Too much smoke down there for this guy.

This bemused devil with heavy eyelids was the only thing watching me at a house in North Minneapolis. He was in the dark, sitting on a dresser amid a room filled with soiled mattresses and garbage. Only my Rebel 90 flashlight could cut through the darkness, thus finding this little devil, grinning, in his own little world.

It was not all fun and games at this place.

This paper was on a rec room floor at a clean suburban home. These homes are great to work in, but not as much fun to photograph. I guess I just love garbage too much.

Old Glory, and a bat from the old glory days.

Still, the garage had this scene with the American Flag, a symbol that continues to fascinate me every time I see it at a job site. This one is tattered and soiled, much like the American Dream that the occupants once had.

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I was browsing the data in an article called “25 Most Dangerous Neighborhoods,” and found it to be lacking. The data and maps are nice, but I wanted an actual visual of what these places look like. So I turned to Google Street View.

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The Google cameras capture the essence of these impoverished, crime-stricken neighborhoods. I looked at the maps in the article, then “walked” the streets via Street View. What I found in each neighborhoods was a portrait of urban ennui, social decay, and changing times.

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The Google cameras capture these urban wastelands quite elegantly. The impersonal camera-car rolls through the neighborhood in a vehicle equipped with a series of fisheye cameras.  In just a few minutes, I was able to see a once-stately home on a dying street in Cleveland; the bombed-out shells of row houses in Cincinnati; a  sad corner in Chicago; and much more. My favorite shot is from Orlando, on a run-down street outside of downtown. For some reason I can’t embed this particular image in the blog, but it shows a humble cinderblock duplex with a dirt yard that hosts a smattering of chairs. Three individuals sit near the doors, and one can only guess at what they thought when the fancy Google car passed by. They live next door to a vacant house, and across the street from an overgrown lot. Nothing coming, nothing going. The sky is heavy with rain. It’s a portrait of a life far from the city’s tourism brochures.

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I only checked out a few cities before drifting off to sleep, but I may do so again in the near future. I like exploring these forgotten backroads, and while I’d love to be pounding the pavement in person, for now, and for safety’s sake, I’ll have to settle for a virtual stroll.

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And take that stroll now. The next time the cameras capture the street views in Cleveland and Detroit, the scenery might be gone. Both cities are demolishing thousands of homes every year in order to clean up the rash of vacant homes left behind by the foreclosure crisis. And while this might alleviate blight in the short term, these cities are losing some of the most ornate, unique homes that one day could form the backbone of vibrant neighborhoods (remember the urban renewal disasters of the 50s and 60s). For now, I’ll roll with Google before it’s too late.

This is what everyone wants to see first thing Monday morning.

I made a new friend in garbage. Last Friday, I took a faithful reader and blogger extraordinaire from the 365 Music Project to a possible excessive in south Minneapolis. B., who runs the blog, is a fan of all things local, and she felt that our trashout photos offered a local glimpse into the city’s current state of affairs.

This paints quite the picture, doesn't it?

I look forward to reading her impressions of our outing. She’s got me thinking a lot about garbage, where it comes from, where it goes, and how it shapes our lives.

Dangling chains always give a basement a dungeon feel.

I’d like to take you all on more garbage adventures with me. What would you like to know about the homes we service and the debris we remove? Tell us, and we’ll create posts around your inquiries.

This is a sweet treehouse.

We’re all along for the ride.

Oral hygiene is paramount to a happy smile

The bathroom counter was littered with the standard debris: cleaning products, crusty towels, a brush, Listerine, a razor. I’ve been noticing toothbrushes lately (you’ll find some here and here), and next to the mouth-scouring brush was this ashtray full of butts. I cannot imagine being so addicted to nicotine that one must smoke even during the brief minutes of daily corporal maintenance, but I find evidence of bathroom smoking frequently. In this case, at least, it appears that the cigarettes are menthols. That’s kind of like smoking a breath mint, right?

I guess nobody in this house was blessed.

This neatness-imploring squirrel hung on this wall. His view seemed to mock his message:

The reality.

One toothbrush for each resident?

From the outside, this home was perfectly nondescript. It was a 1920s-era dwelling erected in a working-class part of the city, one of those neighborhoods that has slowly slipped from proud to modest to struggling to decayed.

Of all things in the house, this old light still works.

From the curb, you never know when a property is going to be interesting. One’s public life may be all neatly trimmed yards, washed cars, and holiday-appropriate decorations. The private life, though, is what interests me. That’s where I find the details of a former existence that interest me.

This lampshade was not in use.

The master bath.

Lately, I’ve been entering these homes alone. In homes like this one, I feel like a peeping Tom, like a spy assigned to gather intelligence on a community of ghosts.

The master bedroom.

I hear things. Floorboards creak; doors swing shut; a furnace suddenly turns on. Each unexpected sound gives me pause. I don’t mind running into cats, rats, roaches, or mice. I’m just hoping to avoid a human encounter.

The basement.

It’s hard not to let your imagination run wild in a house like this. There is way too much evidence of a recent occupant. The home smells of cigarettes and grease and human. The washing machine still has clothes in it. The cupboards are full.

Entertainment in the basement.

Sometimes I feel that I must be in the wrong house, that the occupants could come home any minute. But they never do.

Hanging in a bedroom closet.

Nobody’s home. It’s just me and the debris. That’s how I like it.

Fan club.

Come fly with me.

Adopt this good little buddy.

Jim Kurash, one of our Regional Operations Managers, was called to a home today to investigate a possible squatter. He found this guy, whom he named “Butternut.” We would love to find Butternut a good home, but we can’t keep him at the shop. So, if you would like to adopt this quiet, gentle cat (with thumbs on his front paws to boot), give me a call at 612-735-8679. We’re taking him to the local pet shelter at 5pm today (May 8th, 2012), so if you’re interested, you need to get to Columbia Heights, MN before then. Help us out, and make a new friend!

The view from the front door.

The countertop was strewn with risperidone, an anti-psychotic medication. Unsigned credit cards waited on a windowsill for someone to test the limits of their strained credit.

These pieces didn't make the cut.

I know what style of clothes they wear, and that they owned Thelma and Louise, Independence Day, and Braveheart.

A forgotten chair in the basement.

A room in the basement contained tax information for 2000-2008. The latter three years of that range were particularly successful: he was making over $98,000 as a franchisee of a fast-food restaurant; she was making $41,155 as its manager. The documents included itemized expenses, social security numbers, and bank account information.

Was this were business was done?

I know where they bought their electronics (a big-box store on a fringe exurb), and that they had rental properties in Minnesota and California. I know they paid $269,400 for their house, with $35,000 down. I know which casino they frequented. I know they then tried to open a remodeling business. Timing was poor, however, as the market crashed soon after they got started. That, in part, is why I was there.

Ignorance is bliss.

Found in the barn.

A family member was a veteran. I’m not sure who, exactly, as I don’t open mail when I’m on site. I only gather information from what I can see without disturbing the artifacts.

On the west side of the barn.

On the east side of the barn.

As for the rest, I can only speculate.

In the barn.

This job is done.

The master bath.

It’s not always pure filth. This home in St. Paul was quite clean, and only had a few things left behind. The bathroom caught my eye because it looks like someone started to clean it and then gave up. The shower curtain, the picture on the wall, the roll of toilet paper, the toothbrush, it all lends a lived-in feel.

In the basement.

The rest of the house had been mostly cleaned out. Just a few odds and ends were left.

Living room.

In the living room bay window ledge.

In the garage.

The garage was the only place that offered clues to who lived there. There was this cassette rack that shows someone’s taste in music. There was evidence of a previous life in Chicago, including newspapers and an apparent preference for the Cubs and Bears. There was a security guard uniform hanging from the rafters. And so it goes.