Patrick Buchanan won yesterday’s New Hampshire primary, and in a bizarre sort of way, that’s good news. He’s a 19th century man, a bigot and wanna-be woman-owner, a man of despicable politics to be sure. He’s a horrible human who ought to be spat on, but he’s the only candidate who says what he believes.

Bob Dole and Bill Clinton will say anything to get elected, so you never know what they actually believe, if anything. Buchanan, though, seriously believes all his hateful bullshit — that homosexuality is evil, abortion should be outlawed, Jews can’t be trusted, a wall should be built to keep Mexicans out of the country, Christianity should be the national religion, and all the rest. He won’t back away from any of it, and if he’s elected president, he seems like a man who’d keep every terrifying promise he’s made. Damned scary stuff.

Say the worst about Pat Buchanan, because it’s all true. He’s probably the worst candidate running, and a vote for Buchanan is a horrific concept. But at least it’s a vote for honesty in government.

♦ ♦ ♦ 

Recovering from the bad news, I took a long walk down Ashby Avenue, and along the way chanced upon Danny, my favorite bum.

Today he remembered me, though often he doesn’t, and for a few blocks walking, he told me all about his economic system. He calls it Berkeley Hours, and I call Danny dollars, and if it sounds familiar, yeah, I’d heard it all before, and written about it.

I didn’t mind hearing it again, though. It’s an intriguing idea, and I like Danny. Something’s happened to his brain, of course. He must’ve taken a whack on the head, or dropped too much acid, or it dropped him.

Clearly, though, he used to be somebody with brains and potential. Now he’s just Danny, a homeless man who wanders the streets of Berkeley, and that’s probably all he’ll do for the rest of his life. He needs better shoes and a warm place to sleep, a reliable source for food, and access to medical care. This is America, though, so there’ll be none of that, and he’ll die on these streets.

Pathetic Life
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When I have the money, which isn’t often lately, I like going to see odd or old movies. San Francisco and the burbs have several theaters that show nothing but offbeat stuff — the Castro, the Roxie, the Red Vic, Pacific Film Archive, the Stanford, the UC, maybe a few more I’ve forgotten.

There’s also the Cinematheque, which I intentionally forget. It’s the ultimate artsy-fartsy avant-garde cinema of pretentiousness. That’s an un-informed opinion, since I’ve never attended a film there, but yesterday I picked up the latest Cinematheque calendar, and this morning I’ve studied it. And again, same as every time I’ve looked at their listings, nothing seems worth the price of admission, let alone BART and bus fare to the Art Institute.

There was one event at Cinematheque a year or so ago that sounded so insane that I almost regret not going. They showed Yoko Ono’s feature-length documentary about butts, called Bottoms, which the calendar described as “an aimless petition, signed by people with their anuses.”

Tragically, I’ll wander through life without the enlightenment of watching people’s butts on a big screen for an hour and a half.

♦ ♦ ♦  

I’ve been feeling off-kilter the past few days, and even off-er today. I had work lined up, though, and can’t afford to call in sick, so a bus took me to Oakland, where I helped a guy clean “a complete disaster” apartment.

At least, that’s what I’d been told on the phone. A stranger’s uncle had died, leaving his apartment in a horrid condition, he said, so my client (the nephew) and I spent the day plowing through the mess.

But honestly, the place wasn’t that bad. I’ve seen worse. I’ve lived in worse. Next to nothing was rotting, and most of the mess was newspapers. The dear departed had subscribed to the Oakland Tribune, San Francisco Chronicle, and San Jose Mercury-News, but he didn’t believe in recycling or taking out the trash. Newspapers were everywhere. Some were stacked haphazardly, but most were simply pushed up against the walls. The oldest papers were from 1991.

So my entire day was stacking and tying up newspapers, and hand-trucking the stacks to the recycling bin. I made more than a hundred trips with the handtruck, and we didn’t see the floor until around 3:00. The nephew spent his day sorting through dead uncle’s possessions, and our work isn’t finished, but I had to stop hauling when the dumpster got full.The last hour or so, I was just tying up more bundles of newspapers, and stacking them near the door.

The nephew was all sad and stuff, not at all interested in talking, which was fine with me. I didn’t know his uncle, and wouldn’t want to share the grief. Plus, of course, he’s people, and I never know what to say to people even when nobody’s died.

To me it was just a job, and it earned me $35 for the day’s labor, plus the nephew said I could have anything I wanted from “the junk pile” — and that was the best tip ever. I brought home an old-style wind-up alarm clock, a few books, a cool folding yardstick, a vial of prescription sleeping pills, lots of canned vegetables, and about a hundred pens that were lying around everywhere.

I’m busing back tomorrow for what looks like another half day’s work, and I’ve already rolled up a second backpack and stuffed it inside my first backpack. That way I can take home twice as much of the dead uncle’s junk.

Pathetic Life
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our 68th weekly open mike

Let’s see what happens when your host (me) has nothing to say. Step right up, speak your mind, tell a story, sing a song, whatever.

2/21/2026

Anything goes

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