotel manager said he recently had to scrambleto stop the cancellation of an event worth $500,000 after a planner said she didnt feel safe outside.

But while many San Diegans might wish for a quick fix, it is proving difficult to bring people off the streets.

Despite the rising homeless numbers, shelter usage is actually down, even on rainy nights when the city makes additional beds available. Most folks out there, they think the best thing they have going is their tent, said Bob McElroy, CEO of the Alpha Project, one of the citys largest homeless services providers.

Alpha Project has submitted a proposal to the city for an intake center with a sleeping courtyard that would accommodate up to 150 people and a camping space with room for 25 tents. Over a three-year period, the project would expand to include 700 units of permanent housing.

The idea of a safe space to pitch her tent is appealing to Lawell Brooks, a 29-year-old who sleeps under a blue tarp. On a recent morning, it was one of more than two dozen tents and tarp structures pushed up against a fenced-in empty lot in East Village. I could probably have gotten a job by now, she said, but I dont want to leave my stuff.

Volunteers check in hundreds of homeless people to a temporary downtown shelter in San Diego. Photograph: George Rose/Getty Images

The contours of her life are defined by her living situation. Each morning, she makes a quick trip two blocks over to a facility called Father Joes Villages,to take a shower and get dressed so she doesnt appear to be residing outside. Shes been arrested simply for sleeping under her tarp, a violation of a city law banning any vegetation or object from being in the public right-of-way. Now she pays close attention to the signs on fences and light poles announcing when police and city workers will be conducting a clean-up.

Michael McConnell, a homeless advocate who lives downtown, regularly documents these sweeps on social media; his posts suggest their futility. They show that a street cleared by mid-morning will be full of tents again within hours.

Addressing homelessness means recognizing that one size doesnt fit all, he said. McConnell supports the idea of giving people a safe place to sleep and having street outreach workers, not police, keep tabs on folks. Some might only need a few months of rental assistance, or help finding a landlord wholl accept a housing voucher, he said. In other cases, it could take months before an outreach worker gains someones trust.

He is realistic about the citys future.People are not going to just disappear, he said.

from All Of Beer http://allofbeer.com/a-tableau-of-suffering-seaside-city-of-san-diego-faces-a-dark-homelessness-crisis/ from All of Beer https://allofbeercom.tumblr.com/post/177393619882

[allofbeercom]

‘A tableau of suffering’: seaside city of San Diego faces a dark homelessness crisis

The southern California city has a reputation for beaches and beer. But amid a dramatic spike in homelessness, people are coming to terms with a new reality

A tableau of squalor and suffering isnt what comes to mind when people think of San Diego, a town with the motto Americas finest city and a reputation for its craft-beer culture and miles of beautiful beaches. But thats how Dan McSwain, a columnist for the San Diego Union-Tribune, described the citys homelessness crisis in a piece last year, the first in a series pillorying city leaders for not doing more to address the issue.

Since then the situation has, if anything, worsened.

about the series

A recent count found a dramatic 104% increase in tents and hand-built structures located downtown,for a total of 418, compared to 2016. Driving through East Village, a gentrifying neighborhood on the edge of downtown, its tough to find a street that doesnt have a tarp or tent or dozens. People with neither tent nor tarp fashion makeshift shelters out of shopping carts, storage bins and blankets.

Helming the city during this crisis and also the focus of criticism for what some onlookers call a failure to address it effectively is San Diego mayor Kevin Faulconer. A moderate Republican in a predominantly Democratic city, he acknowledges that homelessness may be the defining issue of his term.

We cannot just do what weve always been doing. Its not working, he said recently from his downtown office. Just before his interview with the Guardian, he had attended one of multiple weekly meetings focused solely on homelessness.

The issue is not new in San Diego. Nearly three decades ago, then-mayor Maureen OConnor spent two days sleeping on the street, incognito, to get a better sense of the problem. But ambiguity over who is responsible for providing the bulk of homeless services, namely the city or the county in which it is located, has resulted in years of finger-pointing and stagnation.

A homeless man pushed a grocery cart with his belongings in San Diego, California. The city has seen a 104% increase in tents downtown since last year. Photograph: Alamy Stock Photo

There has been a steady increase in the homeless population under Faulconers watch; about 5,600 homeless people were recently counted in the city, and the countys numbers place it among the top five US metro regions. Still, it would be tough to argue this is Faulconers fault.

Other large west coast cities with high housing costs have seen similar increases; in San Diego, apartment rents average more than $1,700 a month. And since 2003, more than 5,000 residential hotel units, often considered the housing of last resort, have been demolished or converted into boutique hotels.

The situation has prompted frustration on all sides, and proposals that are a little off-the-wall: a pair of businessmen recently suggested banning camping downtown and restricting it to a site 13 miles outside the city. (They called it Camp Hope.) It may not be helping matters that the mayors point person on homelessness left her post last week without explanation.

A southern California native, Faulconer started off in 2006 as a city councilman who had an uneasy relationship with homelessness. He repeatedly opposed locating a temporary emergency shelter in his downtown district. And he voiced support for arresting or ticketing people who sleep in public overnight. But since his election as mayor in 2014, Faulconer, either by will or force, seems to have grasped the severity of the issue.

Critics says San Diego mayor Kevin Faulconer has failed to address homelessness effectively. Photograph: Mike Blake/Reuters

In 2016, for instance, he allocated $3.3m to homelessness programs on top of the federal funding the city receives. He has also proposed an increase in the citys hotel-room tax, a portion of which would go to homeless programs. The tax would need to be approved by voters, but Faulconer says he has the support of hoteliers and the citys tourism industry, whove complained that homelessness is impacting their bottom line. One hotel manager said he recently had to scrambleto stop the cancellation of an event worth $500,000 after a planner said she didnt feel safe outside.

But while many San Diegans might wish for a quick fix, it is proving difficult to bring people off the streets.

Despite the rising homeless numbers, shelter usage is actually down, even on rainy nights when the city makes additional beds available. Most folks out there, they think the best thing they have going is their tent, said Bob McElroy, CEO of the Alpha Project, one of the citys largest homeless services providers.

Alpha Project has submitted a proposal to the city for an intake center with a sleeping courtyard that would accommodate up to 150 people and a camping space with room for 25 tents. Over a three-year period, the project would expand to include 700 units of permanent housing.

The idea of a safe space to pitch her tent is appealing to Lawell Brooks, a 29-year-old who sleeps under a blue tarp. On a recent morning, it was one of more than two dozen tents and tarp structures pushed up against a fenced-in empty lot in East Village. I could probably have gotten a job by now, she said, but I dont want to leave my stuff.

Volunteers check in hundreds of homeless people to a temporary downtown shelter in San Diego. Photograph: George Rose/Getty Images

The contours of her life are defined by her living situation. Each morning, she makes a quick trip two blocks over to a facility called Father Joes Villages,to take a shower and get dressed so she doesnt appear to be residing outside. Shes been arrested simply for sleeping under her tarp, a violation of a city law banning any vegetation or object from being in the public right-of-way. Now she pays close attention to the signs on fences and light poles announcing when police and city workers will be conducting a clean-up.

Michael McConnell, a homeless advocate who lives downtown, regularly documents these sweeps on social media; his posts suggest their futility. They show that a street cleared by mid-morning will be full of tents again within hours.

Addressing homelessness means recognizing that one size doesnt fit all, he said. McConnell supports the idea of giving people a safe place to sleep and having street outreach workers, not police, keep tabs on folks. Some might only need a few months of rental assistance, or help finding a landlord wholl accept a housing voucher, he said. In other cases, it could take months before an outreach worker gains someones trust.

He is realistic about the citys future.People are not going to just disappear, he said.

from All Of Beer http://allofbeer.com/a-tableau-of-suffering-seaside-city-of-san-diego-faces-a-dark-homelessness-crisis/

[husheduphistory]

The Riches and Rise of Sarah Rector

On January 15th 1914 The Kansas City Star newspaper ran an unusual story. At least four men from Germany were writing letters to Oklahoma, desperate to grab the attention and approval for marriage to a resident they had never met. Up until recently, they would not have even known she existed but unexpectedly coming into possession of a fortune would ensure that her name would remain in headlines for decades to come. None of the proposals would be followed up on for many reasons, but the biggest one probably was the fact that the person they were all clamoring for was a twelve year old African-American girl named Sarah Rector. A twelve year old African-American girl that had an income of $15,000 a month.

Sarah Rector was born in Oklahoma on March 3rd 1902 to Joseph and Rose Rector, both descendants of slaves of the Creek Nation. Long before she was born, in 1866 a treaty was signed between the United States Government and the Creek Nation promising emancipation to their 16,000 slaves and the incorporation of them into their nation as citizens that were entitled to “equal interest in the soil and national funds.” Because these people were formerly enslaved under the Muskogee Creek tribe they were referred to as "Creek Freedmen minors" and they were entitled to land under the Dawes Allotment Act of 1887 with 160 acres of land being granted to approximately 600 black children. This was very different from African-Americans enslaved by people outside of Native American tribes who were granted citizenship after slavery but were never given land. When Rector was born in 1902 she was officially a resident of Indian territory because Oklahoma was not yet a state and because she was a descendant of slaves who had been owned by Creek Indians before the Civil War, she also was entitled to a parcel of land. Notoriously the land granted to former slaves and their descendants was rocky, hilly, and ill-suited for any agricultural endeavors but despite the land being less than optimal, the family still had to pay an annual property tax of $30. Sarah's piece of land was located sixty miles from the Rector home in Glenpool, Oklahoma and when faced with another round of paying property taxes, Sarah's father petitioned the Muskogee County Court to sell the parcel, but his request was denied because of restrictions requiring that he continue to pay the taxes on the land. Desperate for a way to escape the financial cost of keeping it, he began to look for other options. In 1911 Sarah's father decided to lease her parcel of land to the Standard Oil Company. It turned out to be the best decision of his and his daughter's life.

Two years after Sarah's piece of land was leased to the oil company an independent driller hit a massive reserve of oil capable of producing 2,500 barrels of oil and today's equivalent of $7,000 for Sarah's pockets every day. The land became part of the famous Cushing-Drumright Oil Field and it propelled Rector into both spotlight and scandal.

Young Sarah Rector at approximately age twelve.

Law at the time required that Native American and African-American adults and children who were citizens of Indian Territory with any significant accumulation of wealth and property be "assigned" to a guardian, a white person, who was seen as being more responsible and capable of handling their finances. Sarah's financial guardianship was switched to a man named T.J. Porter but fortunately for Rector, Porter was well known by her family and she was able to escape the fate of massive financial loss, swindling, and even kidnapping or murder that often befell people at the hands of their "guardians.” The unlawful and horrific actions of many of the "guardians" was so prevalent that it was easy for people to believe when rumors began to circulate about Rector's well being. By 1914 just some of the speculation swirling around was that she actually a white immigrant being kept in poverty, that her estate was being totally destroyed by her "ignorant" parents and Porter, and that she wore rags and lived in a shack. In June of 1914 James C. Waters Jr., a special agent for the National Association for the Advancement of Colored People (NAACP), wrote a letter to W. E. B. DuBois about his concern for the welfare of her and her estate writing of her white financial guardian:

"Is it not possible to have her cared for in a decent manner and by people of her own race, instead of by a member of a race which would deny her and her kind the treatment accorded a good yard dog?"

The accusations of Rector living her days in squalor were untrue and she was found to be living a good life with she and her siblings attending school in Taft, Oklahoma before she enrolled in a boarding school for teenagers at the Tuskegee Institute in Alabama. 

Newspaper clipping reporting Rector was “found at home in good health.”

Her family lived modestly but comfortably in a five-room cottage that they owned along with a car. The accusation of Rector actually being white was only exacerbated by the Oklahoma Legislature which, because of her massive wealth, actually did legally declare Rector white to enable her to ride the railroad as a first class passenger.

Newspaper clipping reporting on Rector being “made white” in order for her to ride first class on the railroad.

By the time Rector was eighteen years old she was a millionaire who owned stocks and bonds, a boarding house, a bakery ,a restaurant, and over 2,000 acres of land. She and her entire family moved to Kansas City, Missouri where she purchased a mansion on Twelfth Street and after she married her husband Kenneth Campbell in 1922 the home and a restaurant they owned became the sites of many lavish partied with attendees the likes of Duke Ellington and Count Baise. 

Wedding announcement for Sarah Rector and Kenneth Campbell via Kansas City Call.

She and Campbell had three children together but the marriage ended in divorce in 1930. Four years later she remarried a man named William Crawford.

Unlike her early years where her name and story was plastered across the headlines, as an adult Rector kept a low profile enjoying her wealth and spending it freely on clothing, jewelry, cars, and the speeding tickets she would often get from her travels. She remained in the Kansas City area for the remainder of her life until she passed away on July 22nd 1967 at the age of sixty-five. Her remains were buried in the city cemetery of Taft, Oklahoma along with her parents.

The story of Sarah Rector is more than a simple tale of rags to riches. It is a story that illustrates the complex issues of race, citizenship, identity, the role of wealth and how one girl defied all odds, lived life her way, and triumphed in the aftermath of a still deeply divided country being nearly torn down around her.  

A later portrait photograph of Sarah Rector.

[hollywoodjuliorivas]

Outsiders have long enjoyed mocking the City of Angels – its sprawl, its vapidity, its kookiness. Los Angeles has been called “New York lying down” (Quentin Crisp), “paradise with a lobotomy” (Neil Simon), and “72 suburbs in search of a city” (Dorothy Parker). “Tip the world over on its side,” said Frank Lloyd Wright, “and everything loose will land in Los Angeles.” The putdowns are still mean, still funny and still contain kernels of truth. But from the roof-deck of the 73-storey Wilshire Grand Center, a newly completed skyscraper offering stunning panoramas, the quips feel dusty, even quaint. Los Angeles reaches deal over hosting 2028 Summer Olympics Read more From this 1,100ft eyrie, the highest in the western United States, you can observe the glint of other towers rising up over downtown, transforming the skyline. You can see the web of railways criss-crossing the east side, and construction work on the expanding subway system. You can see the Hollywood sign to the north and the Pacific ocean to the west. You can see Dodger Stadium, the Coliseum, the Staples Center and other sporting arenas. You can see, in other words, why LA this week clinched the right to host the 2028 Olympic Games. And why mayor Eric Garcetti is exuberant. “This shows that LA is still a can-do city. We didn’t make a bid that said, ‘if the Olympics comes, we’ll do all these things’. We said, ‘we’re doing all these things, the Olympics should come’,” he told the Guardian. “This is definitely a moment. People want to be here.” The International Olympic Committee’s decision to bring the Games to LA – after Tokyo and Paris host the next two – caps a remarkable turnaround. Facebook Twitter Pinterest Mayor of Los Angeles Eric Garcetti says winning the Olympic bid shows ‘LA is still a can-do city’. Photograph: Pierre Albouy/Reuters Back in the 1990s, LA was the butt not only of jokes but laments: this was the city of gang warfare, police brutality, racial strife, traffic gridlock and air pollution, a dysfunctional megalopolis echoed in the dystopian vision of Blade Runner. An influential 1991 book by David Rieff was titled Los Angeles: Capital of the Third World. These days it feels closer to La La Land, a city where policymakers almost break into song about developments in infrastructure, transport, art and architecture. “We’re a place that reimagines tomorrow and reinvents today,” Garcetti said in an interview, citing, among other things, new transit lines, the Hyperloop, Elon Musk, and new museums. “LA is a city that continues to attract the greatest innovation in the world.” 'Grow food on Mars': LA startups tackle climate change with inventive solutions Read more Voters in LA County have approved $120bn for investments in transport over the next four decades, one of the most ambitious public works in US history. Voters also approved $3.5bn to tackle homelessness. This will help address poverty and inequality, said Garcetti. “I don’t know of another place in the country that has those resources.” The economy is humming at near full employment. The port is unloading cargo at breakneck rates. LAX is renovating terminals amid record passenger numbers. Tech companies are spreading across Silicon Beach, LA’s insurgent rival to San Francisco’s Silicon Valley. Netflix, Hulu and Amazon are reshaping the entertainment industry. The sad trickle that is the LA river is due to become a vibrant waterway. After two decades without an NFL team, LA has lured the Rams from St Louis and the Chargers from San Diego. They will share a new stadium in Inglewood. The giddiness seems contagious: the Dodgers are enjoying an enchanted season which could end a 28-year World Series drought. The most dramatic transformation is downtown, a once-derelict shell now thrumming with condos, bars, cafes and galleries. Facebook Twitter Pinterest The Wilshire Grand Center, LA’s newest, tallest skyscraper, under construction in 2014. Photograph: Mark J. Terrill/AP “I think it’s a new age,” said Chris Martin, an architect of the Wilshire Grand Center, now the tallest building west of the Mississippi. The tower, part of a wave of Asian investment, symbolises the area’s revitalisation, he said. “Seventh Street is virtually a restaurant row now. To see women and men pushing children and walking dogs, I find it really wonderful. I love it.” So too did Max Almerto, 32, a kitchen worker. “The city is definitely getting better. Downtown used to be abandoned, now it’s full of people.” He spoke while commuting to work with his bicycle on the new Expo line, which connects the ocean to downtown. “I used to have cars – not any more. This is better than sitting in traffic being pissed off with the world.” Seated on the same carriage, Kevin McCall, 58, who works in graphics and marketing, agreed. “My car was failing and costing a lot, so I decided to experiment and try the train. Between Uber-ing and public transport it’s doable.” Trains, subways and light rails will eventually connect LAX, downtown, the coast, Disneyland and elsewhere, said Keith Millhouse, a former board member of Metrolink, southern California’s commuter rail system. “I think this is unparalleled. You’re really seeing a huge push towards a non-car centric culture.” We’ve hit our stride in a way I’ve not experienced before. People want to live here. The place is booming Chris Thornberg, analyst The renaissance comes amid a challenging time for New York, which has long scorned LA as a rival for America’s greatest city. Having lost a bid to host the 2012 Olympics to London, New York is now enduring a “summer of hell” on its crumbling subway, prompting authorities to declare a state of emergency. This did not stop the New York Times poking fun at LA nabbing the 2028 Games, asking if this would herald new Olympic events such as “longest juice cleanse” or “least original movie idea”. Advertisement Garcetti said his home town had no inferiority complex despite a century of wisecracks. “Written by east coasters,” he smiled. “Those of us who secretly decided to stay and live here always had a good time. I think LA has never cared what other people think. We’ve been comfortable in our own skin.” The mayor, a rising Democratic star (there is chatter of a White House run), said LA had permanent funding for infrastructure, unlike certain other cities. “People like to build things, they don’t like to maintain them … you have to think of the life of the projects.” He acknowledged that by some measures LA is the US’s most unequal and unaffordable city. “We’re an imperfect paradise. We still have homelessness and poverty and traffic to address. I never get too rosy-eyed.” Some critics say the mayor and other civic boosters are exactly that, and predict that the vaunted splurge on shelters and housing, for instance, will not stem the evictions and displacement, which are driving the poor and communities of colour from south and east LA. Skid Row’s desperation and squalor endure in the shadow of downtown’s new towers. Facebook Twitter Pinterest Rising homelessness remains a major issue for Los Angeles to tackle. Photograph: Alamy Hosting the Games will aggravate such inequality, said Jonny Coleman, an organiser with the advocacy group NOlympics LA. “Every Olympic city has spurred displacement and police overreach. It accelerates gentrification. (Landlords) will do Airbnb and kick people out.” LA hosted the Games in 1932 and 1984. Using existing infrastructure and corporate sponsorship helped make the 1984 Games the first to ever make a profit – $225m – a feat unmatched by subsequents hosts who ended up with huge bills. LA hopes to repeat that fiscal magic in 2028 with an operating surplus of $500m. Andrew Zimbalist, an economist who has studied and often criticised the Olympics as bad value for hosts, said that projection was reasonable. “They have all the venues and infrastructure that they need.” Athletes, for instance, will stay in UCLA dorms. “There’s just no other city like that. I think they’ll be able to do quite well with sponsorship and ticket sales.” 'Human tragedy': LA homelessness jumps to record-breaking level Read more Chris Thornberg, an analyst with the research firm Beacon Economics, threw cold water on some of the boosterism. LA was still dysfunctional, he said, and spending fortunes on trains was questionable given the looming era of self-driving cars. But compared to the 1990s, when fires, floods, riots and earthquakes compounded economic malaise, the city was enjoying a renaissance, he said. “It’s absolutely real. We’ve hit our stride in a way I’ve not experienced before. People want to live here. The place is booming.” He credited urbanisation trends more than civic leadership. LA’s newfound swagger is unlikely to curb the jokes. It is after all an irresistible target even for those who mint livelihoods here. “I mean, who would want to live in a place where the only cultural advantage is that you can turn right on a red light?” said Woody Allen. There is dispute whether Dorothy Parker or someone else made the crack about 72 suburbs in search of a city. Parker did, however, lob a particularly wounding insult about palm trees. “The ugliest vegetable God created.”