A brief moment of What the hell?

Even the blandest of ordinary media likes running articles about zines, and a couple months back (6/21) Interview interviewed me. I figured nothing would come of it, because I was sorta curt with their reporter on the phone, and 'cause I told him no, I wouldn't send him a damned photograph or pose for one, and 'cause the interview lasted about as long as it takes to make toast — it was not exactly in-depth.

Three times weekly I check my voice mail, though, and this morning it told me, "You have… five… new messages," and they were all from Interview's reporter, Tony Moxham. In the first two, he asked me to call him back, and in the next three he said I could reverse the charges.

I hate phones but love calling collect, and Interview has decided that Pathetic Life should be "prominently featured" in their October issue, and they need my permission to run some excerpts.

"Permission granted," said I, "provided that you include my address, the zine's price, and that it's gotta be cash." Yeah, I want that small flood of $3 orders from people I'll never hear from again. And I'll bet even if it says "cash only," most of them will send checks payable to Pathetic Life, which are worthless to me, of course.

♦ ♦ ♦

After the phone call, I rolled the fish cart to Telegraph Ave, and it was a normalish day with a brief moment of What the hell? I was picking my nose between customers, when a young white man approached and said, "Are you Doug?"

"Yes," I foolishly confessed. At work I'm supposed to be friendly, and I was at work. That's what tripped me up.

"I'm Scott," he said, "from Sacramento. Pleased to meet you." He stuck out his hand for a shake, but I hesitated.

"What is this pertaining to?" It couldn't be alimony, couldn't be child support, but there are some unpleasant things it could've been, so I immediately regretted saying "yes" when he'd asked my name.

"I love your zine," he said, and he said more, but I didn't catch most of it and I was instantly uncomfortable.

On Telegraph, I play the role of someone who loves to talk about fish, but it's a performance, and I'm only prepared to talk about fish. In reality, I'm uncomfortable in almost any conversation, especially idle chit-chat with a stranger, or listening to someone tell me he likes the zine. I don't compliment well.

You'll get better dialogue from me if you tell me you hate the zine, but my preference is not talking at all, and I'd triple-rather not talk about the zine on Telegraph Ave, surrounded by other vendors who don't know the zine exists and don't know I write about them in it.

Before I found the words to say any of the above to Scott from Sacramento, he said, "Well, I just wanted to say hi. Bye!"

I said "Bye," said it smiling, and he walked away, waving back at me. Thank you, Scott from Sacramento, for at least keeping it brief, but that was awkward and I didn't enjoy it.

In the zine, I've described myself and what I'm selling on Telegraph. Everyone knows where Telegraph Avenue is, so it doesn't take a detective to find me, but please don't.

Anyone who's reading this, and likes the zine and imagines you'd like the author? You're mistaken. I am boring and grumpy and have nothing to say.

If, however, you foolishly want to say hi to me in the flesh, my number and address are at the back of the zine. Who knows, maybe we'll have a good time sharing coffee and donuts, especially if you're buying.

All I ask is, please call or write first. That's important. I need advance notice, so I have time to plan and dread our time together. No surprises, please.

From Pathetic Life #15
Friday, August 11, 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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itsdougholland.com
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A slice at Dagwood's

I've been living on peanut butter sandwiches and cold beans and hot ramen, and in the midst of another thinly-spread PB sandwich, it was quite a treat when Yacoob in the next booth offered me a bite-size chocolate-chip mini-bagel. In chewing it, though, one of my teeth began to disintegrate, leaving a sizable cave for food to get stuck in. Fortunately, there was no pain.

My mouth has enough caves already. Tonguing my teeth for a quick oral census, I now count seven teeth in various states of obvious rot, and three more teeth no longer present, even in fragments. The rest of my original 32 are generally intact, at least from the outside, though many are filled, dating back to jobs that had dental coverage. Selling fish doesn't.

♦ ♦ ♦

Father forgive me, for I have sinned. Today I had impure thoughts.

She might have been a college freshman, but more likely she was still in high school. Should I be ashamed of admiring a 17-year-old? Well, I'm not. I didn't drool, didn't stare, didn't even smile (the teeth, remember), but… I noticed. No hetero man could've not noticed.

She bought a slice at Dagwood's Pizza, then sat on the sidewalk against the building's wall, directly in front of my fish table. With her butt on the cement, her knees at about 10:00 and 2:00, I followed her legs to their natural conclusions. Her shorts were baggy, pink panties were visible at the crotch, and from behind the pink panties what appeared to be several curly black pubes were poking out.

I was perhaps 15 feet from her legs and everything, especially her everything, so to bring it into sharper focus, I reached into my backpack, found my glasses, slipped them on, and… Yup, I was not seeing things that weren't there.

It took her ten minutes to finish her lunch, and it was the highlight of my day, though she'll never know it. I said nothing, not even to Yacoob, but if I'd been willing or even able to speak to that stranger on the sidewalk, I would've said thank you, ma'am, for spreading good cheer.

From Pathetic Life #15
Thursday, August 10, 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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Tumbling

or, How to drive a bus (part 5)

 

Part 1     Part 2     Part 3     Part 4     Part 5 

Part 6     Part 7     Part 8     Part 9     Part 10

 Part 11     Part 12     Part 13     Part 14     Part 15

My training to drive the bus continues, and continues to be challenging, though I haven't yet sat behind the wheel. 

#175
Wednesday,
August 10, 2022

Being a bus driver doesn't sound like a physically-demanding job, but it's not just about driving the bus. We've been spending lots of time — all of Monday and Tuesday — learning how to guide blind people from the curb onto the bus, how to operate the bus's wheelchair lift, and how to secure wheelchairs and walkers inside the bus.

Many or most passengers will be in wheelchairs, and every wheelchair must be secured via snaps and accessories that click into grooves on the bus's floor. It's complicated — there are four connection-points for manual wheelchairs, or six for electric wheelchairs, and every wheelchair passenger must be secured too, separately, via three-point seatbelts, which are also secured via snaps and accessories on the floor and wall.

None of this is automated, or built-in like the seatbelts in your car. The driver does it all. Every time a passenger in a wheelchair or walker gets on and then again when he/she gets off, there's work the driver has to do, and it involves a heck of a lot of bending over — kneeling, basically, on the hard floor of the bus.

Securing a wheelchair is a 50+-step procedure, and it's tricky, because the straps that click into the floor and walls don't necessarily want to click. It's a lot of work for an old, fat man like me, squatting or kneeling on the floor, clicking and adjusting 4-6 straps for each wheelchair, without dropping any of the kinda-heavy equipment on the passenger's foot or accidentally swinging a metal buckle into someone's face. 

Getting down to the floor, though, and then getting back up again when everything's connected — that's the most difficult part of the job. Securing a wheelchair and passenger should take a minute or two, and we're newbies so it's taking us longer than that, but it's taking me longer than my classmates half my age. When I'm done, my old, fat heart is racing, and I'm sweaty. 

I'll get the hang of it, if I last long enough, and when I'm actually driving the bus, most of my time will be spent driving. Connecting or disconnecting securements for people in wheelchairs will only need to be done every 15 or maybe 25 minutes during an 8-hour shift. While we're learning it, though, we're doing it over and over and over again, hours on end, and it's exhausting. 

I'm not the oldest, fattest, and most out-of-shape new hire in the class, though. Mitch is older, bigger, and says he's coming back from a double knee replacement.

He walks slowly, has balance issues, and prefers to sit when the rest of us are standing. After every wheelchair and practice-passenger he's secured, his face is covered with beads of sweat, and it's obvious that getting down to the floor and then up again is very difficult for him. He looks like he should be riding the disabled bus, not driving it.

Several times, the teacher has asked, "Are you OK, Mitch?" while he's on the floor, working the straps and securements. She's only asked me that once, and she hasn't asked anyone else, so as much as I feel sorry for Mitch, I'm also kinda glad he's there. If he wasn't, I'd be the old man struggling to get down to the floor, and then to get up again. And I am struggling, but Mitch is struggling more.

We've talked, briefly, about being the oldest two in the class. He's the ex-cop I've mentioned a few times, but he's not an asshole (it's a conundrum). Sometimes we say encouraging words to each other.

Toward the end of the class yesterday, we were all practicing the securement procedure, but not inside a bus. We were in the garage, gathered around a wooden mock-up about the same size as the bus, with the same ratchet-style grooves embedded in the floor.

Securing a wheelchair on the mock-up is easier, because the other student-drivers are watching you from chairs ten feet away, instead of standing over you, or sitting in the bus's chairs. You have more room to work and breathe and think.

On the bus, though, you can shift some of your weight to the seats and stanchions for help getting down to the floor and up again afterwards. On the mock-up, it's just you and the floor, so after Mitch had connected the securements to the floor, when he tried standing up again, he tumbled and went down.

He landed roughly on a knee, then rolled with a crash onto the wooden floor, and then smashed into the cement wall. It was scary to see, and some of my classmates screamed. Mitch simply said, "Whoops" from the floor. The teacher and a younger, more able-bodied student than me helped him to his feet, then to a chair.

After that, the safety protocol required our teacher to alert management, and a first aid team came, to apply dressing and bandages to Mitch's knee. There was required paperwork, and we all signed witness statements documenting what had happened.

Management wanted Mitch to seek medical treatment, because our teacher thought he'd loudly hit his head against the wall when he fell. Mitch declined, and insisted that the 'thud' we'd all seen and heard was his back hitting the wall, not his head. "I'm fine, I'm fine," he kept saying.

I'm 75% sure Mitch was telling the truth — that his back, not his head, had hit the wall. The 'thud' had been so loud that if it had been his head, he would've been disoriented, and he wasn't.

It was obviously painful and embarrassing for him, though. Eventually a manager took him to a table, way at the other end of the room, for more paperwork and a long talk we couldn't hear.

The fall had taken only a second, but the aftermath took an hour or so, and Mitch was still talking to a suit at that table when the rest of us went home. From the doorway I shouted to him, "Stay strong, Mitch — see you tomorrow!" but I'm not sure we will.

Next: Absolutely not ready
or, How to drive a bus (part 6)

  

Part 1     Part 2     Part 3     Part 4     Part 5 

Part 6     Part 7     Part 8     Part 9     Part 10

 Part 11     Part 12     Part 13     Part 14     Part 15

And now, the news you need, whether you know it or not…    

♦ ♦ ♦ 

They're still trying to destroy People's Park in Berkeley, but Berkeley is fighting back.

♦ ♦ ♦  

Massive security breach exposes anonymous Twitter accounts' email addresses and phone numbers 

♦ ♦ ♦  

Right-wing apparel company fined for swapping "Made in China" tags for "Made in USA" 

♦ ♦ ♦ 

Little Leaguer charges the mound very slowly, after being hit by pitch 

♦ ♦ ♦  

Some talkative attorney explains the enormity of Alex Jones's lawyers incompetence 

♦ ♦ ♦ 

Gotta respect the hermit:
Joyce Vincent's death went unnoticed for more than two years, as her corpse lay undiscovered at her boarding house. 

♦ ♦ ♦  

One-word newscast, because it's the same news every time...
• climate • climate
• cops • cops • cops • cops • cops • cops• cops • cops • cops • cops • cops • cops • cops • cops
• Republicans • Republicans • Republicans • Republicans • Republicans 

♦ ♦ ♦

The End
• Lamont Dozier
• Olivia Newton-John

8/10/2022 

 

Cranky Old Fart is annoyed and complains and very occasionally offers a kindness, along with anything off the internet that's made me smile or snarl. All opinions fresh from my ass. Top illustration by Jeff Meyer. Click any image to enlarge. Comments & conversations invited.

 

Tip 'o the hat to Linden Arden, ye olde AVA, BoingBoing, Breakfast at Ralf's, Captain Hampockets, CaptCreate's Log, John the Basket, LiarTownUSA, Meme City, National Zero, Ran Prieur, Voenix Rising, and anyone else whose work I've stolen without saying thanks.

 

Extra special thanks to Becky Jo, Name Withheld, Dave S, Wynn Bruce, and always Stephanie...

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"Jerry's dead."

A half-dozen street kids came up the sidewalk, chanting, "Jerry's dead, Jerry's dead." It was barely noon, I was awake but not widely, and the scene seemed surreal. For just a moment I wondered whether this was a dream. No, this was Telegraph Ave, which is always a little dreamlike.

Next I wondered whether street kids are a reliable source for the news of someone's dying, and lastly I wondered which Jerry they were on about.

The Jerry of Ben & Jerry? He's made my life better, and I'd be sorry to hear he's left the ice cream business.

Jerry Lewis? He's not funny and I'm not French, so my grief would be only momentary.

Jerry Lee Lewis? Isn't he already dead?

Jerry Rubin? Jerry Falwell? Jerry Mathers? Jerry Rice? Jerry Brown?

The vendor next to me said, "No, Jerry Garcia," so I must've been talking out loud. It's a bummer, babe. Of all the world's Jerrys, Garcia from the Grateful Dead might be the only one I'd miss. Damn it.

You have to have seen them in concert to call yourself a deadhead, and I never have, but I've heard them in concert. Local performances of the Dead are sometimes broadcast live on non-commercial radio, at least here in SF, so I've had that pleasure. Guess you could say Jerry Garcia pleasured me.

There's no money at KPFA and no commercials. If the station paid for broadcast rights, it must've been less than ten dollars, and I'll bet it was nothing. Is there any other band that would allow that?

Truly I am saddened at the news that Jerry's dead, as reported by street kids and confirmed on Telegraph Avenue.

Mr Testosterone was especially in mourning. He's a local head-case whose habit is to stand on the sidewalk and roar like the MGM lion, or the Incredible Hulk. He's a bare-chested, rather ugly hairy-headed and muscle-bound psychotic — harmless, but when he's roaring at random every few minutes, you can enjoy watching pedestrians jump. His roaring today was certainly sadder than its usual loud.

Soon a news crew came, in a van marked BBC News. Several people got out, and I watched as they worked their way up the Avenue, sticking their camera in people's faces. Berkeley was a good choice for gathering person-on-the-street responses to Jerry's death, I thought, until they approached me.

It was a moment when the fish stand had no customers, and BBC News isn't a joke like ABC NBC CBS et al, so when their reporter, a woman with an English accent of course, asked if she could ask me a few questions, I smiled and said, "That's one."

I wondered what I could say about the passing of the late, great Mr Garcia, but instead the reporter said, "Have you read any of the Unabomber's manifesto, and do you agree with his principles or his practices?" Their camera was focused on my face, and the video must've shown a fat man in great confusion as that bogus question rolled around inside my ears.

"Did the BBC send you across the ocean to Berkeley, hoping to find some idiot who might be sympathetic to a murdering lunatic?" Then I went on to say that sure, I've read some of the Unabomber's maifesto, edited to fit the Tribune, and it's as boring as any bullshit political speech. And yeah, I probably do agree with some of it, but bombing random people is despicable, and who does he think he is, Henry Kissinger?

That's when the reporter said "Thank you," and signaled for the cameraman to shut off his machine. I wasn't the man on the street they were hoping to hear from, so don't bother looking for me on the Beeb tonight.

From Pathetic Life #15
Wednesday, August 9, 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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Too much garlic

Today was a day off, so I read some zines, played with the dog, played with myself, mailed out a few sample copies of the zine, and worked on making some recent entries make sense. Ate too much, and kept my door closed, typewriter clacking, and mind misfiring. I do dearly love a closed door.

Nobody knocks on my door — no friends, and by choice, no family. They're a long ways away and we're not in touch, but I wasn't thinking today about how much I miss 'em. Kinda the opposite.

This is delicate, difficult to say it right, easy to misunderstand. I don't hate my family. I frickin' love each and all of them, but loving them is easier when I'm here and they're there, which is (part of) why I moved away, alone.

I like being in charge of myself, and when my family's around that's a battle. They want me to be something I'm not, someone I haven't been for a long time.

They're always in my business with questions and judgments, and their questions probably make sense, their judgment might be better than mine, but that's irrelevant. I want to live my life without those questions and judgments.

Nobody in my family understands that, and some of them haven't respected that.

Some of them are eccentric, and outspoken, and odd. Sometimes they say things better left unsaid. My family takes some getting used to, and I haven't gotten used to them yet.

It's like garlic bread — delicious if you use the right amount of garlic, but not if you shake it on and keep shaking and shaking. My family is too much garlic.

There were other factors, sure, but it's not merely coincidence that April, a woman I'd dated for five years, dumped me a few days after spending an afternoon with me and my family.

"One day I'll drop by unannounced, just to surprise you, and stay a week or a month…" 

That's what my mom said, when she visited me in San Francisco last summer. She meant it. It's her favorite daydream — to fly down to San Francisco without me knowing she's coming, to be suddenly at my doorstep, then inside my door, to read my zines, see my mess, cry about my porn, pry into my secrets, ask a thousand questions, and judge me a thousand ways.

I'm a man more solitary than most, but even by normal standards, could anyone hear something like that — "One day I'll drop by unannounced, just to surprise you, and stay a week or a month…" — as anything but a threat?

It's a credible threat, so I take it seriously. When I moved in with Pike, in March, I 'forgot' to give Mom my new address. Then came another move, to Berkeley with Judith, and heck if I didn't forget again to file a change-of-address card. Now nobody in the family knows where I live.

They do have an address for me, but it's a mail drop. If Mom flies to California to surprise me, and pops in at that address, she'll meet the middle-aged Asian man who sorts everyone's incoming mail into their boxes, for $12 p/month. Mom might try to sweet-talk my real address out of him, but if she does, my address on file at the mail drop is a vacant lot.

A few months ago, I switched to a new voice mail number for phone messages, but goodness golly, I 'forgot' to tell the family about that, too. I've been very forgetful lately.

So it's been a while since we chatted, but either everyone in the Holland family is getting along just fine, or one or more of them have died, or someone's getting divorced, someone else is getting married. Whatever's up or down with the family, it's news that'll keep until I'm ready to hear it, which might be a while.

Again I'll say it and again I mean it, I love 'em all and wish 'em well. Maybe I'll send a card in six months. Or a year.

♦ ♦ ♦

I've been part of Judith's house here in Berkeley for a month, and it suits me. It's an enormous mess, so I never have to be embarrassed by my own slovenly habits. The neighborhood isn't quite so whitebread as I'd originally thought, and my commute to work is a breeze. Judith is sweet, kind of a friend, and the three other men living here barely know I'm down the hall, and they leave me alone.

That's how I know this place is my home — people leave me alone.

From Pathetic Life #15
Tuesday, August 8, 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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