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Man down

Riding BART into San Francisco, I sat opposite two casually dressed young white men, both wearing baseball caps. One of their caps said "NARC," and the other said "FBI."

From their sloppy clothes and stick-thin builds, they were clearly not lawmen, and the caps are a joke. Ha ha fucking ha.

Why not wear a cap that says "NAZI" or "MAFIA" or "EXECUTIONER"? That would be the same joke, same punchline, and just as funny, which is not funny at all.

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At Civic Center Station, the escalator and the elevator were both out of order. That's a violation of the Americans with Disabilities Act, and also a pain in the ass.

I had to climb the stairs up from the subway station. Take one look at me, and you'd know that I don't want to walk up a very, very long stairway. Plodding up me sweaty and grumpy, and then there was oncoming traffic.

The stairway is wide enough for three people to walk side-by-side, or two of me, so there was plenty of room. A few other people were going up and down, but the two that matter to this story were me going up, and a young skinny white man coming down. He was following an older white man, who apparently wasn't walking fast enough, so the skinny guy maneuvered into the middle of the stairway to pass him.

This put him on a collision course with me. There would not be enough room for our bodies to clear each other unless I turned sideways against the handrail.

This, however, I will not do. I will and do assert my right to exist in public, and even when there's no painted yellow line, there are lanes for traffic, and he'd come into my lane.

So I continued climbing, did not turn sideways, and instead stiffened my torso for a firm body block. He had time to see me coming, and he did see me. We made eye contact, but he foolishly assumed I'd yield.

Instead I continued going up, he continued coming down, and wham. He bashed into me so hard that he lost his footing and crumpled. It looked like it hurt, and there was loud swearing.

I kept walking, but when I reached the top of the stairs the sound of "What the fuck is your problem?" was too tempting, so I turned back to look and smile and wave.

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Working at the sex magazine, it was a little embarrassing to be proofreading the galleys for the next issue of Black Sheets, and find Bill's review of my Pathetic Life.

Gads, he says nothing but nice things about my lousy little zine, even finds philosophical meaning I hadn't known was there. I wanted to red-line the whole review. I don't take compliments well.

♦ ♦ ♦ 

Steve Omlid, office manager at Black Sheets, is a 40-year-old 'theater kid', and he invited me to a play he's directing. He said he's proud that it has two songs with the word "fuck" in the title.

"So it's a musical," I asked, "like Disney's The Lion King?"

"Yeah, it's exactly like The Lion King," Steve explained, "but with a lot more dick."

Well, I love musicals, and it's a freebie, and Steve knows I'm antisocial so he assured me there'd be no schmoozing or socializing before or after. "Two tickets if you want 'em," he said, holding them out to me.

"There's nobody I'd bring," I said, "but I'll take one ticket." So on Wednesday night, I'm going to see a live musical, alone, with dick.

From Pathetic Life #20
Monday, January 22, 1996

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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