Diary of a Fat Slob

“The topic tonight is the hippies."

Leftovers & Links #58

You’re in a hurry and so am I, so here's a one-word newscast:

Good news:
• Drugs
• Lawsuit

Stupid news:
• Baseball
• Dirt

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If you've always wanted to sell your face in perpetuity for use in manufactured robots, sorry, you’re too late. After receiving 20,000 applications, Promobot will now take a year sifting through the photos.

Also, there’s this.

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Says here, chop suey was considered a gourmet dish in China, but in America it’s widely considered junk food, largely because of La Choy brand canned chop suey.

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“The topic tonight is the hippies,” and those words come from William F Buckley in 1968, so you might think you know what to expect, but Buckley’s guests are Jack Kerouac and Ed Sanders so it’s better than that.

Sanders differentiates himself from the hippies “in that I would have a more radical political solution,” and says smart things every damn time he opens his mouth. He’s angry enough to be alive but never impolite, and by halfway through I wanted to buy him a beer.

Kerouac has already had several — he’s drunk and makes no pretense not to be, interrupting and occasionally making fart noises, sometimes making sense, but often sounding surprisingly Republican.

Allen Ginsberg is in the audience, and Kerouac and Sanders both flash signals and comments at him. Oh, and there’s some other fuddy-duddy in a suit, who’s almost as ordinary and annoying as Buckley.

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This guy got scalped, and survived.

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New York City allows opening of safe illegal drug use sites, first in the nation

Quote: The centers will have staff on hand to administer naloxone to prevent any overdoses and counsel drug users on addiction treatment. Visitors can be provided with sterile paraphernalia for a range of drugs, including ones that are injected, sniffed and smoked; users must bring their own drugs. De Blasio said that local law enforcement have agreed not to police the sites for illegal drug use.

I’m definitely concerned about that last item on the list, but — fingers crossed. Overall, this is long-needed common sense.

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I am pissed off when I see coverage like this, from Associated Press, that says Trump has made “unproven claims” that the 2020 election was stolen.

It's been fifteen months with evidence promised over and over again but never presented. There's no evidence, so these are not “unproven claims.” They’re bullshit. Don’t bullshit me, Associated Press, and don’t help Trump bullshit America.

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Here’s a 25-minute video about Jim Nabors, a/k/a Gomer Pyle, who was every bit as wholesome in real life as he was on TV. Watching it is like getting a big hug from Nabors himself.

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The award-winning “School Portrait” is now ten years old.

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I am not quite sure what to make of this, as the site has no ‘about’ page, but it’s the most comprehensive database of racial slurs I’ve ever seen.

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Instant web page.

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If I can’t say it better than someone else, I’ll let someone else say it:

"In the 48 years since Roe was decided, the Democrats have had ample opportunity to codify the right to an abortion. In that time, they’ve controlled the Senate for 29 years, the House for 29 years and the presidency for 21 years. Instead, many Dems sought to restrict abortion rights, especially for poor women, largely by enacting the Hyde Amendment, which prohibited federal funds for abortions. The Hyde Amendment was first enacted in 1977, only four years after Roe. One of its most enthusiastic co-sponsors: Joe Biden."

—Jeffrey St Clair

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This is unimportant, not worth writing about, and certainly not worth reading about, sorry — but I hate this Lasko space heater so much. We’ve had it for years, and while it's never not worked, it's so stupidly designed it's an eternal frustration.

Annoyance #1: The thermostat turns the heater off and on based on the temperature of the room, but the settings are five degrees apart. You can’t set it for 72°; you must choose between 60°, 65°, 70°, 75°, 80°, and 85°, so whatever setting you choose, you get the Goldilocks Effect: Too hot, then too cool, then just right, then too hot again...

Annoyance #2: The beeps. Touch any button, and it emits a high-pitched 90-decibel beep. Turn it on, beep, set it to oscillate, beep, cycle through the temperature settings, beep beep beep beep. When my wife was with me, either of us unfailingly woke the other with beeps.

Who decided that a customer wants those amazingly loud beeps, with no option for silence? Or a thermostat with five-degree settings?

RIP, Lasko. You've been replaced by a $7 used space heater from Goodwill.

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Mystery links — Like life itself, there’s no knowing where you’re going:

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—②—
—③—

Sing along with Doug:
I Hate You, by Edge of Etiquette

Sincere tip 'o the hat:
Linden Arden • BoingBoing
Captain Hampockets • Follow Me Here
John the Basket • LiarTownUSA
Messy Nessy Chick • National Zero
Ran Prieur • Vintage Everyday
Voenix Rising

Extra special thanks:
Clayton Barnes • Becky Jo
Name Withheld • Dave S.

Leftovers & Links

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itsdougholland.com

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Less of me

For as long as I can remember, I was a tubby kid, flabbier than my “chart weight,” and teased for it by the other kids. I didn’t become truly enormous, though, until my late 20s, after a long-time girlfriend dumped me. Without her, it was cheesecake instead of delicious blowjobs, and when it left me unsatisfied, I’d have a second cheesecake. Not a second slice, a second cheesecake.

I’ve been a fat guy ever since, typically ordering two Big Macs, two Quarter Pounders, two large fries, two milk shakes, and two apple pies, calling it dinner, and then snacking a few hours later.

Adults tease fat people as much as kids do, usually as an annoying "expression of concern," but it's just as obnoxious, believe me. Do you think I don't know that I'm fat?

I am not one of those accidental fatsos. I'm fat, on purpose. I’ve never embraced the concept of 'full', because there's always room for one more eclair. I eat not because I’m hungry, but because it tastes good and feels good. We all have our craziness, and mine tastes better than yours.

And then, after my almost-as-fat friend Bruno croaked from a heart attack, I slowly but eventually started eating smarter. Over the course of several years I lost a man’s worth of weight, dropping all the way down to being merely tubby again.

Then came COVID-19 with all its worries, and working from home, where the fridge called my name 24/7 from just down the hall. After two years rooted in this recliner, I’ve gained back more than half the weight I once lost. Stepping onto the scale at the doctor’s office a few weeks ago was a moment of heavyweight sadness.

And so, I am going to lose the weight again, damn it. I’m announcing it here, because it’s more likely to happen if I announce it. Having given my word, I can't buy a pie. That’s the theory, anyway.

So I've said it, and I’ll be saying more. If you don’t care, that’s OK — I don’t care that you don’t care. If you’re a fattie like me, you’re invited to commiserate, share good advice and words of encouragement, and I’ll offer my own if you need ‘em.

My pledge to me: Less of me.

Weigh-in, 12/3/2021:
• At my biggest, five years ago: 380.
• At my smallest, two years ago: 180.
• At the doctor's office, two weeks ago: 299.
• Today, after a week and a half of salads: 297.

I’ll finish this entry with a special prize for anyone who’s read to the end: In my wallet are two Burger King gift cards with meals remaining — $25.05 on one card, $21.07 on the other. They’re perpetually tempting me to waddle down the street and buy more Whoppers, so to cleanse myself of that urge, I’ll mail both cards free to the first person who sends me their real-world address. My email address is itsdougholland at gmail.com.

The cards have been claimed and mailed.

12/3/2021

itsdougholland.com

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Salad bar science

Stanley and I met at the Tennessee Grill on Taraval, for an early lunch. He’d told me the place is a great, cheap diner, and that was no lie.

“Forget everything you know about salads,” he said, as he showed his technique for stacking a small plate and turning their $1.99 single-serving salad bar into a meal. Some of this I knew, but some of it’s new wisdom:

The key to a bargain salad, Stanley taught and I watched, is that lettuce is a vastly overrated member of the salad. You want to fill yourself up, don’t start with loads of lettuce and add a few frills. Do the opposite: Stock up on the bulky vegetables instead, with *maybe a little lettuce on the side. Select the items you want, of course, but choose them with structural integrity in mind. Cottage cheese, for example, should be at the edge of the plate, where it can support other stuff piled on top.

All this was kinda like we were doing the Kwai Chang Caine & Master Po routine, but Stanley’s salad stood 5½ inches tall, quite an architectural achievement. Mine wss about an inch and a half shorter, but hey, salads aren’t usually my thing, and it was enough to fuill me up.

At the Tennessee, this cheapo salad comes with a mini-loaf of sourdough bread, plenty of butter and jam, and a glass of water that — unlike many restaurants’ water — tasted like water. Lunch for two bucks, and it was a good lunch!

Stanley paid the balance due for his van that I sold him last month. He’s gotten it running again, and it was nice to see the old girl. After lunch, and after he’d driven away in the van that used to be mine, I walked around the neighborhood for a while.

I don’t get out to Taraval much, so it was new to me. There are lots of little shops where I didn’t spend anything, including an office supply store. I love office supply stores — there’s always cool stuff — but at this one I watched an old lady say “ledger paper” three times, then explain what it is, to a teenage clerk who shrugged and said, “We don’t carry it.” Well, I don’t need ledger paper, but I also don’t need an office supply store that doesn’t know what it is, so toodle-doo.

At the library branch, their hours were posted so big, my nearsighted eyes could read the sign from across the street, but the hours are like 2PM-6PM, three days a week. With hours that minimal, what’s the point of even pretending it’s a branch of the library? Libraries should be open and circulating books *at least 10-12 hours every day, but that would require taxes and rich people don’t like paying taxes, so the purpose of the library is instead keeping the books locked up and out of anybody’s hands.

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Coming up Ellis Street after riding the L train back, some yuppie going the same direction as me walked into my next footstep on the sidewalk, stopping me cold. It was just a moment’s irritation, easily forgotten, or it would’ve been, but while I was softly cursing the back of his head, a could of his tobacco swirled into my face. And not even cigarette tobacco, but some horrid stinking cigar smoke. So…

When he was a few steps ahead of me, I shot a well-aimed loogie between his shoulder blades onto the back of his suit jacket. Nice shot, I thought to myself, and he didn’t even break stride. He just kept walking, like the important man he no doubt is — an important man with a lump of dried snot on his suit.

I don’t like important men.

Then I stepped back into my regal dump, stripped naked, and read and wrote and napped, and looked out the window.

From Pathetic Life #8
Saturday, January 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.

Addendum, 2021: It's unrelated to this particular day's entry, but wow it's wistful, re-typing and posting these last few entries of January 1995.

It was an ordinary weekend day, not at all bad, and I still remember the salad. And later, I remember thinking as I fell asleep, I am so damned alone in the world, and the weekend's half over so I'm already halfway back to that job that I hate...

I didn't write about the downsides very often, because thinking too much about the blues, or writing about the blues, only makes the blues bluer. But I knew, some things needed to change.

Pathetic Life

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itsdougholland.com

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Not-date after not-work

Today was a pretty good day at work! A bug in the software made most of the programs we use inoperative, and the computer experts are working on it, but meanwhile I may have done about fifteen minutes of work in eight hours.

Instead, all the people I like — Lottie, Kallie, me, and sometimes Peter — loitered and chatted most of the day. Kallie had more date updates, Lottie had funny stories when Kallie was around and sexy stories when she wasn’t, and Peter arm-wrestled with a temp, and lost.

For a change, though, I won’t report on Carlotta’s silly conversations. What I’ve noticed is, when I come home and type up whatever she said that seemed risqué, it gets me going again, but at the moment I’m tired and not in the mood. Anyway, if you’ve read any of it, today was just more of the same.

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Kallie says her date went well, and the guy was a perfect gentleman, charming and funny and... yes, I wish it was me, but I'll never let on.

She’s seeing him again tonight, so I guess it went really well. Her date is at 7:30, and my movies don’t start until 8:00, so Kallie and I did dinner at Tina’s on Eddy Street — omelets and laughs and the widest-ranging conversation we’ve ever had. We confessed that we both dislike parties, first dates, almost any kind of social situation, Jennifer, our jobs, and our mothers’ nagging. I even found a hole in the conversation where I could gently wedge in that I rarely if ever make the first move to ask a woman out, even a woman I might like. Hint hint.

Then we said good night, and she bused to her home for her second date with Prince Charming, while I strolled over to check the maildrop.

If I let myself think about it too much, I could be depressed that this nice lady is tiptoeing toward a relationship with some other man, but of course it’s my own damned fault. I hesitate. I say nothing. I remain alone, and apparently that’s by choice. My head is a complicated place, and I get lost up there, frequently.

Oh, and everything about my cheese omelet was fine, except the potatoes, which tasted like they'd been frozen and reheated. The tab with tip was five dollars. I’ve had better, and cheaper, but Tina’s is with easy walking distance of the office, which makes it convenient for a not-date after not-work.

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In the mailbag, came a surprise from Martina Eddy of the zine Big Secrets. She sent a tiny porcelain figurine of a blond blue-eyed white girl, and at the bottom it says, “Made in occupied Japan.” It’s both beautiful and sad, and I thank you very much, Martina, sincerely. But there’s no place in my apartment (or in my life) for such a lovely and fragile thing. I’m a big ox, and if it put it on a shelf I’ll accidentally jostle it off, probably soon, and it’ll be shattered.

My mom, though, has an intense fascination with all things Japanese, so I’ll give it to her as a present when she visits in a few weeks.

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Tonight was another fabulous show at the Victoria, with a big and enthusiastic crowd — nearly a sell-out, which I hope means they’ll be unlocking the doors and showing more movies, more often.

The program began with Threshold of Tomorrow (1964), an awful educational film that’s nothing but overripe PR for its sponsor, the Masonite Corporation. Middle-aged white guys with glasses and crew-cuts and pocket protectors explain all about leading edge technology and modern engineering. The robotesque narrator explains that forests are a valuable asset, which the men (and one woman) of Masonite make into lumber, cardboard, laminated paneling, pegboard, mulch, charcoal briquettes, livestock feed, and much much more, pouncing on virgin forests, putting every tree to profitable use, and “improving on nature.” I’m certain I saw this film in my 7th grade science class, and even then I knew it was absolute shit.

Zardoz (1974) begins with a flying godhead imploring some savages to “Go forth and kill.” Then this idol spits a thousand guns out of its mouth, and the killing begins. It’s not a comedy, but as stupid science fiction it’s deliriously demented, profoundly silly, and never threatens to make the slightest sense. Future science seems to understand Sean Connery’s erections, and it may be your only chance to see him in a white wedding gown. Worth noting, the theater’s air was thick with pot as soon as Zardoz started, so if you’re taking my advice on what movies to see, it might be better under the influence.

Speed Scene is a short 1969 documentary that takes a morose look at the serious problem of amphetamine abuse. If anyone hooked on speed could sit still long enough to watch it, he or she would probably walk straight to a detox center, where, of course, the doors would be locked and the windows boarded up, because this is America and we don’t like to help people who need help. The moviemakers could’ve used some uppers themselves, though, as visually and cinematically it’s a boring preach-piece. You could call it a motion picture, technically, but there’s hardly any motion; it’s almost entirely talking heads.

I was getting drowsy, with extremely low expectations for the evening’s last movie, so I seriously considered leaving, but I stayed, with no regrets. What they showed us was a psychotronic masterpiece, and it was frickin’ awesome. Do you remember thinking in high school, or maybe yesterday at work, that the world would be a better place if someone would eliminate a few of the many assholes and idiots? Well, check your scruples at the door and revel in that feeling.

In Massacre at Central High (1976), a pasty-faced gang of four rules the school like “a little league gestapo,” until our adolescent hero decides to take them on, and take them out. It ain’t Room 222, but Massacre has everything you could want without admitting you want it: violent revenge, sexploitation, a dreadful theme song, and yes, even foul language.

It also has some very imaginative murder techniques. There aren’t any gunshots in this massacre, just plenty of clever ways to kill. Another nice touch is that there are no teachers, no classes, no hints of education at all, and no parents, no preachers, no police, no authority figures of any kind until the inevitable sirens in the distance at the end. It’s just kids being kids, running amok.

And in a depressingly true-to-life plot twist, once the bad guys are dead, the movie’s not even half over, because a new crop of crap rises to the top of the school’s society, necessitating another round of elimination. So the moral of the story is, sure, killing cretins might be fun, but it only clears the way for the next battalion of bastards to assume command. Sigh. I sadly put away my fantasies of death and destruction, and picked up my scruples again on the way out.

From Pathetic Life #8
Friday, January 27, 1995

Pathetic Life

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itsdougholland.com

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It happened, though.

Leftovers & Links #57

There’s been much, much more coverage of shoplifters at Walgreens, than of Walgreens stealing millions of dollars from its employees’ paychecks. Ain’t that peculiar?

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Once a month or so, I tie up the accumulated bag of the cat's poop and pee, and because it’s so heavy, I put it on a hand-truck to roll it out to the dumpster. I never scrub the toilet, so dumping the cat's shit is the most disgusting task I do on a regular basis, and I finished moments ago, then washed my hands, and thought about it.

I’m only one old dude taking out his cat’s poop and pee, but this morning there might be billions of people all over the world carrying their cat’s poop and pee to wherever they dump it, dropping sacks of catshit and whatever else onto mini-mountains of plastic and tin foil, curlers and junk mail and rotten cucumbers and last week’s takeout by the ton. Most of it's headed for landfill.

We are killing this place. It’s disgusting, dispiriting, depressing to think about, it’s been going on since before I was born, and I don’t even know what to do about it. All I know for sure is two things — ① whatever ought to be done about it isn’t being done, and ② all that neverending garbage isn’t even the biggest problem we’re ignoring.

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1955 was not so long ago, but it’s a reality I never knew and can’t even approximate to comprehend.

This happened, though. People came together to hear poetry, and it was heard, and worth hearing. It made people pause and think and even laugh, because some of it’s fucking funny. People paid attention. It got through to people, and it mattered, and it was remembered, and it’s astounding to me that it happened.

Howl.

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Following the news for a whole lotta years, I’ve heard thousands of politicians being interviewed, and perhaps a dozen times said to myself, “That person is not full of shit” — not lying, not stupid, not ‘triangulating’, not saying one thing to one group and the opposite to someone else, not calculating what’s the answer that will bring in donations, but sincerely giving a damn and trying to make things better.

Alexandria Ocasio-Cortez is one. Bernie Sanders is another. And definitely, Stacy Abrams. She’s running again for Governor of Georgia, against a system rigged against her because she’s black, because she's smart, and especially because she’s sincerely giving a damn and trying to make things better.

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And on the other side of the universe, TV quack “Dr Oz” is running for US Senate from Pennsylvania. He’d be awful, of course, but he’s already awful. “Senator Oz” might even be a net improvement — in DC instead of on TV, he wouldn’t even be in the top 40 of awful.

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Industrial collapse in slow-motion: Like anything involving big-time capitalism, the clog-up of shipping in California is beyond my understanding. Lots of foodstuffs are rotting, needed supplies going nowhere, because of ‘congestion’ — there's more cargo and ships than docks and dockworkers. The panicked news coverage has slowed, but the backlog apparently continues.

Is it all only wages, wages again? People unwilling to do the work while underpaid, and corporations unwilling to pay reasonable wages?

That’s what I suspect is happening off the coast of Cali, but I can't say for sure from this distance. I do know and it's an absolute certainty, companies paying chickenshit wages is the explanation behind every other “staff shortage” everywhere.

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I was a Star Trek fan as a kid, attended sci-fi conventions and yeah, wore Vulcan ears and thought I knew how to pronounce George Takei’s name. I even corrected people when they pronounced Takei some other way, for fifty years until yesterday. Then I heard Takei on a podcast, and he pronounced his own name wrong!

It’s Gene Roddenberry’s fault. I’d seen Roddenberry speak at a con, he'd worked with Takei for years, so you’d think he'd know how to pronounce Takei’s name. And that’s how I’ve pronounced it, ever since — the way Roddenberry pronounced it.

Beam me down, I was lied to by the Great Bird of the Galaxy. Takei does not rhyme with ‘the pie’, it rhymes with ‘decay’.

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A TV-movie revival of Nash Bridges now exists, and it seems so gaudy surreal ridiculous and thus true to the original, I’ll have to watch it.

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Way down in this too-wordy article, there’s a nugget that made me smile: Stan Lee didn’t like superhero movies. Good to know, and I agree. There’ve been a few fun ones, but most superhero movies are crap.

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When I was a young whippersnapper, ‘grumpy old man’ was a stereotype, and when I saw a grumpy old man I might’ve laughed. Now I am that grumpy old man and it ain’t at all funny, except when it is.

The whole world is drowning in stupidity and incompetence, and I’m getting old and crotchety and impatient with it all. I’ll do you the small courtesy of not detailing today’s outrages and indignities, but take my word for it — it was outrageous and I was indignant. Harrumph.

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Here’s an amusing look backward at some rich wingnut who argued loudly against getting the polio vaccine. Unlike today’s wingnuts, he didn’t have a huge slice of America on his side, millions and millions of people refusing a vaccine, and because he didn’t you can probably walk.

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The oldest house in Aveyron, France; built some time in the 14th century.

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CNN has finally ‘suspended’ Chris Cuomo, probably with pay. I barely give a rip about Cuomo, but I care about journalism, so I found this line revealing but not surprising:

"When Chris admitted to us that he had offered advice to his brother's staff, he broke our rules and we acknowledged that publicly," the spokesperson continued. "But we also appreciated the unique position he was in and understood his need to put family first and job second."

Got it. Chris Cuomo’s family is more important than CNN’s integrity, and CNN 'appreciates' that. Thanks for clearing that up.

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I check this site’s stats once in a while, which is always blues-inducing, but fuck it all. I would much, much rather really reach five people, than have 5,000 surfers pop in for a giggle and go.

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Mystery links — Like life itself, there’s no knowing where you’re going:

—①—
—②—
—③—

Sing along with Doug:
"Sam Stone," by John Prine