Not counting my wife, I’ve shared houses with maybe 30 men and two women, over my adult years. Every flatmate has annoyed me, of course. All humans annoy me. It’s been workable, though. Haven’t killed a flatmate yet. Yet.

At present, I share this house with three other men: Dean, Robert, and The New Guy. Robert and The New Guy are ordinary flatmates — we say hello, or nod, and pass in the hallway. Sometimes we talk. Usually we don’t.

Dean, though, never lets me pass without trying to start a conversation. In four years sharing this house, we’ve had hundreds of conversations, or rather, the same conversation hundreds of times, and that’s hundreds more conversations with Dean than I’d want.

Over the past few weeks, I’ve been quantifying it. An index card has been taped to my bedroom door, and I’ve been adding hash marks, keeping track…

THE GROCERIES

Shopping is a bore, so my groceries are usually delivered. There’ve been ten deliveries in the past three weeks.

For four of those deliveries, Dean was in the kitchen. For two of those deliveries, he came out of his room while I was putting grocs away, and commented on what I’d purchased. “Ohh, strawberries.” “Frozen broccoli and cauliflower, eh?” Twice, Dean knocked on my door — once to tell me the groceries were on the porch, and once to tell me he’d brought them in. He pointed to my bags on the counter, and said, “Raisin bread, mmm.”

Grocery subtotal: Dean was there and offering commentary for eight out of ten grocery deliveries. That’s 80% Dean.

Robert was in the kitchen for three of those deliveries, so 30% Robert. It’s a separate annoyance, but Robert and Dean watch live-streamed sports at the kitchen table, basically whenever any local team is playing.

THE MEALS

If I’m making something in the kitchen, Dean will comment on it, like he’s Guy Fieri and I’m a contestant on his show. I rarely cook, just toss a salad into a bowl or spread peanut butter onto bread, so most of my meal-prep is five minutes or less. Still, Dean is there more often than not, to see what I’m cooking and say something about it. “Snausages, I see.”

Yes, Dean calls sausages ‘snausages’, which was borderline amusing the first time he peered over my frying pan and said, “Snausages, I see.” It’s far less amusing the 17th time, and one of the key advantages of going vegan is hoping to never again hear Dean say “snausages.”

Nineteen times over the past three weeks, I’ve made a meal in the kitchen, and nine of those times, Dean was already in the kitchen. Four times he wasn’t, but came into the kitchen from his bedroom while I was prepping my food. One time, he came into the kitchen from the bathroom.

Meal subtotal: 14 of 19 times making meals, Dean was there. That’s 74% Dean. And every damned time, he’s started talking.

Robert was in the kitchen three of those times, eating his dinner over sports with Dean. The New Guy was there once, microwaving something.

THE TOILET

When I gotta pee, it’s usually dribbled into a jug here in my room, because that’s quicker than getting up and going down the hall, but also because opening my door and emerging from my room risks running into Dean. When I gotta poop in the middle of the night, though, or it’s time to empty my piss-pot, it can’t be avoided.

Seventeen times over the past three weeks, I’ve opened my bedroom door and walked across the kitchen into the john. Eight of those times, Dean was in the kitchen, and (of course) started talking. Twice, Dean was in the john, and me not knowing which flatmate was in there, I waited until he came out, and (of course) he started talking.

Toilet subtotal: Ten out of seventeen trips to the john, Dean’s been there. That’s 59% Dean. My other flatmates, I’ve encountered not once on my potty-runs.

THE BOTTOM LINE

Grand totaling the above, there’ve been seven nods and hellos to my other two flatmates over the past three weeks, which works out to 13% Robert, and 4% The New Guy. But 32 out of 46 times I’ve stepped out of my room became Dean encounters, which is 70% Dean.

Even living this life, that number impresses me. Bear in mind that Dean works, and his evenings are frequently spent at a bar, so he’s often not home. And yet, 70% Dean.

Sometimes I’ve suspected that he’s stalking me, but I don’t think it’s personal. He’s stalking anyone he can talk to. When our now-dead flatmate ‘L’ was getting his final affairs in order, his mother and brother were sometimes here in the house, and Dean cornered them for conversations. And I’ve overheard some of Dean’s phone calls, where he says “One more thing” more often than Columbo.

Many, many times in many, many ways, I’ve told Dean that his opinions about my groceries, my menu, or my pee and poop schedule are unwelcome. And yet: When I come out of my room, there’s a 70% chance of Dean.

Nothing can explain that, except that Dean is mentally ill. When I strangle and disembowel him, can I use his insanity as my defense?

5/3/2026

itsdougholland.com
← PREVIOUS          NEXT →

On my block of Telegraph, only five vendors were selling, all clumped together with Jasper in the middle. My choice was, join the five and be near Jasper all day, or set up alone on the other side of the street. I went across the street. I’d rather work alone than be near that putz all day, and he always finds ways to remind me why. 

In the early afternoon, some idiot brought his dog to the Ave, tied the dog up outside the bookstore, and went inside, where he spent half an hour, leaving the dog on the street.

This was not a cute puppy. It was as big and mean as Bela Lugosi — growling and sometimes snapping at people passing by, especially the skateboarders and rollerbladers. The growling was close enough to my table that it was scaring customers away, and I was considering a short walk to whomp the mutt’s nose with my newspaper (the chain holding the dog seemed sturdy).

Then a middle-aged black lady walked by, and the dog, restrained only by its leash, leaped out at her. The chain held, and snapped the dog back, but the woman was startled and slipped and landed on her ass. She started cussing the cur, and that’s when Jasper began yelling from across the street, “Hey, quit agitating that dog! Just let the dog be!”

Absolute Jasper: Finding the wrong thing to say, and saying it loudly. The woman stopped yelling at the dog, started yelling at Jasper instead, and they screamed at each other for long enough it quickly progressed from amusing to annoying.

Ya know, I wouldn’t even object to Jasper always yelling about something. Heck, lots of people could use a good screaming at. But he hollers just to hear himself holler, and often hollers truly stupid things, like what he yelled at that lady.

So I joined in and yelled at Jasper to shut up, the lady was the dog’s victim, etc. He yelled at me, louder than I yelled at him, and I ended up giving him the middle fingers on both hands.

When the toppled lady had left, the dog was still growling at people, and I finally took my Chronicle and smacked its head twice but good. So of course Jasper started yelling at me again from across the street, “Cruelty to animals, I thought you were better than that, Doug!”

I bellowed back, but only briefly, because it’s pointless. There’s no getting through to Jasper, and anyway, he likes yelling. Doesn’t matter what you yell at him, if you’re yelling he’s happy, and he’s won.

One day, though, maybe one day soon, I’ll have had enough of Jasper.

♦ ♦ ♦  

A young, prim couple stopped to look at the fish, and before I’d even said hello the woman scowled at me. “Do you know the symbolism of the fish?”

“Well, hell, of course I know. That’s what makes the fish funny.”

“666,” she said, pointing at one of our better-selling fish. “That’s not funny.”

“It’s funny to people who have a sense of humor,” I said, cheerfully, flashing my best bad-teeth smile.

“Some things are too serious to joke about,” she said.

“You’re probably right about that,” I said. “No holocaust jokes for me, no rape jokes, uhh…” my voice trailed off, as I couldn’t think of anything else that’s impossible to laugh at.

“Darwin,” the man said, looking a Darwin fish, but he was talking to his wife, not to me. “Whenever I see a Darwin fish, I break off its legs.”

“Vandalism,” I said, still playing cheerful. “That’s mighty Christian of you.”

“Yes indeed,” he said righteously, almost harrumphing.

“Yes indeed,” I repeated back at him. “It’s in First Corinthians — ‘Go thou and destroy other people’s things’.”

He said nothing to that, just stared at me. He looked kinda dumb, to be honest — a mouth-breather, frowning.

The woman said, “I really hate the hypocrisy,” and started leading him away.

“No hypocrisy here,” I said, raising my voice a little as they walked off. “I straight-up hate Jesus.”

Which might’ve been too much?

The man turned and walked toward me, ‘striding’ actually, and I was, well, terrified for just a moment. He jabbed his hand toward me, but he was smiling big and wasn’t holding a gun or even a fist; he was in handshake position, like Pleased to meet you.

But I wasn’t pleased. My right hand was in my pocket, holding the mace, and I wasn’t about to let go. I managed a smile, and we stood there smiling at each other.

“I’m sorry you don’t know Him,” he said, and I let loose a snort of derision. After they’d walked away, I noticed I’d also let loose a few ounces of pee.

Pathetic Life
← PREVIOUS          NEXT →

itsdougholland.com
← PREVIOUS          NEXT →

every movie ever made, in alphabetical order
(we’re in the K’s, with anti-alphabetical cheats)

— — —

A Killing Affair (1986)

The setting is a small, Southern town in the 1940s, and the opening scene is a preacher preaching in church. Like the people in the pews, I’m losing interest. There’s Kathy Baker, though, and she’s always good, and Peter Weller is in the credits, though he ain’t yet shown up…

Crickets are all over the soundtrack to remind you you’re in a small town, but they mostly underscore that nothing’s happening. Then it is slowly established that the man who manages the mill, the town’s main employer, is an ass. Then more crickets. Then we’re shown that he’s also an ass at home, to his wife and kids.

This was either made for television or taped on VHS, so it looks shitty and smudgy. And the sound is out of whack, with crickets too loud and they never shut up, even on interior scenes. Often they’re accompanied by whippoorwills, croaking toads, a rooster shouting cock-a-doodle-doo in the distance, and sad off-screen harmonica music.

After more than 15 minutes of harmonica, crickets, and croaking toads, the mill owner’s wife discovers a dead body in the barn, which really livens up the place. Ten minutes later, Peter Weller shows up, looking for work at the mill, and after that it’s a strange and intense li’l drama, almost worth seeing, but never worth hearing. The harmonica is fucking oppressive, and the crickets, lord, the crickets.

Verdict: MAYBE.

♦ ♦ ♦

The Killing Fields (1984)

New York Times reporter Sydney Schanberg (Sam Waterston) is covering the American war crime of Cambodia, a sidelight of the American war crime commonly called the Vietnam War. A Cambodian dude named Dith Pran is Schanberg’s interpreter, and becomes his friend.

And then, in the middle of Hell already, more Hell breaks out, and Schanberg chooses to survive by fleeing the country. Pran, though, lives there, has family and friends and a life and all, so he stays, and the Hell engulfs him.

The Killing Fields is a winner of universal high praise and the Best Actor Oscar for Haing S. Ngor, a non-actor, himself a refugee from Cambodia. It’s as good as everyone says, but I couldn’t stop thinking it’s simply the American way: make war for no reason, or a nonsense reason, and then bail when the Hell of it gets too intense, and make a movie about it.

Verdict: YES.

♦ ♦ ♦

The Killing of a Chinese Bookie (1976)

John Cassavetes made many terrific films, and Ben Gazzara starred in plenty himself, but this one is utterly what the fuck. Gazzara plays some night club operator and small time crook, and in lieu of a plot the movie just shows him doing night-club-operator and small-time-crook stuff, on and on and on, until I turned it off and off and off.

Verdict: NO.

♦ ♦ ♦

The Killing of Sister George (1968)

An actress unknown to me, Beryl Reid, plays June Buckridge, an actress on a British soap opera, playing ‘Sister George’. The character is a cherub, nothing but niceness, but the actress is a rude and crude, brassy and bitchy, an angry bull dyke who’s frequently drunk. Who wouldn’t want to kill her?

Even off-screen, everyone calls the actress ‘George’, so I’ll call her George, too.

She thinks she’s about to be fired by the show, and might be right. She vents her anger at her live-in lover Charlie (Susannah York), a blonde decades younger than George, who’s forced to eat George’s cigar. Symbolism much?

Based on a play and very theatrically staged by Robert Aldrich (The Flight of the Phoenix, Kiss Me Deadly, What Ever Happened to Baby Jane?), Sister George channels Bette Davis with an English accent and a lesbo motif. The flick could seem anti-gay on a superficial level, but more accurately it’s anti-human, which makes it a blast.

Rated X in 1968, for no reason discernible in 2025.

Verdict: YES.

♦ ♦ ♦

The Killing Time (1987)

In a coastal town so sleepy the cops are unarmed, the police chief is about to retire. But a slimy real estate developer is trying to kill his wife, who’s trying to kill him first, and a newly-hired policeman isn’t who he says he is.

The Killing Time is a throwback to the noir era — enjoyably sordid, packed with interweaving subplots where the good guys aren’t much better than the bad guys. Beau Bridges, Kiefer Sutherland, and femme fatale Camelia Kath star, with support from Joe Don Baker, Wayne Rogers, and Michael Madsen.

This frequently played as the bottom of retro double- and triple-features at The Strand in early-’90s San Francisco, where I saw it several times. Remembered it fondly, but over the decades I’d forgotten the title, so it was a pleasant surprise when this surfaced in the Ks on my watchlist.

With a better-than-b-movie cast, it could’ve been a classic, but you don’t get classic with Beau Bridges, Kiefer Sutherland, and Wayne Rogers. You’ll have to settle for pretty good, and it is.

Verdict: YES.

♦ ♦ ♦

Messiah of Evil (1973)
a/k/a Dead People
a/k/a Night of the Damned
a/k/a Revenge of the Screaming Dead

A young woman kills, seemingly for no reason. Another woman, not quite so young, searches for her missing father, an artist of no renown. We’re shown wild murders at a Mobil gas station and a Ralph’s supermarket, but the companies sure didn’t pay for product placement.

Everything and everybody here is strange. Bleeding-eyeball cannibal zombies show up, but this is more than a zombie flick. Messiah of Evil is an American movie, set in the USA with all-English dialogue, but it looks and feels as Italian as risotto and agnolotti, and it’s delicious.

It never comes together as a story, but maybe that’s on me — I watched it all wrong, ten or fifteen minutes nightly over the course of a week. Doesn’t matter. It’s huge on atmosphere and being eerie, with plenty of inventive cinematography, bizarre sets, and wild visuals all the way.

Oh, and that’s Walter Hill, director of The Driver, 48 Hours, Streets of Fire, The Warriors, etc, being murdered in the opening scene. Hill didn’t direct this, though. He’s just popping in to say hello, and goodbye.

It’s directed by Willard Huyck, and co-written by Huyck and Gloria Katz, co-writers of such classics as American Graffiti and Howard the Duck. Marianna Hill (The Godfather Part II, High Plains Drifter) stars, with Michael Greer (The Magic Garden of Stanley Sweetheart), Anita Ford (Invasion of the Bee Girls), Joy Bang (Play It Again Sam), and surreal cameos by familiar character actors Royal Dano and Elisha Cook Jr.

Gave me nightmares all week long, and I’m eager to watch it again.

Verdict: BIG YES.

Logo illustration by Jeff Meyer.
— — —
If you can’t find a movie I’ve reviewed, or if you have recommendations, please drop me a note.
— — —
No talking once the lights dim, and only real butter on the popcorn, not that fake yellow stuff.