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The free speech ghetto

It was as cold today as it had been wet yesterday, but at least it was dry, as the fish chronicles opened a new chapter at a new location.

Everyone with the city's permission to practice free speech is required to operate on one specific block of Telegraph Ave. It's the free speech ghetto, and I like it there.

Surrounded by crazies hawking subversive t-shirts and anarchist bumper stickers, one guy screaming that President Clinton should be impeached, another guy saying anyone who doesn't support the President is a fascist, yeah, it's more interesting than selling fish amidst all the just-plain merchants who sell pot pipes and belt buckles, candles and wood carvings, earrings and nose rings and cock rings, porcelain and pottery, silkscreened shirts and jackets, rhinestone-studded belt buckles, etc.

I'll maybe miss working around Hey and Midget and Very-Abdul and a few others, but it's time to make some new friends, and probably some new enemies.

Among the few vendors on this block that I know, one is Jasper, the asswipe so-called anarchist whose complaints to the city got Darwin banned, and started our permit problems. Working near him might be interesting, now that we have the same permission slip for free speech that he has.

Another familiar face is Umberto. He's a prickly guy who sells anarchist stickers and buttons wherever he wants, sometimes on the free speech block, but sometimes not. He has no license, and not even the Permit to Place Object on Sidewalk that Jay worked so hard to get for me. On principle, Umberto refuses to play the city's fill-out-the-form game, and I admire that, envy that. Hey, Umberto, I'm running low, can I borrow your principles some time?

Today I worked between Phil, the nut who told me our fish shouldn’t qualify as a free speech statement, and Gerry. Now, Gerry is a perfectly normal guy, selling perfectly normal pamphlets about how to grow marijuana without grow lamps, but today some schmuck wanted to take his picture. Gerry doesn't like having his picture taking, next to his advocacy pamphlets for illegal activity, so he said no — and the guy clicked his Polaroid anyway.

Gerry jumped out of his chair and charged at the man, and grabbed the snapshot before it had developed — and the camera. So of course, the guy who'd had the camera started yelling, and Gerry yelled at him, and it was very free speech indeed.

Gerry refused to return the camera unless camera guy promised not to take his picture, and camera guy wouldn't make that promise, so Gerry held on to his camera, and got half-heartedly chased around the street. Cue "Yakety-Sax."

Then Phil came over to play peacemaker. He's famous for his volume, and loudly took Gerry's side in the argument, screaming at the camera guy, and challenging him with, "Why don't you call a fuckin' cop?"

Maybe he meant it sarcastically, but after he'd yelled it several times, the camera guy said he would, and stomped off looking for the police. He came back ten minutes later with a cop, who patiently listened to everybody's story.

Actually, much as I hate cops, this one handled the situation pretty much perfectly. It is, you know, legal to take people's pictures if they're in public. Permission is granted, simply by being in public.

The cop explained this politely, and Gerry apologized, and returned the camera, even returned the snapshot, but the guy with the camera stood around and took several more pictures of Gerry, and said he's going to press charges.

For what, I don't know. A few minutes of playing tag on Telegraph? It's hard to fathom that any judge would listen to such a case, but this is America, land of lawyers.

♦ ♦ ♦  

And that was my first day in the free speech ghetto. I think I'll like it there.

From Pathetic Life #19
Saturday, Dec. 2, 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.

Clandestine sandwiches

More snow fell Thursday and yesterday, still not very much but enough that a transformer blew and the lights went off for every house in my neighborhood. In the black of night, the red-yellow-green traffic light several blocks away was all I could see.

I won't bore you or me with too many particulars, but it does make you ponder how much your life depends on Benjamin Franklin's key and kite.

CRANKY
OLD FART

#242

leftovers
& links

 
Saturday,
Dec. 3, 2022

It was cold in my room with no heat, and no curtains on the windows. The bathroom has no window and I haven't yet unpacked my flashlights, so I peed with the door open. Toast for breakfast became impossible. Oh, the humanities.

Worst of all, the internet was unavailable, so I couldn't write, really, only scribble notes to myself on paper. Actually writing something based on those notes requires electricity and software and a keyboard, all of which demand 120v AC. 

The neighborhood was only dark for six hours or so, because City Light is Seattle's municipally-owned power agency, and City Light rocks. That's the pertinent point to remember — ConEd or Pacific Power & Light wouldn't have had the crews on call to respond to a few blocks or darkened residential streets at 1AM on the weekend, and have it repaired before dawn. The difference is, City Light is all about supplying power, not turning a profit.

A few more meaningless stories are in my head and notepad, but right now my own transformer feels exploded, and I lack the energy or desire to say much more.

Before fading away, here's a moment with my always-talkative flatmate Dean. Most people don't mind talking, but I am not 'most people', and neither is Dean, in the opposite way.

He always wants to talk, and his room is directly off the kitchen, so when I'm making a snack or a meal, I try to be quiet like I'm not there. Count on it, if there's a noise revealing my presence, Dean will come out of his room and start talking at me.

All I wanted was three ham sandwiches. In stocking feet, I tread gently on the linoleum, getting the loaf, the meat, the mayo, mustard, and peanut butter. It's not a complex recipe and it came together quickly, quietly.

When I'd finished spreading the peanut butter, I wiped the knife and slipped it back into the drawer. It clanked against the other silver, a little too loudly, and with that noise my odds of escape were at least halved. I rushed to put away the PB and mayo and— 

With a creak, Dean's door opened, and he stepped into the kitchen. "Douglas! So good to see you this fine morning!"

And so began two minutes of Dean talking, me nodding and saying "uh-huh" and backing toward my bedroom door, until finally it closed behind me while Dean was still talking.

Here's the news you need,
whether you know it or not

Closed labs, cancelled classes: inside the largest strike to hit US higher education 

Maryland opened up jobs to people without four-year degrees 

Excellent. What's the point in requiring a college degree for many or most jobs, except to ensure that people who've never had the means for college never have a chance at a decent job?

The IRS routinely lets right-wing churches break tax law & endorse political candidates 

San Francisco'S 4 Star Theater set to reopen

Major fires an increasing risk as the air gets thirstier, research shows 

And it never stops, never stops, never stops, never stops, never stops, because climate change isn't 'coming', it's underway. It'll kill billions, and we're not doing squat about it.

Eight aggressive cops raid wrong home in no-knock warrant, terrorizing Black family holding a baby 

And it never stops, never stops, never stops, never stops, never stops, never stops, never stops, never stops, never stops, never stops, because all cops are bastards, or they know who the bastard cops are and do nothing about it, which is the same thing.

Kari Lake encourages her voters to get arrested in order to help her become Arizona's governor 

And it never stops, never stops, never stops, never stops, never stops, never stops, never stops, never stops, never stops, never stops, because Republicans are the enemy of common sense, common decency, simple truth, and democracy.

Links I liked

NYC Mayor Eric Adams's new homeless policy is messed up 

Why America's railroads refuse to give their workers paid leave 

At the above link, a brief but thorough explanation of the economics of modern-day robber-baronism.

Who is putting these mysterious medallions around Berkeley? 

Is American politics really just people making statements in reaction to other statements but no one actually does anything for the people? 

Monumental photocopier 

Danish protest pig 

Mystery links
Like life itself, there's no
knowing where you're going

click 

click 

click 

♫♬  Mix tape of my mind  ♫

Crimson and Clover — Tommy James & The Shondells

Gone Daddy Gone — Violent Femmes

Lucifer — Alan Parsons Project

Reflections of My Life — Marmalade

Year of the Cat — Al Stewart

The End

Cissy Marshall 

Ed Rudy 

 12/3/2022  

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...

Permit to Place Object on Sidewalk

It rained and rained today, not a gentle mist and not like Seattle, but by mid-day on the Avenue I was drenched. I've been wearing my dead dad's shoes for a year, but it wasn't until today that I noticed my socks are visible through the soles. It rains here so rarely that I don't own a raincoat, so I wore a sweater on top of another sweater, and they might as well have been sponges.

There's no awning or anything, so there aren't many customers at a souvenir stand outdoors when it's raining. I was simply wet and waiting and wondering what flu or pneumonia was soaking into me. I would've closed the stand and come home early, only there was a major development looming in the fish fights.

First, an apology: It's flat-out pathetic that I'm still talking about fish politics, but I've told you everything so far and we're approaching what let's hope is the end of the story, so yawn twice and read along, please:

Jay told me this morning that someone from the city had phoned her, and told her that our "free speech" permission slip would be hand-delivered to the fish-cart at 3:30. So despite nearly no sales, I couldn’t go home early, and sat in the rain waiting for the appointed time.

After three months of monotonous runaround, it wouldn't have surprised me if the delivery had been a no-show, but alert the media: At 3:47 this afternoon, it became legal fer me to display and sell the anti-Christian Darwin fish, mass-produced and purchased at wholesale, alongside Elvis and LSD and all the other sacrilegious fish stickers and magnets we make ourselves.

The city inspector — same schmuck who'd given me trouble before (8/30, 9/6, 9/23, etc) drove up in a snazzy white city car, illegally parked in the left-turn lane, and whistled me over like I'm a cocker spaniel. I approached, and he handed me the piece of paper we'd sought for so long I'd thought it was fictitious — a Permit to Place Object on Sidewalk.

There should've been a bright light shining down from the heavens, with a choir of angels singing hosannas. Praise the Mayor and her many minions.

As I stood in the rain, the schmuck inside explained the complicated rules governing free speech in Berkeley from the warmth and dryness of his official car, as cars honked and swerved past:

• Everything we sell must always and only pertain to freedom of religion (the fish) or gay rights (Jay's chapbook).

• We're not allowed to sell any of the other things Jay wanted to sell — the candles and knickknacks and all (9/2).

• Anything else we might want to sell is subject to the same approval process by the city (meaning, months of dithering).

• The cart can only be set up on one specific corner, the "free speech corner," and the permit is invalid if the cart is anywhere else.

That last restriction, by the way, seems unlikely. The only way I could ensure finding a spot on the corner specified on the permit would be to be there by 7AM, which is hours before I get to the Avenue. So I'll probably ignore that stupid stipulation.

"Wow," I said to the inspector schmuck, "I'm sure glad the First Amendment has kept freedom of speech so sacred." The man is none to clever, though. He made a face at me, but it's the same bored and annoyed face he always makes, and I don't believe he caught my sarcasm.

Jay had wanted to see this grand moment, the culmination of far too much effort she'd put into fighting City Hall, so she joined me on the Avenue at about 2:20. I was glad she was there, to prevent me from strangling the city employee as he recited all the stipulations. His list, I should mention, was about twice as long as what I typed. I left out all the stuff so obvious it didn't need to be said.

When he was done, Jay shook the schmuck's hand, something I certainly wouldn't have done. As he drove away, we closed the stand, because the non-stop drizzle made it stupid to be open for business. Jay gave me a lift home, stopping at her place to drop off the cart, and at a hardware store, where she bought some flower pots and I bought a $2 parka for the next time it rains.

Then Jay took us to dinner, and we talked of fishes and free speech until I was dry, and full. As we ate, Jay described what we both hope will be her last phone call with the city's regulators, when they'd called her this morning.

The official on the phone had told her that while our free speech table had been approved, the permit could be revoked at any time, because, quote, "The city is reconsidering this whole 'free speech' thing. It's such a hassle."

Those were his exact words, Jay said. Ain't that something? Free speech is such a hassle, Berkeley is reconsidering the concept.

From Pathetic Life #19
Friday, Dec. 1, 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.

Charley Varrick, and six more movies

THE
NEVERENDING
FILM FESTIVAL

#115


Friday,
Dec. 2, 2022


Today at the movies — a search for the legendary yeti, alien goop takes over a space station, women held prisoner as breeding stock, a hunky gardener never wears a shirt, a bank heist goes almost all wrong, singing scales in a living room courthouse, and James Spader and Robert Downey Jr are late for high school.

• The Abominable Snowman (1957)
• Charley Varrick (1973)
• The Gardener (1973)
• The Green Slime (1968)
• The Handmaid's Tale (1990)
• One Way Pendulum (1965)
• Tuff Turf (1985)

The big surprise: One Way Pendulum.

So bad it's good: The Green Slime.

And the best of the bunch: Charley Varrick.

♦ ♦ ♦

The Abominable Snowman (1957)

Forrest Tucker stars, a few years before F Troop, and gets top billing. He's playing Tom Friend, a brusque, slightly shady American leading an expedition in search of the maybe-mythical maybe-not yeti, a man-sized species or missing link high up in the mountains.

Friend's motivation is money — he wants to capture this thing, preferably alive, and sell it — but the character is written and played smartly, even delivers a few lofty speeches. He's not a two-dimensional money-grubber.

Peter Cushing co-stars, so early in his career that he's not what's scary here. He's Dr John Rollason, the scientific expert who posits that the yeti might eat small animals, hares, mice, and moles. Hmmm. When Rollason and Friend inevitably clash, it's incongruous, intentionally no doubt, that Rollason keeps calling him Friend. That's his name, after all.

Val Guest directs, and he was a very good moviemaker (The Day the Earth Caught Fire, Hell is a City, Jigsaw). It's not easy to convincingly set a movie high in the Himalayas when it's actually filmed at a studio, but he's done it here, mixing grain-matched aerial and stock footage with well-made sets and realistic-looking fake-snow-blowery. The only thing missing is visible exhalation when the characters breathe and speak in what's supposed to be the cold air.

Abominable offers slow-building, subtle suspense, and it's also an engaging travelogue, even though you know nobody really traveled. The dialogue is thoughtful, there's no good guy/bad guy dichotomy, and there are genuine goosebumps at the climax, which is not the bloody mayhem that anyone but Guest would've delivered.

Verdict: YES.

♦ ♦ ♦ 

Charley Varrick (1973)

Charley Varrick (Walter Matthau) and his gang rob a small town bank, but the heist goes wrong, and becomes a deadly shootout. One cop is killed, one's critically injured, and two of Varrick's gang are dead, including his wife. 

Varrick and one of his men get away, but when they open the moneybags they discover they've stolen more than they'd expected. Lots more, and that's bad news. A small town bank wouldn't have had so much money in the vault, unless it's Mafia money.

You can get away from the cops if you're smart, but it's much more difficult getting away from the mob. "The difference is that the Mafia kills you. No trial, no judge, and they never stop looking for you, not until you're dead. I'd rather have ten FBI's after me."

Directed by Don Siegel, who was an absolute master at this kind of material, this had me by the first scene after the opening credits, and never loosened its grip. The story, based on a novel, is like clockwork — every part clicks together, but you never see any of it coming.

John Vernon from Animal House plays the president of the bank, and Joe Don Baker at his coldest plays the man Vernon sends to get the money back. Music by Lalo Schifrin. 

"No such thing as worrying too much. Not when you got the fuzz and the mafia after you at the same time."

How have I never seen this movie before? Probably the title put me off; it's a boring title for a movie that never is. Siegel wanted to call it Last of the Independents, which is Varrick's motto as a crop-duster, his day job.

My big mistake was watching this movie in the evening. Soon as I fell asleep, a very tense nightmare came at me, with gangster types who'd tracked me down to this decapitated house where I live. They were going room-to-room to find me, just to ask a few questions, you understand.

I woke up shook up, but went back to sleep and had a second nightmare along the same general lines. Both times I awakened with my heart racing like I'd briskly jogged to the corner and back, so I clicked the lights on and read a dull book for half an hour before letting myself fall asleep a third time, to better dreams. As I simply never have nightmares like that, I blame Don Siegel and Charley Varrick.

"I never thought I'd be willing to change places with a cow. Take a look at them out there. I mean, they got it knocked. What's the worst thing in the world that could possibly happen to them? A short circuit in the electric milker. Compared to what I'm facing, that's child's play."

Reading about the movie the next day, it seems Siegel wanted Clint Eastwood for the part, but Eastwood read the script and said he couldn't see any redeeming characteristics in Varrick. Siegel gets back at him by inserting a joke about Eastwood in the script.

Watching it is so thrilling that I hadn't noticed, but Eastwood kinda has a point. Varrick is a smart character, and Matthau plays him much better than Eastwood would've, but he's just a bank robber. He isn't broke or anything, has no lofty motivation. He simply wants the money. 

But so what? Robbing a bank is enough to make me root for the guy. Anyway, despite his ugly face, Matthau had movie star charisma, and it's a terrific movie. 

Verdict: BIG YES.

♦ ♦ ♦

The Gardener (1973)
a/k/a Garden of Death
a/k/a Seeds of Evil

Joe Dallesandro stars, with some other people whose names are much bigger in the credits but I've never heard of them.

He plays the new gardener for a rich woman and her husband, but the gardener has never met the husband, and the wife seems more interested in the gardener than the garden, if you know what I mean and I think you do.

That's understandable — though not much as an actor, Dallesandro is an extraordinary specimen of male. I'd do him, either before or after he starts turning into a tree.

The movie is sort of a cult item, but it's a little stale, semi-creepy at best, and there's no budget for visual effects, so Dallesandro's body is it.

Leading lady Katherine Houghton is Katherine Hepburn's niece, and she treats this material like it's The African Queen, but it's not.

Verdict: NO.

♦ ♦ ♦  

The Green Slime (1968)

On a crowded space station, an astronaut comes back from a mission with a blop of green alien mucus inadvertently smudged on his space britches. Slime should make for a great element of horror, and green is a lovely choice. Pretty soon, though, it dries and grows into a rather sub-ordinary movie monster with unconvincing tentacles and a head-wide red eyebrows. 

It's ludicrous but it's a laugh. For being set among military men, it's kooky how often even ordinary orders are questioned by underlings. "That's an order, mister!" and "Do I have to remind you that I am in command?" It gets silly after three or four such lines, but it happens at least two dozen times here, maybe more.

There are also a similar number of scenes where one character tells the other that what we're about to do is very dangerous, maybe impossible. 

It's a low-budget Japanese monster movie, filmed at a Japanese studio in Tokyo, with a mostly Asian crew, but in English and with western actors. A few B-level stars were imported, and the smaller parts were played by American military men stationed nearly, who were amateur actors in an on-base theater group.

Three writers are credited, and one of them is Bill Finger, the at least co-creator of Batman, though Bob Kane took all the credit while they were alive. 

The movie opens and closes with a ridiculous rock'n'roll song called, of course, "Green Slime," and it's so perfect for such a schlocky film, I've added it to my perpetual playlist.  

What can it be, what is the reason?
Is this the end to all that we've done?
Is it just something in your head?
Will you believe it when you're dead?
Green slime, green slime, green slime…

Verdict: YES, for entertainment purposes only.

♦ ♦ ♦  

The Handmaid's Tale (1990)

"We pledge allegiance to the Bible. The Old Testament shall be our sole and only Constitution."

I've never read the book by Margaret Atwood, haven't seen the more recent TV show, and never saw this movie until today, because it's an impossible story, right? Women had won their rights, and even with Republicans braying about killing babies and such rubbish, the idea of an America without rights for women seemed impossible to idiot-me.

Well, now we live in the early days of Gillead, so I guess it wasn't impossible after all. In the movie's near future, fertile women are forced into being handmaids, which has nothing to do with cleaning.

For Kate (Natasha Richardson), it means she'll be imprisoned during her training and Christian indoctrination, and then she'll be handmaiden to "the Commander" (Robert Duvall), being raped nightly by him while his loving but infertile wife (Faye Dunnaway) watches. 

It's as horrible as it sounds, and there are several scenes so over-the-top it made me laugh, but in the same way I laugh at Lauren Boebert, Elon Musk, or any of the present-day idiots in power — a worried laugh.

Despite watching it twice there's a gaping plot hole I can't make sense of: In one of the film's few happy moments, Kate and her friend Moira (Elizabeth McGovern) attack their main guard, "Aunt Lydia" (Victoria Tennant), and leave her tied up in the restroom. And it's never mentioned again. Seems unlikely that neither of them would be punished, but they're not.

The only black people in this film are seen in a very brief shot, packed into the back of a flatbed truck, being hauled away to who knows where. Which makes sense. This is set in the Republican future, where black people won't be welcome at all.

Written by Harold Pinter.

Verdict: YES.

♦ ♦ ♦  

One Way Pendulum (1965)

The elder Mr Groomkirby is building a precise replica of the Old Bailey (the Central Criminal Court of England and Wales) in his living room. The younger Mr Groomkirby (whose first name is Kirby, of course) has become fascinated with coin-operated scales that synthetically 'speak' your weight, acquired several of them, and he's teaching them to sing. 

Describing the plot further is beyond my, or human, capabilities, but suffice to say that many surreal and increasingly strange things happen, culminating in a trial held in the replica courthouse.

Several members of Monty Python have cited One Way Pendulum as an inspiration, which seems perfectly logical.

"You say you were a masochist, Mr Grimkirby — are you a masochist now?"

"No, sir."

"When did you cease your masochism?"

"Oh, a month or two ago, sir."

"What made you give it up?"

"It was taking up too much of my time."

Directed by Peter Yates — you might remember him from such films as Breaking Away, and Bullitt.

Verdict: YES.

♦ ♦ ♦  

Tuff Turf (1985) 

James Spader (25) plays a high school student. Robert Downey Jr (20) is his best buddy sidekick. Spader is the good guy, bullied by Paul Mones (30) and other high school adults, but he kidnaps Kim Richards (21) "just to talk," takes her to an ostentatious country club, serenades her at the piano, and everyone applauds.

There are several ridiculous scenes, including that one, and Richards stealing the stage from a stripper at a bar, and the whitest cover of "Twist and Shout" ever performed, but there's too much wrong with this movie to make an extensive list.

Special anti-kudos, though, for an impossibly dull screenplay, and for the lazy 1980s synthesizer music built around a thwomping fake drumbeat that's played thousands of times. 

Verdict: BIG NO.

— — —

Coming attractions:

A Florida Enchantment (1914)
The Fat Man (1950)
Paint Your Wagon (1969)
Rogue Cop (1954)
RR (2007)
Strange Holiday (1945)
Walkabout (1971)

12/2/2022   

There are so many good movies out there — old movies, odd or artsy, foreign or forgotten movies, or do-it-yourself movies made just for the joy of making them — that if you only watch whatever's on Netflix or playing at the twentyplex, you're missing out.

— — —

Find a movie
DVDpublic librarystreaming

If you can't find a movie I've reviewed,
or if you have any recommendations,
please drop me a note
 
— — —
 
Top illustration by Jeff Meyer. No talking once the lights dim. Real butter, not that fake crap, on the popcorn. I try to make these reviews spoiler-free, but sometimes screw up, sorry. Piracy is not a victimless crime. Click any image to enlarge. Comments & conversations invited.   

 

Nobody's touching me, including me.

Eating baked beans for breakfast, two gnats descended into the bowl. I delicately rescued them, scooping 'em out with my finger before squishing them on the blankets here in bed.

Now I'm noticing that the room is swarming with gnats. It's nature's reminder that I need to take out the trash, so I'll empty the bucket tonight, or maybe tomorrow.

Jeez — roaches, crickets, fleas, and no gnats. What's next, locusts? Lions and tigers and bears?

♦ ♦ ♦ 

My teeth haven't been bothering me lately, and I think I know why, so I 'll share this easy home remedy for recurring toothaches:

Brushing seemed to make pain throb even worse, so I've cut way down. Now I brush my teeth maybe once every other week, and the teeth are lovin' it, and I'd like to thank my few friends for not complaining.

♦ ♦ ♦ 

When Sarah-Katherine visited in July, I spent the last few days before she arrived whackin' off a lot, just imagining all the things we'd do. Perhaps as a result, even though she was willing, I was unable to do nearly as much as I would've liked.

So this time, nobody's touching me, including me, until she gets here, which will be December 9th. I enjoyed one last slow-stroking masturbation just before midnight, then wiped my fingers to type this announcement that there'll be no more masturbation until she's come and gone. Like a pro athlete before the big game, I'm saving all my energy, and when Sarah-Katherine steps off the plane it's my intent to be bursting, bursting with excitement.

♦ ♦ ♦ 

And that's a wrap, the end of November. See you in the next issue, next month.

From Pathetic Life #18
Thursday, Nov. 30, 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.