There I was, just a-walkin’ down the street, when a low-rider came by and a tattooed manchild leaned out the window to shout at me, “Fuck, you’re a fat fuck!”
High school never ends, and strangers do tell me I’m fat now and again. The taunting is doubtless worse for women, so I’m not complaining. My fatness is not a secret, but my preferred adjective is voluptuous.
♦ ♦ ♦
Thank you, Miss Brandt, for teaching me reading and writing and arithmetic. Thanks also to a few other fine teachers in public schools, who taught the basics of US and world history, civics, research, science, art, music, and genuine thinking. It was stuff all kids need to learn, and it was taught early, before adolescence, up to about 6th grade.
After that, at least for my schooling, education was entirely what I’d call ‘polishing’ — stuff some kids might need, but useless brain-twiddling for most of us. For me, everything from 7th grade to the day I dropped out was wasted time. Maybe being anesthetized in high school is what makes so many adults numb to intelligent thought.
♦ ♦ ♦
More clearly than ever in my life, I can see the end — the end of me, the end of America (whatever ‘America’ ever was, really), and the end of everything. It’s all so clear, it’s difficult to see anything else, even when I turn away.
As for me, thanks for asking, I’m as well as I’m going to be. That’s been my mantra, since my wife and my closest friends have died. Things only get worse, and when they get bad enough I’ll do what my pal Joey did — but not soon, not so long as I’m having a good time, and I am having a good time.
♦ ♦ ♦
Couple of days ago, there was a protest I’d planned on being part of, but my innards were starting to percolate and I knew I’d need porcelain at unpredictable moments along the way. That’s how it goes, when you’re old and trying to balance the internal dryness with laxatives. Seattle has no public restrooms, so I stayed home that day, damn it.
I’ve been to five protests, and enjoy having brief conversations with other people who aren’t full of hate and stupidity and cruelty, and loud conversations with people who are.
In the old days when I was young, I was the pin guy at protests, and now, again, my backpack is cluttered with pins calling for various forms of sanity. It’s a call that won’t be answered, of course. America is insane, and apparently we like it like that.
If you’d like one of my pins, I have plenty, and they’re free for anyone who’s supported the website, either financially or with comments.
3/16/2025
Leave a Reply