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Life, death, and anonymity

If I'm finally all better from whatever disease hit me last month, when does my strength come back? Any time now, please.

Today I'm very low on energy, so instead of me doing any real writing, you get more letters to Pathetic Life:

♦ ♦ ♦  

Addendum, 2023: It's something i haven't re-typed as I've put Pathetic Life on-line, but at the back of every on-paper issue, mostly as filler, there was a small list of people I said thanks to, usually for things unmentioned, and always under the kindhearted headline, "People Who Shouldn't Be Shot."

In the November 1995 list, I wrote,

I'd like to start with sincere thanks to Diane & Jeffrey, who send three bucks each month for the next issue, and though they live only a few miles away haven't once hinted at inviting me to dinner or anything. They're ideal subscribers — content to laugh at my life from a distance, with no desire to meet the anti-social author.

While I have generally enjoyed meeting most (not all) of the readers I've met, it's always a moment I'd rather avoid. For sparing me that misery, I thank you, Jeffrey & Diane — let's not get together some time!

A few months later, this letter came:

I don't know if words can express how nice it was of you to thank us for our non-intrusions, in PL#18's "People Who Shouldn't Be Shot." Your interpretation was correct — we respect your privacy way too much to ever put you on the spot with a request for a face-to-face meeting, and you're the one and only person who's ever noticed or acknowledged that.

There's a confession behind our non-intrusion which might shed enlightenment. We are somewhat in the same position you are in — having people know more about us than we know about them.

We are the owners of a used book store (West Portal Books). It's just the two of us,l no employees, and we are open every day. As a result, over the years a fairly large number of people have come to recognize us. They know who we are, that we're married and own the store, and various other facts about us gathered in conversation.

We are not famous enough to be celebrities, but we are a little bit of famous, sort of the same way you are. I'm finding it to be a very weird experience. My husband Jeff seems to be handling it fairly well, but I'm not doing so good with it, because I am kind of shy. Privacy means a lot to me (didn't realize how much until I started to lose some!).

For example, sometimes strangers (they must be former customers we don't remember) will just walk up to our table in a restaurant and start asking questions about what kind of books we buy from people, how much we pay and stuff. It startles me, and I feel they've butted in rudely on our private conversation. They don't even say "excuse me" or anything.

Another bad personal experience is when I'm just walking down the streets of San Francisco, minding my own bee's wax, when suddenly a stranger races up to me and shouts, "Aren't you the lady from the book store?"

Somehow I'm never prepared for it, and it always scares the hell out of me. I'm stunned, standing there sweating and blinking like a toad that's just been uncovered from a rock or something. Then the person thinks I'm being the rude one, because I'm too shocked to speak. Sometimes they'll start badgering me, "Well, you ARE the lady from the book store, AREN'T YOU? Huh? Huh? ANSWER ME, GOD DAMN IT!"

I guess they want me to stand and deliver a warm-hearted monologue on Haiku or some kind of bullshit like that, but there's way too much pressure, so I can't. 

Maybe we should consider ourselves to be "mini-celebrities," and these people are our "mini-stalkers." So we understand how it goes, sometimes, on the other side of 'fame' with a small 'f'. That's why we've never tried to get up close and personal with you."

—Diane Goodman, San Francisco  

Diane, you've said it brilliantly and I'm so glad it's not "just me being me." When you're away from the bookstore, you're not the bookstore, you're a person eating in a restaurant or walking along the sidewalk, and you deserve the freedom to be that non-bookstore person.

You're not a walking billboard for the bookstore everywhere you go, and like you, when I'm not typing I am just an anonymous fat guy, not eager to talk about my life with strangers. —DH 

♦ ♦ ♦  

Haven't been working on the new Attagirl zine lately 'cause I suck. Meanwhile, you rock. Here's some dough. See ya, and have a nice day. I'm pre-menstrual.

—Sandra Stringer, Attagirl, Columbia SC  

♦ ♦ ♦  

Anonymity is one of the great blessings of urban life. I know most people get some kind of gratification if the grocery clerk recognizes them and says hi, but it just makes me want to go buy my bread somewhere else.

I can imagine that strangers coming up to you with "You must be Doug!" would get on your nerves, preemptively taking away your choice of whether to introduce yourself or not.

—Jeff Carlock, Well Read Fox, Berkeley CA  

♦ ♦ ♦  

Sir: This is to advise you that Norman Edwards died in Akron on December 15, 1995, and I have been appointed executor of his estate.

Your publications 19 and 20 were forwarded to me. Please remove his name from your mailing list and cancel his account. Thank you.

—David E Culbertson, attorney-at-law  

When I read "executor of his estate" I briefly daydreamed of an inheritance, but instead it's a fatal cancellation — a letter from a dead man's lawyer.

Many readers of the zine send notes, which I read, but according to my half-assed bookkeeping and memory, Norman only sent a couple of fivespots with his name and address, never anything else. And now, never anything ever again.

Adios, Norman. Hope you enjoyed the reading as much as I enjoyed your ten dollars. Go in peace. —DH

From Pathetic Life #22
Thursday, March 7, 1996

Addendum, 2023: West Portal Books, like most of the best bits if San Francisco, is long gone.

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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Loud fart in a quiet office

Work in enough offices (and I have worked in enough offices) and you'll begin to recognize certain 'types' of office workers.

At Haugen & Dahl, I'm seeing some familiar people, people I'd swear I've worked with before, though their names and faces are different.

CRANKY
OLD FART
#286

leftovers
& links
 
Thursday,
March 9, 2023
There's the aging party girl who talks too much about her weekend.

There's the heavily-tattooed late-20s ten-speed guy, who you know couldn't pass a urinalysis.

There's the woman whose grown old working this job, and knows it better than anyone.

There's the "Jim Halpert" character, often found away from his desk and instead leaning on a counter and chatting with pretty "Pam Beesly," and the "Pam" in our office is actually named Pam.

There's the old man who's barely hanging on with modern technology, sitting at his desk and staring at his screen, using his index finger to push keyboard buttons, and whenever he needs to ask a question (or worse, explain something) you can tell it's a struggle. And no, he's not me, but maybe in a few years...

There are the people who talk too loudly about their lives outside of work, like the woman on the other side of my cubicle wall, sharing the story of her father's decline and last days, at length, every morning. 

And there's Peter, the earnest and nervous 30-something man who wants you to know he really cares about the job, but whatever knowledge he has gets lost in his anxiety at saying anything. He used to be me, so I sympathize.

6-8 or so of us do similar work, but we're scattered around the office, and word is that we're all going to be moved to the same corner of the building, soon. When that happens, I'll be among a crowd of co-workers instead of 2-3 people, and by the odds of human nature, somebody will get on my nerves.

And it might be Peter — we do similar work, so he'll soon be one of my cubicle-neighbors, and already he stops at my desk and wants to check my work, though checking my work isn't his job. He interrupts himself a lot, starting one sentence, but then "No, wait," deciding he wants to say something different instead. And he has a hundred suggestions for how we should all do things a little different, but he can't put his ideas into clear words, and I've noticed Alissa's eyes rolling when he speaks. 

I love carrots, but as part of being old, If I eat too many I'll have explosive, barely-controllable farts and poops the next day. I've been eating fewer carrots, obviously, because I don't want to be sharting at the office.

Still eating a few carrots after dinner most nights, though, and yesterday at our very quiet office, a surprisingly loud fart escaped as I walked past Judy's desk. Alissa was on the phone, so she probably didn't hear it. No way Judy didn't hear it, though.

On Tuesday I attended my first meeting at Haugen & Dahl, which was similar to but slightly better than attending a meeting anyplace.

Workflow is behind, and the boss explained that she wants it caught up. She seems to understand what we do, though, what she wants isn't unreasonable, and she knows the department has been short-staffed (which is why I work there now).

Though I had only four days of experience, she asked if I had any suggestions, and I had two. "I don't yet have access to the document storage and sorting system, so Alissa has to stop doing her work all the time to sort through more work for me," I said, and the boss said she'd have me on the storage and sorting system by the next day (and she did).

And also, I said aloud what seems to be the most time-consuming problem — duplicates documents in the workflow. Maybe I'll say more about that some other day, but Alissa and even Peter agreed it's a problem.

Old people tend to like it warmer, and after two years of working from home and then one year of unemployment at home, I'm accustomed to being in a very warm space. 75° is a bit chilly for me. The space heater at home stays on until 78° or so.

At the office, it's the traditional 68°, and on my first day I shivered so much than on my second day and every day since I've word thermal underwear top & bottom, but the place still feels just a little too cold. 

I take lunch at my desk every day, and read a book. Making chit-chat, Judy asked about the book I was reading, which made for a moment of awkwardness. It's Broken Crown, by Henry Racicot, and I'll write a good review when I'm finished with it, but there's nothing about the plotline that can be explained in a work-appropriate conversation. The next day I brought in an old noir novel instead.

News you need,
whether you know it or not

• Federal Reserve's Zoom conference cancelled after "porn-bombing" 

• "Playgrounds for cops": Beyond protests, clergy, environmentalist unite against Atlanta's 'Cop City' 

• Facebook and Google are handing over user data to help police prosecute abortion seekers 

• Tennessee punk band performs in drag after drag is banned 

They're The Vandoliers, and I've added "Bless Your Drunken Heart" to my playlist.

• Habitat for Humanity just opened its first affordable condo building on Seattle's Capitol Hill — and is getting ready to build another 

• Retired Muni streetcar to become bed-and-breakfast 

• Toblerone chocolate bars have gotten less and less Swiss, and now they're losing their Swiss status and Matterhorn 

• Climate change comes for molluscs and sea urchins 

• Tropical plankton in jeopardy from climate change 

• Climate change is raising flight turbulence risks 

• Antarctic sea ice reaches lowest levels ever recorded 

• Scientists discover a new way climate change threatens cold-blooded animals 

• Risky feedback loops are accelerating climate change, scientists warn 

• Intense downpours in the UK will increase due to climate change – new study 

• Official report condemns police gangs within Los Angeles Sheriff's Department 

• Cop convicted for on-duty rapes 

• Bodycam footage confirms Asheville police targeted journalists 

• Jury awards $8.25M to Black mother, daughters unlawfully searched and handcuffed by Alameda County sheriff's deputies at a Castro Valley Starbucks 

• Republican who gave pre-January 6 planning tour to insurrectionists will head party's 'investigation' into investigation of January 6 insurrection 

• Iowa Republicans propose a ban on same-sex marriage 

• Tennessee governor signs laws targeting drag shows and health care for transgender youths 

• Racist Republican Congressman blames recent Ohio train derailments on diversity 

• Florida Republicans seek new abortion restrictions amid broad right-wing push 

• Arkansas Gov. Sanders signs law loosening child labor protections 

• Republicans are working overtime to overcome democracy 

• Trump gave an unhinged rant at CPAC about his friendship with Putin and WWIII 

• Musk backpedals after mocking disabled Twitter worker in tweet ‘storm’ 

Mystery links
There's no knowing where you're going

• Click 

• Click 

• Click 

• Click 

• Click 

My browser history
without the porn

• Inside the secret working group that helped push anti-trans laws across the country 

• A museum for the working class 

• Man goes barefoot for twenty years

 • An obscure rule about bus stops can make riding at night safer 

♫♬  It don't mean a thing  ♫
if it don't have that swing

• American Idiot — Green Day 

• The Devil's Been Busy — Traveling Wilburys 

• In Dreams — Roy Orbison 

• On the Radio — Al Stewart 

• 16 Tons — Tennessee Ernie Ford 

Eventually, everyone
leaves the building

• Richard Anobile 

• Bert I Gordon 

• Anthony Green 

• Robert Haimer 

• Judy Heumann 

• Linda Kasabian 

• Douglas Kelbaugh 

• Shinta Ratri 

• Gary Rossington 

• Eileen Sheridan 

• Topol 

• Sandy Valdespino 

 3/9/2023   

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.

 
 
Special thanks to Linden Arden, Becky Jo, Wynn Bruce, Joey Jo Jo, John the Basket, Dave S, Name Withheld, and always extra special thanks to my lovely late Stephanie, who gave me 21 years and proved that the world isn't always shitty.

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Dinner and a double feature

I'm still feeling lousy, but I'm always up for film noir, and the movies I want to see are playing tonight only at the UC, so I met Josh for dinner and a double feature. The food was good ay Hong Kong Villa, but I didn't have enough appetite to finish it. Been a long time since that's happened.

The first feature was 5 Against the House (1955), based on a novel by Jack Finney. I love Finney — he's maybe my favorite author — but I haven't read the book.

The movie is half a wise-ass college comedy, half a bloated melodrama about a casino caper the frat boys are planning to pull during spring break. None of it's very believable or interesting, the elaborate can't-miss plan for the heist is more quaint than clever, and the whole story screeches to a halt while Kim Novak sings a few nightclub numbers. The finale, set in a hydraulic-lift parking garage, is overwrought enough to be fun, and the garage is cool.

The second feature, Murder by Contract (1958), is a minor masterpiece, following a hit man through his career, starting the day he applies for the job. Vince Edwards (later Dr Kildare) is outstanding as the ice cold but earnest young man whose calling is to kill, and his internal tension makes the audience an accomplice to the crimes. A simple but snappy six-string guitar is the soundtrack, and the cinematography is shady and angular. The script is deliciously viscous, and your mind won't wander.

After the movies, Josh drove us home, and he mentioned something about the January issue. "All those people who've read your zine and come up to you on Telegraph Avenue when you'd rather be left alone — for what it's worth, I say, why not just say hello and give 'em a chance?"

"Nah," said I. "I hate meeting people, hate being sociable, making small talk, and it's worst when it's unexpected." 

"Yeah," he said, "but the people who come up to you on Telegraph aren't ordinary people. They've read your zine, and liked it. Maybe that makes 'em worth talking to."

"Maybe," I said after twenty seconds or so, and thinking it over the next day, I still think… maybe. 

Some people have wandered into my life only because of the zine — Josh, for example, and Jay, and Judith, and Sarah-Katherine. Josh's point is that when someone's read the zine, and liked it, maybe I shouldn't be so quick to reject them. And… well, maybe.

So as an experiment, as a maybe, maybe the next time someone approaches me on the Ave and says "Are you Pathetic Doug?" maybe I won't deny it. We'll see.

That said, if someone's read the zine and liked it and wants to meet me, I'd still much, much, much rather that they contact me by mail or voice mail.

From Pathetic Life #22
Wednesday, March 6, 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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Stiffed by Quimby's

Quimby's is a famous zine store in Chicago. Never been to Chicago, but Quimby's was the first store to carry Pathetic Life, so I love 'em, or at least I want to.

They reached out to me last summer, and explained their invoice system and forms, used by all the zinesters whose work Quimby's sells, so I play by their invoicing rules.

They only sent two of their invoice blanks, though, and my zine comes out monthly, so with the second shipment I enclosed a self-addressed stamped envelope and asked for more of their invoices. There was no reply, so my third mailing to Quimby's included my own half-assed invoice form, another SASE, and another note asking nicely for more invoices. Also I asked real friendly like whether anyone was buying the zine off the shelves. Still, no reply.

It's a big store (I've seen pictures) and dealing with a thousand of do-it-yourself publishers must be a lot of work. Balls get dropped through cracks thin and wide, and things get forgotten, and I try not to get too impatient but… they owe me $165, money which I'll love to spend on cat food though I don't have a cat. That's how poor I am.

Almost a year, and I haven't been paid, and my questions haven't been answered.

Today, Quimby's Spring catalog came in the mail, and Pathetic Life is listed — so whatdoyaknow, it is for sale at Quimby's. Early issues are sold out, so that answers my question on whether anyone's buying it. But I was slowly simmered by this blurb toward the back of the book:

"Communication — Because we deal with so many small publishers individually, we ask that you keep in touch. Haven't heard from us in a while? Our phone number is (312) 342-0910."

Wait a minute. I understand forms and letters, and postal problems, and a busy office, lousy cash flow, or lost paperwork. I've worked in offices, and understand all the things that can go wrong. If they're too busy to bother with me, I won't lie awake nights, and if they never pay me I'll chalk it up to my own stupidity for trusting people I've never met at a store I've never seen. I don't think they're ignoring me on purpose, but yeah, "Haven't heard from you in a while."

So I'm supposed to call? Long distance? During business hours? That's expensive. I still have wet dreams about Sarah-Katherine, but I've never called her long distance, even on the weekends when rates go down — that's how cheap I am. And I'll be damned if I'll make a long distance call to a zine shop that's ignored me for almost a year.

So if you live in Chicago, please subscribe. The zine no longer has a sales outlet there.

From Pathetic Life #22
Tuesday, March 5, 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.

Addendum, 2023: Reading this entry surprised me. I'd forgotten all about being stiffed by Quimby's, but I am a world-class grudge-holder — if they'd never paid me I'd never forget, so they must've paid me eventually.

The store is still there, and to this day I often buy zines from Quimby's.

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Not my best moment

SUNDAY — This morning I felt alive enough to roll out of bed and waddle over to the typewriter to pound out these shitty sentences, instead of scribbling a few words in my notebook. And it rained all day, so I didn't have to go to work. Instead I stayed home and worked, sitting at the kitchen table, cutting sacrilegious fish from pre-printed blasphemous mylar sheets — paid work, but without having to trudge to Telegraph Ave.

Listened to exhibition baseball on the radio, while working. My sense of humor was starting to return, so as the A's lost I silently told myself jokes but laughed out loud. Jokes nobody but me would find funny. Jokes even I won't find funny tomorrow.

Heard a noise behind me once, and it was my flatmate Cy sorta snickering at me. I waved and meant to laugh, but instead gave him a coughing fit. 

♦ ♦ ♦  

Checked my messages for the first time in days, only to hear Diana, my not-a-doctor from the free clinic, tell me three days ago that my test results were negative, so I don't/didn't have strep throat. That's no surprise — my tongue was white and even now it's still gray, but my throat never had the intense hurt of strep.

"Gosh," she said in her message, "I don't know what you have. Call and let me know how you're doing, OK?" 

I called the clinic's machine and reported that I'm feeling better., which is true, so whatever I had or have, it doesn't matter much now.

♦ ♦ ♦  

MONDAY — Not quite feeling up to it, I worked anyway. BARTed in to San Francisco and spent the afternoon at Black Sheets, but I wished I wasn't there, and I was weary and fevered and grumpy.

Making my way home, I saw a scuzzy-looking homeless guy begging for change at the entrance to the BART station.

He's usually there. I've seen him a hundred times, always at the same corner of the concrete, always saying the same line, "Spayer chienje?" with an exaggerated Southern accent.

He's as much a part of the station as the big blue and white BART sign. He's been there always and forever, since I first came to the city in 1991, and probably for years before that. Maybe he inherited the job from his father.

"Spayer chienje?" he said to me as I approached.

"Not today," I muttered, and kept muttering as I walked by, "not yesterday, not the day before yesterday, not last week—"

"You don't have to be mean about it!" he yelled as I started down the subway stairs. 

It wasn't my best moment, but fuck it, I was in a rancid mood, so I stopped, turned and looked at him, and he stared at me. The man he saw wasn't much and never will be, and in him I saw a young, skinny and probably malnourished loser, barefoot and probably cold, sitting next to a trash can. He's a sad schmuck, do doubt, but I had no mercy for that fucker this afternoon, so "Fuck off," I said, and again turned toward the stairs down to the trains.

On the ride back to Berkeley I replayed that scene, and I'd enjoyed it but wasn't proud of it. I've lived in the slums, worked on the street, and every day I see homeless people ignored or treated like they're less than people. Sometimes, by me. Most days, though, I make an attempt to treat the down and out with the ordinary respect everyone deserves.

Not today, though, and since the goal here is honestly let me say, honestly, whatever remorse I felt about telling him to fuck off, I shook it off easily. That beggar seems able-bodied and able-brained, but he's been sitting at that same spot for years, playing pity for quarters and dimes. You want respect from me? How about showing some self-respect first.

From Pathetic Life #22
Sunday & Monday,
March 3 - 4, 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.

Addendum, 2023: Part of me wants to defend myself, and insist that I'm a better man now, that these days I wouldn't tell a homeless man to fuck off.

It's probably not true, though. I still have plenaty of asshole in me.

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