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Targeted Universalism in coalitions

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Targeted Universalism in coalitions

Critter-wise, the state of texas is more or less the australia of the united states. Plenty of species there, native or imported, are ones you don't want to tangle with if you can help it. The humble but ferocious fire ant has a bite that hurts for ages. It feels like an angry mosquito (which texas also has in droves). What's even scarier than a single fire ant is a cluster of them. When their home floods they hold on to each other to form a raft that floats them to safety. Try enjoying the cool rush of the Pedernales river with that in mind!

One of my favorite parts of my work is when I'm building coalitions. I love bringing several organizations together to work on a project. Coalitions share resources and ideas while reducing duplicative work. Like the ants, organizations that join together help each other stay afloat.

Many of the problems we face each day are systemic. A Targeted Universalism (TU) framework is one way to make change at a systems level. john a. powell of the Othering and Belonging Institute calls it "equity 2.0." In my mind, TU works best when it's led by entities like governments, with a broad ability to make change in a region. It also thrives in closed systems, like a high school trying to improve graduation rates for all students. In both cases, the convening entity has a lot of control on how they carry out their decisions.

But can you imagine a government or school system solving grand problems right now? Not enough policymakers seem to have the courage to do anything about the issues we face. And most schools are running at full speed away from anything with even a whiff of equity to it. But small organizations hardly have the resources they need to tackle big problems.

I was always struck by the "bigness" of Targeted Universalism. Would it be possible to run TU through a coalition of small nonprofits?

reintroducing Targeted Universalism

Rather than trying to “close gaps” between racial and identity groups, TU does two things. First, it establishes a universal standard that is ambitious but attainable. Next, it creates targeted strategies to help all groups of people meet that goal. TU follows the 5 steps below. If you want to learn about a particular step, I have a blog post for each of them.

Targeted Universalism Framework

  1. Establish a universal goal based upon a broadly shared recognition of a societal problem and collective aspirations.
  2. Assess general population performance relative to the universal goal.
  3. Identify groups and places that are performing differently with respect to the goal. Groups should be disaggregated.
  4. Assess and understand the structures that support or impede each group or community from achieving the universal goal.
  5. Develop and implement targeted strategies for each group to reach the universal goal.

from Targeted Universalism: Policy and Practice

This framework makes a lot of sense from a government or entity's perspective. They get people together, figure out these steps, then create the strategies we need to reach the goal. What would a coalition of organizations need to do this? They'd need broad agreement of the problem they want to solve together. They'd need decision-making authority and resources to carry out the strategies they create.

I propose we bookend the classic TU steps I named above. Let's call it the ant-raft model.

Ant-Raft Targeted Universalism Framework
(working title)

  1. Identify a societal problem. What issue affects a wide swath of people? Housing insecurity affects a disproportionate amount of Black and Indigenous residents. But everyone is susceptible to housing loss. And white and Asian people experience homelessness too. The problem should be widespread and a large number of groups want to solve it.
  2. Identify your greatest geographic region of influence. There's a sweet spot here that's kind of subjective. We want an area big enough to benefit as many people as we can include. But we want an area small enough that we can make meaningful change within it. Yes, everyone in the u.s. should have a home to live in. But a coalition based in one city may not have the leverage we need to make that happen.
  3. Identify coalition builders within this geographic region. Who else can you involve? Who is also working to solve this issue? Who is working on a related issue or branch cause? Who has a stake in the outcomes we're trying to achieve? Who works with groups that are at greater risk for our issue—even if the group itself doesn't work on that issue? A group that supports disability justice might not have direct experience preventing homelessness. They would still have plenty to contribute.

These next four steps are the ones from the original TU framework but they're not super easy to follow. I'm rewriting them into plain language because that's how the ant-raft model goes!

  1. TU step 1. Name the problem in society that we want to solve. Set a goal that we want everyone in our region to be able to meet. Make this goal universal, ambitious, but doable (even if it takes a long time).
  2. TU step 2. Figure out where the general population is when compared to that goal.
  3. TU step 3. Describe how different groups are doing compared to the universal goal. Describe how people in different places are doing compared to the same goal. Group people into as many groups as you need to describe their struggles against the system.
  4. TU step 4. Study these groups and understand their circumstances. What holds each group back from achieving the goal? How do some groups do well where others don't?

The end of the TU framework also needed some adjusting. I wanted to make it more community-driven and community-focused. The advice process is a great model for how we'd want groups to take the lead on naming strategies that are best for them. I've incorporated it into the remaining steps.

  1. Modified TU step 5. Meet with people from the groups you found. Share with them what you've found so far. Together, create a strategy that would help that group reach the universal goal. Do this for every group, no matter how small.
  2. In coalition and in community, share everything you learned. What strategies did we develop? What are each of our organizations already doing? What gaps did we find? Who can or is already working to fill them? What do we need?
    Say our universal goal is housing for all. What approaches are we trying at every step of a person's housing journey? Who is working on eviction prevention? Who is working on temporary housing solutions? Who can create more affordable/free housing? Finding solutions that work for people, no matter where they are, is what matters. It doesn't have to be a single entity that handles every strategy.
  3. Make plans to achieve the strategies we created. We can achieve some strategies by doing more of the work we've already started. Organizations can team up to devise new approaches or programs that fill in the gaps we found. Or we can restate the proposals we make when we apply for funding. Coalitions may not have the decision-making power to do this all themselves.
    Lily Zheng reminds us there are at least 6 types of power. How would a coalition employ them? We use reward power to create stronger bonds of sharing among coalition members. We use coercive power when we act en masse to shame a politician into doing the right thing. We use referent power when we lean on the connections we have to find the best way forward. And we use expert and informational power when we speak to the experiences and knowledge we have.

I don't know why I keep coming up with 10 steps whenenver I adapt frameworks. One for each of my fingers, I guess.

more thoughts

Can we have systems-level impact as a network of organizations funded by that system? "The people united will never be divided" applies to coalitions, too. We hold fast to each other to maintain our principles and share resources. Resources are always scarce in systems ruled by greed. We can change which projects each coalition member goes after. Or we can all start applying under one umbrella organization.

How do we assign resources to all the strategies we need? The O&B Institute has two recommendations here. First, the universal standard must be "plausible if not realistically achievable." Second, we should "triage" the need against the resources we do have. We'd want to give priority to support the groups with the most severe or urgent needs. That said, we should not focus on only one group's targeted solutions. O&B recommends at least 3 groups should feel the impact in the initial response. Some strategies will benefit more than one group; those are good ones to try next.

What if people disagree on what strategies are effective? Most organizations—hell, most people—will push their strategy as the best. Step 9 of ant-raft (I'm going with it) is about sharing strategies back with communities. Those communities should take the lead on the strategies we focus on. No strategy will be one-size-fits-all. We'll no doubt need many strategies to reach every group.

What kind of organizations can take part? When I started drafting this process, I wanted something that would work for a mutual aid group too. But are all mutual aid groups set up to engage with systems like nonprofits do? How many groups would be willing to work with governments, for all the harm that often entails? Mutual aid groups do form coalitions with each other. Some have convened gatherings with other groups. Most will freely exchange funds, resources, and information with each other.

forming the raft

We're facing a lot of terrible situations, y'all. We need to take every opportunity we can to stick together. Individuals in power hate unions because we're stronger than them. If we can't beat the forces that oppress us, we can create something even better without them. Fire ants are eusocial, like humans: we need each other to survive. The ant-raft model of Targeted Universalism might be one more way to bite back.

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rocketo
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seattle, wa
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‘Let the people have rat’ — Work party restores Cal Anderson Park mural

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A symbol of Capitol HIll’s “Hot Rat Summer” has been restored — partially — on the historic Cal Anderson Gatehouse.

Dedicated neighbors, artists, and two members of the Seattle City Council gathered on the hottest day of the year so far to restore the surprisingly radiant rat mosaic after the city painted over it in what some are calling a bureaucratic blunder and others see as an act of erasure.

“It’s such a beautiful mural that’s taken so many hours,” said Bug, a Vegas transplant new to the city, who showed up solo to help uncover the piece. “Just to cover it up, like, out of spite? It didn’t make sense to me. Especially in a city that’s so filled with art.”

Bug, who said they first saw the mural on Instagram and later learned it had been painted over through Reddit, wasn’t the only one moved to act. Other dedicated mural appreciators were there. “I just came and did it on my own,” Bug said. “This is the second time I showed up to uncover it.”

The mosaic mural was painted on the side of the landmarked Seattle Public Utilities Gatehouse building above Cal Anderson’s reflecting pool. It has became a source of neighborhood pride in the spunky expression of a neighborhood dedicated to having a good time despite any hard times and challenges. That made it all the more surprising when city crews painted over it.

Seattle City Councilmembers Joy Hollingsworth and Alexis Mercedes Rinck joined residents Wednesday to help gently scrub the white paint off the rat.

“To me, this is not graffiti. This is art,” Hollingsworth said. “I think it’s a balance and an understanding. This is not vandalizing the community.”

Hollingsworth earlier this week joined the rest of the council — except for Rinck — voting in favor of a new civil penalty for graffiti.

“I feel like this is my duty to come out here,” she said. “I’m not a desktop person. I’ve worked on a farm. I’ve driven forklifts. I’ve driven trucks out of food banks. This is the stuff I like to do, in concert with my legislative duties.”

As for the mix-up, Hollingsworth says wires were crossed.

“This is actually a Seattle Public Utilities building. It was communicated with Parks and didn’t get to SPU in time. So now we’re just figuring out a little bit of the bureaucracy.”

Rinck, who voted against the anti-graffiti ordinance, emphasized the need for more community-driven arts processes and protections.

“This neighborhood has been through it,” Rinck said. “This is something beautiful. It’s a celebration, also in recognition of the trans community, and it brings people a lot of joy.”

Hollingsworth agrees the mural should stay—and even be protected going forward. She said she’s working with the Parks Department to identify the artist, get formal permission, and possibly pay them for additional work.

“If the artists come forward and sign a document with the city saying they want to keep it, then we’re going to preserve it,” Hollingsworth said. “The city’s also going to support the art on the windows here. I want those artists to come forward so we can pay them.”

Kylie, a longtime parkgoer, saw the mural as a kind of neighborhood in-joke—but with layers.

“To me, it’s like the Capitol Hill thing, right?” she said. “It’s a rat that is being worshiped as a saint. There are rats all over this park. It’s subversive, deifying what would be considered vermin by the majority of the population.”

There is also frustration that public art like this gets wiped away without notice.

“If they really cared, they would have sponsored art projects for this for years,” Kylie said.

Doria, another local resident, was more blunt.

“I think it’s really performative,” she said of the councilmembers’ appearance. “Especially given that Hollingsworth voted for the anti-graffiti ordinance yesterday. They’re just trying to get a photo op over art that’s not even theirs.”

Still, Doria said the mural’s power is in the way it has moved regular people.

“That shows more than any city council members coming with all these news crews,” she said. “The folks who showed up just because they care, that’s what this is about.”

Both Rinck and Hollingsworth say they want the mural preserved long-term. The historic Gatehouse is a protected landmark but its false bays have been used as a sort of public art gallery for years. CHS reported on one display of student art organized above the reflecting pool in 2017. More recently, the building was the backdrop for a video art protest against the Trump administration. There is a longterm plan for the building to be illuminated as part of a public safety-oriented overhaul to Cal Anderson’s lighting.

In the meantime, residents continued to gently scrub, uncover, and protect the mural that made them stop and smile in the first place.

Or, as Rinck summed it up on the scene, “These are dark times. Let the people have rat.”

 

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rocketo
22 hours ago
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““I think it’s really performative,” she said of the councilmembers’ appearance. “Especially given that Hollingsworth voted for the anti-graffiti ordinance yesterday. They’re just trying to get a photo op over art that’s not even theirs.””

that’s it right there
seattle, wa
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Calvin And Hobbes’s Gruesome Snowmen Were A World All Their Own

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There are only two pieces of media that have made me wistful for a small-town/suburban childhood I didn't have: A Christmas Story, and Calvin And Hobbes. Before you accuse me of specifically longing for the tract housing of Ohio, if I interrogate this a little further it turns out that what I really wanted was a yard. Because I wanted to shoot a BB gun at imaginary bandits like Ralphie did, and, like Calvin, I wanted to build demented snowmen.

Bill Watterson knew, or at least captured better than anyone, the private derangement of the average 6-year-old boy. Imagination is one thing: Monsters lived under the bed, dinosaurs roamed the Earth, teachers were misshapen alien monsters in disguise, Tracer Bullet charges $50 per day plus expenses. But somewhere beyond those fairly standard fantasy worlds lies the grisly id of the artist, and the snow is his canvas.



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rocketo
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seattle, wa
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The 50 Best Dive Bars in America

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Defining a dive bar is like explaining why a joke is funny.

Conjuring criteria, administering purity tests, listing virtues and faults—perhaps there’s an ounce of usefulness in scrutinizing the qualities of the genre. But debating lighting levels, cocktail sophistication, or degrees of patina and popularity? That all seems, well, lame. And besides the point.

A great dive isn’t just a bar, and a dive isn’t great without its people.

Just like a good joke makes you laugh, a great dive makes you feel connected. Whether it’s your own neighborhood bar where everyone proverbially knows your name or another town’s local haunt, you belong — for a night, for a while, or forever. A great dive isn’t just a bar, and a dive isn’t great without its people.

From Brooklyn to San Francisco, there are cities like New Orleans where the dive is more town hall than watering hole. Detroit, Chicago, and Los Angeles could all fairly argue for larger real estate on this list. The state of Texas alone could fill all fifty slots with worthy contenders. But this isn’t a contest. This is a toast to the bars that, in a time heavy with the worst, are portals back to our best.

Callaghan’s Irish Social Club

Since owner J.T. Thompson bought Callaghan’s, a longstanding neighborhood pub on a cottage-lined corner of Mobile’s Oakleigh Garden District, in 2002, he’s cultivated a cultural anchor with a growing list of headlining artists who started out playing its tiny front room. Sometimes they return even when they could be on the marquee downtown. On St. Patrick’s Day, the green river of parade marchers pools in front of Callaghan’s for its annual street party. But whatever day it is, an LA Burger with a spicy, part-Conecuh sausage patty is the move.

2. Sultana Bar

Williams, Arizona

The notoriety of its namesake, the “world famous Sultana ruby of India,” may have been lost to time, but much of the Sultana bar endures the same as it did when it opened in 1912 — 14 years before the official designation of Route 66, the highway that brings in the bikers and road trippers sitting alongside locals. Beneath the taxidermy and dollar bill-dressed barroom and massive neon martini-shaped sign are Prohibition-era tunnels, dug by Chinese railroad workers, that shuttled liquor and opium. Pool tables and flat screen TVs are today’s tamer entertainment.

3. Tiki Ti

Los Angeles, California

Tiki Ti belongs more to the school of maraschino cherries than mixology. Still a lantern-lit cigar box with little more than a dozen seats, the bar opened in 1961, inside a former violin repair shop, with Ron the Beachcomber apprentice, Ray Buhe, and his trove of recipes, 94 of which are still served today. Don’t be alarmed by the sudden ceremonial chants by the bartenders and seasoned patrons signaled by the order of a Blood & Sand or Uga Buga.

4. Elsie’s Tavern

Santa Barbara, CA

Elsie’s front door opens into what could be mistaken for an honest living room with velvet sofas, a bookcase, and a potted ficus, but behind door number two, a sky-lit bar appears with license-plate clad beams, surfboards, and a chandelier-shaped pothos vine over the pool table. Locals sip coffee, kombucha, and matchas on the covered back patio in the morning, but by evening, when the Pac-Man machine lights up, the selection turns practical: beer and wine, no liquor, cash-only.

5. The Riptide

San Francisco, CA

On New Year's Day, Riptide regulars, some in party attire and others in swimsuits, run from the end of Taraval Street towards the brisk ocean waves for the annual Plunge. The Ocean City bar’s tradition has persisted despite a fire nearly destroying the building in 2015.

6. P.S. Lounge

Denver, Colorado

Heather M. Smith/Fortuitous Photography

As if the dazzling Rowe-AMI Caliente model jukebox and the carpeted floor weren’t enough to swoon over, P.S. Lounge’s bartenders and owner, Pete Siahamis, hand out free long-stemmed roses and Alabama Slammer shots (equal parts sloe gin, Southern Comfort, Amaretto, orange juice, and indiscretion). Despite the creep of condos and big box chains onto Colfax Avenue, the lounge hasn’t changed its style since it opened in the ’80s, evidenced by the wall covered in faded photos of regulars past and present.

7. Showtime Lounge

Washington D.C.

Showtime’s house band, Granny and The Boys, regularly sells out the tiny garden-level spot where intergenerational crowds pack in to hear 92-year-old piano player Alice Donahue and her band of seasoned musicians play funk standards on Sunday Nights. And for D.C., the drink prices seem like they’re from a past decade, too.

8. Low Key Hideaway

Cedar Key, FL

When Hurricane Helene hit Florida’s Big Bend Region last year, the Low Key Hideaway became a disaster recovery center where neighbors on tiny Cedar Key coordinated clean-up efforts by day and gathered by firelight for beers and music at night. Owner Scott Larsen has shored up the RV camp’s tiki bar and added a few structural improvements, but the shack, partially made out of old seaglass-colored bottles, still feels like an Old Florida vestige.

Standing since 1926, South Beach institution Mac’s Club Deuce is Miami’s oldest bar, and its namesake owner, Mac Klein, celebrated his 101st birthday at the bar before he passed away in 2016. He bought the bar after he walked down the street from the hospital, where his wife had just given birth to their daughter, for a celebratory drink. So little has changed since then, the pink and green neon, added for a few episodes of Miami Vice shot there in the ’80s, one of the bar’s newer features.

10. Pinkie Master’s

Savannah, GA

In Savannah’s Historic District, despite the relentless march of tourists, Pinkie Master’s endures as a locals' stronghold, peppered with professors and students from Savannah College of Art and Design. It’s not surprising such a cast of characters congregates just a block north of author Flannery O’Connor’s childhood home. It’s original owner, Luis Chris Masterpolis, nicknamed Pinkie, was a former boxer instrumental in electing Jimmy Carter, who visited the bar whenever he came through town. In 2015, two regulars bought Pinkie’s, roughed up from years of neglect, and with the help of other longtime patrons, they put it back in fighting shape.

11. Northside Tavern

Atlanta, Georgia

As far as memorable dives in Atlanta, Clermont Lounge often steals the attention, almost unfairly, as Atlanta’s oldest strip club, where the dancers’ median age hovers around 46. Northside Tavern’s talent might be more dressed up, but there’s still plenty of dancing to the blues bands that play regularly in the tiny cinderblock bar — the iron over the windows a reminder of the time before the high-rise development encircling it.

12. Rainbo Club

Chicago, IL

Since its beginnings as a burlesque theatre in the 1930s, the Rainbo Club has always been a home for artists and musicians, especially those who availed themselves of the free drinks for artists policy — Liz Phair and Silver Jews among them. Ken Ellis, a longtime bartender and bouncer, has all kinds of stories from his tenure. He’s even displayed the quilts he's made of famous Chicago figures and city scenes in the bar, which also hosts regular art shows.

13. Inner Town Pub

Chicago, IL

Aside from the odd assemblage of Elvis memorabilia, Inner Town Pub has all the trappings of an ideal Midwestern dive. The Ukrainian Village bar’s current incarnation started in 1983, but its 1880s building, stained glass, and battered wood railings make it seem as though it’s always been there.

14. The Darmstadt

Evansville, IN

“My favorite dive bar is The Darmstadt on the outskirts of Evansville, near where I was born and raised. It’s a very old-school, simple, straightforward place — one of many German-leaning taverns in the region. It sports thin, wood-paneled walls lined with taxidermy and ice-cold beer served in frozen mugs.

The food is Midwest tavern fare, hearty and calorie-rich like their fried chicken. It’s a place that is delightfully trend-free, and it seems as though little has changed in the last 50 or 60 years. Just the way I like my dive bars, trapped in time.”

Brooks Reitz, restaurateur and founder of Jack Rudy Cocktail Co.

15. George’s Buffet

Iowa City, IA

“The first thing to know about George's Buffet is that it isn't a buffet. It's a dive with cheap cans of Hamm's and little booths that are the perfect size for playing cards with your friends and telling lies. They serve these little cheeseburgers for five bucks, cooked in a broiler that's so ancient the only other one that exists is in the basement. (They pull parts off that one to make repairs, like keeping a junked car in your yard.) The burgers come out wrapped in wax paper, and if you let them sit that way, steaming in the wrapper for a minute, they can be a delicate message from the divine.

"It's a dive with cheap cans of Hamm's and little booths that are the perfect size for playing cards with your friends and telling lies."

The other thing to know about George's, which first opened in 1939, is that an old guy named Richard, a regular, used to bring in jars of his homemade prepared horseradish. They'd keep them in the beer cooler and smear a bit on the burger every time he asked. Anyway, one day the horseradish jar was getting low, and someone realized they hadn't seen Richard around in a while. That's how they realized he died. At least, that's how I've heard the story repeated. Could all be all lies. You never know in George's. But if you ask for a Richard burger, they'll know what you mean.” Wyatt Williams, author of Springer Mountain: Meditations on Killing and Eating.

The phenomenon of the newly opened dive often leaves customers in an uncanny valley, looking at a contrived collage of thrift store-bought knick-knacks, new neon, and hypoallergenic furnishings. But the Pearl of Germantown, opened in 2016, has found the right flavor even without the seasoning of time. Spin the wheel of drinks, including deals from $1 beers to $5 shots of 1792 Bourbon.

In a city full of famous facades, Snake & Jake’s Christmas Club Lounge might be as recognizable as the much grander St. Louis Cathedral or Cafe DuMonde — a tumbleweed wreath of Christmas lights over the door of a tin-roofed shack hand-painted with an advertisement for Regal Beer. But this bar sits far from the French Quarter, nestled in a quiet neighborhood near Tulane University. Inside, lit by a strand of crimson Christmas lights, the scene shifts into a kind of infrared vision. No, it’s not your eyes needing to adjust. That is a dog sitting on a stool, drinking water out of a shot glass at the end of the bar.

18. BJ’s Lounge

New Orleans, LA

Colloquially called Dirt Church because of the Sistine Chapel replica wallpaper covering the ceiling, the Mount Royal Tavern has long been a sacred place for Maryland Institute College of Art students who often display their work there. On Tuesdays, artists of all ages come in to drink discounted pitchers and draw on blank boxes leftover from deliveries of local National Bohemian beer.

19. Vaughan's Lounge

New Orleans, LA

"I live in New Orleans, where the neighborhood bar is revered like church: Vaughan’s Lounge. Its rusty, crusty, neon-lit shell alone is enough for any critic to comfortably deem it a dive. But, for me, it’s about what happens inside.

"When I sit on my porch, neighbors wave as they walk over to collect packages they’ve forwarded there. Others are about to clock in for a volunteer shift to press fresh ginger juice that goes into mason jars behind the ancient, wooden bar. When beloved regular, Stuart, a bon vivant, artist, and chef, recently passed away, Vaughan’s is where we all raised a glass to his well-lived life. And when it snowed 10 inches in a freak snowstorm this past January, Vaughan’s is where we trudged in our lacking attire, loaded up the jukebox, and drank hot toddies while the flakes came down over the palm trees.

"In the final hours of Mardi Gras day, this is where our costumes melt and disintegrate. In hard times and hurricanes, this is where we hold and help each other." —Hannah Hayes, editor of the Wildsam Field Guide to New Orleans

20. Old Colony Tap

Provincetown, MA

Movie-set perfect yet real-life gritty, Old Colony Tap is the Platonic ideal of a Cape Cod bar — the walls made from wood seemingly pulled from a shipwreck garlanded with merchant ship life preservers and thick frayed rope, worn ice cream parlor chairs, sailor portraits, seaside snapshots, and a massive jukebox

21. Temple Bar

Detroit, MI

One of the many dive stops on Cass Corridor, Temple Bar is a shrine to resilience. When the Boukas family, who opened it in 1927, sold it to an outsider, it would have likely been sacrificed to real estate developers (Little Caesars Arena sits nearby), but George Boukas bought it back in 1988 and continues to preserve its presence even when its roof partially collapsed last year. Because of its multigenerational survival on a rapidly changing stretch of the city, Temple Bar’s fan base includes everyone from neighborhood old-timers to weekend dance party regulars. And for those who know, this is the spot to catch Mort Crim's Chump of the Week while drinking a Downriver Ale.

22. Raven Lounge

Detroit, MI

Originally a polka dance hall in the 1800s that became a blues club after the Great Migration, the Raven Lounge’s low-key location belies the history of the area and the musical talent inside. The neighborhood attracted artists like Duke Ellington, John Lee Hooker, B.B. King and Martha Reeves, and the club often booked Motown hopefuls. Even today, regulars still dress up for performances while they sip Long Island iced teas.

23. Bull’s Horn

Minneapolis, MN

When one of Minneapolis’ best chefs, Doug Flicker, closed his acclaimed fine-dining restaurant Piccolo in 2016, the next year he and his wife, Amy Greeley, took over a Nokomis neighborhood “3.2 Bar” (a moniker for the percentage alcohol limit). But they didn’t instigate any fancy maneuvers. The pull tabs, wood paneling, and meat raffles — a Twin Cities tradition where prime cuts are given out to lucky winners — stayed. The biggest change: a much-improved smash burger and the best fried cheese curds in town.

24. Red’s

Clarksdale, MI

Many of the Delta’s juke joints have all but disappeared, but Red’s remains despite owner Red Paden’s death last year. Red rope lights outlining music notes light up the walls covered in birthday decorations of parties past and unframed, curled show posters with some of the state’s biggest music legends; locals hang out at the tables in the back while European tourists have out-of-body experiences up front. The very cash-only bars’ streamlined selections appear hand-written on a whiteboard above the home-kitchen fridge where the longnecks chill.

25. Chez Charlie

Kansas City, MO

Along with whistling or drinking straight orange juice, Chez Charlie’s founder, one-legged boxer Charlie Gilotti, didn’t allow newspapers in his bar when he opened it in 1968. It’s clear he didn’t care about media publicity — there is no sign with the bar’s name. The rules are far less strict these days, but the dart league play is serious business, and the jukebox, loaded with jazz by Cannonball Adderley and Ahmad Jamal, isn’t kidding around either.

26. Dixon Bar

Dixon, MT

Photo by Karen Portin

Holder of the oldest liquor license in Montana, Dixon Bar — a small saloon on Highway 200 in the Jocko Valley — looks like the kind of place where the writer Jim Harrison would post up. It was the subject of three other Montana poets who visited in 1970 and titled their collective work “The Only Bar in Dixon,” which was published in The New Yorker. A line from Richard F. Hugo: “Home. Home. I knew it entering.”

A more recent and unexpected visitor: Shaboozey, who filmed a few scenes for his “Highway” music video in the revered establishment.

27. Dinty Moore's

Nebraska City, NE

“The most famous historic landmark in Nebraska City is Arbor Day Farm, a complex celebrating the holiday that began there, but my favorite site is Dinty Moore’s. Open since 1906, the room is just big enough for an antique wooden bar and fifteen matching stools.

According to local legend, the deep grooves in the bartop came from generations of regulars fiddling with their coins while deciding whether to stay for one more. The bar and the canned stew don’t have anything in common except their namesake, a comic strip character, but my go-to at Dinty’s involves another classic red label. I get a Plains red beer—Campbell’s tomato juice and Busch Light in a tall, frosty mug, with a few green olives (if the bartender has them) bobbing on the surface.” - Jed Portman, creator of Midwesterner on Substack

28. Atomic Liquors

Las Vegas, NV

Joe and Stella Sobchik’s combination liquor store and freestanding bar was so unique in 1954, they received the first ever “tavern license” from the city of Las Vegas. Named for the visible mushroom clouds to the north from a nuclear testing site, patrons were encouraged to enjoy a cocktail with the explosive show. The bar was also the go-to after-show hangout for the Rat Pack and Barbra Streisand, and it still serves as a grounded gathering spot for locals and industry workers in a city built for anonymity.

“I love the Tavern Bar at the Andes Hotel, because it has layers not just physically — it’s been around since the 1850s — but also in its patrons and staff. Derek Curl, the owner and my good friend, has created a space for locals and visitors to share while still holding onto its roots. The drinks are strong, and the porch is always full of people catching up after the day. Besides making sure to read all the number stickers behind the bar, keep an eye out for your eyes on Dart Night,” -Christian Harder, photographer

30. Sunny’s

Brooklyn, NY

Watching a weekend bluegrass jam at Sunny’s reveals a scene from a Brooklyn gone by, back when Red Hook was hard to reach. Antonio “Sunny” Balzano opened his eponymous space in 1995 inside a circa-1890 waterfront bar owned by his family, and a mix of musicians, mobsters, Coney Island performers, and other characters coalesced. Balzano passed away in 2016, three years after Hurricane Sandy almost took the bar under, but regulars came together to save it. Many of his paintings still hang inside, and his wife, Tone Johansen, still leads the Sunday jam.

31. Jimmy’s Corner

Manhattan, NY

Very few physical reminders of Times Square's less lit-up past linger, but boxer Jimmy Glenn’s bar has survived the city’s full sanitization of the area since he opened it more than 50 years ago. Photos of Jimmy with Muhammad Ali, Mike Tyson, and other celebrity guests wallpaper the shoebox space where union workers, publishing executives, and everyone in between come to blow off steam. After Jimmy passed away in 2020, his son Adam, a lawyer who went to Harvard, stepped into the ring to keep the Corner going for the next 50 years.

32. Sophie’s

Manhattan, NY

“I’ll always have a soft spot for Sophie’s on East 5th between A and B. I used to live right around the corner on 7th Street, and it was the kind of place to unwind after a long day — no frills, just a cheap beer, a pool table, and punk rock. It feels like a time capsule of the East Village of yesteryear, which felt especially comforting back when I was a broke NYU student figuring things out. I’ve had some very blurry but very happy nights there.” - Dan Q. Dao, author of Great Bars of New York City

33. Burger Bar

Asheville, NC

Plot twist: there are no burgers at Burger Bar. Just drinks and sometimes corndogs in a Lynchian robin’s egg-blue shack that could easily be mistaken for a double-wide trailer wedged into a roadside ditch. Perched over the French Broad River and tucked away from the bustle of West Asheville, it’s beloved by locals as an oasis hidden from bachelor parties and brewery tourists.

34. The Green Room

Durham, NC

“As Durham's grittiness becomes more varnished with the rise of each new condo development, like it or not, the ten pool tables of The Green Room have remained the same since the late 1950s. As do the house rules, scratched onto the front door: "No misbehaving. No drinks on the table. No fascist regimes."

The Green Room first gained notoriety as the setting for Crash and Nuke's fight scene in Bull Durham, and despite a relocation across the street since, the billiards bar stays packed seven nights a week. Take your pick from a multitude of bottled beer offerings and grab a wooden stadium seat. Tip well and hear the bell clang.” - Kate Medley, author of Thank You Please Come Again: How Gas Stations Feed & Fuel the American South

35. The Kraken

Chapel Hill, NC

“The Kraken is a salty roadhouse saloon out in the country, a frequent biker stop with live music most nights and beers made across the street at Plow Girl Farms by Dingo Dog Brewing. It takes some effort to get there, so you know everyone is there because they want to be. It feels otherworldly, like it suddenly spawned from the depths, yet also like it’s been there forever.” - Victor Lytvinenko, co-founder, Raleigh Denim Workshop

36. Dickey’s Lanes

Cleveland, OH

The cash-only bowling alley bar is nearly an extinct species, but Dickey’s Lanes has survived for 80 years with minimal modernization. Owner George Dickey started as a pinboy for the family business in 1946 before they added automatic resetters, bought from an alley owned by Mickey Mantle in Texas. Scoring is still DIY. The little horseshoe-shaped bar functions as a clubhouse for leagues and regular players, but they’ll still offer newcomers a stool.

Appearing like an airplane hangar or a garden center from the street, A Roadside Attraction rambles from a red, carpeted, antique-strewn lounge through a Chinese dragon archway onto a sprawling patio, a popular spot for Buckman neighborhood dog owners. The vibe is part circus, part backyard party — mismatched furniture, tiki torches, and oddball yard art lend it the kind of offbeat charm that makes you want to settle in and stay awhile. Cheap beers flow, regulars mingle with out-of-towners, and the jukebox hums in the background, all under a canopy of string lights and towering trees. It’s a place where time slows down, and no one’s in a hurry to leave.

38. Dirty Frank’s

Philadelphia, PA

In 1982, the Philadelphia Inquirer called Dirty Frank’s a crossroads for errant individuals, but according to local lore, many of the paper’s writers filed their work from that same U-shaped bar. Today, the bar still hosts a wide cross-section of regulars who sit under paper snowflakes hanging from the ceiling — a community craft directed by owner Jody Sweitzer around Christmastime. Since the ’70s, “The Institution,” as Dirty Frank’s is also known, has hosted art exhibitions, and Sweitzer also curates its Off The Wall gallery.

39. The Merrimaker

Los Osos, CA

The Merrimaker in Los Osos, CA

Quite literally the definition of a dive bar, this quant seaside bar is credited with representing the quintessential dive bar on Wikipedia. Locals here gather for cheap drinks, lively conversations, and share an enthusiasm for karaoke night that's tough to beat. Here, you can feel like at the local saloon in a remote mining town, even while stopping by for a post-surf beer.

40. Recovery Room

Charleston, SC

This year, the Recovery Room lost its decade-long run as the #1 seller of Pabst Blue Ribbon beer, not in the state or the country — in the world. Cans still run $1.25 at happy hour, so there’s plenty of chance to take back the title. Charleston has changed dramatically since Chris DiMattia opened the bar in 2008; much of his original clientele can’t afford to live in the city center, but a crew of hardcore regulars mix in with the College of Charleston students and the occasional tourist.

41. Alex’s Tavern

Memphis, TN

For those willing to venture beyond the pull of the “soul burger” at the much more popular Earnestine & Hazel’s downtown, Alex’s rewards with the Greek Burger — owner Rocky Kasaftes’ homage to his family’s heritage. Rocky grew up helping his father, Alex, at the bar, even chiseling off gum from under the tables when he was four. A photo of Alex hangs above the two jukeboxes inside, one devoted to his dad’s crooner favorites like Frank Sinatra, the other for Rocky so he could play Jimmy Buffett

Wilburn Street Tavern keeps the soul of old Nashville alive. Equal parts honky-tonk and living room, it’s the kind of place where you can catch a surprise jazz set, stumble into a dance party, or just sip a High Life on the patio and feel right at home. Everyone’s welcome — and everyone shows up. "Wilburn Street Tavern is one of the few places that reminds me of the OG Nashville, I know. Everyone is welcome. You might walk in on a dance party one night and on the next some of the best jazz musicians you’ve never heard of.” - Traci Thomas, artist manager

43. The Cloak Room

Austin, TX

“The Cloak Room is a trip. If you visit on Tuesday, it might be a professional operation. And then, on Friday, the experience might be a complete clown show. But just like betting on a Little League game, the risk makes it fun. C.E. “Ed” Baxter, a Blue Cross Blue Shield lobbyist, opened the bar in 1979 in a dark basement steps from the Texas Capitol. There are so many stories of shenanigans performed by legislators, judges, and lobbyists at the “Choke Room” (as it was known in the days of indoor smoking) that an entire book could be written about them.” Raf Miastkowski, Founder of Texas Dives, author of The Texas Dive Bar Guidebook.

44. Deep Eddy Cabaret

Austin, Texas

If you were going to engage in the foolhardy task of "explaining" Austin, Texas, I would advise you to 1) not do that and 2) suggest that if you were to forge ahead, take the explainee to Deep Eddy Cabaret to start. Here, among the neon, pool tables, and old-school jukebox that demands a Willie tune every hour on the hour, there are hipsters, artists, and cowboys alike, each with their own claim to Austin's oddball legacy. Strike up a conversation with anyone and you'll get a story about where are you are on the map and how it got to be that way. Some strange and wild, some tragic and funny, all mysterious and illuminating about Austin.

There's a fair share of worthy, and sub-par, imitators across the Lone Star and the greater swath of the country, but Deep Eddy is the Rosetta Stone of Austin dive bars, an ur-text that guides the rest toward dive bar infamy, one pitcher of Lone Star at a time. —David Grivette, Journal Editor

45. Donn’s Depot

Austin, TX

In 1972, before Austin was weird, Bob Ogden bought an old train depot and turned it into a piano bar and dance hall. He hired a Goodyear Tire salesman named Donn Adelman to play piano, and eventually, Donn bought the place a few years later. Despite the glass towers not so far down 5th Street and the waves of tourists today (Charli xcx and Dua Lipa both visited the bar recently), Donn’s dance floor is dotted with more longtime regulars and old-timers. On weekdays, before the band warms up, they watch Jeopardy at 4 p.m

“Valentine is a wind-worn desert town with 67 residents, and this is a place where the past is preserved like a fly in amber. When it’s open, there’s a “Bar Open” sign painted on a car door that appears alongside the road to notify passersby. You might encounter cowboys, Blue Origin engineers from Van Horn, artists from Marfa, or a full house with all these characters holding court together. Dollar bills, string lights, and old photographs line the interior, and you can look inside the mystery jar after signing an official non-disclosure agreement.” —RM

47. Poison Girl

Houston, TX

“Westheimer is one of the largest and busiest streets running 19 miles through the heart of Houston, at times being 8 lanes wide. But as it narrows into a very narrow four-lane street in a section of town called Montrose. There is a blink-and-you ’ll-miss-it bar that fills many locals' hearts with joy. This bar has a name and she is mighty. Her name is Poison Girl. Getting ready to celebrate her 21st birthday in style this year. She’s a dimly lit beauty, walls adorned with velvet portraits, filled with the sounds of pinball machines. Shots of whiskey and bottles of Lone Star are what most patrons order, but if you look above the delightfully surly bartenders, you will notice one of the best bourbon collections around.

This is a perfect bar to choose your own adventure but just know if you choose a bottle that isn't within arm's reach during peak late-night hours, you may get a side eye. This is the DNA of a perfect bar.” - Chris Shepherd, chef and co-founder of Southern Smoke Foundation

48. Shorty’s

Seattle, WA

“Seattle in the ’90s had a much different feel than the city it’s become today. Dive bars were just simply bars, and my friends and I loved to bounce around Capitol Hill and Belltown visiting our favorites. The suggestion that these spaces needed a distinction as a dive seemed strange in Seattle back then. One bar I loved visiting is still to this day just as cool and unpretentious as it was 25 years ago: Shorty’s. Although it has moved locations, its full, unwavering essence — walls lined with vintage pinball and arcade games, beers served alongside hotdogs — persists.” - Erin Austen Abbott, author of Small Town Living

49. Cleo’s Brown Beam

Appleton, WI

Christmas lights are undoubtedly the unofficial standard lighting fixture of dives across the country. Countless others keep their holiday decor displayed year-round. But the winter wonderland theme at Cleo’s Brown Beam goes even further, likely because it started out of spite. When customers and surrounding business owners made pointed comments about her decorations still hanging up after Christmas, owner Cleo Brown secured two truckloads of department store holiday window display pieces, including two nutcracker soldiers standing guard at the door. Brown passed away in 2001, but the commitment to the bit persists. In December, bartenders sell around 13,000 of the bar’s signature drink, a slushy White Russian they call a Dirty Snowball.

50. Wolski’s

Milwaukee, WI

The famous “I Closed Wolski’s” stickers that are plastered on surfaces from Milwaukee to Melbourne, Australia aren’t available for sale. They’re handed out by the doorman only to customers who come by the claim honest and leave the bar at 2 a.m. Most of the regulars don’t plan on sticking around for a long time, just a good time, or at least enough to have a shot of Stoli Orange or a pint of Schlitz on draft, check in on their neighbors, and pay their handwritten tab.

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rocketo
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well that can't be right, i've been to a surprising number of these
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Texas crevice garden in summer bloom

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July 16, 2025

I made a return visit to Coleson Bruce’s front-yard crevice garden a few weeks ago and found it bristling and blooming and fabulous as always. Clusters of beaked yucca (Yucca rostrata), which Coleson strategically planted to screen street views from inside the home, are bigger and more bobble-headed than ever. Just look at these beauties!

Bell-flowered red yucca (Hesperaloe campanulata) sends up bloom spikes in summer that resemble long fishing poles, with moonshine-yellow and rose-pink flower lures for hummingbirds.

Coleson’s gardening friend and neighbor, John Ignacio, who helped with plant selection, has shared the following with me about them:

“Those are Hesperaloe campanulata I raised from seed from my specimen. It’s a Mexican species with the most open flowers in the genus that puts on much taller and more branched and floriferous spikes than our native parviflora [the standard red yucca]. They’re one of the rarest species in the genus and worthy of much broader distribution.”

A wide view of the garden in front of Coleson’s mid-century modern house

Coleson created two distinct crevice gardens when he overhauled his front yard during the pandemic. The one closest to the front door has chunky boulders mounded to make a dry-garden hill. Ocotillo, small agaves, dyckia, small palms and palmettos, and xeric groundcovers thrive among the rocks.

Detail view

And here it is from the side, with ocotillo in leaf. Ocotillo is unusual here in Austin and rots if not given excellent drainage. Even when happy it’s generally a collection of bare, upright, thorny branches — interesting, but perhaps an acquired taste? After a rain, it clothes itself in tightly held green leaves.

Hesperaloe campanulata flowering along the front walk

Its pretty, bell-shaped flowers bob at eye level on those fishing-pole stems.

Hummingbird bait

Coleson’s second crevice garden is composed of limestone slabs tilted and sandwiched together to form tight crevices. This one fills most of a curbed island bed along the street, tucked within a circular driveway. The crevices provide a root-cooling microclimate for heat- and dry-loving plants.

From the street, Pride of Barbados and palmetto (silver saw, I think) screen the crevice garden from view.

The feathery foliage and tropicalesque flowers of Pride of Barbados (Caesalpinia pulcherrima) don’t hint at how summer-hardy this plant is for Texas gardens, but it is.

Once established, it needs little water to flower all summer long.

Just beyond Coleson’s garden, a stratified cliff wall rises along Bull Creek — a fantastic borrowed view for his rock garden.

At one end of the house, a 400-year-old live oak’s expansive canopy shades a tree swing and stone table.

A loose layer of wood mulch — not piled up against the trunk — is better than turf grass at letting rainwater reach the tree roots.

At the other end of the house, ‘Silver Peso’ Texas mountain laurel offers a cool contrast with hot-flowering Pride of Barbados and lantana.

Another peek at the entry garden in all its textural glory

And the sculptural crevice garden

Thanks for the beautiful garden visit, Coleson!

I welcome your comments. Please scroll to the end of this post to leave one. If you’re reading in an email, click here to visit Digging and find the comment box at the end of each postAnd hey, did someone forward this email to you, and you want to subscribe? Click here to get Digging delivered directly to your inbox!

__________________________

Digging Deeper

My new book, Gardens of Texas: Visions of Resilience from the Lone Star State, comes out October 14! It’s available for pre-order now on Amazon and other online book sellers. If you think you’d like to read it or give it as a holiday gift, please consider pre-ordering. (I’m happy to sign pre-ordered copies at my book events!) Early orders make a big difference in helping new books get noticed. More info about Gardens of Texas here — and thank you for your support!

Come see me on tour! I’ll be speaking and hosting book events across Texas this fall and into next spring to celebrate the release of Gardens of Texas. Join me to learn, get inspired, and say hello!

Come learn about gardening and design at Garden Spark! I organize in-person talks by inspiring designers, landscape architects, authors, and gardeners a few times a year in Austin. These are limited-attendance events that sell out quickly, so join the Garden Spark email list to be notified in advance; simply click this link and ask to be added. Read all about the Season 8 lineup here!

All material © 2025 by Pam Penick for Digging. Unauthorized reproduction prohibited.

The post Texas crevice garden in summer bloom appeared first on Digging.

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The Prison Conference Money Shower | Online Only | n 1 | Morley Musick

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I had planned a trip a few months ago in order to attend America’s largest prison conference in Orlando, which is hosted twice a year by the American Corrections Association to showcase the latest innovations in surveillance technologies and to encourage networking between correctional officers and prison psychologists and reformers. My partner was reporting on some of the panels and technical changes, and I was hoping to be party to some of the chatter. I had hoped to drink with wardens in hotel lobbies and learn of the terrible things they’d done. But I came down with the flu the first night, and spent the week apart from the conference and from my partner, in a cordoned-off hotel room.

For three days I slept, only waking to watch YouTube food creators in a twilight state. By dusk of each day I was strong enough to stand on the balcony, where I would watch a young man practicing K-pop dances alone inside of a foundation pit. He came back every day of my weeklong stay in the hotel.

Across from him was a derelict mini-golf course with several dry palms planted around a stucco boulder. Further afield was a functional water park anchored by another, much larger manufactured boulder, four stories tall and teeming with people. A series of rainbow waterslides descended from the top of the stairs. Because the boulder was cut in half to accommodate the slides and waterpark-goers, it resembled a scientific cross section, illustrating the hidden world of labor and infrastructure required to maintain the appearance of solid stone. The boulder was covered in peeling paint, and people screamed inside of it.

On the second day of the conference my partner came back with a loaf of bread and told me about the prosecutors they had seen in the morning, bragging about Georgia’s largest RICO operation, how it would enable the state to dole out 300-year sentences to criminals as well as any relatives or partners of theirs who had stayed silent. They described the prosecutors’ growing panic about drones, how they could now be utilized to airdrop narcotics into prisons, but could not, legally, be shot down.

And they also told me of a new machine they had seen that was being marketed to wardens as a tool for detecting banned-substance use among prisoners. Called “the drugloo,” it was a mechanical toilet that separated drugs from human shit in a centrifuge and spat out its findings in lavender-scented packets.

On the third day I was well enough to walk and take in the architecture of the surrounding neighborhood. It seemed to be characterized by an aspirational and fragmentary Italianophilia, with random elements from the Ducal Palace in Venice and the Coliseum in Rome reappearing on the edges of manmade lakes, or on the walls of gated communities.

A huge concentration of chain restaurants, with exteriors lightly modified in line with this theme, were strung like beads along my hotel’s road: the world’s largest entertainment McDonald’s (which the concierge told me sold noodles); a Carrabba’s, a Chili’s, and an Applebee’s; a Red Robin, Red Lobster, and Maggiano’s; and a Macaroni Grille, Capital Grille, Bonefish Grill, Laguna Grill, and Grill at Grande Vista, all within five minutes of my room.

After I had walked around to see these places and grills, I went back to my room to wait for Blair. That day they brought me jam and honey, and told me a little bit about Geo Group, the US’s largest private prison contractor. Geo Group representatives told Blair how they had invested $70 million “towards increased housing, transportation, and monitoring capabilities and services to meet the anticipated requirements of the federal government’s immigration law enforcement priorities.” The Geo Group booth had comfortable white lounge chairs and a bright bromeliad, Blair said.

On the fourth day, they drove me around.

The streets of Orlando reminded me of the interiors of large casinos, which rely on curved pathways (as opposed to “T-corners”) to encourage patrons to spend more time in front of slot machines. By eliminating the possibility of a customer having to choose between turning left or right, the design choice attenuates a minimal form of human agency which, when activated, diminishes profits by a measurable amount. So I had read.

In Orlando, long sweeping roads feed into other long sweeping roads, so that driving feels like dreaming. The only interruptions are the unfinished construction sites under the highways—martian plains filled with rebar and sand.

Near an Urgent Care, which charged me $600 for three inconclusive tests, I saw a three-person family sitting on a bundle of steel wires. I asked them directions to a nearby Dunkin Donuts, which I had located on Google Maps but could not find in real life. They spoke to one another in Haitian Creole and then informed me that they didn’t know. Then I crossed the street to ask for directions from a woman dressed in church clothes who was laying plastic roses at the base of her son’s roadside memorial. She wore a heavily ruffled black dress and a blond wig, and had tears in her eyes.

“You can’t cross here,” she told me, pointing at a half-mile stretch of manmade dunes. “They have security in there. So don’t try it.”

I bought tea a mile away. Later that evening I ate inside a Peruvian restaurant with four flatscreen TVs playing prank videos.

There were no street signs in the videos, and all of the supposed prank victims wore clothing without identifiable brand labels. Were they in Brussels? Quebec? The lead actor was a smiling bald man who played a police officer who often finds himself stuck inside of mounds—in a mound of coal, in a mound of leaves, in wet cement—and when he gets out, he gets angry and tries to fire his gun.

The cop appeared in my dreams that night, and shot his own knees. I woke up sweating and cold at 5:30 AM and an hour later Blair arrived and drove me away to a prison tour.

A CO picked us up from the conference hall and took us to an office inside of a heavily guarded facility in central Florida where a smorgasbord of Big Texas Cinnamon Rolls and jalapeño Pop Chips had been laid out. Here I could at last meet the other conference participants.

My group was an interesting one. It included two Indigenous correctional officers who worked in a jail at the base of the Grand Canyon, and a representative of the British Consulate. We chatted a little bit under the employee-of-the month honorariums arranged near the ceiling of the room.

The COs were outgoing and giggly and had spent the day before at Disney World. The taller of the two kept asking her companion to tie her trench coat belt tighter and tighter around her waist, so she could look “snatched.” The representative of the British Consulate was more demure. She inspected the corners of rooms like a bird nosing around the insides of flowers, repeatedly apologizing to the warden for how many Brits ended up incarcerated in Florida.

The warden was a terse, nervous individual who took us through all the mantrap doors while complaining about the behavior of prisoners in some other facility she had visited. “They had inmates bangin’ on the walls there,” she said, “shouting, ‘Show us that P word!’”

The first building we saw was Classifications, where a group of fifty or so men sat in silence on wooden benches. Having just begun their sentences, they had to be evaluated by social workers who would assess their psychological needs and their proneness to violence and then assign them to cell blocks accordingly.

Each of these classification rooms was decorated with an astonishing density of Disney paraphernalia. Men with grief-lined faces sat in front of Mickey Mouse reliquaries, mini princess figurines arranged in rainbow tiers on top of metal cabinets. Inspirational wall art, printed on polyethylene panels, read P.S. You Got This and One Small Thought in the Morning Can Change Your Whole Day. The decor raised the possibility that the fixations of the Disney adult are a direct response to conditions of oppression—oppression in which the Disney adult is complicit.

The incarcerated men were forced to stand in silence while waiting for food in the mess hall. A number of people here were in wheelchairs, stooped with age, their heads tucked between their knees, and some of the older prisoners wore hats that made them look like coal hoppers.

For the most part no one in the tour group said anything to the men—though we could, if we wanted, engage them. One man told me he was waiting to return to his wife and his motorcycle in Arkansas. Another said he was waiting to resume work at a moving business he ran with a friend, called “LL Enterprises.” Everyone was silent until they were not—and the tour in this brief period felt like a video game in which one wandered through silent hallways, activating characters only if I spoke the first word.

The only place men talked freely was inside of the chapel, where the prison had a five-piece band. There were three guitarists and a keyboard player and a drummer swaying woodenly in front of a baptismal font, singing a song called “I Trust My Savior Jesus.” Though the lead singer’s face seldom moved, wellsprings of pain emerged periodically in his voice. I felt moved in spite of the saccharine lyrics because they seemed to correspond almost accidentally with real human pains. After the man had stopped singing, he turned dials up and down on his bandmate’s keyboard to produce a dramatic atmosphere for the chaplain’s speech about the prison’s social programs, which included Bible study groups and games of cornhole and a re-entry program that enabled men with light sentences to work at Dunkin Donuts during the day and return to the prison at night. At the end of the tour, we passed by a smaller medical facility for the oldest inmates, a place where, our van driver told us, “men go to die.”

The smell of bodies and overcooked succotash clung to our clothes after we left. Sickness and prison and Orlando had merged in my fevered head, somehow, I wanted desperately to leave the city, to smell trees and see water, but then we kept driving along, back to the conference, where things unfolded like at any other trade show, with sales reps tabling in rows, and caterers distributing pulled-pork sliders under-warmed by canned heat.

Here I spoke with someone selling a new kind of cell door food slot that prevented inmates from grabbing COs’ hands and smashing their faces against the trough. Then I spoke with someone selling digital vapes, and then someone selling watches that tracked the heart rates of incarcerated people and alerted authorities when they died.

I spoke with a salesman of rubber chess sets, a salesman of stainless steel faucets, and a salesman of a surveillance program that superimposed a person’s entire day into a single, simultaneous view. In the demonstration video, three versions of a well-dressed white woman—a woman who, I was told, “no one would suspect of visiting a trap house”—visits three separate trap houses simultaneously. Her form overlapped with itself occasionally on the strips of the Baltimore sidewalk where she had made the decision to “ruin her life.”

Then I spoke with a razor-wire saleswoman who explained to me the differences between the various sizes of barbs that her company manufactured.

“This is a short one, just for entanglement. The military uses it, mostly for keeping its own in line. This is a medium barb, which they use Canada. This is a big one, more for NATO bases—they use it in Europe. And these two are more for American correctional contexts. These aren’t for entanglement. They’re for piercing kidneys and lungs.”

After the conference ended Blair and I drove to a nature preserve at the edge of a brand-new planned community, where we walked for about an hour. When we returned to the car we found that someone from the parks service had locked the parking lot for the night. The car barrier listed the number of the sheriff, but the sheriff’s office wouldn’t give us the combination to unlock it, which in fact they didn’t know. An hour passed while we waited for an officer, who seemed to believe we had been locked into a residence.

He mentioned having bolt cutters, then refused to use them. He ran our licenses to see if we had committed any crimes, and sat in his truck with the brights turned on, shining in our eyes.

For a half hour more we waited for our $70 Uber, and then it began to rain, and in my frustration and exhaustion I held my head in my hands.

Then an armadillo emerged in the headlights and wandered around, searching for food.

It had a wonderful shielded back and scanned the earth with a sort of diligence so wholly separate from human affairs that it cheered me. And then Blair cheered me some more, telling me about a strange thing they had seen.

There was a raffle at the conference, they said, and participants could enter the raffle by writing their name on a ball. Then they could put the ball inside of a golden cage. If their name popped out of the cage, they were allowed to enter a glass box, a glass box was filled with dollars, thousands of dollars, flying through the air.

The raffle winners could enter the box to grab as many of them as they could muster. They had five minutes to do so.

One of these raffle winners had been inside several of these boxes over the course of his life, he’d told Blair, and had watched the other raffle winners with smug amusement. They were grasping at the money and failing to gather it, but with him it would be different, he said. The trick was not to grab the dollars midair, he said, but to put one’s hands on the corners of the box, and trap them as they amassed there. He said you just wait for the dollars to come, you never clamor after them, but simply wait for them, and trap them in your hands.


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