Just the links, ma'am

leftovers & links
Wednesday, June 7, 2023

Virgin Mary apparitions "not always real," says Pope 

Atlanta approves funding to build 'Cop City' despite fierce opposition 

Henry Kissinger had a birthday party at the New York Public Library, and you weren't invited 

Scientists successfully transmit space-based solar power to Earth for the first time

What happened when a Brooklyn neighborhood policed itself for five days 

Federal judge backs trans kids in lawsuit over Florida's ban on the use of puberty blockers and hormone therapy

Much of Reddit will go dark June 12-14 in protest against API changes which will essentially kill 3rd party apps 

Reddit Enhancement Suite: "We think we should be fine, but we aren't 100% sure

New York finally gets its first worker-owned cooperative cocktail bar  

'Zombie viruses': Ancient diseases climate change will bring back 

Florida's strawberry industry threatened by climate change 

Carbon dioxide soars to a new record in Earth's atmosphere as climate change continues unabated 

Dutch report warns about negative impact of climate change on health of citizens worldwide 

Carbon dioxide soars to a new record in Earth's atmosphere as climate change continues unabated 

Sheriff's deputy caught on camera slamming a handcuffed inmate's head into a concrete wall with no apparent provocation 

Cop covers for political player with sex offender past 

Cop hired after charges of sexual abuse of minor and domestic violence faces new count of reckless homicide 

Police and prosecutor re-charge man almost beaten to death by cops 

Another Los Angeles Sheriff’s Department gang member admits the department has plenty of gang members

•  Florida high school offers refunds and reprints over yearbook's "disgusting and wrong" LGBTQ+ content 

In addition to pictures of smiling students, the pages featured terms including "genderfluid," "sexual orientation," "queer," and "nonbinary," as well as the rainbow Pride flag.

Texas Governor signs legislation ending trans healthcare for minors 

Hygiene education gives conservative news hosts a dirty feeling 

Haley falsely links rise in girls’ suicidal thoughts to trans athletes 

Mystery links
There's no knowing where you're going


My browser history
without the porn

It started with shirts emblazoned with slogans like, "Live Laugh Lesbian" and "Queer Queer Queer" getting tossed to the floor and it ended with a corporation putting its Pride display back in the closet 

Marian Anderson's "defiant performance" at the Lincoln Memorial 

Visit to Sweethaven 

Advertising outlasts sponsor 

Mariners old-timers remember 116-win season 

♫♬  It don't mean a thing  ♫
if it don't have that swing

Beginnings — Chicago 

King of the Road — Roger Miller 

La Vie En Rose — Louis Armstrong 

Political Science — Randy Newman 

Tra La La - The Banana Splits 

Eventually, everyone
leaves the building

Ed Ames 

Roger Craig 

Astrud Gilberto 

Paolo Portoghesi 

George Riddle


Cranky Old Fart is annoyed and complains and very occasionally offers a kindness, along with anything off the internet that's made me smile or snarl. All opinions fresh from my ass. Top illustration by Jeff Meyer. Click any image to enlarge. Comments & conversations invited.  

Tip 'o the hat to ye olde AVA, BoingBoing, Breakfast at Ralf's, CaptCreate's Log, Looking for My Perfect Sandwich, One Finger Medical, Two Finger Magical, Miss Miriam's Mirror, Nebulously Burnished, RanPrieur.com, Voenix Rising, and anywhere else I've stolen links, illustrations, or inspiration. 

Special thanks to Linden Arden, Becky Jo, Wynn Bruce, Joey Jo Jo, John the Basket, Dave S, Name Withheld, and always extra special thanks to my lovely late Stephanie, who gave me 21 years and proved that the world isn't always shitty.

Cranky Old Fart
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Urgent calls

"I'll do anything legal," as I often say, "for $5 an hour." Among other odd jobs, I've wired auditoriums for sound, passed out flyers in drag, and shaved a hairy man's ass. If you're willing to pay, I'm willing to work, but next week's rent has been paid, so I'm not desperate.

Somebody out there is desperate. A man left a message on my voicemail a week ago yesterday, saying he'd seen my ad and wanted to talk about hiring me, but he didn't say what for. That's a little unusual; most callers give me the gist of what they want.

What's odder is, his message was marked "urgent" — something I didn't even know my voicemail could do. 

I returned his call, but not urgently. First I called my own voice mail like a caller would, and learned that if you're patient enough to listen to all the computerized options, you can push an asterisk at the end and it'll mark your message as "urgent."

It doesn't do much, though, and doesn't reach me any quicker. An "urgent" message simply sits there like any other message, until I call in and push the playback code, but when I do, the automated operator will announce, "This message is marked 'urgent'."

That's all. Very faux impressive.

Next I called Mr Urgent, got his answering machine, and left a message, explaining what he already knew, that I'll do anything legal for five bucks an hour.

It was two days before he called my voicemail again, and again he marked his message "urgent," but again he didn't say what the work would be.

The whole "I'll do anything" shtick is out of the ordinary, and maybe the guy thought he was calling an office somewhere, a business with pagers or something. So when I returned his call two days later, I explained to his machine, "I'm just one guy, and I have regular gigs on Fridays, Saturdays, Sundays, and Mondays, but if you need me on a Tuesday, Wednesday, or Thursday, please call back, again, and if you do call, please tell me what work you want me to do."

Considering that I'm often an ass, I was seriously proud of myself for being so patient and polite. You can go ahead and be proud of me, too.

But it made no difference. On Friday, he called my voicemail a third time, marked his message "urgent" again, and again did not tell me what work he needed.

Saturday, he called three more times, Sunday once, and again this morning, and you guessed it, every message was marked "urgent" and none of them told me what work he wanted me to do. In this morning's message, he told me exactly when to call him back. "I'll be home between noon and 2:30."

Well, that's nice to know, Mr Urgent, but I have enough twits in my life already, and I'm tired of your messages and your voice. Hire somebody else.

♦ ♦ ♦  

After checking my messages, I stopped at Jose's Produce, to discreetly shake out another baggie full of cockroaches captured in my room. It was the third time I've roached the store, vengeance for their refusal to replace or refund 79¢ for a defective salt & pepper set (5/20)

After setting the roaches free near the meat counter, I walked toward the door to leave, and inside a plexiglass display rack, spotted a fat roach crawling across fresh-baked Mexican-style pastries. (To be clear, that roach was not one my dropoffs from today.)

Loud enough for any customer to hear, I semi-shouted, "Christ, they've got roaches crawling all over the baked goods!" 

And with that, I believe my work at Jose's is done. I've cost them more than 79¢, so I'll go back to killing roaches in my room, instead of collecting and dispersing them.

♦ ♦ ♦  

At the porn magazine where I work every Monday, one of my chores is to sort and shred the week's recycling. Several times that's included snapshots of the same naked woman.

Every few weeks, a 30-ish redhead in Arizona sends several unsolicited photos of herself, doing interesting things naked in what appears to be her home. In today's set of pictures, she was lounging in front of a fireplace, combing her pubic hair.

Each mailing is accompanied by a signed release form, authorizing the magazine to publish the pictures. Additionally, she writes on the back of each photograph, "Please print this," and signs her name.

So we know her name, but nobody at the magazine knows who she is, or why she's sending the pictures. I've checked the database, and she's not a subscriber, not an advertiser.

The magazine, Black Sheets, is highbrow, pansexual, and it's literary, more than just another booby magazine. It's 90% text, so people really do read it for the articles, and we're not looking for simple snapshots of nekked women. Every time she sends 'em, the pictures get tossed into the recycling.

It's a sad commentary on the loneliness and isolation some people feel, don't you think? I mean, I already had six pictures of her on the wall in my room. Now I have nine.

From Pathetic Life #25
Monday, June 3, 1996

This is an entry retyped from an on-paper zine I wrote many years ago, called Pathetic Life. The opinions stated were my opinions then, but might not be my opinions now. Also, I said and did some disgusting things, so parental guidance is advised.

Pathetic Life
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Breakfast at the Diner #57

Walking into the diner, the seat situation is ideal —  my favorite stool at the counter is unoccupied, and even better, no-one's within half a dozen seats of my preferred seat.

Breakfast at the Diner

"Good morning," Kirstin says. "I saved your favorite seat for ya." 

Pretty sure I've never told her that the second-to-last seat on the right side of the counter is my favorite, but somehow she knows, and as I settle in she asks, "How's every little thing?"

"Perfection," I say, "and about to get better. What's the special?" Right behind her there's a 'daily special' board, but all it says this morning is, "Daily special:"

"Sorry, nothing's special today."

"Well, you're here," I say and she smiles. She cracks a dumb joke back at me, I smile, too, and then order my old standby, the Denver omelet plus pancakes. She scribbles it, takes the little slip of paper to Harvey in the kitchen. I open my New Yorker, but also look around the diner.

I do love this place. So many memories of great breakfasts, and another one's on its way. The diner is old like me, with cracked tiles on the floor, faded paint on the wall. Old, but at peace with itself.

Very little in the building has ever been replaced or remodeled. Even the salt and pepper shakers are probably original equipment, and I dunno why, but my eyes fall on the milk shake machine. 

Shakes haven't been on the diner's menu since I've been eating here, but still the shakemaker waits, forgotten but beautiful. It's almost art deco, stainless steel that swoops and bends back time...

♦ ♦ ♦  

A little girl is eating breakfast with an adult man and woman, at least one of whom is not her parent. Don't ask how I know, cuz I don't know, but you'd know it too.

The kid is nervous and well-behaved. She sits straight without being told to. The woman semi-fawns over her, and I decide the woman is the man's girlfriend. The girl's meeting her future stepmom, and she eats hotcakes, and squirms.

♦ ♦ ♦  

A couple of times, people have come into the diner unmasked, and Kirstin has asked them nicely to cover up. Usually they do but if they don't, Harvey has barked, "Mask on or get out."

Those days are over, though. The state-ordered mask mandate is gone, as are most of the masks. Harvey still wears one, but Kirstin doesn't. 

COVID is over, or so people want to believe, but I'm still masked, except while eating or sipping coffee. Of a dozen customers there's only one other whose face is covered. Everyone else is eating eggs and drinking coffee and absorbing the diner's intangibles, which hopefully doesn't include the virus.

♦ ♦ ♦  

Kirstin has a brief moment when she's not doing something, so I snatch it from her by asking a silly question. "If I asked for a milk shake, could that machine make one?"

"Well, I don't know," she says, looking at it, tilting her head and thinking it over. "It's not even plugged in." She jets away to bring someone french toast, but she's back in a moment, and adds, "It's never been plugged in, for as long as I've worked here. It might short-circuit."

♦ ♦ ♦  

At the table with the girl, her father's fiancĂ©e reaches across and gently dabs at the kid's mouth with a napkin, blotting up syrup or something. She looks at her father, makes a face that says, You owe me, but she's a trouper — she gives her father's girlfriend an attempted smile, and the woman seems to believe it, but I don't.

♦ ♦ ♦  

My omelet's here, and Kirstin tells me it's a co-production. "Harvey started it," she says, "but he had to run to the boys' room, so I finished it." The omelet is spectacular, of course and as usual. 

"Your toast will be up in just a minute," she says, but I hadn't even noticed it's missing.

♦ ♦ ♦  

Two men come in together, labor types in plaid. They sit at the other end of the counter so I can't vouch for it, but Phil says, "Whoa, you guys both smoke, don't you!" He says this with exactly the right tone to make it sound conversational, not like "Jeez, you stink," and it works. Soon everyone on that side of the counter is talking about who smokes and who doesn't and who used to and who died of cancer.

Two seats from Phil, Maurice has oxygen up his nose, and I wonder, is smoking what led to that? It's not a question anyone would ask, of course, but Maurice volunteers that yup, smoking gave him that plastic tube, that metal canister.

Maurice has been at the diner for as long as most of the stools, so he offers a historical perspective: "In the '70s, there were ash trays all along this counter," he says, "and almost everyone smoked as they ate. It wasn't until the '90s, when smoking in restaurants was banned, that you could smell the food when you walked in here."

I wasn't at this diner then, but once in the '80s I tried to impress some now-forgotten woman with an expensive dinner, only to have it ruined by clouds of tobacco from a nearby table. I can vouch for the stink.

And what an uproar from Republicans, lawsuits even, when suddenly there were rules against smoking in public. How dare you deny me the right to a cigarette during my meal and a couple more smokes afterwards! 

Left all that unsaid this morning, of course. I don't talk much at the diner, especially when my mouth is full.

♦ ♦ ♦  

At 6:30 precisely, Bouffant-Walker walks in, and makes his way toward the back of the restaurant. As he walks and rolls along he says good morning to the people he knows, which is most of the people in the diner, even me.

I give a good morning right back to him, of course. Even a hermit says hello.

Bouffant's voice is odd and squeaky, a sound I've never adequately described but I'll try again. It's a voice Mel Blanc couldn't pull off — male, upper tenor, with an accent vaguely 'elsewhere' and a crackle in his vowels and something's always muffled about it, like he's talking around a sleepy tongue, or there's an ice cube in his mouth.

His voice annoyed me for the first six months we were eating at the same time and place, but we've been eating almost together for so many years of Saturdays, now his voice belongs here as much as the sizzle and smell of bacon.

He sits at his usual table, and Kirstin is there with coffee before he's had a chance to ask for it. 

♦ ♦ ♦  

A few minutes later, Big Hat comes in. She's humming a song I don't recognize as she almost dances her way toward the back, and takes a table two behind Bouffant.

He's happy to see her, and they talk, a little loudly because they're ten feet apart and they're old, probably both hard of hearing. The extra effort of speaking up proves too much trouble, so after she orders but before her food arrives, Big Hat picks up her coffee and joins Bouffant at his table.

Never seen that man smile so big.

♦ ♦ ♦  

Once in a while, even at Bob's, everything isn't perfect. An omelet might be a smidge overbrowned on the bottom, or there's no strawberry jam and I'm tragically forced to settle for grape.

Breakfast is excellent today, but after the hash browns and omelet and hotcakes, slipping into the afterbliss, I remember the toast. Promised in a minute, it had never arrived.

Do I complain? I do not, nor do I even mention it. Things get hectic, toast gets forgotten, but the time for hey-where's-my-toast was half an hour ago. Life has moved on, and breakfast is over.

♦ ♦ ♦

Something is different about the diner today. It's the same place, same people, same food, but what's different is me. Life is moving on, and soon breakfast will really be over.

I came to Madison with my wife, because she was homesick. She'd grown up in Wisconsin, thought the midwest was marvelous, and this city was her favorite in the world. Me, I didn't care where I lived, long as it was with her, so we came to her beloved Madison.

It quickly became my beloved Madison, too, but we didn't know as we moved here, that this city is where she'd die.

She's been gone for three years, and Madison has helped me get through it. It's nice that everywhere I go in and around this city, it's someplace we were together — and that certainly includes the diner.

I'm old, though, and getting older. After older comes dead, but I don't want to die in this city where — now that Steph's gone — I know nobody.

In a few weeks, I'll pack all I own into the car and drive back to Seattle, where I grew up and still have family. I'm tidying the old apartment, sorting through rooms full of Stephanie's stuff, getting ready to say goodbye to Wisconsin — and to this diner that made my wife and I smile every Saturday for so many years.

Coming in alone, the diner has made me smile once a week even without my wife, and many weeks it's been the only thing that did.

Depending on how quick the packing goes, I'll eat two, maybe three more breakfasts at Bob's Diner, and after that I'll be gone. The diner is what I'll miss most from Madison, other than my wife, of course.

I'm a grumpy old man who lives alone and has few friends — basically a hermit. Once a week I have breakfast at my favorite diner. Most weeks it's my only in-person interaction with other humans, which is not my strong suit.

Yeah, I'm aware of the coronavirus, so I go to the diner at dawn, before it gets busy. I wash my hands before and after, cough into my elbow, spray Lysol on my food, pay at my plate, tell the waitress to keep the change, and hold my breath while leaving until I'm outside. It's a little more dangerous than staying at home, but life would suck without breakfast at the diner, so get off my lawn.

And remember, decent people leave a generous tip.

Illustration by Jeff Meyer

Going through the motions

The cat is being extra friendly to me, presumably because she's lost half the staff that pets her.

I'm doing all the things I've always done, with frequent interruptions to scream or smash my fist into the wall or burst into tears. When the sadness is too much, I go for a walk. And then another.

I've walked many miles the past few days. Walked a few miles more, between the first and second paragraphs on this page.

Stephanie is gone. Everything she cared about, she doesn't care any more. All the jokes she would've cracked, she took with her. The insights she offered every day, never again. The kooky slang we had between us is now a language no-one will speak again.

When I glance into the bedroom as I walk down the hall, she's not in it, and I cry again.

I did a load of laundry, and then still hot from the dryer, put most of Stephanie's blouses and pants and underwear in the pile for Goodwill. Now I'm cleaning out her closet, a chore I never imagined.

Of course, we had talked about death and death directives and what one of us should do when the other one died, but the practical reality of it is something else again. I never imagined taking her clothes off the hangers and plopping them into a plastic bag.

Next I'm going to take the paintings off the wall; they were more to Stephanie's taste than mine. Instead I'm going to nail up some of her favorite t-shirts, souvenirs from places we'd been — the minor league ball park, the diner, the museum... The t-shirts are happy memories, so I'll build a memorial around them. In the living room, I think.

As a very special treat and only when she could snag a very special price, we would occasionally drive 100 miles to Milwaukee and spend the night at the Pfister, an ornate 100-year-old four-star hotel. She called it The Fairy-Tale Palace. We stayed there half a dozen times, and even when we were paying 75% off, they always treated us like royalty. We had dinner at the hotel's steak house, and breakfast in bed.

Here's her sleek, slinky black formal dress, which she wore only twice — both times at the Fairy-Tale Palace. She wore it the night we walked around the block at midnight, years ago when she could walk, and she wore it a few years later in her wheelchair, when we sipped champagne in the cocktail lounge. That dress is going onto the memorial wall, beside her t-shirts.

I opened the freezer, and found a couple of the smoothies she liked so much — treats I had surprised her with, but her appetite was failing so they went into the freezer for "later," which never came. I let them melt and then flushed them down the toilet, the saddest flush of my life.

Bringing home treats for her was one of my favorite things to do, like the smoothies, or cookies from the bake shop, or fast-food french fries, or a burger the way she liked — no cheese, no onions, no tomatoes. No more.

At the grocery store, I always pay by plastic and get twenty dollars back in cash. The cash isn't for me, it's in case I want to take Steph to breakfast on the spur of the moment, or buy her a treat on my way home from work, so when the machine at the cash register asked whether I wanted cash back, I stood there and stared at the beeping screen and cried.

I cry a lot. Every little thing is relentlessly sad.

We were both readers, but my books were usually checked out from the library, while she preferred to buy books and keep them forever. Thus the books on the shelves are almost entirely hers.

Most will go to Goodwill or be scattered to all the Little Free Libraries in our neighborhood, but I'll keep her Game of Thrones books, and her collection of everything Jane Austen ever wrote — those are the books she read over and over again.

Always Stephanie was reading two books — something new, and re-reading Game of Thrones or Jane Austen. I tried them both, couldn't get into either, but maybe I'll try again.

I'm getting rid of most of her possessions — her pillow that smells like her, her candy, the Dutch oven she liked so much, her vibrator, her earbuds, her brand of soda pop, and so many other things everywhere around the house.

For every item thrown away or put into a pile for charity, there's a brief pang of guilt. Why am I throwing away her panty hose, her medicines, her half-finished needlepoint and knitting, her magazines, her ratty old pajamas? Why am I giving away her shoes, her DVD player, her bookends, her puzzle books, her glasses? I want to apologize to her for every single item I can't bear to have around. 

I'm sorting through all this stuff in a daze, trying not to think too hard about what it means to be going through her most personal stuff.

Every once in a while I come across notes she'd written to herself, about her health issues, about our plans for some weekend a few years ago, about errands to run and bills to be paid, about anything really. I read them all, even the ancient shopping lists. A few of these notes I've re-typed into the computer, and I envision myself reading and re-reading them in my lonely future.

The TV hasn't been on since she went into the hospital a few weeks ago. I have no interest in it, and rarely did unless Stephanie & I were watching something together, so we can cancel Netflix and cable (and of course, there's no "we" anymore, unless "we" is me and the cat).

She did all the cooking, and I'll probably revert to my long-ago bachelor habit of sandwiches and microwave food. As I wash the dishes, I'm wondering how many of these plates and cups and bowls and pots and pans and such are needed, when it's only me. Not many. Another haul to Goodwill.

Her makeup is in the bathroom. Her jacket hangs by the door. Her crackers are on the table. Her checkbook is on the counter. Her scrunchies, her cough drops, her marijuana, her moisturizer. She's gone, but she's everywhere.

Meanwhile, I pet the cat. Change the litter. Get the mail. Answer the phone. Vacuum the carpet. Surf Reddit. Take another walk.

I'm going through the motions, trying to live something like a life. Maybe if I do the normal things long enough, some semblance of normalcy will return, and eventually there might again be a quarter-ounce of joy or meaning in life. I don't really believe that, but I'm giving it a try, because what else is there to do?

Republished 6/4/2023  

TL/DR: My wife died and it sucks.

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"See you tomorrow."

Yesterday it was hot, so I ripped the garbage bags off my window.  They went up when I moved in a few months ago, to blot out the midday sun, but they were also blotting out most of the airflow when the window was open. 

With the fake-Hefty bags gone, there's a view of a sorry-ass atrium, from the backside of this hotel to the backside of three other buildings on the block. They're other hotels, I think, but the McMillan is the tallest. From the fourth floor where I live, there's a glimpse of the upper stories of downtown's skyline.

The air that blows in sometimes has a whiff of urine, presumably from people peeing out their windows. Something I haven't tried yet. 

It would have to be from their windows, because there doesn't seem to be access to the small patch of litter-strewn ground between the buildings. It's paved, about the size of an ordinary living room, but nothing could live there.

It has lots of litter, including a cheap air conditioner that must've landed with a hell of a crash. When the clouds clear and you look down from a certain angle, you can be dazzled by the sun's reflection off the myriad discarded syringes on the window sills and roofs below. 

My window was still wide open when I left, because the forecast for today was Hot. Trudging the cart up a hill much steeper than it had been yesterday, I was thinking heart attack. Another vendor's radio said that it hit 101°. All day I wiped sweat from my eyes, and when no-one was looking, from between my asscheeks.

♦ ♦ ♦  

A young girl was sitting on the sidewalk, with a backpack and a sandwich. She looked 11 or 12, completely normal and uninteresting, and I gave her no thought at all until she came over to my table and started looking at the merchandise.

She seemed to be unaccompanied, but I'll sell blasphemy to anyone who wants it, so I gave her my ordinary sales pitch: "All the fish come as stickers or magnets," and then went back to the book I was reading (The Death Ship, by B Traven, for the third or fourth time).

When I looked up, she was looking at me more than at the fish, and I wondered why. "Hello again," I said blankly.

"Can I have twenty dollars?" 

I scrunched my face, annoyed. She wasn't homeless, or even poor. She was dressed fresh from The Gap. "Why would I give you twenty cents," I said, "let alone twenty dollars."

"I give a good blowjob," she explained.

I shook my head no, and she walked away.

Kids say the darnedest things. 

If she would've giggled at how she'd frightened the fat freak, it might've been an outrageous joke on the crusty old man that's me. There was no hint of kidding about her, though, no indication that anything out of the ordinary had happened, except perhaps that someone had said no.

♦ ♦ ♦  

Back in the city, I finally found out how Sam, the neighborhood news vendor, died. Among the dozen or so tributes and cards taped and nailed to his abandoned newsbox, there's a poem (a terrible poem, of course) that includes the line, "died of intestinal cancer and never let on."

That takes a special kind of stoicism, and courage. My father died of liver cancer, but first he consented to months of torture — radiation therapy or chemo, they call it.

Thinking back, I've known several people who had cancer, and most had chemo. Somebody's making bundles  of money off the sick and dying, that's for sure.

Sometimes chemo works and life goes on after the hell of it, but usually it's only added agony, making a bad way to go even worse.

When it's my turn for cancer, I think I'll say no to the chemotherapy, and skip the leeches and bloodletting, too. When the pain becomes more than the pleasure of life, I'll ride the #28 bus to Golden Gate Bridge and hurl myself over.

Cancer was rare in my grandparents' time, but now it's common and strikes at higher rates every year. Most of the millions and millions dead from cancer were murdered by Monsanto, or some equally evil big-money entity. We let giant corporations pollute the air and water, kill us all, and the killers get rich, never get justice. That's the American way.

If the poem and one of the cards can be believed, Sam's cancer was inoperable and he didn't want chemo. In growing and endless pain, telling only his closest friends, he continued selling Chronicles and Examiners from his big green box at the BART station.

On Thursday, nine days ago, I bought a paper from him. He smiled and said thanks, and probably he wanted to say more, because that was Sam. He always wanted to say more, and me, I usually want to say less. I waved and said something like, "Thanks, Sam, see you tomorrow."

From Pathetic Life #25
Sunday, June 2, 1996

This is an entry retyped from an on-paper zine I wrote many years ago, called Pathetic Life. The opinions stated were my opinions then, but might not be my opinions now. Also, I said and did some disgusting things, so parental guidance is advised.