Do-gooders enabling the transients who come to Boulder, CO


By Max R. Weller

2015-01-20 09.28.04

(Photo courtesy of Christina Gosnell)

Don’t misunderstand, I think it’s great to help Boulder County’s own homeless people — especially families with kids. I applaud that part of Boulder Food Rescue’s mission.

Aiding the sociopathic and parasitic bums from Denver and elsewhere, whose “mission” is to trash themselves and their surroundings wherever they travel, is another matter entirely. The only help they should each be given is the $5 bus ticket on RTD back to the Mile High City, along with a couple of peanut butter and jelly sandwiches and a bottle of water to-go . . .

As to the issue of food waste, I see this firsthand every morning in the dining room at Boulder Shelter for the Homeless — “clients” load up their trays with food, throw half of it away, and then go back for seconds.

They’re drawn here by Boulder’s nationwide reputation as the Big Rock Candy Mountains dreamed of by bums:

One evening as the sun went down
And the jungle fires were burning,
Down the track came a hobo hiking,
And he said, “Boys, I’m not turning
I’m headed for a land that’s far away
Besides the crystal fountains
So come with me, we’ll go and see
Boulder, Colorado.”

In Boulder, Colorado,
There’s a land that’s fair and bright,
Where the handouts grow on bushes
And you sleep out every night.
Where the boxcars all are empty
And the sun shines every day
And the birds and the bees
And the cigarette trees
The lemonade springs
Where the bluebird sings
In Boulder, Colorado.

In Boulder, Colorado,
All the cops have wooden legs
And the bulldogs all have rubber teeth
And the hens lay soft-boiled eggs
The farmers’ trees are full of fruit
And the barns are full of hay
Oh I’m bound to go
Where there ain’t no snow
Where the rain don’t fall
The winds don’t blow
In Boulder, Colorado.

In Boulder, Colorado,
You never change your socks
And the little streams of alcohol
Come trickling down the rocks
The brakemen have to tip their hats
And the railway bulls are blind
There’s a lake of stew
And of whiskey too
You can paddle all around it
In a big canoe
In Boulder, Colorado.

In Boulder, Colorado,
The jails are made of tin.
And you can walk right out again,
As soon as you are in.
There ain’t no short-handled shovels,
No axes, saws nor picks,
I’m bound to stay
Where you sleep all day,
Where they hung the jerk
That invented work
In Boulder, Colorado.
I’ll see you all this coming fall
In Boulder, Colorado. 

Apologies to Harry McClintock, who wrote and performed these lyrics back in Great Depression days, but there have been many different versions of the song by various artists (including Burl Ives) down through the years. Consider my slight revisions to the words as an update, reflecting our circumstances here circa 2015.

Read Cut the crime rate: close Bridge House.

That’s all for today, folks.


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