My fingers are still sticky from yesterday’s canned adhesive on my flyers and all over me. I’ve learned something about myself, though — apparently, I cradle my head in my hands while I sleep, or so I surmise, because every time all night long when I woke up to pee or yawn or whatever, my hair was a little stickier.
That sticky stuff in a can? Never again.
♦ ♦ ♦
♦ ♦ ♦
Gave up and bought some sticker paper (blank, not “Hi, I’m…”), though I still think it’s far too expensive. Changed the text of the flyers again, replacing ‘tour guide’ with ‘private detective’, because that sounds like more fun. Then my primitive word-processor printed some flyers on the sticky paper, which worked fairly well.
I spent the afternoon slapping sticky-flyers onto every telephone pole and bus stop and newspaper vending box from the Great Highway to Church Street. On the way back I rode the streetcar now and then, but mostly walked through the avenues, stopping at every laundromat to tack up the earlier, non-sticky version of my flyer on the bulletin boards inside.
Some laundromats don’t have a bulletin board, which must be a communist plot or something. A corkboard full of garage sales and bands needing drummers is what makes a laundry part of its neighborhood, instead of just a collection of heavy coin-operated machinery. Hell, it takes an hour minimum to wash and dry, and nobody reads a newspaper for that long. Give the people a bulletin board!
Yessir and ma'am, Pathetic Doug says, Stand up for free speech! Never wash your undies and britches at a laundromat that lacks a bulletin board. Thank you for your attention to this matter.
Anyway, walking and riding and flyering was peaceful. Zen, I dare say. Even in the city, or especially in the city, a leisurely hike or ride from laundry to laundry can be a time of quiet contemplation. There are lots of laundromats, so I did lots of hiking, and my legs are limp now, but it feels good. Longish walks are something I ought to do more often, with or without flyers and laundromats.
And when I got near the rez hotel and checked my messages at a phone booth, behold — there were messages! Yippee!
From Pathetic Life #10
Sunday, March 5, 1995
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.
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