Monday means BARTing into the city to work at Black Sheets, and as I walked to the train, there was an… interesting sight on the patch of green between sidewalk and street — a man and woman were tangled together, rolling in the grass and enjoying an extended horizontal kiss like From Here to Eternity.

Nothing illegal, mind you, or even immoral, but it looked like fun. They were obviously horny, and only slightly distracted by their children, who were climbing atop the pile of parents. Mommy laughed, Daddy laughed, the kids laughed, and even I laughed.

I prefer kissing behind closed doors when I get the chance, which is never, but it was a sweet scene. It looked like genuine family values, as opposed to the Republican kind.

♦ ♦ ♦  

I’d accepted another invitation from my new pals, Jacque and Lori, so after Black Sheets I BARTed to Berkeley, and there I was, banging on the door of the big brown house they share with so many other people.

This time nobody answered, but the door was unlocked so after a respectful pause I let myself in, walked down to the basement, and knocked on their door.

Dinner was great. Lori had made Chinese noodles with oodles of vegetables. And the conversation was better than last time. Not only did we not talk about politics, but I discovered that Jacque has adopted baseball as his passion. That’s kooky because he’s a French immigrant, and says he never understood the game before coming here, so we talked about the Giants and A’s prospects, and Lori wasn’t left out because she’s a fan, too.

And wow, she sure is pregnant. Their kid’s gonna be late for kindergarten if it doesn’t pop out soon. I asked when she’s going to burst, and she said a week from tomorrow, but I didn’t know what else to ask except how are you going to raise a child in this one room that’s already full? And that’s not a question for me to ask.

After dinner, I helped Lori carry the dishes to the dresser (their system is complicated, but that’s where dishes wait to be washed). Jacque had promised a noir double feature, but instead he said, “I’ve been having an itch for I, Claudius.”

“Oh?” I said flatly. 

“Yeah, it’s great,” he said. “Have you ever seen it?”

“It’s an old TV show, right? PBS?” 

“Yes, Masterpiece Theatre, and it’s wonderful,” he promised, but I was skeptical. “I have all 13 episodes on tape, and I’ve seen them four times. That’s how good it is. But it’s been a few years, and Lori has never seen it, can you believe it?”

“Neither have I,” I said, as disinterested as possible without seeming simply rude. Never seen it, never wanted to, and I remember being bored even hearing about it in the 1970s, when everyone was talking about that show.

“Well, you’re both in for a treat,” he said, and with that Jacque reached for a cassette, and stuffy old Alistair Cooke started telling us what we were about to see — something I object to, on principle. A drama should stand on its own, without needing an introduction.

And then, I, Claudius, and I, bored silly. I have a severe lack of giveadamnitude about the lives of powerful men and women, from Robin Leach to Stacy Keach, and a soap opera about long-dead slave-owners and rulers and wanna-be gods is not something I’m naturally inclined toward. I slept through the Roman Empire in high school (slept through all of high school, actually, before dropping out).

But Jacque had been kind enough to invite me and Lori kind enough to feed me, so I thought I could give this silly show half an hour’s try, just to be polite. When it became unbearably dull I could start an argument with Jacque and stomp out, or feign stomach cramps or something.

After ten minutes of palace intrigue, Lori flashed me a stage yawn when Jacque wasn’t looking, and I laughed out loud and then lied about why I’d laughed.

After twenty minutes, the names and complicated inter-relationships were still eluding me, and Jacque pause it to tutor me through who was who’s mother and who’s wife and who’s lover, rewinding and freeze-framing to sort out the cast of characters.

Half an hour into it, I was hooked. The political backstabbing makes for grand fun, and when someone professes love and loyalty, when two people embrace and swear eternal brotherhood, the next scene reveals every word of it to be a lie, just like most ‘friendships’ here in the real world. So to my surprise, I, Claudius is fascinating, funny, and intelligent, at least so far.

There wasn’t much time for talking between episodes, and after the fourth hour I wanted a fifth but felt I’d overstayed my welcome, so I said my thank youse for dinner, good company, good times.

Instead of a handshake I gave Jacque & Lori a big hug on my way out. I’ve decided they’re two true friends forever, through thick and thin and whatever may come, at least until I’ve seen all 13 episodes.

Pathetic Life
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On Friday, my brother Dick texted, “First day of spring!” with a laughing monkey emoji. He’s big on emojis, the sillier the better.

I replied, “First day of my last spring.”

Dick didn’t notice the pessimism in that line, and started prattling on about baseball, but “my last spring” seems like a likely assessment of the situation.

It’s not depression, I’ll never be suicidal, and I’m hoping to hang around long enough to celebrate Donald Trump’s death, but life’s offered ten thousand disappointments. Death will probably let me down, too.

I am old, and feel every year of it. Always something aches, almost always for no reason. Some days more of me aches than doesn’t.

Haven’t had a bowel movement in twenty years that wasn’t lubed along by laxatives.

Haven’t slept straight through the night since I was ten years old.

Haven’t had a fully firm erection since the 2010s.

Not often, but sometimes there’s blood in my stool and semen.

My toenails are so thick it takes a hacksaw to trim ’em, but I’m so fat that bending that far is a challenge, so the nails aren’t cut until they draw blood from neighbor toes.

Had a rash a while back, and still do. Ordinarily, rashes fade by rubbing in triple antibiotic ointment or squirting plenty of Lotrimin, but this rash has been itchy and scratchy for a month now, getting neither better nor worse.

Thirty years ago, I had a tooth yanked, and the wound became infected. Ever since, I’ve had otherwise unexplained fevers once or twice a month, and taken three aspirin three times daily until the fever subsides. Lately, the fevers are coming more and more often.

Speaking of teeth, mine are awful, and the recurring toothaches come more often than even a few months ago.

My right leg has plumped up like a Ball Park frank. A doc ten years ago told me to wear compression socks, so I do, and when the leg gets superplump, I add a second, now a third compression sock.

And my brain is receding. Words and names are more and more elusive. Writing is… what’s the word? Difficult. A few days ago I was headed south, but waited at the northbound bus stop, even got onto a northbound bus before realizing my mistake.

Bad dreams come so frequently, I’ve started keeping a list. In the past week I’ve dreamed nuclear war, a visit from my father’s rotting corpse, and an earthquake where the walls were shaking but the boss told everyone to stay on the job. A co-worker ran for a first-floor window and dived out, and I followed her, and after we’d landed we turned around and watched the building collapse to dust. Everyone, dead.

I dreamed I was riding a bus that tipped over rounding a corner too fast. The doors wouldn’t open, and the windows, which are supposed to pop out in an emergency, were welded shut, and then the bus started filling with toxic fumes.

Not sure whether it was a school massacre or a workplace massacre, but I dreamed that someone with a gun was going around in a crowded, busy place, killing people at random. Kash Patel was in charge of the negotiating team that was trying to get him to surrender, but acquiesced to the killer’s demand for a supply of more guns and ammo.

Obviously, my mental health is unhealthy. Jeez, look at this room — I’ve stopped making even the slightest effort at tidiness, haven’t taken out trash in a couple of months, and the debris is taller than I am (not an exaggeration). I simply don’t give a shit.

And all that’s why it wouldn’t be a surprise if 2026 is my last go-round. Being old is the only diagnosis more fatal than being born.

3/24/2026

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Today on Telegraph, I worked beside Hilda again, the cleavage queen from last weekend. It was an enjoyable view, absolutely, but she didn’t show me quite as much today as last Sunday.

She makes and sells small paintings, the size of snapshots. Just right for people with limited wall space, and her artwork is appealing, but it’s the cleavage that makes the sales. It’s an effective technique, and she’s a master of it.

I especially noticed her skill today when she was talking to couples, a man and a woman together. She’d make eye contact with both of them, and carry herself like she was unaware of her boobs, but whenever she was talking to the woman in any couple, the man’s eyes shifted downward. Always at least a flicker, sometimes a stare. And almost always, a sale.

♦ ♦ ♦  

Cinnamon came by, reproach in her eyes. She’s the wacky woman who’d invited me a month ago (2/16) to join her mysterious troupe of street screwballs or performance artists. Today she wanted to know why I hadn’t called.

“It’s not often I give a man my number and he doesn’t call,” she said.

“I hate telephones,” I explained, “and anyway, I didn’t understand what exactly you’d invited me for.”

“Do you need to understand?” she asked, and smiled.

When we’d talked in February, I hadn’t had much to say. Today I was somewhat surlier, and instead of being charmed, her secretive demeanor gnawed at my nerves.

She hadn’t gone into any detail about her project either then or today, so I asked again, and she said, “Sometimes we dance, sometimes we sing, sometimes we simply sit and chant.”

“And where do you do this?”

“On the campus, or in the city, or at the mall. Anywhere, really.” She flashed a hippie smile, which no doubt seals the deal with her, usually.

“Cinnamon,” I said as if that’s her name, “you never give straight answers, but I’m a guy who needs a straight answer.”

She didn’t answer, straight or otherwise, only looked at me and smiled even bigger.

“If you want me to be interested,” I ‘splained, “you’ll have to actually tell me what you’re up to.”

“I told you, Doug,” and I was both impressed and suspicious that she remembered my name. I’d remembered hers, but I’m a lot less memorable than she is. Then she proceeded to, again, not really tell me. “We perform street art for street people—”

“Well, I’m sorta street people, so when and where’s your next gig? Maybe I’ll stop by and see it.”

“Until you’re one of us,” she said, still twinkling, “I can’t tell you where we’ll be. Soon enough you’ll understand.”

She’s pretty, so I took a long moment looking at her, trying to come up with the right response. “Soon enough would have to be now.”

“Trust me,” she said, and her smile almost overflowed her face.

“People who ask for trust,” I said, “are the people I trust least.”

And at that she finally lost the Cinnamon smile. “You’ll regret it if you let me walk away,” she said, but was it a threat, or a prediction? Don’t know, didn’t care.

“Get the fuck out of here,” I said, and pointed down the street. After giving me some unbleeped expletives she walked away, yelling and flipping the bird in my direction.

When she was gone I ate my lunch of mayonnaise sandwiches, thinking, Good riddance, Cinnamon. I’m not sure what exactly I sidestepped today, but it was plain from her reaction that most men step right into it.

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