Thinking about walking

And there goes the 'weekend', my two days off on Tuesday and Wednesday. Didn't do a damned thing, didn't work much on the zine, didn't answer more than a few of the letters that now fill an entire milk crate. All I did was sleep, read, and hawk loogies out the window.

Today I'm supposed to wash dishes at Judith's house, and Friday and Saturday and Sunday sell fish, and then Monday at Black Sheets — a whole 'nother work week before I get any days for me?

Well, that sucks, so no.

Instead I called Judith and told her the dishes would have to wait until tomorrow, then called Jay and told her the Friday fish would have to 'go fish' until Saturday. Neither boss gave me any push-back or anything more than, "OK."

Can't afford to turn my two days off into a three-day mid-week weekend, but I am not a responsible adult, and what I can afford must yield to what I need.

♦ ♦ ♦  

With a third day for doing nothing, that's exactly what I did. It was a lovely nothing day.

It's cooler than it's been — weather for June, not August, finally — but I barely left the building. My exercise was walking a block to check my voicemail. Mr Urgent had left only one urgent message — I feel so neglected — and I'll call him back, sure, but only if he ever leaves a message that isn't urgent.

Back at the hotel, I didn't do a damned thing, didn't work much on the zine, didn't answer more than a few of the letters that still fill an entire milk crate. All I did was sleep, read, and hawk loogies out the window.

At mid-morning I made the arduous trek to the fire escape, to see what the city looked like today. Not much different from yesterday. It wasn't obvious, but in the distance I found a small chunk of black where that house burned down yesterday. If I hadn't seen the fire and didn't know where to look, I'd never have noticed.

It kinda reminded me of the jagged gaps between some of my teeth, where chunks or entire teeth have crumbled or been yanked.

Looking a ways beyond the steeple of Mission Dolores, there's a hill of dirt and trees more than of houses, which I'd never noticed before. When I put my glasses on, it came into a sharper focus — sun-baked grass and trails that didn't seem too steep. A glance at my map told me it's Corona Heights, a park.

There's a little boy inside me who wants to climb those trails up that hill, but the man I am says don't be ridonkulous. You don't have the shoes for a hike, Doug, or the right pants. You don't even have a water bottle, plus you'd probably croak of a heart attack halfway up

The kid in me won the argument, though. He usually does. It's decided: I am going to climb that hill. Just, not today.

♦ ♦ ♦  

After a dump in the late afternoon, I went to the fire escape again. A layer of smog had settled over everything between here and there, and even with glasses on, I could no longer make out the trails up that hill. As the afternoon went on, the smog grew thicker, so (if and) when I take that hike some time soon, it'll need to be in the morning. Want to reach the summit while there's still a view.

From Pathetic Life #25
Thursday, June 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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The view at twilight

Checking my messages, there were five calls from Mr Urgent — two from Tuesday, two from Wednesday, one from this morning. All his calls were marked "urgent," but never yet has he said what work he needs me to do.

Whatever it is, though, gosh, it sure seems urgent.

♦ ♦ ♦  

Haven't mentioned her in a while, so you might be under the stupid misimpression that I'm recovered, or at least recovering from Sarah-Katherine. Nope.

Usually there's a week between letters, and usually I'd wait for a reply, but even more usually I'm an idiot so yesterday I wrote her a letter, long and idiotically heartfelt. This morning I wrote her another letter, short and sort of explaining/apologizing for yesterday's letter.

And it gets worse: not only was I damned fool enough to write two letters, I also mailed them both, soon as I'd written them.

♦ ♦ ♦  

Now it's twilight, as I look out over the tops of all the other rent-by-the-week hotels on the block. The McMillan is the tallest of them, so the view stretches pleasantly.

A mile or so in the distance, the hills are bathed in the approaching sunset. Houses and trees are silhouetted against a pale blue, darkening sky. Toward the north side of the hill, amidst a cluster of recent development, is a large house that's burning down.

It's so far in the distance, I can't see whether the fire trucks are there, but brilliant yellow flames are dancing like Baryshnikov, and thick, gray smoke rises slowly to the setting sun. As I said, it is a rather pleasant view.

From Pathetic Life #25
Wednesday, June 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.

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Invasion of the Body Snatchers:

A book and two movies

 

The Body Snatchers (a/k/a Invasion of the Body Snatchers) is a thought-provoking 1955 novel by Jack Finney, telling the story of a small-town doctor dealing with a pandemic. Unlike today's coronavirus (or maybe a little like it?), the symptoms are mental, not physical, as one by one, townsfolk become convinced that their loved ones aren't who they used to be. Something is not quite right with Uncle Ira.

The book is tense and terrifying; I've read it half a dozen times, and I'd suggest starting it in the morning hours — not near bedtime unless you want nightmares.

In 1956, it was made into an excellent low-budget film that, like the book, is still worthwhile more than sixty years later. You won't know any of the actors, unless you're an old movie aficionado like me. You might have heard of the director, Don Siegel, who later made Dirty Harry and Escape from Alcatraz with Clint Eastwood.

Invasion of the Body Snatchers is one of my favorite movies, and you can watch it here, for free. Sure, it's in black-and-white, the music is a bit overwrought, and the dialogue is occasionally corny, but give it a chance. Watch it on the biggest screen you have, with the lights down low, and without checking your email or playing video games. If you let the movie take you back to the 1950s, it'll scare the heck out of you. My favorite line: "Once you understand, you'll be grateful." Goose bumps, every time.

Hollywood remade Invasion of the Body Snatchers in 1978, with Donald Sutherland, Brooke Adams, Jeff Goldblum, and Leonard Nimoy. This version was directed by Phillip Kaufman, who also made The Unbearable Lightness of Being and co-wrote Raiders of the Lost Ark.

It's terrific, too, but I prefer the original version; there's something intrinsically more appealing, when it's low-budget with maximum script and minimal special effects. 

The remake is excellent in its own right, though. Instead of the sleepy town of the book and original movie, this time everything happens in San Francisco, and the film is peppered with the kind of slightly-batty characters who inhabit the fringes of every city. Of course Jeff Goldblum is a struggling poet who rents mud baths!

As a lifelong city dweller myself, the urban setting makes the story feel even more relevant. "You'll be born again into an untroubled world, free of anxiety, fear, hate." Doesn't that sound inviting?

Every few years, I watch both Invasions back-to-back, and it's a near-perfect double feature. It's science fiction, obviously, but it's also a political allegory that still rings true in 2020.

 6/20/2020  
Republished 6/8/2023   

 

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Things that are bullshit

💩 Any holiday that's defined by a greeting card is bullshit. Valentine's Day. Mother's Day. Father's Day. These are 'holidays' brought to you by Hallmark, designed to sell greeting cards to people uncomfortable expressing their own emotions, and to keep restaurants so busy it's almost impossible to get a decent meal. How about this instead? If you have a sweetie, be sweet to him/her every day of the year. If you appreciate your mom and/or dad, cut out the expensive middleman and tell your mom and/or dad that you appreciate them.

💩 It's bullshit that it's a problem when government entities like the Post Office or Amtrak aren't profitable. They're not about being profitable. They're about providing an essential service that people need, and they provide that service exactly BECAUSE it's not profitable. If it was profitable, private companies would do it. Since it's not profitable BUT STILL NEEDS TO BE DONE, we do it with tax expenditures and that's they way it should be.

💩 It's bullshit that you should propose with a diamond ring. They even tell you how many months of your wages you should spend on the diamond. It's pure propaganda, simply advertising, from diamond brokers. Do you love someone? That's amazing! Now tell them you love them. Tell them you want to spend your lives together. Then instead of wasting thousands of dollars on a glittery little pebble, spend that money on your lives together.

💩 It's bullshit that humans need to drink cow's milk, or any dairy products made from cow's milk. Sure, ice cream is delicious, but we have far too much dairy in the western diet. It isn't healthy.

💩 It's bullshit that marijuana is a gateway drug, or in any plausible way scary. It's safer than any other pain or nausea medicine, and far safer than alcohol for anyone who wants a brief disconnection from reality.

💩 It's bullshit that government-backed health care — like the UK, Canada, and other civilized nations have — is worse than the fucked-up mess of the American for-profit health care system. For-profit health care is absolutely better and quicker if you're amazingly rich, but if you're anyone else it's a booby trap that will kill you when it has the chance.

💩 It's bullshit that we make children recite a pledge of allegiance to a colored cloth on a stick. You want to teach children to be loyal to their government? Give them good education when they're kids and good government when they're adults and they'll be loyal.

💩 It's bullshit that we stand and sing a national indoctrination anthem before every sporting event. We're Americans and we already know it. We don't need to be pressured into singing a silly song that glorifies war and is impossible to sing anyway.

💩 It's bullshit that most adults need to wear deodorant. It's all because of advertising, inducing shame for people who smell like people. There's nothing repulsive about smelling like a human. Humans sweat. Take a shower every other day and it's barely noticeable.

💩 It's bullshit that women need to buy and use douche products. Your vagina is a lovely and delicate ecosystem of its own, and unless you have genuine medical issues it will take care of itself without the purchase of industrially-manufactured vagina cleaners.

💩 💩 💩 There are more things that are bullshit than the few things that aren't, so this is far from a complete list. Do yourself a favor and don't swallow bullshit.

10/8/2020   
Republished 6/8/2023  

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Mostly letters

Slept ten hours, and woke up with a dry throat and a cough — a touch of a cold or something. Which sucks cockroach droppings. 

I was sick in December, sick in March, and now I'm sick again? Bite me. I'm fighting back. Took ten vitamin C pills, with my extremely healthy diet of ramen for breakfast.

Spent the day working my way through the incoming zine mail, and peeing every twenty minutes or so, because every time I peed I took another vitamin C pill and chased it with another can of diet generic root beer. 

I am not, damn it, going to let this bug have its way with me. Gonna kill it with a vitamin C overdose.

♦ ♦ ♦  

And by sunset, all throat pain was gone. There's some snot up my schnoz, but that's all, and tilting my head just so, pinching one nostril and blowing everything out the other, I came close to hitting the syringe I was aiming for, out the window in the abandoned and littered patio below.

♦ ♦ ♦  

Here's a small fraction of the mailbag…

♦ ♦ ♦  

If you are ever at a loss for material, go to an AA or NA meeting. Plenty of stories in the naked city. Big drawback, though — lots of talk of God. It isn't really what the guys who started the organization wanted. It's supposed to be an individual's interpretation of their own 'higher power', but then they haul off and say the Our Father and it has all the elements of the Baptist Church.

At AA there were jillions of single or soon to be single men and women, as most of us had not been great relationship material. People discuss intimate things right off the bat, and they get close. It is better than any bar, for meeting people. 

Also, addictive types tend to like instant gratification; their pacifiers are gone, and the only thing left is sex. So I would recommend developing some form of neurosis that is marketable enough to warrant a 12-step program. Debtors Anonymous, or I even went to Nicotine Anonymous twice, when I quit that heavy habit. 

Watch out for the liars and zealots, same as in any group, but I guarantee you will get a date for coffee afterwards. So there is that option.

I have a zit the size of a cupcake on my chin.

—Pamela Smith,
Petaluma CA

This is the kind of letter I'd like more of. You aren't trying to sell anything or pry even deeper into my psyche than I delve in the zine. It's just a few paragraphs from someone else's head to my own, kinda weird, kind funny, kinda pertinent, kinda not.

My only major AA-style addiction is to eating too much, but it's usually not a habit I want to quit. I don't think there's an Introverts Anonymous, but being an introvert is about half of who I am, and I have no desire to give up half of me. Can't picture crashing the group, anyway. 

Laughed at your comparison of AA to the church. I'll never be surprised at the ability of religion, and especially religious believers, to ruin any good intentions. —DH 

 

... PS. You are not authorized to publish this letter unless it appears unedited, exactly as sent, and includes my complete mailing address.

—Dan Burton,
New York

And this is the kind of mail I'd like less of.

Dan, your letter is so long and boring, so angry about matters of no importance, I'm only printing the postscript, and only because it shows concisely what a twit you are. And it only shows it 'concisely' because I edited out the redundancies. 

For future reference, please note, nobody tells me what I'm "authorized to publish." —DH 

 

I'm addicted to 'grrrl' zines — they're so damn cute. Er, I mean, progressive and revolutionary. Heh heh. But seriously, they're a riot. 

Life is fun when you make fun of life. 

I got a letter from my school the other day, and it seems yet another teacher has complained about me. The latest criticisms: I can't think clearly and logically; I can't communicate effectively; I have a negative attitude. Everything basically translates to: I think for myself. I'm not a churchgoer. I don't deem the faculty or student body worthy of my attention (or anyone's). I'm a realist, hence the attitude.

I went to chat with various heads of various departments, and eventually got the disgruntled teacher's little evaluation put in the trash. It's ironic that this teacher claims I can't think clearly or logically, and yet I have an A in her class. She's so proud of her vocabulary, constantly using and misusing terms such as genre and paradigm and other funny-g words that she finds impressive.

College is a joke! I learn more from zines — even grrrl zines, heh heh. I bet I could learn more from watching television, and I certainly learn of hell of a lot more at libraries and bars.

They've got this neato trivia game at the bar. You get to use a big remote control and play against drunks from bars nationwide. Last night I lost to a girl (not a grrrl, just a regular girl) because there were far too many television-related questions and far too few questions about stuff that happens here on the outside of the television set. Stuff does happen out there, doesn't it? Or out here, I should say.

Well, I'm starting to go off on tangents like a fuckin' MRR columnist or something, so I'll say goodbye and go downstairs and get a beer or two or twelve.

—Jason,
Baltimore

Goes in the "more letters like this, please" pile. A pleasant journey across a mind muddled like my own, only different.

Nothing happens outside of the television set, Jason, and other than the beer and perhaps camaraderie, nothing much happens at college. Says this high school drop-out, anyway. —DH 

 

Re your PL22 "bonus rant" — I had a problem with wearing underwear for too long. They turned all brown and sticky between ballsack and thigh. The smell was indescribably delicious. I flushed more than one pair down the toilet, because I knew I wouldn't be doing laundry for months, and I just couldn't take the stench. If course, they were briefs.

I used to go weeks without showering; once almost six weeks (ugh!). It was always like Xmas in July when I'd finally step into that stall with no curtain, displaying my flabby, zit-covered body to all who cared to see it. I like bathing. It just feels good, if it's done slowly. Hmm. I need to start taking my vitamins again. 

Loneliness is a hard fact of life. I hate it, but I'm not holding my farts waiting for a change.

I'm moving to San Francisco. It's just a matter of three months or so. Any hints, tips? Where to live, etc?

—Joe Gallo,
Trenton NJ

Best letter of the bunch.

If you arrive with a big bankroll, Joe, you could get an apartment out in the Avenues, a nice quiet neighborhood with trees and parks and all that shit. Very boring. The scum of the slum is much more fun. And you want helpful hints?

Wearing a camera around your neck, or unfolding a city map in public, is like holding a big sign announcing that you're a tourist, new in town, and have money. "Please mug me," says the sign.

San Francisco (the natives hate the nickname 'Frisco') is probably safer than other cities, though, because of all the visitors, gawkers, conventioneers, and other rubes carrying their "Mug me" signs. Don't let yourself be perceived as vulnerable, and the troublemakers will go after the little old man in ridiculous cut-offs instead. Still, it doesn't hurt to carry mace or a switchblade, or both.

Once you're settled here, you'll want to sell your car — Frisco is a 47-square-mile no-parking zone, and anyway, the trains and buses are cheaper, quicker, safer, more reliable, and less hassle. 

Be generous elsewhere if you wish, but don't give to panhandlers in your own neighborhood. If you give a dime to one bum on your block, word is out, and you'll never be able to walk the streets in peace again. "Spare change today, man?" Fuck that.

What else? Hmmm. Rent The Crying Game before you come west. Try not to look at a lesbian's cleavage. Dang, I'm full of good advice. 

My very best tip is that you should buy me a burrito. Talking with my mouth full, I'll tell you everything I know about the city. —DH

From Pathetic Life #25
Tuesday, June 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.

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