Alan's Telcom "living conditions" fits the SRO on upper
Madison Ave I inspected for the nunnery that took it over
from the city and then could not make repairs to satisfy
the shrewd destitute tenants who stopped making tiny
payments.
The jefe nun got in touch with me through a classmate from
Columbia who was herself trying to get into the nunnery
late in life after having her bones "liquified", she said,
by an elevator that fell ten stories -- a Columbia building
up on Claremont where she suvived after getting dumped by
husband Columbia poobah who fell for his young babe
receptionist.
The capo nun asked would I give evidence of unsafe
conditions to warrant evicting the uncooperative poor
people, make them homeless, so the empty building would
qualify for bucks under a city program that finances big
renovation for new homes for the homeless but will not pay
for repairs where the homed now suffered.
So I looked at this sad place on upper Mad Ave, just walked
right in, no locks on any doors, the nuns had removed all
locks, as advised by the city's attorneys, to expose the
poor people to terror of criminals on the prey.
I looked through all the miserable cubicles where women and
men singles and a few kids had their belongings jammed in
among cans of food and clothes and building materials. The
whole place was clean but in grave disrepair.
The poor people looked back at me with loathing and fear
and hostility and supplication and yearning and some things
I had seen too much in thirty years of this awful looking
for the blind American people.
I looked at the single cooking spot where a hot plate on a
box served twenty hungry people, no refrigerator I could
see, all food kept by each in cubicle, cans only, nothing
that could spoil.
Cheap extension cords and lights strung to all cubicle-
homes from outside the building, I never found the power
source.
Unsafe and unhealthy by any human standard, yet the poor
people would not go, go to the streets, I can't blame them.
This was their homes, and I began to weep looking at the
end of the road for these poor miserable people.
I staggered back to the street in shame and gratitude that
my family did not live like this, that I could go home ten
blocks away, to a safe and healthy spot, but for how long
was my family safe from the same attack.
General nun phoned, she spoke gently of the bind she was
in, her order was a poor one, she said, and did not know
what they were getting into running housing for the
homeless. No one would help them meet their vow to help
the poor unless they acted like landlords and put the poor
people on the street. Then the money would flow. The poor
people knew this better than she, she said, and would not
let the landlords use the nuns as agents to beat the poor
people at the vicious game of property for profit.
The nun superior began to weep on the phone, saying what am
I to do, betray my vow to house the homeless or hurt the
poor people who are in my way. Mr. Young, please help me.
Sister mother general superior, I replied, your home for
the homeless is a disgrace, unsafe and unhealthy by all
laws known to me, you are a slumlord clear and simple, you
should be ashamed. Get the building repaired now or go to
hell. Those poor people are in great danger due your
negligence, your falling for the oldest real estate scam in
the miserable cities, to use benevolent institutions to
front for thugs who destroy lives for profits.
I said, the universities and the churches and the temples
and the hospitals, they've been working this racket through
their boards of trustees and interconnected alumni for
generations, to curry sick favor with big pig donors, who's
kidding who, sister, you and my crippled sis want to use me
like a capitalist tool to make points with the guys with
the dough downtown and Rome.
Sister, maybe you are pure in heart, but I hope the poor
people preach you and my Columbia moll a hard sermon that
you pass up the line -- bad habits of ambitious selfish
nuns and dirty skirts of selfserving crips don't hide the
savage stealing game, not from me, nor the poor brave
smart-as-hell people.
Madison Ave I inspected for the nunnery that took it over
from the city and then could not make repairs to satisfy
the shrewd destitute tenants who stopped making tiny
payments.
The jefe nun got in touch with me through a classmate from
Columbia who was herself trying to get into the nunnery
late in life after having her bones "liquified", she said,
by an elevator that fell ten stories -- a Columbia building
up on Claremont where she suvived after getting dumped by
husband Columbia poobah who fell for his young babe
receptionist.
The capo nun asked would I give evidence of unsafe
conditions to warrant evicting the uncooperative poor
people, make them homeless, so the empty building would
qualify for bucks under a city program that finances big
renovation for new homes for the homeless but will not pay
for repairs where the homed now suffered.
So I looked at this sad place on upper Mad Ave, just walked
right in, no locks on any doors, the nuns had removed all
locks, as advised by the city's attorneys, to expose the
poor people to terror of criminals on the prey.
I looked through all the miserable cubicles where women and
men singles and a few kids had their belongings jammed in
among cans of food and clothes and building materials. The
whole place was clean but in grave disrepair.
The poor people looked back at me with loathing and fear
and hostility and supplication and yearning and some things
I had seen too much in thirty years of this awful looking
for the blind American people.
I looked at the single cooking spot where a hot plate on a
box served twenty hungry people, no refrigerator I could
see, all food kept by each in cubicle, cans only, nothing
that could spoil.
Cheap extension cords and lights strung to all cubicle-
homes from outside the building, I never found the power
source.
Unsafe and unhealthy by any human standard, yet the poor
people would not go, go to the streets, I can't blame them.
This was their homes, and I began to weep looking at the
end of the road for these poor miserable people.
I staggered back to the street in shame and gratitude that
my family did not live like this, that I could go home ten
blocks away, to a safe and healthy spot, but for how long
was my family safe from the same attack.
General nun phoned, she spoke gently of the bind she was
in, her order was a poor one, she said, and did not know
what they were getting into running housing for the
homeless. No one would help them meet their vow to help
the poor unless they acted like landlords and put the poor
people on the street. Then the money would flow. The poor
people knew this better than she, she said, and would not
let the landlords use the nuns as agents to beat the poor
people at the vicious game of property for profit.
The nun superior began to weep on the phone, saying what am
I to do, betray my vow to house the homeless or hurt the
poor people who are in my way. Mr. Young, please help me.
Sister mother general superior, I replied, your home for
the homeless is a disgrace, unsafe and unhealthy by all
laws known to me, you are a slumlord clear and simple, you
should be ashamed. Get the building repaired now or go to
hell. Those poor people are in great danger due your
negligence, your falling for the oldest real estate scam in
the miserable cities, to use benevolent institutions to
front for thugs who destroy lives for profits.
I said, the universities and the churches and the temples
and the hospitals, they've been working this racket through
their boards of trustees and interconnected alumni for
generations, to curry sick favor with big pig donors, who's
kidding who, sister, you and my crippled sis want to use me
like a capitalist tool to make points with the guys with
the dough downtown and Rome.
Sister, maybe you are pure in heart, but I hope the poor
people preach you and my Columbia moll a hard sermon that
you pass up the line -- bad habits of ambitious selfish
nuns and dirty skirts of selfserving crips don't hide the
savage stealing game, not from me, nor the poor brave
smart-as-hell people.