Ran a load of laundry, and then had a peaceful lunch at the park, not even minding the dumbass teenager listening to present-day rock’n’roll on his boombox. His radio was loud enough to register on the Richter scale, but the music was OK so I didn’t complain. Except then a commercial came on, and he didn’t even lower the volume. Kids today, Itellya.
From Pathetic Life #24 Thursday, May 30, 1996
It was an ad for Blockbuster Music, an entity I’d never heard of before. Presumably it’s owned by Blockbuster Video, the #1 video chain in America, where I’ve never been a customer or even browsed the aisles.
For many movies, studios make one version for theaters, and a milder cut for television, where ‘R’ becomes ‘PG’. For movies rated ‘R’ or beyond, Blockbuster carries only the neutered version. The Bad Lieutenant, for example, is an ‘NC-17’ movie about an out-of-control cop, but reliable sources tell me that when rented from Blockbuster, Harvey Keitel is less out-of-control.
I don’t want to be all sanctimonious about movies as art, because movies are mostly commerce. It’s an odd ‘art’ that can’t exist without being pre-approved by men in silk suits, who worry only whether each movie might earn back its investment. Every movie playing at every theater has been through that silk-suit process.
Once a movie has been released to theaters, though, if you rent it at a video store, it ought to be the same movie. At Blockbuster, if it’s something challenging, something for grown-ups, it’s either not there at all, or it’s been trimmed.
And now, Blockbuster Video has spawned Blockbuster Music — do you suppose their rap section might be somewhat abbreviated?
If you’re looking for Body Count, Jello Biafra, or something with lyrics more thoughtful than “She loves you, ya ya ya,” approach Blockbuster Music with trepidation. “Sorry, we don’t carry that,” will be their mantra, and if they carry bands like Public Enemy at all, it’ll be a ‘special’ version — albums with a missing track, lyrics rewritten or bleeped out, perhaps with a less shocking photo on the cover.
And if Blockbuster Music makes enough profit, soon you’ll be able to find watered-down best-sellers and abridged literary classics at Blockbuster Books.
♦ ♦ ♦
Taking a late stroll through the neighborhood at night, a beggar came at me with a wacky attitude. “I got nothing,” he said, posing with his arms at odd angles like the Scarecrow in The Wizard of Oz.
It made me smile, and once I’ve smiled the rule is, I gotta hand over some change. Reached into my pocket for a few coins, and just as I was slipping ’em into the guy’s hand, I saw that instead of the expected assortment of pennies, dimes, nickels, and the occasional quarter, I’d given him a handful of mostly quarters. Damn it, my leftover laundry money from this morning!
I’m still a little ahead from working at the bar a few weeks ago, but I can’t afford to be that generous. Jeez, I must’ve given three dollars to that bum! No take-backs, though, so it’s a pre-paid and guilt-free “no” for the next hundred panhandlers.
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.
Excerpt: I am now described everywhere as an “activist.” Nothing angers me more. The word flattens me. Worse still, it implies a version of me who was not already shattered by a life of exile, refuge, and resistance. As if this began with something I did. I did not advocate for Palestine because I wanted to be active. I advocate because I have no choice. From the moment I was born Palestinian, my existence was political. What choice does a Palestinian refugee, deprived of basic rights, have but to resist the forces that seek to erase him?
If there is an election, and it’s not rigged or overturned by Trump executive order, and Democrats have the White House after 2028, I expect — from Dems’ track record — they’ll prosecute no-one and repair about 1% of the damage Trump & the Republicans are doing. In the memorably frank words of Barack Obama, as he let the criminal GW Bush administration off the hook for everything: “We are not going back, we are moving forward, America.”
Excerpt: What is clear, from the documents obtained by The Times, is that this spring the Trump administration was in a rush to give Atlantic Industrial Coatings a contract. So much of a rush, in fact, that it was even willing to hire the company without knowing how much its work would actually cost.
Excerpt: The New York Times reviewed over a dozen hours of cabinet meeting footage to analyze how his administration spoke to him. On average, at least one of every six sentences either flattered Mr. Trump, gave him credit or criticized his political opponents.
There’s long been a house on my bus route with a 12-foot tall Trumploving banner on the front porch. I have the address in my notebook, cuz I’ve been planning to mail them some turd. The day after this news, the banner was gone, so should I mail the package, or not?
Excerpt: So it may come as a surprise, especially to younger Americans, to learn that DHS was originally conceived in the interest of unity and harmony – and that the phrase “homeland security” was originally meant to be reassuring.
Me again: Pretty sucky journalism there, NPR. I’m not a “younger American,” but I’m old enough to have been there, and no, it wasn’t.
Good news, I guess — ABC is tired of paying to suck Trump’s dick. But what a softball headline, NYTimes — The network “accuses” Trump of doing what Trump has specifically, repeatedly, openly done.
For 70 years we’ve been told that the defense of Europe was a vital American strategic necesity. Now it’s not. So … was it 70 years of bullshit, or is this another Trump regime stupidity?
Excerpt: This is big tech in 2026. It is no longer about building cool apps, useful devices, or worthwhile services. Instead, all big tech can do is desperately take things that worked and slap new coats of paint on them endlessly while shoving in more AI features, ads, and paywalls in a desperate attempt to convince shareholders that they are making big changes as they do whatever it takes to make that number go up.
Excerpt: At the Missouri History Museum’s Route 66 festival, for instance, ten pristine vintage cars line the front drive. A rockabilly tune fills the main lobby. Neon signs make a dark room glow. Placards trace the origins of “the concrete ribbon to adventure,” its local landmarks, and the challenges it posed to Black, queer, and Jewish travelers. You learn about the first McDonald’s west of the Mississippi, the birth of the Phillips 66 gasoline brand, and motor cottages.
But you don’t learn nearly as much about Route 66’s body count. In 1941, for instance, a single short stretch of the Mother Road near the Army training installation of Fort Leonard Wood, Missouri claimed the lives of 54 people in just nine months, including 19 American soldiers.
Special thanks to Linden Arden, Becky Jo, Joey Jo Jo & John the Basketemeritus, Jeff Meyer, 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.
News always and only from reliable sources, and I decide what’s reliable — no right-wing bullshit, no Substack because fuck Nazis, and no RawStory, Newsweek, or other clickbait sites. Written news is preferred; video links will be rare, and damned near never to videos where the reporter sits, stands, or strolls in front of a camera — that’s show biz, not news.
If you’re blocked from reading anything linked above, please send an email, and I’ll reply with the article’s complete text, via my computer’s fine ad-blockers and paywall-vaulters.
“This is Mr Previn. I am holding your ad that says you’ll do anything legal, and I have half a day’s work for you.”
OK, but who leaves a message and identifies themselves as “Mr Previn”? I returned his call, and when I started with, “I’m Doug, the guy from the flyers,” again he said, “I’m Mr Previn,” before talking about what he needed me to do.
From Pathetic Life #24 Wednesday, May 29, 1996
So today I’d be working for a man with no first name, and guess what? He’s rich, at least by my standards, though by rich people’s standards he’s probably poor. He said he owns three boutiques, two in the Marina and one South of Market, and my job was to be a secret-shopper — go into each store, stand around, see if anyone helped me, and ask some rudimentary questions to see if the staff knows the answers.
On the phone, he gave me the stores’ addresses, and I mapped out my Muni rides — mostly 22s and 14s. We agreed on six hours of pay — $30 — though I couldn’t imagine one visit to each store could take that long.
It’s a peculiar job already, but it gets more peculiar. Mr Previn wanted to meet me at a downtown soup-and-sandwich shop, and he gave me that address, too, and told me he’d supply me with a device to record my conversations in the stores. Wearing a hidden microphone seemed slightly over the top, but what the hell, thirty bucks is thirty bucks, plus he said he’d buy me lunch, and I rarely say no to someone buying lunch. He’d made it all sound somewhat clandestine, though, so I made double-sure my mace was in my pocket before busing to the soup-and-sandwich place.
I got there five minutes early, and the place was swanky — checkered blankets on the tables, three-digit prices, and a necktie and matching jacket on the young man behind the counter. I’d never eat at that place unless Mr Previn was buying.
It wasn’t busy. Three men were eating at three different tables, so I said “Ahem,” and addressed the room, “Would any of you be Mr Previn?” Two shook their heads no, and the third said he could be if I asked nicely — clearly a come-on — so I went back outside and leaned on the wall next to the only door.
And there I was for another fifteen minutes, asking every male who went inside, “Are you Mr Previn?” None of them were, or none admitted it, so I guess he had second thoughts. I have better ways to spend my days than loitering in front of a sandwich shop, so I left with no soup, no sandwich, no gig, and no idea what that was all about, but I’m happy to still honestly say that I’ve never worn a wire.
♦ ♦ ♦
Since I was 2/3 of the way there already, I took a #27 bus to my maildrop, and came out with my backpack a few pounds heavier. Then I walked down Geary Boulevard to visit the phone booth that owed me 20¢.
Revenge is beneath me, of course, but accidents do happen. I’d rummaged through my tool kit yesterday, and brought a fist-sized container of cheap liquid glue, purchased a year ago for sticking up my “I’ll do anything” flyers. For that task, it had proven better at sticking my fingers together, and soon I switched to glue sticks or sticky paper instead. For today’s task, though, oops, I spilled glue onto the phone’s mouthpiece, and then spilled some more, and drenched the keypad too.
Cherry on top was an index card that said, “Out of order” in big letters, and in smaller letters, “All refunds made only by check.”
♦ ♦ ♦
Let’s see… The phone booth ripped me off, and it got glued. Jose’s Produce ripped me off, and they got cockroached. I have the addresses for all three of Mr Previn’s shops, and also, it would be a shame if something happened to that Walgreens from last Wednesday, where the security guard kicked me out.
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.
