homeaboutarchivescommentscontacteverything

50¢

"Can I borrow 50¢, please?"

There's one Berkeley bum who uses that line a lot. Always he says please, and puts the tiniest extra emphasis on 'borrow', as if anyone believes it's a loan.

Usually I'm stingy and cheap, but a few times I've said yeah and handed him a few quarters.

And there he was again, standing at the corner in front of Walgreens. Across the parking lot I could hear him saying his familiar line to an old couple, and they ignored him of course, and walked into the store.

I wasn't in a good mood, and had already decided I wasn't giving that bum the 50¢ I knew he'd be asking for. Why I'd ever given him anything is a mystery, but he wears a fraction of a smile and a hopeful look and sometimes it's cracked my uncaring urban armor.

Not today, though. I steeled my defenses. He wasn't getting a dime out of me. I only had four dollars in my wallet, barely enough for the groceries I needed, and anyway, I am poor, damn it.

As I approached the store's door, the bum pulled his hand out of his pocket, the literal enactment of hoping for a handout. I looked the other way and waited for the words, but they were what I'd expected.

"This is for you, mister," he said, and I noticed there were two dollar bills in his hand. 

"For me?" I asked, trying to figure out what scam he was pulling.

"Yeah, for helping me out when I needed it, man. Four times you've given me 50¢."

Wordless, I gradually grokked that he was repaying the 'loans'. Does this guy keep a ledger? 

It's probably a calculated part of his routine, and I'm supposed to refuse the two dollars. Like I said, though, I'm poor. And not proud. I needed the money almost as much as he did, so I took the cash, stuffed it into my pocket and added, "Thanks."

He'd probably complain, I thought. His whole ploy was supposed to get money out of me, right?

But instead he said, "Don't be thanking me," either sincerely or as a well-delivered part of the pitch. "I be thanking you, for helping when I was broke."

Past tense? Like, you aren't broke now? 

But I didn't say anything, only nodded, and walked into the store. With the extra two bucks, I treated myself to a can of Nine Lives and a small jar of mayonnaise, in addition to the ramen and cheap bread I'd come for. Yeah, I'd be eating good tonight.

The bum was still there when I came out, so I handed him two quarters. Call it a karma investment. And I smiled at him, and it felt like a genuine smile.

From Pathetic Life #22
Thursday, March 14, 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.

Incident at Burger King

TUESDAY — Beginning at noon, I sorted fish. Usually I sit on Telegraph and sell the fish, and sometimes I sit in my kitchen and make the fish, scissoring them out of fish-pre-printed mylar sheets. Today I sorted through many thousands of fish, counting them and sorting them into bins of fish, because Jay wanted an inventory.

After about six hours of counting and sorting there were 31 piles of fish, including a few that had been discontinued months ago. Then I phoned Jay with the tallies, and at her instruction, began scissoring and re-stocking the fishies we were low on.

Sorting, counting, bagging, binning, and then a few hours of scissoring left the fish in tidy, well-organized piles, but my brain was fished out.

♦ ♦ ♦  

Had a cup of ramen for dinner, and a few slices of bread and butter, a meal so mild it couldn't possible disagree with me. Everything has for weeks, so I wanted to take no chances.

For dessert, two vitamin C's, two multi-vits, and two illegal antibiotics, and then I puked everything up. I'm hoping it was just the pills fighting each other, because other than the barfing I felt not bad all day.

♦ ♦ ♦  

WEDNESDAY — "Fuck off," was the first thing Mabel said when she swung open the door. "You're not working for me today, or ever. You son of a bitch. You're worse than my own kids. You could at least flush the toilet. When I flushed your huge shit the whole bathroom was floating in it, and I don't pay people to shit all over my house…"

And on and on, and then she started coughing, with a hacking wheeze she hadn't had a few days ago. Whatever she's got I hope she caught it from me.

Her hollering trailed away as I walked down the street. I'm out the price of a BART round trip, $4 or so, but it was worth at least $3.50 to see the funny fury on her face, and to never have to set foot in her messy house again.

The toilet overflowing wasn't worth arguing about, so I didn't even tell her it wasn't my shit she'd waded through. My piss, yes, and my vomit too, but the toilet had been full of shit and piss before I got there on Monday night. I hadn't flushed because anyone could see it was going to overflow.

♦ ♦ ♦  

Per Mabel's instructions, I'd arrived early, so there was time to catch a discount matinee. I'd been wanting to see Dead Man Walking, so I BARTed to 12th Street, then walked to Jack London Square.

It's a weepy prison melodrama that humanizes the issues of capital punishment. It's not against the death penalty and it's not for it, doesn't seem to have an opinion one way or the other, but it's fairly fair, and simply addressing a controversial issue makes Dead Man Walking a towering achievement in American cinema, so I'll recommend it, with reservations. Lots of reservations.

The killer on death row only develops a conscience and almost a man's worth of humility when he knows he's going to die, so maybe the movie's point is that fear of execution leads to redemption? If so, that's putrid. 

And Bruce Springsteen's dull, not quite musical theme song, with lyrics that rhyme "dead man walkin'" with "dead man talkin'" — brilliant, Bruce — was nominated for an Oscar? Springsteen is overrated, but usually he's better that that. The song sounds like a dead man singin'.

Tim Robbins wrote and directed, and he's lucky to have his leading lady, Susan Sarandon, starring, but another Robbins wrote the (weak) score, and another Robbins directed the (annoying and unnecessary) choir, and more people named Robbins than I could count scrolled by in the closing credits. Everyone in the family gets an AFTRA card and maybe residuals. 

♦ ♦ ♦  

After the movie, I stopped for a fish sammich at Burger King, because I have an appetite for the first time since February, and because a nice reader sent a coupon for a free meal (thanks, Sandy — the next zine's my treat). 

After ordering, I did the thing where you stand waiting for your number to be called. It was a great wait, though.

A cashier said, "28," and a young black woman stepped up to the counter. Without a word, the cashier put a sack of food on the counter in front of her, and the woman asked somewhat brusquely, "Are my fries in here?"

The worker stopped but didn't answer. Instead she pushed the bag a little closer to the customer, then turned away and walked back to her register.

The customer screamed, "Don't you throw my food at me!" Actually, she said, "Doan you chrow mah food ah me," and I was briefly perplexed at the verh 'chrow', but the scene devolved quickly into something so ugly there were not further thoughts of linguistics.

"I didn't throw your food," the cashier yelled just as loudly, twice, and that's true. She'd nudged the sack toward the customer, but certainly hadn't chrown it.

Then came the customer's barrage of "You chrew my food, bitch!" and "Give me a refund!" and "I'll be waiting when you're off work!" It was highly entertaining, and when someone called my number, "31," I got my food and took a seat close enough to enjoy the floor show.

The woman kept screaming, and soon the cashier, in tears, fled to the back room. The manager came up front to quiet or placate the customer, but this was a woman who wouldn't be calmed.

"I want my food replaced," she demanded, "and my money back, and I want you to fire that bitch right now, and then when she leaves I'm gonna kick her ass!" Kicking ass was a recurring theme in all of the woman's ranting.

The entire lunch crowd was mesmerized — fifty blank faces watching, but none of us intervening. What, am I gonna do something? No, I am not.

The woman kept screaming threats and demands and obscenities at the manager, while I finished my fine fishwich, and as I nibbled the last few fries he finally gave up and walked away, asking another employee to call 9-1-1. 

As he manager walked toward the back room, the customer followed him, lifting the gateway through the counter, walking back behind the cash registers. There's no sign that says "Employees only," but it's universally understood, except by that furious customer.

The manager stopped and looked at her and sorta cringed, his body bending a little, like he was actually afraid. His face was flushed, and he seemed unsure what to do. Maybe no customer had ever lifted and walked through the gateway before.

A big male employee — also black (in fact, everyone's black in this story, except me and the manager) — came out from the kitchen, put his arms up passively, and softly nudged the furious woman back toward the lobby.

The manager, in fine management mode, only stood and watched, slightly shaking. By the time the big guy had cajoled the woman, still belligerent, back to the customer area, this farce had been going on for ten minutes, maybe longer, but burgers were still being ordered and fried and fed to the audience.

The cashier from the top of the story came back. She'd obviously been crying, but the manager told her to go back to her station, so she stepped to her register and said, "Can I help you?" to the next hungry loser in line.

The angry woman was still in the lobby, though, still ranting, and she came toward the cashier, leaned across the counter, and popped her in the face. She wasn't hurt — it was a weenie punch — but the cashier started bawling again, and ran away.

The manager came up, finally out of his funk, I thought — OK, he's going to throw her out. It's about time, and this ought to be fun. I sipped on my Diet Coke, chewing the ice.

But he didn't throw her out, didn't even ask her to leave. He gave her back her money, as she'd been screaming-demanding, and handed her a fresh sack of replacement food, which she'd also demanded.

What a frickin' putz. What a fine manager. And of course, the woman continued hollering, demanding again that "You gotta fire that bitch!" and promising she'd be waiting to kick the cashier's ass when she left.

Then the police showed up, and the woman was suddenly quiet for the first time since the cashier had nudged her sack of food toward her.

The manager and the woman both talked to the two policemen, but the cashier said, "I don't talk to cops," and disappeared into the back room to cry some more.

Nobody was arrested, and the crazed customer went home with her sack of replacement food plus her refunded money. Heck, she might've still had her original sack of food, too — I'm not sure what happened to it. 

Here's my review: The fishwich was lukewarm, the lettuce was wilted, and the fries were hot but too salty. The customer was out of her mind. Someone who takes surly service at a fast-food dive so personally, is someone who's looking for an excuse to be furious.

The cashier shouldn't have chrown the food. It was rude, but also it was nothing by the standards of American rudeness. And the cashier won me over when she refused to talk to the police.

The manager was awful. At no time did he offer any support, encouragement, or defense for his employee. He ordered her to return to a physically dangerous situation, leading directly to her assault. That bossman has a fine career ahead of him in Corporate America.

And the police? They were mellow peacemakers, exactly what wasn't called for. Witnesses told them about the woman's behavior, that she'd punched the cashier, and about her ten minutes of repeated threats. That woman must've promised fifty times to kick the cashier's ass, including twice as the policemen watched, before she saw them. But they let a violent, threatening, and inarguably crazy woman walk away without so much as scolding her.

Now, I suppose some support-your-local-police ninny will write to tell me that I'd condemn the cops no matter what they did, but that's bull. Usually I criticize cops for their usual crimes — rousting the homeless, routine brutality and racism, enforcing stupid laws against victimless crimes, and their general attitude of omnipotence, etc — but this was a situation where you could argue that society needs police. That woman should've been arrested, but the "protect and serve" cops didn't even give her a talking-to.

"Have a nice day," one of them said to her, as she walked out the door.

♦ ♦ ♦  

Well, gosh, I enjoyed the afternoon's double feature — Dead Man Walking and Incident at Burger King — so much that I decided to catch another double feature back in Berkeley. Wednesdays are noir nights at the UC, so I stopped at home to pack snacks in my backpack, and walked to the 7:00 show. 

Touch of Evil (1958) is a sweaty film directed by Orson Welles, who plays a sweaty, pompous, pushy, and prejudiced police chief investigating a murder at the US/Mexican border. Welles is great. Welles is always great.

Charlton Heston wears a pasted-on mustache and presto, he's supposed to be Mexican. It was a different time, yeah, but it's always clumsy when old movies try to address racial issues, with white actors playing the oppressed minorities. Ah, well. If you can get past that, Heston is actually pretty good in the role.

Marlene Dietrich runs the local whorehouse, Zsa Zsa Gabor plays a floozy, Dennis Weaver has a kooky bit as the hotel manager, and it adds up to a movie well worth seeing. It's a drama with a point, reflected in one of its better lines: "A policeman's job is only easy in a police state." Remember that, next time you're counting the cops at Dunkin' Donuts.

The Crimson Kimono (1959) also addresses racial issues, not as successfully, but at least it has James Shigeta as a Japanese-American. Charlton Heston must've been unavailable. 

Shigeta and his partner and friend, a white cop, investigate a murder where the clues lead to LA's Little Tokyo. Screwball characters say things like, "Love does much, but bourbon does everything," and it's watchable, but the mystery is obvious, almost silly, and the romantic angle is shot through the heart by cardboard acting from everyone who isn't Shigeta. 

♦ ♦ ♦  

Then I came home feeling pretty good, not sick at all. Am I all better? It's about frickin' time.

From Pathetic Life #22
Tuesday & Wednesday,
March 12-13, 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.

Riot in Cell Block 11, and six more movies

Riot in Cell Block 11 (1954)

Neville Brand and Leo Gordon lead a prison revolt, filmed on location at Folsom State Prison, with prisoners and guards playing some of the prisoners and guards. 

After the opening sequence — kinda corny newsreel-style reports on prison riots across America — this becomes one of the all-time great prison dramas.

Unlike American prisons, the population here is mostly white, but the film is realistically dark, tense, brutal, and thrilling. The prison is overcrowded, the food is shitty, there's no rehabilitation or anything for the prisoners to do but wait their years out, the mentally crazed inmates are mingled with the mere criminals, and some prisoners seem to serve their entire term in solitary confinement, but we see these men and it's clear that they're not savages.

THE
NEVERENDING
FILM FESTIVAL

#152

Thursday,
March 16, 2023


The prisoners have had enough, and the movie lets them state their complaints, but without making them unreasonably sympathetic. None of them claim innocence; they claim only the right to be treated like men.

The guards are not the good guys, but also not painted broadly as evil. The warden, played by Karl Malden lookalike Emile Meyer, says all the right things about needed prison reforms and such, but his body, delivery, and sheer presence announce that he's a thug.

That contradiction between the warden of the script and the warden on the screen fascinated me, and it was no accident; Don Siegel directed, and he always paid attention to detail and knew what he was doing, so he wanted that ambiguity. 

The film was written by Richard Collins, who mostly worked in television. He was a one-time commie who was blacklisted for a few years, before recanting and naming names, but he's long dead now and I ain't mad at him. I only wonder whether he might've also spent some time in prison — the film feels that real. Of course, much of the credit for that goes to the always-brilliant Siegel. 

That opening sequence, though — the newsreel bit at the beginning? There's a voiceover saying that the inmates have hung "bedsheets, scrawled with slogans," on the prison bars, but same as today's news that's a false factiod, unless you think "INVESTIGATE MASS BEATINGS HERE IN SEGREGATION, A DOCTOR WILL VERIFY" is a "slogan." Again, I don't think the contrast between what we see and what's said is accidental.

Of course, the solution to prison unrest is as simple then as it would be now: treat prisoners like you'd treat people. That's a tactic that's never been tried.

Verdict: BIG YES.

♦ ♦ ♦ 

Hamlet (1946)

I've seen Hamlet before, of course, but wanted to re-watch it to refresh my memory, so I wouldn't miss any of the subtle character and plot points in the sequel, Hamlet 2

The King of Denmark has been murdered, but his ghost comes back and tells his son to kill his uncle — the new king — because the uncle killed Dad. Hamlet is kinda freaked out about the news and the haunting and having to kill somebody, so he considers suicide, but instead he does what the ghost of his pop told him to do, and plots his uncle's assassination. His uncle, though, is no dummy, and he's planning Hamlet's death, too.

And there's your drama. The story's complete ridiculousness is rarely mentioned, and instead it's considered Shakespeare's masterpiece. Lawrence Olivier's movie of it is is considered a classic too, and even I'll agree. The clouds in the background during "To be or not to be" look phony, and I've seen enough Hamlets to notice that Rosencrantz and Guildenstern are missing, but this is a fine film.

I have a complaint, though. I've been told many times that mine is a stupid complaint, but I'm stupid so I'll say it again:

The language of Shakespeare is English, but it's not the English any of us speak. The language has changed so much since his time, it's hard to follow, and I know I'm missing about 20% of the meaning, maybe more.

One example among many: Hamlet says to an old friend, "Thy face is valanced since I saw thee last. Comest thou to beard me in Denmark?" and everyone laughs.

What are they laughing about? I didn't get the joke, because I don't speak the language. And there's no time to decode it, because Shakespeare has thousands of lines just as indecipherable or more so, and anyway, Hamlet's walked across the stage and now he's saying something else to someone else in his antique vernacular.

As Hammy himself says, here's the rub: When I see other movies filmed in foreign languages, they're dubbed or subtitled into English. Never Shakespeare, though. Why not?

So I went to nosweatshakespeare.com, which translates Shakespeare into English. They tell me that Hammy is saying, "You’ve grown a beard since I last saw you. Have you come to 'beard' me in my Denmark?" Which makes more sense, and might be worth a slight smile instead of the original dialogue's frustration.

I refuse to research and translate every line in the play, though. It's the moviemakers' job, not mine, to make a movie understandable, and 80% understandable isn't enough. Give me Shakespeare, but in modern-day English, please.

Is it disrespectful to old Will, who died more than 400 years ago, to call for rewrites? I say it's disrespectful not to. It cheats the audience, and I'll wager Shakespeare would want his plays presented in the audience's language, so the meaning and nuance aren't lost.

Resurrect Lawrence Olivier and film this flick again, but in present-day English.

And while we're at it, hamlet and village are synonyms, so when I was a kid I thought Hamlet was a play about a village. Nobody's named Hamlet these days, so when they translate the text, rename him Hank, please.

Give me a movie of Shakespeare's Hank.

Verdict: YES.

♦ ♦ ♦   

Hamlet 2 (2008)

At last, all the dangling and unresolved questions left lingering from the original Hamlet will be tied up neatly?

Nah, this is set in present-day Arizona, with Steve Coogan as Dana Marschz, a dweebish high school drama teacher. His class stages a play every year, poorly, but Marschz believes in the power of the stage, and wants this year's play to truly connect with the audience.

He writes Hamlet 2, hoping to correct the original's unhappy ending by adding a time machine to the plot.

"I just wondered why in Hamlet 1 everybody has to die? It's such a downer. I mean, if Hamlet had just a little bit of therapy, he could've turned everything around…"

What Hamlet needs is Jesus, and the Tucson Gay Men's Choir singing my favorite Elton John song, "Someone Saved My Life Tonight," for a big fat happy ending.

Catherine Keener co-stars (and has she ever not been delightful in a movie role?), along with Amy Poehler representing the ACLU, and Elisabeth Shue as herself. 

This sure ain't Shakespeare, but Coogan's delightful, the movie has bit of a message, and it's fairly funny, fairly often. It's slightly subversive, but mostly good clean fun.

Verdict: YES.

♦ ♦ ♦  

Ingrid Goes West (2017)

This film is set in the realm of social media influencers, a topic which holds no interest for me. The idea that people can gain fame and earn a good living by being "influencers" is, in my opinion, one of the leading insanities of our era.

That said, Aubrey Plaza is always a joy, so I had to see Ingrid Goes West. She plays Ingrid, a kooky young woman who crashes an influencer's wedding. 

After she gets out of jail for pepper-spraying the bride, Ingrid fixates on another influencer, gets a makeover to look like her, and steals her dog. Then she "finds" the dog, returns it to her target, and befriends and stalks her and her husband.

This is not a comedy, although there are certainly laughs if you find idiots amusing. It's marvelously cynical drama, and Ingrid is fake in everything she does, crafting an imaginary Ingrid specifically to appeal to the people she wants to be her friends. And it works, until she finds someone who might be as crazy as she is.

Elizabeth Olsen and Ice Cube co-star, only it isn't Mr Cube — turns out it's his son, who goes by O'Shea Jackson Jr. 

Verdict: YES, and probably a BIG YES if you know or care anything about social media.

Odd trivia: There's no telling (meaning, I'm not telling) where I find the films I watch, but this one might have been leaked directly from the studio. Before the movie, there's a minute of full-color bar codes, and then a page of text that seems to be for internal use — "Universal content management, archival master file, production # 08S74," followed by a jumble of technical info, edit dates, and details about what's on all twelve audio channels. 

♦ ♦ ♦  

Nosferatu the Vampyre (1974)

I saw this when it first came out, and remember being creeped out by it, but I didn't remember any of the particulars. Now I've seen it again — an hour ago — and again I don't remember much except that it's creepy-looking but also kinda boring. That's an odd combination, but Nosferatu pulls it off.

Klaus Kinski overplays the vampyre, and is frequently fun to watch, while Isabelle Adjani is breathy and melodramatic all the way through. Roland Topor has a grand time playing Renfield, the count's laughing loony assistant.

Mostly, though, Nosferatu is about the atmospherics of Transylvania or wherever, with Kinski being reptillian, and when it's half over there's still another half to go.

Verdict: MAYBE.

Topor, the actor playing Renfield, wrote the novel that Roman Polanmski's The Tenant is based on.

♦ ♦ ♦  

The Outlaw (1943)

This flick is less famous as a film than for the puritanical hubbub that accompanied it. Jane Russell's boobs were emphasized in the promotional trailers and posters, to the point of two years' tangling with the Hays Office, administrators of the anti-art Production Code that ruled Hollywood.

All the controversy was before my time, and there's no knowing what all went on behind the scenes. Perhaps The Outlaw was a terrific movie before getting chopped, but what's left is an oddly off-key western with cleavage.

Mr Russell has big boobies, wears low-cut blouses, and bends over a lot, so there's that entertainment. She also boinks the movie's leading man — off screen, of course, but there's no ambiguity about it.

Is that enough to recommend a movie, though? Most women have breasts, and while Ms Russell ain't ugly there are two women at work who are prettier.

What annoys me most is that she was a good actress, as demonstrated in later films, but under the direction of batty billionaire Howard Hughes here, she's flat. 

Most of the acting is ceramic, the story is languorously paced, and much of it is punctuated with music as ridiculously overwrought as YouTube's "Dramatic Squirrel," melting to wah-wah comical sounds whenever these characters crack the lamest jokes — a nudge to remind you it's funny, when it's not.

With all this going on and going wrong, The Outlaw is an early specimen of camp. 

Walter Huston plays Doc Holliday, and should've been the star of the movie — he's the only credible actor on screen. Jack Buetel (misspelled as Beutel in the credits) plays Billy the Kid as a cocky lump of adolescence. Movie nice guy Thomas Mitchell (best known as Uncle Billy with a string on his finger in It's a Wonderful Life) plays the bad guy/sheriff Pat Garrett, but his harmless screen presence works against feeling any danger or drama.

If you know the names Garrett, Holliday, and Billy the Kid, you'll know how the story ends.

Verdict: YES, but mostly as a curio.

♦ ♦ ♦   

The Red Balloon (1956)

Kid finds a balloon. It's red, tied to a string, and the kid becomes quite fond of the balloon.

There's not much more to be said about the movie's storyline.

In my untrustworthy memory from seeing this film fifty years ago, I would've sworn it was back-and-white, with only the balloon in red and everything else in shades of gray. But nope, it's in color, though there must've been some special effects involved in making the balloon stand out so very redly in every scene.

With a touch of fantasy, the film invokes childhood's innocence, then loss, then the hope of restoration. It's barely half an hour long, and you could spend hours pondering its philosophical meaning, but I won't pop the bubble by giving it that much thought. It's simply a charming little film — one of those movies you've always heard was great, and guess what? It's great.

Among many other honors, it won the Oscar for Best Screenplay, despite having only about twenty words of dialogue. Written and directed by Albert Lamorisse, whose other big hit came the year after The Red Balloon, when he invented the board game Risk.

The little kid with the balloon is Lamorisse's son.

Verdict: BIG YES.

♦ ♦ ♦  

Coming next: 

Bottoms (1966)
Charly (1968)
The Diane Linkletter Story (1969)
The Last Picture Show (1971)
Maniac Cop (1988)
Morvern Callar (2002)
Nightfall (1988)

3/16/2023   

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 twenty-plex, you're missing out.

To get beyond the ordinary, I recommend:

Alter
Cineverse
Criterion
CultCinema Classics
DocsVille
Dust
Fandor
Films for Action
Hoopla
IHaveNoTV
IndieFlix
Internet Archive
Kanopy
KinoCult
Kino Lorber
Korean Classic Film
Christopher R Mihm
Mosfilm
Mubi
National Film Board of Canada
New Yorker Screening Room
Damon Packard
Mark Pirro
PizzaFlix
PopcornFlix
Public Domain Movies
RareFilmm
Scarecrow Video
Shudder
ThoughtMaybe
Timeless Classic Movies
VoleFlix
WatchDocumentaries
or your local library.

Some people even access films through shady methods, though of course, that would be wrong.

— — —
 
Illustration by Jeff Meyer. Reviews are spoiler-free. Click any image to enlarge. Arguments & recommendations are welcome, but no talking once the lights dim, and only real butter on the popcorn, not that fake yellow stuff.

 
← PREVIOUS          NEXT →

At Mabel's place

Judith and Jake, Cy and Joe, three cats and a dog the size of a man live in this house, along with me. We're all slobs, except Cy. The bathroom gets cleaned only when company is coming, and everyone knows which cat pees on the furniture but nobody does anything about it, and nobody cleans it up. 

All this is mentioned not as a complaint — hey, I'm comfortable in the squalor — but for comparison purposes, because after working at the magazine today, I took a #38 Geary past Japantown, and worked in a house messier than mine.

♦ ♦ ♦   

Mabel opened the door almost instantly after I knocked. She must've been waiting for me, maybe watching me approach.

She's an attractive middle-aged white woman, and she was wearing a stained sweatshirt and sweatpants, clothes which hinted that she might be pitching in on the work, but she didn't. 

Since she's a woman, she was the first thing I noticed, but behind her was a sea of beer cans and old magazines, fast food wrappers and dirty clothes everywhere. Judge not, lest ye be judged, flashed across my mind. You rarely see a house so messy, but it wasn't that much worse than my own room.

"Follow me," was the first thing Mabel said, not even hello. She led the way toward the kitchen, stepping over laundry, auto parts, and huge trash drifts, and I followed, as we made our way down a wide hallway narrowed by junk.

A cacophony of kid noises was coming from up down all around, and I counted five filthy youngins (though there may have been more). By the way she yelled at them, I'm judging they were all Mabel's, or else she runs the world's worst daycare.

In the kitchen, the mess was spectacular, but I've seen worse. Mabel told me to ignore everything else — the clutter, the clothes piled in the corner, the stained and rusting appliances, the yellowing beauty and style magazines haphazardly tossed everywhere. I was mostly there to wash the dishes, she said.

That's the most popular chore I'm hired for, and indeed, dirty dishes were stacked in the sink, and everywhere else. Plates and bowls were stacked along the length of the counter, many with leftovers never scraped off, and dried for so long it no longer stank. More dishes were stacked on the floor, in an arching oval around the sink, with a gateway between the dirty dishes that thoughtfully allowed access to the sink.

A dishwasher was in the corner, but it not only didn't work, it didn't have a door, and the machine was filled with kids' toys, with larger toys on the bottom and smaller toys on the cup rack above. And roaches.

I've seen a few houses as messy as Mabel's, but never have I seen so many dirty dishes. Never seen so many dishes, period. Her family apparently just buys more dishes, to avoid washing the dishes they already have. There's no other way to explain it.

Across and under many of the dishes were more roaches and spiders, pests which seemed to co-exist peacefully at Mabel's place. While I washed dishes, kids often walked or ran through the kitchen, and once, one of them was carrying a live cockroach and trying to throw it at another kid.

♦ ♦ ♦   

The night wasn't entirely washing dishes. I also plastic-bagged up a great deal of trash, piling the bags at the back door. The kitchen floor was exposed as I gathers dishes off it, so I took a few breaks from the dishes to scrape and scrub the tile, then swept and mopped.

But mostly I washed dishes, until my fingers were so soggy and soft I could've chopped off a fingernail or fingertip with a butter knife. I had to stop, not because all the dishes had been washed, but because I needed to be downtown by 11:15 to catch my last train home.

About 90% of the dishes had been washed, but there was nowhere to put them — not enough cupboard space, and what shelves there were had bugs and cobwebs. Since they couldn't be put away, I stacked most of the clean dishes on the counter, taller than they'd been stacked while dirty. At least all the dishes were off the floor.

♦ ♦ ♦   

A pee stop was required before my bus ride to the train station, so I asked, "Where's the john?" and knew I'd regret it. You can't keep your bladder waiting for too long, but if I had it all to do over again I'd have peed in the bushes beside the sidewalk.

"It's this way," said the sweatshirt lady, who, incidentally had helped in no way with any of the work. "Watch out for the stereo," she added, stepping over an unplugged turntable, leading me toward what I figured would be Dante's bathroom, but it was worse than that.

"After you've finished with the kitchen some other night, the bathroom will be next to be cleaned," she said, as she nudged open a door and clicked a light on. The bathroom was a mess like the rest of the house; only the flavor of flotsam and jetsam was different, with more magazines and hair care products, less food wrappers.

I grunted — there was puke in my mouth — and walked in, closed the door and peed into the toilet, and then puked onto the pee. It was partly sick-puke, but mostly puke brought on by the mess, and my pee and puke were atop someone else's un-flushed shit. There was enough shit that flushing seemed like a gamble — the toilet might overflow, and looking around the messy room, I saw no plunger. 

To flush, or not to flush? If the toilet flooded the room, Mabel would probably expect me to clean it up, but if I didn't want to be stranded in San Francisco overnight, I needed to be on my way quickly.

Not to flush, I decided.

Mabel was in the front room, and asked when I could come back to finish the dishes, and start on the bathroom. "Never," I wanted to say, but I'm broke so "Wednesday?" is what came out of my puke-flavored mouth.

She said OK, wanted me to start early, and we agreed on 10AM Wednesday. Then she handed me my pay for the night — $30 for six hours, with no tip you fucker, and not even a "thank you."

From Pathetic Life #22
Monday, March 11, 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.

Salad play-by-play

Is it a glorious technological advance, or simply intrusive, that Safeway's pharmacy renews my prescription without me requesting it? Outta nowhere they texted that my refill was ready, three weeks before my supply of pills ran out, and then they texted 'reminders' that my prescription was ready for pick-up, every 48 hours for two weeks.

More annoyingly, they auto-renewed only one of my two perpetual prescriptions, so none of this even saved me any hassle — I had to call anyway.

Safeway has the lowest prescription prices in town, my doctor told me, but I'll cheerfully pay a surcharge to avoid them. My next refills will be from someplace where employees, not computers, handle the refills.

 
In addition to being the world's finest chef and host of a TV cooking show in his mind whenever anyone passes through "his" kitchen, my mentally or emotionally unbalanced flatmate Dean also plays LPs loudly, whenever he's home and awake.

Even his quietest music needs to be loud, because Dean is well past 70 and doesn't have much hearing left.

CRANKY
OLD FART

#288

leftovers
& links

 
Wednesday,
March 15, 2023
Rachmaninoff is cranked up to 11 as soon as Dean's awake, and he wakes up at about 3:00 in the morning. Throughout the day if he's home, there'll be big band sounds, early rock'n'roll, heavy metal, gospel music, the blues, old-style country music, movie soundtracks, and opera. 

The walls are thick enough that I can't hear Dean's music in my room, but in the kitchen and bathroom it sounds like woofers and tweeters have been mounted.

And the floors are perhaps not as thick as the walls, for 2-3 times a month someone from the downstairs half of the house comes knocking on our upstairs door, demanding that "we" turn it down.

Robert or 'L' or I will explain that it's not "we," it's Dean, who doesn't usually even hear the knocking. When he does hear it, when confronted, he'll sadly turn the volume down for the duration of the day, but forget about it tomorrow.

All this came to a head when the landlord was in the house over the weekend. He was trying to fix a leak under the kitchen sink, while Dean's music shook the silverware and rocked the fridge.

"So this is what I'm always getting text messages about," the landlord said very loudly said to Dean, who seriously had no idea, until the landlord yelled, "Your music is much too loud!" 

Dean turned it down, leaving it loud enough to still be annoying, and complained that he couldn't hear it at all.

"You need hearing aids, Dean," said the landlord, "or headphones," but that's a conversation all of us have had with Dean. He can't afford hearing aids and refuses to wear headphones or earbuds, so the house has a soundtrack.

And as soon as the landlord left, Carl Perkins and Aretha Franklin were at 90 decibels.

I can't hear it except when I come out of my room, and I rarely come out of my room, so Dean's music doesn't bother me much. 

Dean himself, though, drives me nuts. He lives to talk. There's no chance of shutting him up unless I make a scene demanding that he shut up, but even that only shuts him up for a few days.

I'm on a diet, and my dinner is usually lettuce with a few toppings. If Dean comes into the kitchen while I'm prepping the salad, he'll watch, and comment, and ask questions about the salad.

All I do is snip open a plastic bag, pour the pre-shredded salad into a bowl, then open a Buddig bag of sandwich meat and scissor it into 18 bite-size bits of salad topping. That's all. Then I bring the salad into my room, where there's croutons and salad dressing and un-shredded privacy.

For the thirty seconds I'm making the salad, though, Dean will ask what dressing I'll be using, and will I put any cheese on the salad, and have I tried olives and onions, and is it always Buddig for the meat…?

I've tried ignoring him, and said, "Dean, shut up," and explained emphatically that my salad is no concern of his, but nothing prevents the next salad play-by-play.

Every morning since Monday has been very cold and wet and extremely dark, because some schmuck stole the daylight on Sunday, "saved" it, and won't give it back for months.

Glad my jacket has some reflective stripes, else the bus driver wouldn’t be able to see me to pick me up. Out the bus’s windows, it's only through the power of neon signs that there's any evidence of the bus's whereabouts.

And in the rain on Monday, the bus roof leaked onto me in my seat.

When I got downtown and hopped off the bus to catch the next bus, I forgot my umbrella on the floor, remembering it only when the raindrops splashed me, as the bus rolled away. Thought it was going to be a soggy morning indeed – ten minutes in the rain waiting for my bus, then ten minutes walking in the rain to get to the office.

Ah, but deep in my go-anywhere bag there was a back-up umbrella, this hands-free thing that snaps on your head.

It worked nicely, but once at work, despite twenty minutes of effort, it refuses to unfold,. Now it's leaning over my screens at work as a glare preventer, and I need a new umbrella as an umbrella.

News you need,
whether you know it or not

Biden officials back Alaska oil project scorned as carbon bomb 

Silicon Valley Bank chief pressed Congress to weaken risk regulations 

States consider ending right on red to address rising pedestrian deaths 

"Colored School No. 4" in Chelsea moves closer to landmark status 

Facebook to end news access for Canadians if Online News Act becomes law 

If so, Canadians will be much better informed.

WordPress.com owner Automattic acquires an ActivityPub plugin so blogs can join the Fediverse 

I didn't actually read that article, just thought the headline was hilarious gobbledygook.

How climate change affects the spread of lyme disease 

Scientists confirm global floods and droughts worsened by climate change 

Columbus officer remains on duty while accused of drunk street racing 

No charges for Phoenix cops filmed kicking suspect to a pulp 

11 East Cleveland police officers indicted on civil rights violations after video captures shocking brutality 

Florida DEA task force agent accused of buying illegal drugs 

Atlanta police explain why they need "Cop City"
(satire, but only barely)

5 states are considering bills that would classify abortion as homicide 

18 states considering bills against drag performances 

Texas Republican introduces bounty hunting bill targeting drag queens 

The right offers a reason Silicon Valley Bank failed: Wokeness 

Gaming arcade deals with "Bible-thumping" backlash after porno shoot 

Iowa law forbids teachers from telling students "slavery was wrong" 

Colorado Catholic group spent millions on sensitive Grindr data to shame priests 

Judge who could ban abortion pill doesn't want the public to know when the hearing is 

21 South Carolina Republican lawmakers propose death penalty for women who have abortions 

White House rebukes former VP Pence over homophobic jokes about Buttigieg 

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

Click 

Click 

Click 

Click 

Click 

My browser history
without the porn

Biden "abandons millions of young people" by approving the Willow Project 

Before he was Nixon's wrong-hand man, John Ehrlichman helped destroy a famous integrated nightclub in Seattle 

Al Jaffee, now 102, is ready to be added to Mount Rushmore 

Nosy bastards read dead people's mail 

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

American Pie — Luther Wright & the Wrongs 

Fortunate Son — Creedence Clearwater Revival 

It's Finally Over — Country Joe & the Fish 

Once Upon A Time In The West  — Ennio Morricone 

Sprawl II (Mountains Beyond Mountains) — Arcade Fire 

Eventually, everyone
leaves the building

Barbara Bryant 

Alan Evans 

Dick Fosbury 

John Macrae III 

Rick Newman 

Joe Pepitone 

Pat Schroeder

3/15/2023   

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.  

Tip 'o the hat to ye olde AVA, BoingBoing, Breakfast at Ralf's, CaptCreate's Log, Katameme, Looking for My Perfect Sandwich, One Finger Medical, Two Finger Magical, Miss Miriam's Mirror, Nebulously Burnished, RanPrieur.com, Voenix Rising, and anywhere else I've stolen links, illustrations, or inspiration.  

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.