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Diane & Jeffrey

Another
"White Boy" zine

I check the maildrop only once weekly, on Mondays when I'm in the city. That makes Tuesdays my usual day for taking care of the mail, and here we go…

Paul Weinman is a poet, and I don't know if he's any good — I suppose, if I read his poems aloud and seriously, there might be something there, but he sends his "White Boy" mini-micro-chapbooks everywhere — to every address listed in Factsheet Five, I suspect — and they're re-circulated ceaselessly, and I am so tired of his "White Boy" poetry. Every week, there's more "White Boy" stuff in my mailbag.

This week sets a new record — three people enclosed Weinman's "White Boy" zines in their correspondence, plus here's a "special issue" of Taggerzine devoted entirely to Weinman, and here's a one-shot poetry zine by Daily Cow's David Wyder and 'Paula Weinman', so I guess he's a white girl now. I can't find a large enough container to hold my lack of excitement.

Also in the mail came a bit of unsolicited porn, but I'd never complain about that. But I'm about to. Hey, if you want to send naked snapshots of your penis, your snatch, whatever you've got, send it. Two of my readers routinely wrap their three dollars in homemade porn, and those are always among the first envelopes I open.

The glossy porn received today, though, is not for me. It's The Mammoth Mammories Catalog, page after page of naked women with breasts so large I kinda feel sorry for them (the ladies, not the breasts). These are skinny women with boobies three times the size of their heads, and I don't mean both boobies, I mean each booby.

Whether nature's to blame or a surgeon, it's almost a disability, I think. The back pain must be endless. It's too much tits to be titillating, so please, send no more of this. Send it to Paul Weinman.

♦ ♦ ♦ 

Also received: $3 for the next issue of Pathetic Life, from Diane & Jeffrey. I'll leave out their last name.

Every month they send three bucks for the next issue, and even though their address is only a mile and a half from mine, they haven't even hinted at inviting me to dinner or anything. Thank you, Diane & Jeffrey.

With big exceptions, I have generally enjoyed meeting the readers who've wanted to meet me, but it's always an obligation, and I dread it at least until the handshake hello, and sometimes after.

It makes no sense that anyone would read these rantings from a guy who's obviously an introvert and a misanthrope, and then invite me to a movie or a cup of coffee. Like you're the human I'll be glad to have met?

Of course, that is how I met Jay, who I work for. And Judith, who I live with. And Sarah-Katherine, who might be moving to New York with me. As a rule, though, this hermit likes being a hermit, so thank you again, Diane & Jeffrey, for respecting that. Let's not get together some time!

♦ ♦ ♦

Yowza! Guess who called my I'll do anything voice mail? Andrea, a woman I sorta know and have a crush on. Her regular babysitter is out of town, and she needs someone to tend her brat next Monday night, so I called her back and said sure, for five bucks an hour I'll do anything.

She had only one question: "I'm sorry to be blunt here, but I don't know you very well. Are you a pervert?"

It's an obvious question, if you're hiring a 37-year-old fat bearded bachelor to be a babysitter. Hearing the question point blank, though, I was taken aback.

I thought about answering with the complicated truth, that of course I'm a pervert — most people probably are, and I've done things with sauerkraut you'd never imagine. But a philosophical discussion of kinks isn't what Andrea wanted, and it wouldn't have landed me the gig, so instead I gave a simple, honest answer: "Little kids don't turn me on, Andrea."

Then it was her turn to be silent for a moment, and I think she thought she'd offended me, so I added, "I am, however, attracted to your daughter's mother."

She relaxed and laughed, and next Monday night I'll be impersonating a responsible adult, looking after a little kid.

— — —

Addendum, 2022:  Google tells me that the poetry of "White Boy" Paul Weinman ended in 2015.

The obituary in his local paper is worth clicking and reading. He seems to have been a man I might've liked, but as usual for me, I never made the effort.

Maybe it was a mistake to give up, after reading two or three of the (seriously) hundreds of his mini-micro-chapbooks that landed in my mailbox. It really was a blizzard of "White Boy" poems back then, and always I wondered why he mailed them over and over to people who'd never asked for them.

Probably it was for the same reason I write this blog for a tiny audience — hoping for a connection.

From Pathetic Life #18
Tuesday, Nov. 28, 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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