Shall we dance?

Used the last of my deodorant yesterday, so today I'll be odorant. Usually I've applied chemicals to my arm pits only on special sweaty occasions — big date, job interview, etc — but not at work, because work for me was always just sitting in a chair in an air-conditioned office. Now that I'm actually working when I work, I've been using generic roll-on.

Not today, though. It's all gone, so let's see if I stink unbearably by tonight, or if I've been wasting $3 a month fighting body odor that never puts up a fight.

♦ ♦ ♦

LeeAnn and Stevi have invested in a spotlight, which shines down from the shop, on the second-floor porch, once the sun goes down. They have me working into the evening hours, in the spotlight with my flyers. 

Wearing the cape was already like cloaking myself in a borrowed personality — I become strangely pleasant and outgoing — and the spotlight turns it up to 11. The cape flutters behind me as I twirl and spin and dance, badly, under the light, and invite people upstairs to the shop. My routine gets laughs from the neighbors and occasional applause from Stevi, who likes to stand by the spotlight and watch.

They kept the shop open and me on the sidewalk until 10:00, and the last half-hour got kinda crazy. A semi-drunk man, fresh from a bar down the street, danced with me for a few minutes. He let me lead, so I let him flirt. His friend had a boombox, and the song was "Money Money Money," by Abba. 

Then his friend wanted to dance with me, too, which wasn't quite as pleasant. It was another Abba song but not a song I knew, and he was drunker than the first guy. He came close to toppling, and got a little handsy — squeezed my buttcheek — and then he made a suggestion my mother wouldn't approve of.

♦ ♦ ♦

Home from work, and sadly I smell myself and it doesn't smell good. Guess I gotta spring for deodorant. I don't mind looking strange, but I'd rather not have a distinctive Doug odor.

♦ ♦ ♦

My next trip to the movies won't be for a movie. Every year, the Roxie projects the Oscar telecast on their big screen, so you're surrounded by movie fans who taunt the winners when something sucky wins a statuette. Sounds great, like a party minus all the boring chit-chat, but I've only heard about it, never attended. Why would I pay, when the Oscars are free on TV?

A few months back, though, I gave away my telly, so it's either doing without the hilariously overhyped ceremony, farcical dances "interpreting" nominated songs, and the winners' pretentious or sometimes political speeches, or attending the show at the Roxie, for the price of one punch on my pre-paid discount card.

I think the Oscars are worth a punch, don't you? Having David Letterman in charge cinches it, or clinches it, or both. 

So I'm going to the Oscars on Monday night — as a member of the press, sort of. "Anything legal for $5 an hour." I've been assigned to cover the Oscars at the Roxie, for the Anderson Valley Advertiser newspaper. Wonder if I can get the paper to pay for my popcorn…

From Pathetic Life #10
Saturday, March 25, 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.

Pathetic Life 

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