"The Spring Has Gone, My Well Is Dry
There's No More Water In My Jars
You Cannot Drink Here, You Cannot Drink Here
My Wine Has Turned To Vinegar
The Well Is Dry, The Spring Has Gone
You Cannot Drink Here Nor Even Eat Here..."
New pictures as of 10/8/05
The Legend of Hearse House
If you live in Denver, you might have heard the story of an aging house that is surrounded by hearses. You might have also heard that sometimes there are huge gatherings of hearses there where the drivers get together, light huge fires, breath flames, light appliances on fire and throw them from the roof or the back of moving hearses. Hearse House is not only where I live but also many times serves as the central meeting point for the Denver Hearse Association prior to events.
The house has existed at three different locations over the years. When I move so do the cars and hence the name. At any given time I usually own between three and seven hearses and quite often watch after one or two of my friends who cannot park them at their residence or need temporary storage.
The first Hearse House was a creepy little house in the heart of an old industrial section of Denver. The interior is nothing but black fabric draping all walls, tons of hearse memorabilia, and coffins. At night the house gives off no interior light because all the windows have been covered so that even when all the lights inside are on, it still appears abandoned.
The closest approximation I can give this house is that it is exactly like the house in Fight Club. We have no neighbors, we have no community. Just a big house with cracking wood, fading dirty paint, and broken stairs. Every year for the 4th of July we host 'Destructacon' a party in which everyone bring items that they wish to blow up or otherwise annihilate. For pictures from Destructacon, check out the image galleries on the main page.
The trees at HH II.
The living room at Hearse House III.
One of many sculptures I have made inside the house.
Although I am no longer at the first Hearse House, I think about it a lot. The 2 other houses to bear the name I love as well, but there was something about this first house that made everyone like it. It was the only place I ever lived that everyone made some comment to the effect of "Damn! This place is cool!" when they first arrived. It was old, it was dying, it was isolated. The thing is, it's charms were also it's curses. There was a good 6 foot section of stairs that you had to jump over because they were collapsing and you ran the risk of falling into the kitchen if you didn't, the bathroom was a REAL water closet. You might have heard that term on the Beverly Hillbillies, but it loses something in the translation. The bathroom was what used to be an actual closet with a sink, standing room only shower and a toilet jammed in there. There was not enough room for me to even do my hair, I had to use the back porch. Things like that made the house a pain in the ass.
We also became a popular place for highschool kids to smoke pot and grope each other in the back of their Toyotas. At first it was amusing to go grab a Dr. Pepper and watch teenagers engage in acts of coitus that most likely ended in teen pregnancy and dropping off the cheerleading squad to get a second job at Cinnabon, but after about the 7th time it was really more like "Hey, if you're going to be out here screwing, keep the hatchback off my extension cords, I have work to do kids"
Then there were the wandering crack heads.
For the first year we lived here people who were wandering through the neighborhood, or lack of it, would come up to our door and ask us for stuff. The first three times it was this crackie who said her car died and she needed a ride. The first time this happened I gave her a ride, be a good guy I was thinking. Then a week later she came back and said she locked herself out of the hotel and wanted to know if she could sleep on the floor, now, I am no rocket scientist, but I am thinking that the whole, "Letting unidentified transients sleep in my living room" concept is maybe a bad idea anyway you slice it.
So, I advise her that, hey, no offense but we got our own life to worry about and she maybe might want to consider getting her shit together and not relying on us like the freaking Gothic Red Cross.
THEN a week later she came back asking if we had anything to eat. Amy, sensing that this might be an ongoing issue should we leave any room for mis-understanding, hit the woman in the head with a broom. Seriously, just like that, "THWAP!" We have not seen her since.
We also had some chick at like 4:00 AM who was fighting with her boyfriend at like 125 decibels outside our house come up our steps and ask for a ride home.
Now, correct me if I am wrong here people, but exactly HOW FUCKED does your own life have to be that you see a house with cracking paint, loose soil for landscaping, no lights on, surrounded by cars that carry the dead to the grave, and think, EVEN FOR A SECOND that this place could be your sanctuary? Come on! Get a clue! This is the place that is by all intents and purposes the LAST damned place you ever ought to go for help, especially since that 4:00 AM awakening because I have adopted a new policy wherein when strange people I do not know come up my front step in the middle of the night I fire a flare gun at their heads until they get the damned hint and keep on a truckin' because we are not the fucking Salvation Army.
On the approach to hearse house, view from the S&S. I left this picture in high resolution because I like a lot of the details in it.
It is a sad day when you have to circle your own house to find parking, but that is often the case here. In addition to my hearses, we also provide storage for other DHA members who's cars may not be welcome at their domiciles.
For an interior tour of the newest Hearse House, CLICK HERE!
Wrong Way! Dead End! Is It Clear?
Crawl Back To Where You Come From!
Hey Stranger You're Not Welcome Here!
You Cannot Walk Here, You Cannot Walk Here
This Place Is Not Your Paradise
Go To Hell, Shrivel Up And Die
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