“I can do heavy lifting,” said the stranger on the phone, after we’d swapped hellos.

“OK,” I answered. “And you need some help?”

“Some help?”

“I can do heavy lifting," I said, "if it’s not too heavy.”

“And it pays five bucks an hour?” said the voice, without much interest.

“Yup,” I said, “that’s enough for me.”

“OK,” he said, “When do I start?” And he wasn’t kidding. He thought I was hiring, instead of looking for work.

♦ ♦ ♦

Then again, you don’t know what I’m talking about, do you? There's a month of the zine missing.

Life got crazy and there wasn't time to write about it, sorry. What little I scribbled and typed wasn't any good, so that issue of the zine will never exist, but here’s what happened in February, and why.

I finally quit my job at "a department store," which was Macy’s. There were a few slight friends there, and I'll miss them, but it's an evil and unpleasant place and I hated it. And yet, I kept showing up every morning. That's a mistake I made five times every week, but no more.

After hours, after a crappy but completely ordinary day at the office, I showed my badge to Security one last time, rode the elevator up, and walked around amidst all the empty desks. Said a psychic goodbye to Kallie and Carlotta, and Louie and the other ghosts of Macy's Past. Stole a stash of staples as my lovely parting gift, and logged into the system, but only long enough to send an email to my boss and co-workers. "Adios, everyone, and good luck. —Doug."

Why? Because life is short and then it's over. Much of it is out of our control, but whatever you can change to make life better, you should.

In 1991, I made a major change from my old life in Seattle, where I’d had a shitty office job, a few friends, and a family that I loved and still do. I wanted more mental elbow room, more options and fewer obligations, and a life absolutely my own. So I dared myself to do make a change.

With nothing lined up, knowing nobody, unsure where I’d land, I came to California. It was scary, but it's been a big improvement — and yet, had I really come a thousand miles to Frisco, only to spend the rest of my life at another shitty office job? No, dang it. So I dared myself, again, to make another change.

Which means, I am not looking for another shitty office job. Instead, I’m trying to pay the rent with an endless series of short-term jobs. That way, even if the work is every bit as boring as Macy’s (and it hasn’t been, so far!), the faces and tasks will change more often. I can walk away from any gig I don't like, and there'll be something different tomorrow. At least, that's the plan.

To hustle up work, I’ve made flyers, and inserted them in copies of the Bay Guardian, slipped them under windshield wipers, and glued, taped, and stapled the flyers to telephone poles and news boxes all around the city. If you need somebody to do something, give me a call. "I'll do anything legal for $5 an hour."

The phone number on the flyer is my voice mail, which I check a couple of times daily, and then return calls. When the calls go good it’s a few hours’ work, maybe a whole day. When the calls go stupid, well, there's one of those at the top of the page.

So far, I've worked about a dozen gigs, including mowing a lawn, cleaning kennels, editing some guy's free-lance article, and running errands on the bus (which was my favorite, because I actually like riding the bus). Most of the gigs are just a few hours, and only once. Here's your money, tips are allowed and encouraged, and then it's goodbye.

There's been one recurring gig, though, working a few hours nightly for a guy named Jose, who runs a sound system business out of his garage. When a bar brings in a band, or political wingnuts have a guest lecturer, they call Jose for the equipment and expertise, and Jose calls me for the lugging.

It’s hectic and loud, and involves the dreaded heavy lifting, so I’ve been coming home drenched in sweat after every two-hour shift. I don’t particularly like the work, but I like Jose, and it’s better than working at Macy’s. Honestly, every gig I’ve worked is better than working at Macy’s.

Will there be enough gigs to pay the rent? Well, not yet. When I first started leaving the flyers all around town, it was three damned days until the first call, so I've tweaked the text, and reduced my asking price. Business has picked up since then, and I'm recklessly optimistic.

Without a steady paycheck, though, the zine will have fewer movie and zine reviews, and no hints at all about finding a good omelet at a diner. I'll also have no health insurance, but I’m basically healthy, and there's always the Berkeley Free Clinic.

It's all a journey without a map or even a trail. I don't know where I'm going tomorrow, what I'm doing — maybe nowhere and nothing. The whole idea might be stupid. If it doesn't work out, though, so what? I can always get another shitty office job, if I have to — but not unless I have to.

Today there’s no work lined up, but some guy left a message and an offer I might refuse, or might not. He wants me to pose for ‘art’ photos, and it sounds risqué. Maybe I'd be nude. Haven't decided whether I'll do it, and that’s what I like best about “anything legal for $5 an hour” — it’s always my choice. Gotta love a job where you can say no.

♦ ♦ ♦

Last week, my mom, sister, her live-in boyfriend, and her daughter were all here, visiting from Seattle. We did the typical tourist stuff, including my first day at Alcatraz, which was surprisingly real and not the gaudy plastic tourist trap I’d expected.

My mother is still my mother, and she gives it everything she’s got. We finally listened to my father’s funeral on tape, which is something I never needed to hear, but if I hadn’t listened I’d never have heard the end of it. I did not, however, let her drag me to church.

For further details on Mom, check out last August’s issue, but I don’t need to write it again. Every time she visits it’s the same experience, the same stories, the same nagging about Jesus, and “When are you coming home to Seattle?”, and “When are you going to meet a nice Christian girl and settle down?”, and blah blah and also blah. I love her, and I’d love to see her for a few days once a year, but this was her third visit since last summer.

Katrina is my big sister, and she’s doing good. She‘s the only completely sane sibling I have (she’s got none), and also a friend. We snuck away from everyone else to smoke a joint together, and laughed about old and present times. If I was normal, I’d want to be like her — she has friends, a job she doesn’t hate, and she gets along with our family better than I ever have.

It was the first time I’d met her fella, Dave, and I was mistaken when I wrote in January’s issue that he’s her dealer. Turns out that was a different Dave, the Dave that Karina used to live with. This new and improved Dave is an electrician, not a drug dealer, and he had the good sense to pay for my beer, so I approve of New Dave.

My niece Kimberly, despite being a teenager, is not obnoxious. She's a self-confident wisecracker, and she kinda reminds me of her father, who’s dead but I loved him. Hadn’t seen Kimberly since she was in grade school, and it’s surprising how little she’s changed. She’s taller, her hair is green, and she has boobs now, but other than that she's still the kid I used to babysit.

That’s the abridged version of February, and now, onward into March...

♦ ♦ ♦

With no work arranged for today, I spent the morning reading zines and writing this one. Ramen for breakfast, and ramen for lunch, because the budget likes 10¢ meals.

Called the ‘art’ guy who’s probably a pornographer, and left a message on his machine: "I’m fat and ugly, and if you want me to pose for $5 an hour I’ll do it, but you gotta give me a set of the glossies." If it happens, I'll run the pictures in the zine.

Then I rinsed yesterday’s sweat off my skin, and flyered a dozen south-of-Market blocks.

♦ ♦ ♦

Jose, being on the edge of show business, knows people who know people, and I’ve met a few of those people already, just tagging along with him for work.

Ladies and gentlemen, Dahlia Diamond — she's a drag queen who came 'round to Jose’s office last week, where the two of them volunteered me to do some backstage scut work for a no-budget play that Dahlia's directing. She described as Rocky Horror meets Jesus Christ Superstar.

There'd be no pay, she stressed, but drag is almost always a hoot, and helping out with a perverted play sounds like fun, so I said OK.

Great, said Dahlia. Show up at 7:00 Wednesday night, at such-and-such an address.

Well, check the calendar, dahling, it’s Wednesday night, so at 7:00 I was there, but to my surprise, Dahlia didn’t want to talk about me being an usher or running a spotlight or anything like that. It was open auditions — dozens of actors and dancers were there, and she asked everyone to fill out an info sheet, list your training, talent, and recent credits. Uh, even me.

I haven’t been on stage since I forgot my lines in a high school play, but I filled out the form, and Dahlia had me read for three parts: Herod from the Bible, Curly from the Three Stooges (renamed Curvy), and ‘Bad Cop’. I was predictably awful at all three, and it didn’t help that we were cold-reading off a hand-written none-too-neat piece of notebook paper. One of the other actors kept saying ‘Coke’ instead of ‘cock’, because on the page it sure looked like ‘Coke’.

Most of the people auditioning were characters themselves. One guy brought a portfolio of pictures of himself in various roles, like he’s the big professional, but then he couldn’t keep a straight face when the script called for gay lisping. His opposite was a woman who acted surprised when she was asked to read for a speaking part — “I thought I was here to be an extra,” she said — but then she took over the stage like Streisand, shouting and emoting amazingly. “Honey, you’ve got the part,” said Dahlia.

The choreographer wanted to see everyone dance, so I knew my night was about over. I can’t dance, and when I try it’s like a drunken hippopotamus. I was in a what-the-hell state of mind, though, so I danced, surrounded by people who’d danced before, some of them professionally.

Soon I got winded and wise, and went where I belonged — in a seat, not on the stage, to watch the real dancers. We’d all been shown the same 14-step routine, and I never made it halfway through without screwing up, but after maybe ten minutes everyone else was doing the whole number in perfect unison, like a Broadway show.

After the dancing debacle, Dahlia had me do another reading, then politely said she’d seen enough. I’d Hindenburged up there on stage, so I said thanks, grabbed my backpack, walked home, and had ramen for dinner.

You know what, though? No regrets. I can't act, can't dance, and we're lucky nobody asked me to sing, but it didn’t cost anything and I had a blast.

I'll do anything legal for five dollars an hour, so today I loaded a U-Haul truck for some beautiful babe who’s moving. Earned twenty bucks for my trouble — ten for two hours of lift and carry, and ten for a tip.

I think she tipped me fairly large because I'd simply showed up and done what she told me to do, without dropping any boxes, and especially without dropping any hints or trying to make a move on her while she was moving. I wouldn’t bother a young and attractive woman with my fat interest anyway, but best-behavior is extra important when someone’s paying me.

Word of mouth will be crucial to making the "anything legal" idea work. If she mentions me to her friends, it has to be "I hired the guy off this flyer, and he was all about the work, no monkey business," not "I hired this creepy guy and he was eyeing me all morning."

Thus I did not eye her all morning. I said nothing much except "Good morning" and "Loading the truck will work best if we put the heaviest boxes on the bottom" and "Thanks."

After doing her heavy lifting, I bused over to Jose's, and spent the afternoon inputting receipts and invoices to a spreadsheet, in a cramped corner of his garage. Just like old times, I was Data Entry Boy. From 15+ years working in offices, I am quick at a keyboard and he was impressed.

When I'd finished, Jose said that after eating, we’d be reorganizing all the equipment in his garage. He wanted to eat first, though, and offered to make me dinner. I never argue with free food, and I’ve been eating whatever’s cheap since quitting Macy’s — lots of bread and margarine and powdered soup — so almost anything would’ve been my best meal in a month. 'Anything' turned out to be homemade burritos, maybe my best meal in two months, but...

When we went into the house, Jose was surprised to find his sister and a gaggle of her friends in his living room, and suddenly instead of me and Jose eating a quick meal, I was at a dinner party.

Fuck dinner parties. Conversations with strangers is something I hate, and this was unexpected conversation with unexpected strangers who all knew each other. Normal people love people but I am not normal people and for me this was the worst of all worsts. I withdrew inside myself, like I always do around strangers, and everyone there was a stranger except Jose, and I don’t even know him all that well.

After a tasty but uncomfortable dinner, I faded into an alcove off the living room to suck my beer alone, while everyone else was yukking it up in the kitchen and the living room. There was no escape, though.

A very pieced, tattooed, and talkative woman came into the alcove, and plopped onto a chair across the room, not saying anything yet but looking at me. Gulp. I almost knew her name because she’d introduced herself before dinner, and she'd been talking all through the meal. She’d been the loudest person at dinner, and now she wanted to talk with me? Alone? I’d sat in the alcove to get away from the talking.

This is what extroverts don't understand about introverts. She thought she was rescuing me from having no-one to talk to, but it's the opposite. For a few minutes I'd blissfully had no-one to talk to, and then she walked in and ruined everything.

She talked at me because she's a talker and that's what talkers do, but I had nothing to say, nothing I wanted to say. After a day of sweaty labor and then mind-numbing number-crunching for Jose, I was not interested in pretending to be Mr Personality. I sipped my beer until it was empty, shook my head yes or no when she asked questions, laughed when she said something funny, and didn’t say much of anything else. Eventually she gave up and went into the other room. Victory!

If I’d been invited to this impromptu get-together, I would’ve politely declined. I was there to work, not to talk, and despite being fed I was getting fed up. And then…

There was no work to be done. After the meal and after the tedious talk-talk-talk time, Jose said, “I'll let you leave, Doug. I don’t feel like working any more tonight.”

I could’ve been with Stanley at a museum. He’d invited me, admission was free and I’d wanted to go, but instead I'd told him I needed to earn an income. Well, earning an income had ended almost two hours earlier, right? You never get paid for meal time. I'd assumed I was off the clock from the moment we came in from the garage for dinner.

All this time spent with other people’s friends felt like work, though, so when I tallied my time for the day I included dinner. I will eat for free, but I will not eat and talk for free.

Jose paid in cash and without question, and added an extra hour’s wages like he always does. He’s a tipper, and that’s appreciated. Tips are another tricky aspect of “anything legal” work. $5 an hour is cheap enough to make the phone ring with inquiries, but it might not be enough to pay the rent and buy groceries and have a life. Tips really help.

If I say that plainly to prospective clients, though, then I’m a bait-and-switch — “The flyer says $5 an hour but now you’re demanding a tip?” So I never ask for gratuities, only hope for them. My wage is five dollars an hour, and after that, like Blanche, I’m depending on the kindness of strangers.

Jose is a decent guy, and his tips help, and the burritos help too, but same as the woman in the alcove, he’s too outgoing. As I was leaving he even invited me to a party on Saturday night, making sure I understood that it’s unpaid playtime, not worktime. I stammered something like, "Nah, man, thanks, but I don’t do parties," even as I was leaving what had almost been a party.

No. No. No. I don’t know what I’ll be doing Saturday night, but I won’t be at a party with some guy I work for. I hate parties. Every party I’ve ever been to — all three of them — all I did was stare out the window and wish I was somewhere else, so on Saturday I’ll make my wish come true, and be somewhere else.

I’ve slightly redesigned the flyers, swapping 'blacksmith' for 'bodyguard' and 'ghostwriter' for 'typing'. And I wanted to have them printed on self-adhesive paper, because I’ve noticed that my taped or stapled flyers are often gone when I return a week later, ripped down by Republicans, or whoever might be offended at the thought of someone working for a living beyond corporate control.

Stickers seem to last longer. When I walked down a street I’d flyered a week ago most of my signs were gone, but I spotted a sticker for a punk show that included the night the band was playing, which was a year and a half ago. Maybe printing the flyers on sticker-paper would be worth paying a little more?

But — no. Kinko’s sells sticky sheets for $1 p/page, and that's serious money. Might as well buy stock in Microsoft. So I went to Flax instead, bought a can of spray adhesive, and then glued my flyers to telephone poles and booths across SoMa, upper Grant, and Columbus, getting my hands all sticky in the process. Then I checked the mail and came home, and when I unlocked my hotel room door, I didn’t even need to hold the key; it simply stuck to my fingers.

In the mail was a pleasant surprise: In response to my then-panicked shrieks at the end of the January issue, the folks at Our Two Cents sent a marvelous care package of junk food — PopTarts, crackers ‘n’ peanut butter snackettes, and fortune cookies. One of the fortune cookies promised me a promotion at work, which seems unlikely but worth a chuckle. Thank you, J Rowden and R Press, and how did you know that junk food is what I’ve missed most since kissing paychecks goodbye? Serious and genuine gratitude. I’ve eaten all of it tonight, and it was a fine dinner.

Also in the mail: two issues of the Anderson Valley Advertiser, my favorite newspaper and indeed, as the masthead says, "America’s last newspaper." To my surprise, I’m a featured player in each issue, with excerpts from January’s Pathetic Life. It’s weird reading my life in a newspaper, where it's laid out better. It’s also weird reading January, because everything in my life has changed since then. But I love being a columnist by surprise, and without having to worry about deadlines or anything. Thanks, Bruce!

The first envelopes I opened, though, were two letters from Sarah-Katherine of Pasty, a frankly fabulous personal zine out of Seattle. That's where I'm from, but I never knew Sarah-Katherine when I lived there. We met by mail, and we’ve been trading zines and letters for a few months, and if it’s possible to flirt by mail, that’s what we’ve been doing. I haven’t mentioned it in the zine because it’s none of your business, but now she’s said it’s OK to share, so… in today’s letters she wrote, in part:

… It’s probably no secret but: I have a big crush on you. Now you know, and you can ridicule me if you like. You see, what makes me interested in a person is their intelligence, wit, passion, and (beware — corny, overused word) honesty, all of which you seem to have in spades. I know it’s goofy to have a crush on someone I’ve never met (or so they tell me) but I do — so there!
Don’t freak out — I’m not going to show up (well, uninvited, anyway) on your doorstep, or start calling you all the time, or slap you with a paternity suit, or anything like that. The reason I’m coming out of the closet about my crush on you is because you wrote in the January edition of Pathetic Life that you like the girl to ‘make the first move’, so, um, in spite of my shyness and low self-esteem, I guess I kind of am trying to do that. Oh, whatever — I’m sounding like a total geek and I wouldn’t blame you for laughing at me.
If you hate the idea of me having a crush on you, please just ignore me and I won’t mention it again…
—Sarah-Katherine

Well, I don’t hate the idea at all, and at about the same time she was writing that letter to me, I mailed a post card to Sarah-Katherine, daring her to fly to Frisco, come and get me and fall in love. To that, she replied:

Never dare a stalker, particularly one who’s suffering from a major crush on you. ‘Come and get you’? All right, dear, I will.
When’s good for you? The best time for me (besides immediately) is mid-March, because that’s when [a co-worker] gets done with her jury duty and will be able to cover a few shifts for me. Start taking your vitamins now (heh!)…
—Sarah-Katherine

Is this innocent kidding around, or is there something going on here? A guy can dream, can’t he? Here’s a portion of the response I wrote tonight and dropped into the mailbox at the corner:

All the sweet things you’ve said about the ‘me’ you hope you know from my zine, are the same things I’ve been thinking about you. It would be an exaggeration to say it’s my reason for writing a zine, but it’s been a daydream in the back of my head that maybe I’d connect with some wonderful woman writer and we’d get all mushy by mail. Is that romantic, or just crazy? Is it possible? Is it happening?

From my zine you know I'm a fat slob, but here are a few further details about the guy you’ve got a crush on, stuff you need to know before giving me any serious consideration, or certainly before meeting me.

Like, I’m an anarchist, and an agnostic or atheist, depending on my mood.

I had to turn off that Ween tape [some music she’d sent me] because it melted my ears; I’m more of a Peter Paul & Mary guy.

I don’t smoke, but I pick my nose when nobody’s looking.

When I want to annoy someone, I pick my nose while they are looking.

I enjoy belching, but never learned how to do it on purpose.

Same with farting.

Being a man, I often scratch myself.

If I’m not planning to see anyone, chances are I won’t bother brushing my teeth.

I once dumped a girlfriend without a word — just stopped calling, stopped returning her calls, and 15 years later I still feel guilty about it.

Poverty is a conscious choice I’ve made, but it’s perilously close to getting out of hand.

I am currently living on odd jobs for strangers, so my diet is mostly cheese sandwiches, with vitamin pills for dessert.

Homelessness is a possibility in my short-term future, but fortunately this is California, where we have fairly mild weather.

If none of the above frightens you away, then please send a list of everything that’s obnoxious or worrisome about you. I’m eager to know the worst, because secrets suck, and after you know the worst about someone, everything else is a pleasant surprise.

Or, if you’re suddenly disinterested, it’s better to know sooner than later, don’t you think?

If you still want to get together, hold everything for a late-breaking bulletin: You’d certainly be welcome to visit me here in San Francisco, but you live in Seattle and I’m from Seattle and I’m soon flying up there for a week’s visit, on my mom’s invitation and also on her dime.

The dates aren’t certain yet, but I’ll let you know when I know. Since the family is buying my ticket I’ll have to spend time with them — and hey, I do kinda like them & want to see them — but I’d love to spend some time with you too, while I’m in your neighborhood.

Let’s share a 12-egg omelet at Beth’s Cafe, maybe walk around Green Lake if it’s sunny that day.

I like you. —Doug

Addendum, 2021: Probably I should’ve been more cautious about a ‘crush’ letter from a woman I’d never met. Sarah-Katherine could’ve been a maniac and minced me and eaten me for dinner.
No worries, though. She wasn't a maniac. Or she was a maniac for good, not evil.
Sarah-Katherine will be a recurring character in future issues of the zine, and she came to mean something to me. Fair to say, she still does, but she seems to have abandoned the web, so I have no idea where she is now or what she’s doing. Wherever and whoever she is, I wish her better than the best.

Today began with a jolt, when I turned the spigot to get a glass of water, and just before gulping it noticed a roach corpse swirling toward the bottom.

I’ve found roaches dead or alive in or on every dish I own, so by habit I’d glanced at the glass before filling it, and there was no roach. Thus I conclude that the roach must’ve crawled into the plumbing and died there, and been hosed out with the running water. This seems less than ideal, so I rummaged through my junk bin, found an old shower attachment with sort of a built-in strainer, and duct-tape-attached it to the sink faucet, which (I hope) will prevent future roaches from crawling up the pipes.

♦ ♦ ♦

After that victory, I checked my messages — none — and farted around for a few hours, then checked my messages again — one. It was Dahlia, asking me to come to a meeting about the play. The meeting, though, was actually a table read with the three main actors, and Dahlia playing all the other parts, a very dry skim through the story line.

So is the play funny? It’s hard to say. It’s funnier than a latter-day Mel Brooks movie, but so are dog farts. The play’s concept is funny, and the set-ups seem funny, but we didn’t hear much of the dialogue, and anyway, I have no experience with comedy in such a raw state.

I was there because I’m going to be the script girl, typing the play from Dahlia’s handwritten pages, then photocopying it and bringing it to the next rehearsal. It’s a paying gig, and I need paying gigs, and also I'll maybe do a walk-on as the ass Jesus Frankenfurter rides on Palm Sunday. That wouldn't be a paying gig, but the part calls for a fat guy who’s muttering about feminazis, and Dahlia thinks I could be Rush Limbaugh. I'm not eager about it, though. I'd have to shave my beard and pretend to be a Republican.

After the meeting, I earned ten dollars (no tip, damn it) for helping some schmuck move out of his SoMa flat. And then, since my voice mail hasn’t heard many voices lately, I went a’flyering again, up Russian Hill, across Union, and on toward the Marina. Flyers everywhere, but too few calls. Come on, San Francisco — my existence may be grotesque and incomprehensible to you, but you need me on that wall, or something like that.

Gave up on flyering earlier than I’d expected, because my sticky fingers were screwing everything up. I’m using spray adhesive in a can, but it makes my fingers sticky. Trashed a few flyers when they wouldn’t let go of me, and all the way home on the bus I could almost hang from the handrail without holding on. My fingers did the holding on without me.

Now, despite ten minutes of scrubbing, I’m still gumming up the keys on this typewriter. I push a letter and my finger stays there. I’d castrate myself if I tried masturbating right now.

Verdict: No more sticky stuff from a can. Tomorrow I’m going back to Flax, to see what a few hundred “Hi, my name is” stickers might cost. Those stickers are pre-stickied, and I could re-work the text of my flyer so it fits in the sticker’s white space. It’s an idea, anyway.

♦ ♦ ♦

Say, did I ever tell you about the time an employer sent me to a seminar? This was, like, five years ago, when I was living a normal life in Seattle, but I was already me so I hated people. At the seminar they gave everyone one of those “Hi, my name is” stickers, and you were supposed to write your name on it and stick it to your shirt or suit jacket so salespeople could approach you and call you by name.

Who the hell wants that? I don’t talk to strangers, and I double-don’t talk to salesmen, so my stickers said, “Hi, my name is… none of your business.”

My fingers are still sticky from yesterday’s canned adhesive on my flyers and all over me. I’ve learned something about myself, though — apparently, I cradle my head in my hands while I sleep, or so I surmise, because every time all night long when I woke up to pee or yawn or whatever, my hair was a little stickier.

That sticky stuff in a can? Never again.

♦ ♦ ♦

The smoke alarm in the hallway beeped intermittently all morning, and it was making me macadamia nuts. If Mr Patel was on duty, I could've just told him, and he’d replace the battery, but he’s not in the office on Sundays. Instead it’s the 70-something-year-old, slow-moving, hard-of-hearing, harder-of-thinking part-timer I think of as Colonel Sanders. It would take me twenty minutes to make the Colonel understand what’s wrong, and I don’t think he’d do anything about it, so instead I climbed onto a chair and took the battery out. I’ll give it to Mr Patel tomorrow. Until then everyone on my floor will be living dangerously, but without the beeps.

♦ ♦ ♦

Gave up and bought some sticker paper (blank, not “Hi, I’m…”), though I still think it’s far too expensive. Changed the text of the flyers again, replacing ‘tour guide’ with ‘private detective’, because that sounds like more fun. Then my primitive word-processor printed some flyers on the sticky paper, which worked fairly well.

I spent the afternoon slapping sticky-flyers onto every telephone pole and bus stop and newspaper vending box from the Great Highway to Church Street. On the way back I rode the streetcar now and then, but mostly walked through the avenues, stopping at every laundromat to tack up the earlier, non-sticky version of my flyer on the bulletin boards inside.

Some laundromats don’t have a bulletin board, which must be a communist plot or something. A corkboard full of garage sales and bands needing drummers is what makes a laundry part of its neighborhood, instead of just a collection of heavy coin-operated machinery. Hell, it takes an hour minimum to wash and dry, and nobody reads a newspaper for that long. Give the people a bulletin board!

Yessir and ma'am, Pathetic Doug says, Stand up for free speech! Never wash your undies and britches at a laundromat that lacks a bulletin board. Thank you for your attention to this matter.

Anyway, walking and riding and flyering was peaceful. Zen, I dare say. Even in the city, or especially in the city, a leisurely hike or ride from laundry to laundry can be a time of quiet contemplation. There are lots of laundromats, so I did lots of hiking, and my legs are limp now, but it feels good. Longish walks are something I ought to do more often, with or without flyers and laundromats.

And when I got near the rez hotel and checked my messages at a phone booth, behold — there were messages! Yippee!

Got up early — 8:45 is early for the unemployed, and most people would say I’m unemployed, but today I worked.

I washed someone’s car ($10), and the guy liked the sparkle so he asked me to clean the inside, too (another $10). Then I brought someone lunch from a restaurant that doesn’t do deliveries ($10). And tonight I’ll be working for Jose for three hours ($20). A fifty dollar day! If every day was fifty bucks, "anything legal" would be a smashing success.

Every day's not like today, though, so between the restaurant run and my evening with Jose, I flyered the Castro again, this time with my new, hopefully longer-lasting sticky flyers. Then I rode the L to the end of the line and back, stopping to flyer every laundromat and about twenty telephone poles.

When I checked my messages, the stickering and flyering had been rewarded with three phone inquiries. First, a woman who sounded suspiciously like Granny on The Beverly Hillbillies wanted us to collaborate on her autobiography, so she could sell it to Hollywood and make us both rich. She says she can’t write, so writing it would be my responsibility, but she'd tell me the stories. She’s never seen anything I’ve written except the “anything legal” flyers, so she was surprised when I answered her question, yes, gosh darn it, I think I can write. She offered no money up front, though, so I politely passed up my chance at Hollywood millions, at least for now. I might reconsider if she’ll fix me up with Ellie May.

By then I was tuckered, so the other two calls, I’ll call back tomorrow. At least they didn’t sound like hicks from Hooterville, so maybe a day's paid work will come from one or the other or both. For now, though, I’m weary from my day of working and walking, and drowsiness conquers all, so I’ll say good night, zine.

It's almost surprising how much I don’t miss Macy’s, or most of the people there. It was a job like most jobs, and I hated it, and I’m glad I quit. My only mistake was dithering around and wondering so long whether I should quit. Should've told Macy's to pucker up on my backside years ago.

My favorite memory of the place is leaving without the traditional two weeks’ notice, fulfilling a promise I’d made to myself. Even before I was a ‘permanent employee’ (insert sarcastic laughter), one fine Friday Mr Macy laid off three people I’d been working with, with no advance notice. It was the first round of layoffs I saw there, but there were more every few months. Layoffs were routine, just part of working there, and you can't imagine how dispiriting that is.

When they hired me from the temp agency I'd already decided, if ever I had the chance to leave of my own accord, I’d give Mr Macy the same advance notice he’d given my co-workers — zero.

Which reminds me, I should call Kallie. I haven’t spoken with her since the Friday after I quit, and that was only a quick call. She’s phoned a few times since then, leaving messages to remind me that Darla has my last paycheck. Even with some money at stake, though, I ain’t too prompt about returning phone calls. Ask my mother about that; I owe her three or five calls.

♦ ♦ ♦

Went flyering on the J line, and for anyone looking to me as a bad example of how to waste your life, I strongly recommend the sticky paper for your odd-job flyers. I’d hesitated to buy it because it’s expensive — a dollar a page, four flyers per page — but the sticker-flyers look much better than the paper flyers, and they seem to last longer, too. Jerks love ripping my flyers down, but with the stickers that takes some serious work and effort and time.

To check, I took an hour joyride on the N streetcar, where I’d flyered on Sunday, to see if they were still sticking on the telephone poles and newsboxes, and they’re still sticking.

Then I listened to yesterday's voice mail messages. The first was another idiot thinking I was hiring. Now, I ask you, what moron could read my little flyer and not understand the basic concept — I am looking for work.

The second message was much better. A lady named LeeAnn said she’s the co-owner of a store, had some work for me, and invited me to drop by any time to meet her. The address was a quick train ride down Market Street, just a few blocks this side of Castro, so I didn't even call her back. I simply took Muni, and I was there in about ten minutes.

I walked in and met LeeAnn and Stevi, her partner, and they seem like easygoing, likable ladies. Stevi wasn’t expecting me and said she hadn’t seen my flyer, so I whipped one out of my pocket, and she took it, and studied it seriously, as if it was a business card or a mini-resumé. Gotta respect that. And thirty seconds later I had the job.

After that, though, I wanted to spend thirty minutes browsing through the store. They have lots and lots of odd, interesting, and simply strange artifacts. I could blow my allowance there for sure, if I had an allowance.

They sell quality kitsch and drag, affordably priced. If I say it’s a second-hand shop, you’ll imagine something tacky, but it’s not tacky. If I say “they sell antiques and collectibles,” you’ll picture someplace stuffy and overpriced, but it’s not that, either. In a word, it’s simply ‘cool’, like shopping the boutiques on Upper Haight, but without the attitude, the pretentiousness, and the inflation.

The store has two names — it’s called Unusualia, and it’s also called Urban Mermaids. I didn’t ask about the provenance of that, but my guess is that the two owners couldn’t agree on a name, so they agreed to disagree, and put both names on the sign. That’s odd, but perfectly fits the shop.

I’ll be heavy-lifting boy, as needed, but mostly I’ll be wearing a florescent green cape and a red & black hood, and handing out flyers — the store’s flyers, not mine — to people walking by. See, the shop is on the second floor, not at street level, so people don't know it’s there unless they happen to look up, or unless someone’s on the sidewalk invites them to come upstairs — and that someone is me.

It’s shitwork, to be sure, but it can’t possibly not be more fun than data entry at Macy’s, and the outfit I'll be wearing is fabulous. It’s just the green cape and two-tone hood with my street clothes underneath, but the cape is the greenest green you’ve ever seen, and the hood is shaped sorta like an insect’s head.

It’s steady work but short-term, 2-3 weeks they say, but it’ll put peas in my pan. And don’t tell anyone, but I kinda love wearing the outfit. The job starts tomorrow, but I asked if I could try on the cape and be ludicrous for a while this afternoon — my treat, no wages. They looked at me like I’m nuts, but Stevi said, “Go for it,” so I put on maybe the most outrageous getup I’ve ever worn, and for twenty minutes or so handed flyers to passers-by.

Yeah, I think I’m going to like this.

♦♦♦

To celebrate, I treated me to a double feature at the Royal Theater on Polk Street, Quiz Show and Ed Wood, two movies that got good notices, one of which was truly quite boring. Brought my own snacks, of course.

Quiz Show is about a big scandal of the 1950s: TV game shows that were rigged, but the story moves like my grandpa, who's dead. People face moral dilemmas, choose between right and wrong, and live with the consequences, while I was counting the Dots™ and popcorn on the carpet. When the movie briefly teeters on the brink of almost-interesting, along comes the ever-annoying Rob Morrow, with a phony accent that sounds like Kansas or Kentucky by way of Manhattan. Doug Holland, drama coach, says: If you can't do an accent, don't do the accent.

Maybe I'm more annoyed than the movie deserves, but it's like this: I'm poorer than I was a few months ago, can't go to the movies very often, and when I go it damn well better be worth the price. At $3.75 for the double feature, that means I paid $1.88 to see Quiz Show, and that's about $10 more than it's worth.

Ed Wood was enjoyable, though. It's a hugely fictionalized biography of demented moviemaker Ed Wood Jr, as told by Tim Burton, who knows a bit about demented moviemaking. It's chock-full of concurrent yucks and pathos, so I laughed at and with Johnny Depp's Ed Wood. His fetish for angora seemed perfectly logical to me, and I was thinking it might look snazzy with my green cape and insect hood. Martin Landau is a shriek in the dark as Bela Lugosi, too. It's a good story well-told, and unlike Quiz Show, there's no boring moral dilemma to snore through.

♦ ♦ ♦

Rode the cable car back to the rez hotel, and ya know, some locals sneer at the Rice-A-Roni belldingers — too many tourists, too un-cool — but such naysayers are idiots. Cable cars are the city's funnest form of public transit, far superior to the herky-jerky buses that make me seasick on most Muni routes. Sitting in the open air, even on a chilly early evening like tonight, riding 19th century transport through the ultra-modern mega-dull financial district — if that ain't cool, well, neither am I and that ain't news.

Addendum, 2021: I almost never take or keep pictures, but just this once I wish I could share a photo of me in the shop’s sidewalk suit...

In yesterday’s San Francisco Examiner: A woman tells city police that a pack of wild kids on the bus doused her hair with lighter fluid and set her head aflame.

Welcome to San Francisco, and thank you for riding Muni.

When I read the news, I asked myself what I’d do if I'd been a passenger on that bus, and witnessed this. On Muni, I've seen plenty, but never yet seen anyone lit afire.

The right thing to do, of course, would be to say NO to the bastards, maybe pick one of ‘em up by his ear lobes, and heroically save the damsel in distress.

Doing the right thing could get you killed, though. If there were four rowdy kids on that bus, then statistically at least two of them had guns in their saggy britches. If you’re feeling gallant and say something, do something, you might be an obit in the next day’s paper.

What the hell would you do, hero? Me, I’d maybe be brave enough to glare at the kids. That’s about the limits of my courage, unless the person they’re dousing is me or someone I love. And there’s nobody in San Francisco that I love.

Here's the problem: Some kids have been raised with no limits. There’s been no responsible adult to whack ‘em on the butt when they were toddlers, or to talk sense into them when they were a little older — so they’ve got no sense in ‘em at all. Their parents were absent, addicted, brutal, drunk, stupid, or just uncaring losers, so those kids are monsters. Absolute frickin' monsters.

Seriously, ride Muni any day at about 3:00, as the schools are letting out, and if you’re near the back of the bus it’s like being among the hyenas at the zoo. I’ve seen guns and knives, bloody fistfights, heads bashed against windows and seats, all toward the back of the bus, where the little fuckers prefer to ride. You’ll find me toward the front, amongst the old, the weak, the sane, the survivors.

A few times, I’ve seen good guys who stood up to the roving hoards, and I’ve never seen any of them killed. Yet I don’t yearn to be one of the good guys. Maybe, maybe I’d brain someone from behind, if it looked like he was making trouble alone. I suppose maybe I'd say something, do domething if some teen savage started squirting lighter fluid around. Maybe I’d surprise me. I hope so.

And the police? Give up that dream, Farley. Once in a great while cops ride the bus, but only the day after someone’s been shot commuting. It’s about public relations, not public protection.

And it's not like the police are better. Seeing gangsters in bluer clothes, with smaller guns, shiny badges, and probably more serious mental malfunctions is supposed to put people’s minds at ease, but I generally prefer the bus without the cops. At least with rowdy kids, if you ring the bell and get off at the next stop, they’ll let you leave.

I don’t know what the answer is. It's not my job to solve society's problems. What I’d advise, though, is that if you’re in the city and riding a bus or waiting at a bus stop between about 2:45 and 3:15 on a weekday when school’s in session… step into a coffee shop for a while, and stay off the bus.

♦ ♦ ♦

Misery. My first day working at the shop was 7½ hours of old-fashioned work. I carried boxes, hung clothes, scrubbed stains out of an old rug, loaded a truck full of clothes and furniture for storage, then unloaded it at the storage site. Back at the store, whenever there was nothing else to do, I stood on the sidewalk in that crazy green get-up, handing the store’s flyers to everyone passing by, except about one out of four who refused (I assume they assumed the flyers were sex party invitations, which is what you’re usually handed near the Castro).

Green man duty, which I believe will eventually be fun, was no fun today because of the constant rain. Sometimes it drizzled, sometimes it downpoured, never was it dry, so I was standing there, saying the name of the shop and pointing upstairs, wearing a soaking wet cape and a slightly-waterlogged hood, flyers in one hand and an umbrella in the other. Like the sappy song says, “It never rains in California, but man, don’t they warn ya, it pours.”

♦ ♦ ♦

Crazy coincidence of the day: With Stevi driving, I rode in the truck to the store’s storage shed, which was down an alleyway in a fairly scummy part of the Mission. We were unloading the truck in the rain, when Pike, a young guy I worked with a couple of years back, walked by. I wasn’t wearing the hood and cape, of course, so he recognized me before I recognized him, and he said, "Hey, dude!"

We talked for a few sentences, and Stevi didn’t seem to mind, and then he asked If I knew anyone who’s looking for a cheap place to live. He said he’d just signed a lease on a new apartment, and he needs a flatmate to help with the rent, lickety-split.

I mulled this over for about three seconds, and said, "The only guy I know who’s looking for a cheap place is me." The rent at my rez hotel is OK for a working stiff, but my work isn’t so steady as it was with Macy's, and the rent Pike mentioned would be about fifty bucks a month less, even with gas and electric.

And it’s an apartment, a genuine apartment — so there’d be a toilet and a shower and a kitchen. At the rez hotel, there's no kitchen at all, and the toilet and shower are shared with dozens of drunks and headcases and almost-hobos.

Stevi was raising her eyebrows a bit by then, so Pike and I high-fived and then low-fived, he gave me his phone number, and we talked later.

I don’t know Pike very well, but I didn't hate him when we worked together at the survey company, and from me, not hating someone is high praise. All I really remember about Pike is that he was sometimes funny in the break room at that job, and he often smelled of weed.

On the phone, I asked about his personality and habits, and he described himself as a homebody, said loud music and marijuana were his only bad habits, but if it bugged me he could wear headphones and share the weed. He says he rarely has friends over. Best of all, he’s already paid the first/last/damage deposit, so he’ll let me slide on that, at least for a while.

“I’m moving in tomorrow,” he said. “All I need is a roommate.”

“It’s separate rooms, though, right?” I asked.

“Yeah,” he said. “Separate rooms.” To me that means _flat_mates, not _room_mates, an important distinction because I sure as hell don’t want a roommate.

The upshot is, tomorrow morning Pike will show me his new apartment, and unless it looks utterly unlivable, his place will be my place — Su casa será mi casa, or something like that. It’s in the Mission, so I gotta brush up on the Spanish I don’t speak.

You want a description of Pike? That’s easy as store-bought pie — he’s Keanu Reeves in Bill & Ted’s Excellent Adventure. That’s the look, the voice, the personality of Pike. He even says ‘Dude’ a lot.

And that's not an insult. I liked the movie, and I liked Ted. Maybe I'll like Pike.

It’s a gamble, sure. Humans are always a gamble. But this is my first and maybe only chance to get out of the residential hotels where I’ve been living since coming to California 3+ years ago. On my own I’ll never have the thousand dollars it takes to sign a lease, and there’s no way I’d ever pass a landlord’s credit check. Honestly, one hell of an opportunity walked up to me in that alleyway this afternoon.

♦ ♦ ♦

So, in conclusion: Minor misery after a day of physical labor. Arms hurt a little. Back hurts a little. Bones are creaking, clothes are wet, and I’m maybe moving out of this rez hotel. I’m tired, though, and tired of typing, so it’s time to strip and sleep.

I’m usually a little worried about everything, even when nothing’s happening in my crappy life, but now things are changing fast, maybe too fast. It's breathtaking and worrymaking — I’m piecing together work where I can find it, no steady job just "anything legal" and checking my messages three times daily, and hoping it'll add up to enough to pay the rent but I'm not yet sure.

And now, maybe I'm moving out of the rez hotel and into an apartment? We'll find out later this morning, but do I want to do this? Yes and maybe no. Pike told me yesterday, "The neighborhood is a hellhole, and the apartment needs work, too," and I'm not all that sure about living with him, and packing and moving is so much hassle, and I'll have to hire a mover or rent a van, and worry worry worry, so I needed illegal pills to get to sleep last night, and then I slept crappy.

The pills knock me out fine, but sometimes give me dreams I'd rather not, and last night I dreamed about Billy Mumy. Yeah, the actor who played the kid on Lost in Space. I watched that show but never much liked it, never liked the kid either. I was looking at his older sisters, of course. But "Danger, Will Robinson," that dumb redheaded boy was the star of my dream. I don’t think I was even in the dream.

Mumy couldn’t commit to a Lost in Space reunion movie, because he was playing the lead in The Dustin Hoffman Story — a play, not a movie. I guess Hoffman was unavailable? I was in the audience at a theater, watching Billy Mumy as Dustin Hoffman as a man playing a woman in a soap opera inside Tootsie, and it was disturbing and boring at the same time, so I literally pinched myself awake and couldn't get back to sleep, and now it’s Thursday, and in 45 minutes I’m meeting Pike at his apartment, to see if I want to move in.

Do I want to move in? Yeah, probably, and as I pulled on my pants, I noticed that yesterday’s rains are dripping through the ceiling again. Damned rez hotel. And this time the drips splattered right onto a box of Pathetic Life back issues, so if you send for one and it’s warped or splotchy, maybe I'll charge extra and call it a special collectible edition.

♦ ♦ ♦

OK, I’m back from seeing Pike’s apartment, and it’s worse than I’d expected. It’s on a street that’s really just an alley, where all the buildings are mostly the same low-rise tenements you see everywhere in SF, but in far worse repair, with bars on most of the windows and trash and needles on the street.

The apartment Pike’s renting is on a second floor, the steps up from the street are graffiti-painted, and there was an old lady sitting on the stoop smoking a cigarette, who glared at me when I said “Excuse me” and squeezed past. The doorbell was loose wires sticking out of the wall, so I knocked, heard footsteps, and Pike opened the door and...

What a fuckin' dump. The bathroom door was off its hinges, 'Mierda' ('shit' in Spanish) spray-painted on the living room wall, dead roaches on the floor, and Pike crunched a live one under his shoe on his way to a kitchen-style chair in the living room. He sat down, said “Explore, dude,” and turned his attention to Leeza Gibbons on a small TV on the floor.

The chair and TV were the only furniture, so I guess you could say the place had possibilities. The living room was spacious, bigger than my room at the rez hotel, with peeling plaster, no carpeting, and no light bulb in the ceiling fixture. I like the art on the wall, though — 'Mierda' — and don't want it washed off or painted over.

From the living room, the kitchen is to the rear, and the bedroom is to the front. Just one bedroom, so one of us will be living in the living room. “Which room’s mine?” I asked.

“Take your pick,” Pike said.

The bedroom is bigger than the living room, and I need to be able to close and lock my door, not have Pike walking through all the time, so I walked into the bedroom and claimed it. There’s a bay window behind bars overlooking the street, where old tires and trash is piled on the sidewalks. I opened the window, and from down the street came the occasional sound of breaking glass and breaking marriages, and local toughs play dueling boomboxes on the stoop steps.

The best (and only) interesting thing about the bedroom is that there’s a built-in bench along one of the walls. The wall rises to about knee-height, then goes in a few feet, then up to the ceiling. Maybe I could call it a shelf and put books there... or, brilliant idea, maybe I could sleep on the bench. It's wooden but wide enough, since nobody's ever going to sleep with me. If I found a foam mat the right size or just wadded up my laundry, I wouldn't have to buy and build a bed.

There’s only one bathroom, of course, and it’s just a bathroom, but it’ll be my bathroom. Well, mine and Pike’s. Toilet, tub, sink, and a very small stained-glass window. Who puts stained glass into a bathroom window the size of a piece of paper?, I wondered, but the stained glass classes up the shitter, and the window opens. The toilet flushes. When I turned the faucet, there was hot water in a few seconds.

In the kitchen, there were mouse turds on the counter, and syringes in the cabinets. When I opened the unplugged refrigerator — Why did I do that? — there was an ancient gallon of milk and the smell made me retch.

To Pike I said, "I walk around without pants a lot. Is that gonna be a problem?"

"I'm straight, man," he said.

"Me, too."

"Probably not a problem then," he said, so I paid cash for my half of our first month’s rent, and Pike says he’ll have the keys duped and get me a copy tomorrow. Maybe I should’ve talked to him more, tried to make conversation? Nah, he was all about Leeza on the TV, and I don't like making conversation, and anyway, I was in a hurry to get to work at the shop with LeeAnn and Stevi.

As awful as the apartment and the street are, I’ve lived in worse places. I can live anywhere, and with a toilet and shower and a kitchen of my own, be it ever so humble, even a shitty apartment shared with Pike will be better than the rez hotel. I think.

Should I be worried about Pike? Probably. I really don’t know diddlysquat about him. We worked at the same place a few years ago — my job before Macy's, doing surveys on the phone. We had no arguments there, but we never had a serious conversation about anything either. We’re damned near strangers, and I don’t think he’s even twenty years old. I’m 36.

It’s probably stupid to move in with him, but it’s not the first time I’ve done this exact stupid thing. Fifteen years or so ago, I invited a guy I barely knew to live with me, back in Seattle, and it worked out. We became great fiends, so maybe Pike and I will become friends, too. Or maybe he’ll strangle me in my sleep. Guess we’ll find out.

I have "anything legal" lined up that’ll keep me busy for the next few days, but I’m hoping to move in over the weekend.

♦ ♦ ♦

After working at Unusualia most of the day — inside schlepping stuff around, and then on the sidewalk wearing the cape — I checked my messages, and Dahlia had called. She said she had the revisions all revised, and could I please come to tonight’s rehearsal, then take her notes home and type it all up ASAP? Sure, but also yikes. If I’m working at the shop and for Jose and other odd jobs — and also moving — when am I going to have time to type a script?

Ah, well, it’s just one more worry. Collect them all.

At the rehearsal, I watched from the seats and it felt eerily like my dream last night, only without Billy Mumy. Dahlia led the actors through some getting-to-know-your character exercises that seemed very very silly, but maybe that's the method. What do I know about acting?

"Show me," she said, "how does your character walk? Does your character have an accent? A catch phrase? Does your character have any unusual habits or mannerisms?"

With half a dozen actors ‘acting’ their answers to these and other questions, often all at once, it looked like Tex Avery time. I was the only one giggling, though, and the only one in the seats. I have no character to get to know, for behold, I am only the typist.

Dahlia wants the script prepped and photocopied by Saturday, so I’d better quit typing about Doug and Dahlia and Pike, and start typing about Jesus and Mary and Brad and Janet.

The drips fill buckets in the rez hotel as the rains continue, and it’s starting to look like one of those 40-day and 40-night deals. My wrist hurts, from polishing brass and some light-to-medium heavy lifting at the shop yesterday and today, but LeeAnn says she won’t send me out to stand on the sidewalk when it’s raining, and I appreciate that.

Midway through the day, a surprise at the shop — Pike walked in, asked for me at the counter, and Stevi sent him to the back room, behind a curtain, where I was working. He said, “Here’s your key, dude,” and handed me a key to our shitty apartment.

I was honestly impressed, and about 60% verklempt. When I’d paid the rent yesterday, Pike told me he’d get me a key today, but we never discussed how that would happen. I figured I’d call him today or maybe tomorrow, and we’d arrange a time and place. But earlier I’d told him that I was working day shifts at a new store called Unusualia and Urban Mermaids, and with that one clue he called 4-1-1, got the address, and showed up with my key. You ask me, that’s quite resourceful, for a teenage stoner.

He also said he’s getting a phone installed, and asked if I wanted to split the bill. I told him that’s an idea I’d need to think about, and I’m still thinking about it.

See, I have always hated phones. For years, I've used a voice mail service, checking my messages and returning any calls from phone booths, instead of having a phone.

I can't stand the interruptions — you’re supposed to drop whatever you’re doing whenever the phone rings, and run to answer it, to talk to anyone on earth who dials your digits at any given time. Which is often someone trying to sell something.

So yeah, I hate the telephone, but… if Pike’s getting a phone, that means I’ll hear it ringing anyway, whenever anyone calls. So pay or don't pay, I still get the interruptions. Guess I might as well pay, and then some of the interruptions will be for me.

Sigh. So, jeez, for the first time in ten years or so, I’ll have a phone number attached to a real phone. Yet another major change in my pathetic life.

♦ ♦ ♦

Before and after working at the shop, I did nothing but work on Dahlia’s script. I've decided I can't decide whether it's any good. It's a comedy, but it's not making me laugh, typing it. Then again, I'm getting tired of typing it.

Occasionally I take a break to go down to the sidewalk and check my messages from the phone booth, and it occurred to me as I was pumping coins into the public phone, getting a phone of our own means I’ll save a few dollars in coins, but... Pike and I will need to share an answering machine, too. All these changes sure are getting complicated…

And I gotta make sure my mom never gets my new phone number, or she’d be ringing me up round the clock.

Dahlia’s play is a comedy, but typing the script is not at all funny. The jokes might be good (it's hard to tell), but some of Dahlia’s notes are barely legible, many of her sentences are mere fragments, and jeez it’s so long. Typing it feels like dull homework, and I’m only midway through the second act.

She wanted to have a finished and photocopied script today, but I called and told her that’s not happening, sorry. She was not happy. Oh, well. More likely it’ll be done late tomorrow, or early Monday.

I’ll be working at the shop today, then typing the script tonight, working at the shop again tomorrow, then typing more of the script tomorrow night. After it's finally finished, I’ll have Monday and Tuesday off from everything, and that’s when I’m hoping to get my meager possessions packed and moved and settled in at Mierda, which is what I'm calling the new apartment, because that's what someone painted on the wall.

♦ ♦ ♦

When LeeAnn and Stevi first showed me the green cape and insect head hood, told me I’d be standing out front, urging sidewalkers to climb the stairs and come into the shop, well, of course that sounded like fun! How could it not be?

But then the rains came, so I’ve mostly been working inside the shop instead of outside. Today Noah docked the ark so I spent most of my time wearing the cape and handing out the shop’s flyers, and I have to say — I enjoy it.

Usually I’m a quiet introvert, but slipping into that outrageous outfit changes me. Strangers laugh and say funny things, pretty women smile at me, sometimes they even talk to me, and the Castro is a young neighborhood with lots of pretty women. Lots of pretty men, too.

Someone said "the clothes make the man," and the clothes I wear for the shop are ridiculous — so they make me a ridiculous man. In day-glo colors and a bug mask, my shyness slips away.

It’s performance art, and I was asking myself (in the words of Dahlia Diamond, noted director and playwright), How does your character walk? Does your character have an accent? A catch phrase? Does your character have any unusual habits or mannerisms? Well, yeah, my character walks like this! and talks like this!

When I blew kisses toward a tour bus, some of its passengers clicked my picture like I’m Lotta’s Fountain. A few passing cars honked at me. A drunk flipped me off. Once in the morning and again a few hours later, different men passing by got a little flirty with me. I’d prefer they were women, and judging by their attire maybe so would they, but it was flattering.

BTW, about those tour buses… Living in what seems to be the world’s vacation destination, I’ve come to hear the word ‘tourist’ as a synonym for ‘moron’, and the tour buses are an example of that. Visitors come from Paris and Peru and Peru, Indiana, and pay to ride down Market Street in an air-conditioned bus, while the driver recites what must be an awfully brief overview of the neighborhoods he’s rolling past at 20-25 mph? These people imagine they’re seeing the city — and they are, literally, but — from the window of a passing bus? They might as well be watching The Streets of San Francisco on TV.

It reminds me of a scene from early, funny Woody Allen’s Love and Death, when there’s an idiots’ convention in Minsk. “Welcome idiots” says the banner over the hotel, and that joke is applicable to every tour bus, every out-of-towner lined up to see the Full House house, or Lombard Street, or the Stinking Rose, or any of the manufactured attractions at Fisherman’s Wharf.

There’s a city here, and it’s as beautiful as everyone says. It’s worth coming to see San Francisco, and maybe (like me) you’ll never want to leave. It isn’t something you pay admission to, though, and watch through a window. San Francisco isn’t a view, it’s something you’re part of, even if you're only visiting, so get your butt off the bus and walk around.

♦ ♦ ♦

And with that, I’ll say good night, zine. Gotta get back to typing Dahlia’s script.

Is today Sunday?

I wouldn’t know. All I’ve done all week is work on my feet at the shop, work on my feet for Jose, and then at night sit on my butt and work on Dahlia’s script.

The script, as mentioned yesterday, might be a comedy when they perform it but when I'm typing it, it’s just work. All laughter is on layaway, at least until the move is over and I can get settled at the new apartment. Some of the jokes I don't get, some simply aren't funny, and some I can't read — Dahlia's handwriting always looks like she was having a stroke.

♦ ♦ ♦

Before going to the shop, I took a backpack full of canned food to Mierda, to mark my turf and make me feel like I’m actually moving into that apartment. I hope Pike doesn't open the cans and eat my food. He's awfully skinny and hungry-looking, but he wasn't there when I opened the door with my nifty new key.

His cat has moved in, though. Pike had told me he has a cat, and that the cat is a ferocious mouser, which is something we'll need cuz the apartment has ferocious mice. His fierce cat might even attack the roaches, he said, but I'm not so sure about 'ferocious'. I wouldn't have known the cat was there if I hadn't seen a cat-sized lump quivering in terror under Pike's blanket on the couch.

Oh — there's a couch now. Kinda ratty-looking, but it fits the place. Also there's now a TV stand, with the TV on it. Swanky!

Anyway, when I tried saying soothing words and petting the cat through the blanket, that cowardly lion launched itself out of the room in a blur.

♦ ♦ ♦

Pike is getting settled, I guess, and tomorrow's my day for packing, if I can finish the script tonight. Tuesday will be the day for moving, and I've told LeeAnn and Stevi I'll need Wednesday off too, to get settled in and recover. Can't wait to say farewell forever to the rez hotel.

♦ ♦ ♦

My day working at the shop was about as terrific as any workday could be. I spent all of it in costume on Market Street, nudging people up the stairs and into the shop, with a fairly high success rate — maybe 1 or 2%.

I hate people, of course — that's my defining trait — but I enjoy the quick banter with strangers on the sidewalk, and today there were several exchanges that became almost conversations. At no time did I want to punch anybody, and nobody took a swing at me, either.

Small world #1: One of the junior execs I used to work for at Macy's walked by, and boy was he surprised to see someone he knew all decked out in green and insect. He asked me what the hell, and I told him I'm happier now, making lots less than I did at Macy's, but it's worth it to be free of the balderdash.

Maybe it was my sunny mood on account of the sunny weather (first dry day in a week) but that executive seemed more human without his tie and 9-5 sourpuss demeanor. He even went upstairs to see the shop, and when he came down an hour later, he showed me that he'd bought a skirt. "I tried it on, and just loved it," he said. I hadn't seen that coming, but I love San Francisco.

Small world #2: Not long after that suit bought his skirt, another familiar face from Macy's came walking from the other direction. It was Kyle, a guy who'd worked with me there (before I started writing the zine, so you never heard of him).

He was always a kidder, right up to the day he got laid off, so I'm not certain what to make of this, but when I asked him what he's up to these days he said he's a drug dealer. Of course he's joking, right? I chuckled, but then he handed me his business card.

Who knew dealers have business cards? His was bright six-color laminated plastic, with only his first name and psychedelic colors on the front, and a phone number on the back ("Leave a message 24/7") over a picture of a thousand marijuana plants.

The card was slick, so I guess he's a successful entrepreneur. He offered me a discount, but anything illegal is beyond my budget until we see whether "anything legal" pays the rent.

Later (and this is my last story from the sidewalk today, I promise), some smiley sort walked by, with short hair, lots of teeth, and a nose ring big enough to dangle your house keys. I gave him a flyer about going upstairs to the shop, and he looked at it, smiled again even bigger, and gave me his flyer, headlined:

Namu myōhō renge kyō

Perhaps you don't know that phrase? It's the childlike chant of empty-headed believers in Buddhism. Yeah, I know, I'm supposed to be more tolerant and less judgmental, but if you push religion at me, I am under no obligation to be patient and polite. I was in a great mood, though, so I tried to be nice (and failed).

"Will you say it with me?" the smiley stranger asked, so we said it together half a dozen times, interrupted by me handing flyers to other people on the sidewalk.

"Namu myōhō renge kyō," I said to the smiley guy, and to someone else I said, "Cool store upstairs," and held out the store's flyer. Then smiley guy and I said it together, "Namu myōhō renge kyō," and to another stranger I said, "Upstairs, upstairs, you've never had more fun with your clothes on."

"Namu myōhō renge kyō," the smiley guy said again, and I said it to him and he said it to me, and after several more recitals he asked earnestly, "Don't you feel better already?"

"No, I just feel dopey," I said. "Don't you?"

Occasionally I get grumpy, but not much of my zine has been written in a genuine bad mood. I'm in a bad mood now, though, and it's genuine.

Except for working at the shop and working for Jose, I've put everything aside since Thursday, to work on Dahlia's script. I have struggled with her bad handwriting, and her too-cryptic messages on my machine. I have ridden buses to meet her at the theater, to pick up pages or notes, and waited in the seats while she dealt with actors and other things instead.

At the end of a pretty good yesterday, I came home to the rez hotel, and typed and typed and typed the script. Then I proofed and proofed and proofed it, decided it was ready to print, and called her with the good news.

She was out, and her roommate was snippy and rude, maybe because I was an unknown gentleman caller on the phone. I explained that Dahlia had hired me to type her script, but it made him no less snippy and rude. I asked him to tell her I'd called, and he said, "I'm unreliable about things like that. You should call back later," and click, he hung up.

OK, fuck you too.

I took the script to a copy shop, and got the twenty copies Dahlia had requested, while mourning the absence of free, easy access to the copiers when I'd worked at Macy's. Imagine the injustice of paying for things!

Finally, with the scripts collated and still warm, ready for delivery, I dialed Dahlia's number again. And again her rude roommate answered.

"Is Dahlia there?"

"Why do you keep calling?"

"Uh, you told me to call back later. You wouldn't take a message. That's why I keep calling. I'd love to stop calling, if you'll take a message this time."

"What's the message?"

"I have twenty copies of Dahlia's script. Tell me when and where to deliver them, please, and she owes me $145."

"OK," he said, unconvincingly. "She won't be in until late tonight, so don't call early tomorrow." Click.

Now it's tomorrow, and I called again at about 8:00. That's not 'early', is it? Her roommate answered, again, and said she was still asleep. "Tell her I called again, please," I said, and went back to packing everything I own into boxes because I'm moving from this rez hotel.

Moving is one of the things I've put on hold to work on the script, so I was getting grumpy.

Called Dahlia again at 10:00 and 11:30, and both times her line was busy. Called again at 12:15, and there was no answer. Checked my messages, and there were two voice mails from Dahlia — from late last night, and again this morning — reminding me I was supposed to call. That means her roommate didn't give her my messages. I called again, maybe two minutes after the call with no answer, and aap aap aap aap — her line is busy.

Damn it, I am tired of this all this. I am tired of these phone calls. I am tired of Dahlia's roommate, tired of Dahlia's script. I turned down other work to work on the script, and now my room is almost fully packed and I'm ready to rent a mover.

I want the script to be done. I want Dahlia's boyfriend to be less of a dick, and Dahlia to turn her answering machine on, or get off the phone so we can talk. I want to punch somebody — definitely Dahlia's boyfriend, and Dahlia herself better be quite polite when I finally find her.

Oh, and if me slugging a lady is an ugly mental image, be advised that Dahlia isn't quite a lady. She does drag, and on stage she's Dahlia and she's a she, but at her day job she's Nathaniel and he's a he. Also, either Dahlia or Nathaniel could easily my ass, so there won't be any real violence, only sweet fantasies in which I'm an overweight Bruce Lee. Wooooooo, oooo wahhhh!

Anyway, Dahlia's been decent to me, and doubtless doesn't deserve the bad vibes I've written here. Her handwriting is awful and she has more important things to do than return my calls or see me when I'm at the theater, but I don't hate her. I just need this to end — twenty copies of the script, out of my hands and into hers.

Two hours later, that's what happened. She has her scripts, and I complained about what an ass her boyfriend was. Most importantly, she paid me, so I'm momentarily rich and all semi-smiles. If she wants any further revisions, though, my answer will be no.

See, doing "anything legal for $5 an hour" means I can be choosy. I don't have to deal with dipshits like Dahlia's roommate, and I don't have to do work that makes me mental.

With all my boxes in a stranger's truck, I knocked on the mumbling man's door. Sometimes he answers when you knock, and sometimes he just hides, but this morning he answered.

"I'm moving out, Mumbles, but here's your key." I held it up and hoped he understood, and then slowly walked to the end of the hallway by the fire extinguisher. The carpet there is loose, and can easily be pulled up in the corner. I showed him, then put the key underneath, and let the carpet cover it. He might have smiled ever-so-slightly, or might have grimaced.

Then I elevated down, and handed my room key to Mr Patel. "Mr P, you run a good place here," I told him, "but I hope I won't be back."

♦ ♦ ♦

Testing, one banana, two banana, three banana, four. Does this old clunker typewriter still type, after a wild ride in a gypsy mover's van? Hooray, it's okay…

The boxes are unpacked or stacked out of the way, everything important is accessible or plugged in, and I just killed the first roach in my bedroom, so I guess this is home. I've moved in with Pike, at the Mierda apartment on Mierda Street, in an unwelcoming corner of the Mission.

Bay windows, though. Well, singular — just one bay window, but I've never had a place with a bay window before. It offers a sweeping, panoramic view of lowriders parked and jacked on bricks the length of the sidewalk, and what looks like a drug deal going down outside the shattered phone booth at the end of the block.

Unexpectedly, at least at 10:44 AM, it's quieter in the slums than it would be at my old rez hotel. Even with the bay window open, all I hear is the upstairs neighbors arguing, but not ferociously, and people talking down the street, and the occasional sound of a car engine turning over, or not, in which case, try try again. And there's a boombox playing Mexican rock'n'roll, faintly, far in the distance. I expect the volume might go up after sunset.

At the old place, just off Powell Street, near Union Square in Tourist Town? I'd be hearing the constant rattle and roar of traffic, trucks and diesel buses pulling into and out of the stop in front of the hotel, throngs of tourists and other idiots on the sidewalk, with honks and yells always in the background. Almost hourly, there'd be the cacophony of the restaurant across the street running their giant trash compactor, and in the distance, the sound of beefeaters or whatever they're called — staffers from the overpriced St Francis Hotel, wearing silly frilly old-style outfits, tooting their giant kazoos to signal taxis for wealthy guests. And of course and always, the sound of beggars begging.

The beggars are what make it so obvious that America is a lie. We're told it's the richest country in the world, so we could help the victims of our powerhouse unfair economy, but we don't. Never have, never will. We toss 'em insults, tell 'em to get a job, and offer meager dole payments, but only to those savvy enough to fill out the forms and navigate the bureaucracy. How someone like Mr Mumbles survives, I do not know.

Here at my new dump, Pike is absent this morning, so I have the entire estate to myself. I've sprayed the kitchen with insecticide so it smells like Dachau and there are dead roaches everywhere in there, but not many live ones. The live ones fled to the other rooms, including mine.

♦ ♦ ♦

Among the boxes I've brought, there's one full of letters and photos and mementos from women long ago. Even after ridding myself of most of my possessions when I came to California, I kept the box. Call me sentimental.

In a fit of frustration a year or so ago, I threw away most of my memories of April, so now it's 75% a box of Maggie. Letters to Maggie, letters from Maggie, pictures of Maggie. Deeper in the box, there are memories of a few others.

Maybe it's time to toss the memories of Margaret, too. Most of them, anyway. Once upon a time a lady liked me. Now, let it go.

Here's a copy of a post card I sent her a year ago. This was the invitation that brought her to see me in San Francisco, a visit you may remember was a disaster. I photocopied the card because I liked what I'd written, and that was when it occurred to me to write my life as a zine. Which I guess makes this is a preview of Pathetic Life #1, which came out a few months later:

Dear Mags,
Walking home tonight, up from the BART station, I passed countless lost souls — dopers, drunkards, crackheads, slackers, the homeless and the mindless, lowlifes and other folks maybe like me. A prostitute came out of the shadows, and came on to me. Not interested, thanks — the Kaposi's lesions are sorta distracting.
All I want is a cheap burrito to go, to eat upstairs in my roach-infested room, watching Letterman, hoping to be asleep before it's time to wake up. That's all I ask. That's enough. That's the life.
And you're invited to join me in this paradise…

Well, she came to Frisco, and the rest is history, like Maggie is now — history and a memory, in the box.

♦ ♦ ♦

Checked the maildrop, and what was waiting for me among the zines and $3 zine requests? Two big boxes from Fred Woodworth! He spent seventeen dollars in postage, so they're BIG boxes indeed. Worked up a sweat hauling 'em back on the bus to my new home, wondering what was inside. To my amazement it's the biggest care package I've ever received. My mother doesn't send this much food when she sends food.

I'd written to Fred when I quit Macy's, and told him my plan — that I was hoping to make due with "anything legal" work. Guess I sounded desperate, but I never dreamed of this response. Thank you, Fred.

There's powdered soup, macaroni & cheese, stuffing mix, mashed potato mix, canned veggies, and even junk food like peanuts, cocoa mix, and more. Maybe, maybe someone somewhere some time was this nice to me, but I can't think of who it might have been.

Then Pike came home, and with both of us unpacking and getting settled tonight, and Fred providing the peanuts and cocoa, we're having a little housewarming celebration here at the Mierda house. I can't even complain about how loud our asshole neighbors might be, because tonight the asshole neighbors are us. The rowdy rock'n'roll that's way too loud is coming from Pike's tapes, on my tape deck, and life is good.

A week ago I hadn't seen Pike, hadn't even thought about him, since quitting the job where we'd worked together several years ago. Now suddenly he's my flatmate, sort of a pal, and maybe eventually a friend. We'll see. We got to know each other a bit better last night, and as yet we've neither decked each other nor wanted to.

He likes his music loud, but if I insert earplugs I mostly can't hear it. At no extra charge, the plugs also keep roaches from crawling into my brain via the auditory canal as I sleep. Slept nine hours last night, rather remarkable for insomniac me, so maybe I'm already at home here.

♦ ♦ ♦

Today I'm doing what I haven't done for a few weeks: opening the mail and sending out zines. For anyone who's been waiting, sorry about the delay — sometimes life is hectic.

In the mail, there was a pile of pre-read zines from Norma Jean of E-Motion zine. Thank you! Due to ongoing poverty I'm unable to buy zines and unwilling to trade for them, so you're my new source for reading material.

Norma Jean also asked me to send a post card to the U.N., supporting some silly resolution endorsing gay rights. I am absolutely for gay rights; it's the resolution that seems silly — as if a U.N. resolution would make a quarter-ounce of difference to anyone anywhere.

But sure, I sent Boutros Boutros the card, by Ghali. The United Nations has never impressed me, though. Nations are imaginary lines people kill and die for, so even 'united', nations remain a bad idea.

♦ ♦ ♦

I'm tightening my belt, literally and figuratively, because my new reduced budget has begun reducing my waistline. At the narrowest notch on the belt, my britches droop over my butt, so using a hammer and nail I pounded two new holes in the leather. Now the belt will hold my pants up.

I'm still fat, though. Plenty fat.

♦ ♦ ♦

It's movie night at the Noe Valley Library, and the show was Louis Malle's Calcutta (1969). It's a documentary about the class divisions in that city, where the unbearably poor and the insufferably rich live very separate existences.

There's no added music, no effects, no embellishments at all. We see public bathing in the harbor, stroll through Calcutta's bustling Chinatown, watch hucksters and beggars on the street, and westerners and wealthy Calcuttans playing golf at the Royal Links. There are ongoing political protests at the Parliament Building, to silently oppose a law which forbids assemblies of more than five people. We go to the horse track, where red-dotted women study their bets before the next race. We meet several of the Sadu, people who've renounced everything to become beggars for philosophical reasons. "Why have you done this?," asks Malle. "Because life is an illusion," is their answer.

It's never boring, but Malle's narration in his French-accented English remains resolutely objective and "just the facts," so if there's a message to the movie it's "Draw your own conclusion."

My conclusion? The major difference between the inequities and cruelties of America vs those of India is just that we're accustomed to ours, so it's an eye-opener to see theirs. Malle could easily make a similar documentary about the different worlds of rich and poor of California, and I'll bet Calcuttans would be shocked to see it.

The library's presentation was spartan: The projector was on a table between the seats, so its click click click wasn't muffled behind projection-booth glass. And there was only one projector, so the lights came up for rewinding and respooling between reels. I'm not complaining, though — those breaks serve a purpose for the audience, too. It's a chance to get out of the folding metal chairs and briefly restore bloodflow to your buttocks. Next time I'll bring a cushion.

There will be a next time, though, because the movie was free and that's a hard price to beat. There's a new feature, screening once only, at 6:30 PM on the third Wednesday every month. If anyone wants to join me, you're welcome to buy me a beer and a slice of pizza afterwards.

I've been polite and not mentioned it until now, but politeness is not my greatest strength, so... I've had the runs for as long as the city's had rains, and it's been raining most of the last week and a half.

First thing this morning, like every morning all week, I rushed to the toilet for an urgent and liquefied squat that squirted out of my anus faster than lies from Bill Clinton's mouth.

It's nice to be able to squirt diarrhea in a bathroom of my own, though. The little stained glass window is pretty, and it's sweet sharing the porcelain with only one person instead of 105. But why all the diarrhea?

At first I thought it was my recent switch to all-natural fake mayonnaise from the Rainbow Store, or an afternoon when I snacked on too much dried fruit. All that has passed, though, and still my feces comes out like a garden hose with one of those fancy spray nozzles. Every fart is a finger-cross — will it be only gas, or something more? Often, it's something more.

Tomorrow I'm going to fast — skip breakfast, lunch, and dinner — to get whatever's in me all the way out of me.

♦ ♦ ♦

Taking a dump isn't all I did today, but I guess that's all I'll write about. I worked all day, now I'm drowsy, and it's zzz-time.

♦ ♦ ♦

Slept three hours and woke with a rant in me, sorry:

When I have a word to say about capitalism, the word is usually "sucks." It's an economic system that reduces necessities, dreams, health, and every aspect of human existence to mere money. If you ask me, I'd say capitalism is a form of mental illness.

Nothing's wrong with coming out ahead on a deal, which is the basis of capitalism. I currently sell myself at $5 an hour, because that's a little more than what it costs to survive. At that wage plus tips, I make a small profit. Not a lot, but enough to keep me alive.

Call that capitalism, and it's not insane (yet). When it happens on a small scale, with people like LeeAnn and Stevi at the store, or Jose renting his woofers and tweeters, capitalism is an honest way to make a living.

If a business isn't profitable, either prices go up or expenses go down or the business goes out of business. Makes sense, so far, but that's where the line should be drawn, and here's where it gets crazy:

When a business is profitable, it's never profitable enough. There's no such thing as "enough," and that's where capitalism gets psychotic.

There must always be more and more and more — more locations, more product lines, more competitors devoured, more dividends, and projections of higher earnings in the next quarter. The goal is no longer to make a profit, or make a living; the goal is to make more and more and more and more and more and more...

How much money do some people need? I need $5 an hour. Bill Gates needs twenty-two billion dollars, and that's still not enough — he needs more. Seriously and literally, to anyone sane it looks like something's wrong in his head, in anyone's head, who needs more when he obviously has more than enough already.

Our long national nightmare is over. I am pleased to announce a smooth and solid bowel movement this morning, followed by a quick but tidy wipe. It's been a long while since either of those things happened.

My plan had been to skip food entirely today, let my intestines rest and recuperate and empty themselves, to end the runs. After a solid dump, though, problem solved. Instead I had three cheese sandwiches and two Twinkies for breakfast.

♦ ♦ ♦

Workwise, life has gotten complex. I'd rather work a bunch of little jobs than be tied to one job steady, but LeeAnn and Stevi want me on the sidewalk full-time for at least a few more weeks. Can't afford to say no to that, but I've also been working 2-3 nights a week for Jose Sounds Sensational. Plus, the phone calls keep coming in, "anything legal for $5 an hour." People want me to do work I simply don't have time to do.

It's a good problem to have, I guess, and here's the crazy solution:

Pike is only working part-time at his day job, so I showed him my flyers, explained "anything legal," and asked if he'd be willing and able to handle my overflow odd jobs. He said OK, so I guess he's my new business partner?

And it gets more complicated: Jose, my boss 2-3 hours at a time 2-3 nights a week, left a message on my voice mail asking why I was a no-show when he did the sound at a political event last night, and "reminding" me to be at his house tomorrow morning, to do some equipment checks and load the truck, before another gig tomorrow night.

That's bullshit. I called back, got his voice mail, and left a long and aggravated message:

"Earth to Jose. You told me about last night's event, and I'm sorry I was too tired to go, but I thought I'd been invited to listen to a speech. You never told me I was doing the sound, or I would've been there!

"And as for working tomorrow morning and tomorrow night — Jose, your call is the first I've heard about it. You have to communicate better! You can't have me tomorrow morning. I'm booked elsewhere. If you need help, you can have my flatmate Pike — he's helping me cover work and he probably knows more about speakers and mikes than I do .

"If you want Pike in the morning, call and let me know. If you need me tomorrow night, or him, call and let me know. Mostly, though, you gotta let me know."

Two thoughts on this:

First, Jose is my boss — or one of my several bosses. I like him, like working for him, but I love that I don't have to kiss his ass. Darla and Babs at Macy's were far worse bosses than Jose, but I couldn't have hollered at them like I just hollered at Jose. Which is excellent.

But second, is it possible I screwed up and was supposed to work with Jose last night? I'm an irresponsible schmuck in my life, but I take work fairly seriously, and more seriously now that I'm free-lancing. I am 95% certain that Jose never said that he wanted me to work last night, and 100% certain he never mentioned working tomorrow until today.

I'm not going to lose sleep over any of it, though. I talked to Pike, and he's willing to work for Jose tomorrow morning if Jose calls. He hasn't called, though, and it's my bedtime, so fuck him, I'm turning in.

Good working fool that I am, I wanted Jose's morning gig to be covered, so I got up at 6:30 in the damned morning, got dressed and slogged through puddles and rain past the out-of-order phone booth at the corner to the one that works at the gas station, only to find that Jose never called me back. I'm gonna guess he has the morning shift covered, and the evening shift too, and/or he's pissed at me, and at half past dawn with a yawn, I don't care which.

♦ ♦ ♦

Now I'm wide awake, prolly up for the day, so I'll write, but I don't know what. I'm staring at a blank screen here, waiting for a moment of inspiration when what I need is a cup of coffee.

Ah, I should write about the Castro, and working there. The shop, Unusualia and/or Urban Mermaids, is close enough to Castro Street it counts as part of the neighborhood, which is, of course, San Francisco's gayest. Also it's just a cool place to exist, but let me take a snapshot for readers in Iowa and Ohio, who might (think they) have never seen gay people.

To begin, 'gay' is a rather limiting term. The preferred nomenclature is lesbian-gay-bisexual-transgender (LGBT), because there's more going on than just dames with dames (L) and guys with guys (G). There's also guys who like guys and dames, and dames who like dames and guys (B), and guys who identify as dames and dames who identify as guys (T). Put them all together and it spells LGBT, and of course, I'm writing this from an outsider's perspective so there might well be more variants that haven't occurred to me.

People are who they are, not who you expect them to be. That's how it is on Castro Street, and it ought to be like that everywhere. Any person in the neighborhood might dress like you'd never dare, be pierced where you wouldn't, wear more leather than an average cow, sport more tattooed skin than not, have hair in colors extended beyond the ordinary human range, and do all sorts of other things you'd decline.

And that's fabulous. If you need normal, stay away from Castro Street — we don't need you, either.

LeeAnn and Stevi's shop, like I said, is in the Castro neighborhood, but it's on the edge, a ways down Market Street. That distance is the difference between standing at the shore of a raging river, and wading out into the currents. Walk two blocks to the heart of the Castro, and you'll get wet whether it's raining or not.

Yesterday, they sent me to hand out their flyers at Castro & Market, which is the capitol of the capitol of LGBT Land. Standing at that fabled corner, more than a few people saw me in the green cape and assumed I was promoting a new sex club, and that's a reasonable assumption — sex club invitations are what you're often handed at that intersection. A couple of couples even declined the flyers by telling me, "We're under 21," and I laughed and explained, you don't have to be a grown-up to shop at the shop.

There were plenty of costumes more outrageous than my silly green cape — it was St Patty's Day, after all, an especially flamboyant occasion. Best of show was a middle-aged guy with a goatee wearing green spandex, with a green wire four-leaf clover hanging from his pierced lower lip, designed to intertwine with and complement his beard. It was a great look.

Runner-up? A hunky black man whose afro was leopard-spotted green.

Ah, beautiful Castro Street. Wish I could live there, but the rents shout an emphatic 'no' for a poor fellow like me. Always love being there, though,

♦ ♦ ♦

Checked my messages again in the afternoon, to make sure Jose hadn't called. I would've worked for him tonight, but I guess he didn't need me, and that's OK, too.

Dahlia called, though, to warn me that there would be revisions to the script. I took a deep breath before calling back, and said this real nice, but my answer is no. I've typed the script enough, thanks. Instead I bused to the theater and brought her the disk, so whoever types the revisions won't have to start from scratch. It won't be me, though.

A gunshot woke me as 2:12 this morning. One shot, with no screaming before or after, so I'll assume nobody's dead.

Gunshots are nothing unusual in any city, of course. I got used to them last time I lived in the slums, a few blocks from here, a few years ago. Even at my more recent rez hotel in a better part of town, there were shots in the night now and then.

What made last night's shot sorta shocking was that it was right below the window. Sounded like it was five or ten feet from my head — very loud and clear, and if it had been aimed in my direction through these thin walls I guess I'd be dead.

Instead I was asleep again in a few minutes. Heck, it's only a gun going off. Happens all the time. That's life and death in the big city.

♦ ♦ ♦

Fetched the mail yesterday before work, so this morning I'm reading through some of it. There's a new Pasty from Sarah-Katherine, one of my favorite zines and people, and there's a short note from her that I wish was longer.

There's a new issue of the AVA, again with excerpts from my Pathetic Life. It's nice seeing my words all dolled up in a non-zine publication, but they're still extracting stuff from the January issue, and they've already printed all the good stuff. What they ran this time is nothing I'm proud of, mostly about Carlotta's outrageous flirting at Macy's. Not everything I write is worth reading. You've probably noticed.

And here's yet another letter from another new reader telling me to cheer up, because my life doesn't sound so pathetic to him. After all, it says (paraphrasing), you're not tied down to anyone or any place, you get to do what you want when you want, and that sounds pretty good, blah blah blah.

Yup, sounds pretty good to me, too. I've gotten a dozen letters like that, so let me explain again: The zine's title is something my ex-girlfriend said to me as an insult. She thought my life looked pathetic, so that became the title, but that's her opinion, not mine. When I say it it's a joke.

Whatever the hell my life is, it is what I've made it. It's better than any of the various discarded lives I've left behind. Maybe I should include the full quote in every issue, to make the irony more clear:

"You've got no money, no friends, you live in a slum, you never do anything interesting, and you're too damned fat to have sex. Your life is pathetic."
—my ex-girlfriend

Emphasis on the ex.

♦ ♦ ♦

Oh! Here's a longer letter from Sarah-Katherine, and it's sweet… but also personal, so I'm keeping it to myself.

It's a day off from handing out flyers at the shop, with no other work lined up. There are a thousand things that need to be done here at the apartment where Mierda is painted on the wall — mail must be answered, zine orders must be filled, and the last week of half-written diary entries must be typed, but I have no desire to do any of that.

Instead I'm sitting in my semi-messy room, and sitting, and sitting, and sitting in my semi-messy room. It's pleasant. I'm not reading anything, not watching TV, not talking with Pike, just sitting. Staring out the bay window. Watching roaches crawl across the ceiling. Observing the extreme oddity of my big toenails. What a glorious day of nothing this is turning out to be.

It's not zen-induced or drug-induced, only Doug-induced. Screw the mail, screw the zine, screw you, I'm sitting here, that's all, and enjoying it. It's my day off, and it might as well be a day off-planet. It's nice. People should do nothing more often.

♦ ♦ ♦

OK, it's a little later, and I've gotten myself together enough to walk to the Rainbow store, where I bought marmalade and found this posted on their hippie community bulletin board:

Please! Do not use such terms as 'dog' or 'cat' in your postings. These creatures are very sensitive to their submissive status in our system. Please use the terms 'canine-American' and 'feline-American' instead. Thank you.

♦ ♦ ♦

Making myself marmalade toast as an early dinner, my near-sighted eyes noticed a dozen very tiny spiders rappelling from the ceiling onto the clean plates in the dishrack. Each spider, legs and all, is about the size of a pinhead (meaning the head of a pin, not Zippy). But —

Pike's girlfriend is visiting, and she pleaded with Pike who then pleaded with me not to kill 'em with Black Flag spray. She even quoted Lennon at me: "All we're saying is give peace a chance."

Instead of killing them, she knocked the spiders down with a broom, which is very green, very Lennon, but also kinda dumb. These spiders rappel down from the ceiling — that's their instinctive mission in life. They climb up from the floor to the ceiling, and then descend again, spinning webs as they do. They're not going to give up and go away just because she knocked them down — the spiders will be back on the ceiling tomorrow, dropping down to the dishes below.

I'm easy, though. If Pike and his ladyfriend want to co-exist with the spiders, no worries. I'll get in the habit of wiping my plate before putting a sandwich on it.

♦ ♦ ♦

Haven't heard from Jose since Friday, so I guess he's not speaking to me any more, and not employing me any more. That's sort of a shame, since he seemed like an easygoing sort, and he was a good tipper, and I liked him. If saying 'no' to a last-minute unannounced gig gets me the silent treatment, though, I'll stand by my earlier statement: Fuck him.

Slept ten hours on Sunday night, napped four or five hours yesterday, and then slept eleven hours last night. That's nuts. I'm a lifelong insomniac, and haven't slept this much since I was in a crib. Probably I should ask a doctor about it, but kissing Macy's goodbye cost me my medical coverage, so there's no doctor to ask.

My theory is, I was worried about making ends meet doing "anything legal" for a living, but since it seems to be paying enough to let me survive, I'm worrying less and sleeping more.

Woke up with a sore back, though. Must've strained it doing absolutely nothing yesterday.

It's a bad day for a backache — I have a gig in an hour and a half where I'm supposed to be Mr Heavy Lifting, helping some rich bastard organize her garage.

I assume she's a rich bastard, because who else could afford to own a home in San Francisco?

♦ ♦ ♦

In other news, the itsy-bitsy spiders are back, coming down from the ceiling, now in both the kitchen and the john. Walked into a few of them when I stepped out of the shower, which was sincerely unpleasant, but I didn't say anything to Pike. He was asleep. Maybe his oh-so-green "we won't use chemicals on God's harmless creatures" attitude will change when he walks into their webs.

♦ ♦ ♦

OK, now I'm annoyed. My morning gig — helping that lady clean out her garage — didn't happen. I stood at the appointed address until she was fifteen minutes late, left a note shoved through her mailslot, and walked to a phone booth to call and see what's up. What's up is, not her. She said she woke up drowsy, and rolled over and went back to sleep, and she didn't think to call me and cancel.

Not cleaning her garage is doubtless better for my back, and I told her she could reschedule and I'll cheerfully show up again, but first she'll need to pay me for four hours of work this morning. I was there. Her response wasn't literally a yawn, but it came across as 'couldn't care less'.

Well, she can fuck off. I'll add her to the list. Let's see — so far I've said fuck off to Dahlia, fuck off to Jose, and now fuck off to this lady... whose address is right in front of me. I literally know where she lives. She'll either pay me for four hours work (that's my new minimum charge, for any gig) or I'll take my payment in the form of her front window pane.

♦ ♦ ♦

In the afternoon I wore the green cape and handed out flyers. I look damned good in a cape, but man o man, it was cold today. Not Alaska cold, of course, but San Francisco cold. Can't fahrenheit it (I am not the Weather Service) but it was cold enough my fingers got numb.

Then, when my shift was over, I waited half an hour in the cold for a #8 bus home. The #8 runs every twelve minutes, says Muni, but Muni is a lying weasel like the lady with the garage.

In the near-freezing drizzle at the corner gas station's phone booth, I checked my messages, and arranged two more gigs. Then I called my brother Clay long-distance in Seattle, confirming that yes, I'll be flying north for a visit in May. He's very Christian and opposed to the kind of fun I'm hoping for, so I didn't mention that in addition to seeing the family, I'll also be spending some time with Sarah-Katherine while I'm there.

I suppose I could also see Margaret while I'm in Seattle, but I'm not planning to tell her I'm coming. When I miss Margaret, I can always punch myself.

♦ ♦ ♦

Came home frigid, broomed the spiders out of the way in the kitchen, and microwaved some vegetables for dinner. Pike's girlfriend was in the apartment again, and yesterday we said a few words but didn't really meet. Today we actually met — Pike said, "I should introduce you two" and did — and then we had a short but not short enough conversation.

I'll leave her name out of it, because I forgot it instantly after the introduction, like I usually do. She's young like Pike, I'd guess fresh out of high school if she graduated, and she seems like a nice human and all, but she speaks bimbo. By that I mean, she uses bad grammar and weirdly wrong sentences — don't instead of didn't, me instead of I, non-ironic ain't instead of isn't, etc, and a few times she said groups of words I knew, all bunched together like they should add up to something, but they didn't. Arguably it's cute, and it would be some unknown but awful 'ism' to hold it against her, so I'll try not to. She also has a very nasal voice, though, and she was chewing gum while we spoke.

She comes off like a floozy character in an old movie. There, I said it.

When I mentioned the spiders again, Pike said he'd broomed them out of the kitchen, same as I had a few hours later, but his girlfriend said she hadn't seen any spiders in the apartment since yesterday. I said OK and then said good night, but if she hasn't seen the spiders then she hasn't looked closely. They are lots of them. They are quite small, though. Maybe she needs glasses.

There will be no mystery about my death: heart attack. It was all that extra flab encircling his weary, overworked heart, the coroner will conclude. He was a fat guy, a blubbered-up, over-eating cellulite-encased lump of human lard. He must've known all those extra packages of junk food generic cherry pie would kill him.

Yeah, I knew it would kill me.

The subject comes up not because I'm pondering suicide, but because the fat makes my heart work so hard. If I just climbed a flight of stairs, and hold my head in an awkward bent-over position, the sound of my heart beating is loud like distant thunder, coming closer, like the massive coronary that'll be my ticket out of town one day.

Not a pleasant thought, but you're my diary and that's my first semi-coherent thought this morning.

♦ ♦ ♦

Now it's time to shower and put on pants, get ready for a day's work wearing the cape and handing out flyers in the rain. Can't get started, though, because Pike is in the shower, and I'm not next in line. His girlfriend is here, again. And I lollygagged too long in bed, so there's really not time to wait. It doesn't matter much, though — I skip my daily shower almost daily.

A more urgent concern is that I need to take a dump, and unlike at the rez hotel, when the john here is occupied I can't traipse down a flight of stairs to use a different toilet. Guess I'll poop at the gas station down the street, on my way to work. I hate their little transparent TP squares, though.

These are the problems of my life — skipping a shower and wiping with flimsy toilet paper. Tiny problems, it occurs to me. No real complaints.

Also, there's a faint smell of insecticide in the air, and no tiny spiders rappelling from the kitchen ceiling. Seems the green Piker found some spiders in his soup or whatever, and suddenly the chemicals were OK and some of God's creatures had to be killed.

♦ ♦ ♦

No shower for me, but it showered all day. It was raining so hard, so unceasingly, that the ladies at the shop took mercy on me, and my day was spent polishing brass inside the shop instead of handing out flyers outside. Spent a lot of time rubbing a lamp of the sort popularized in fairy tales, but Robin Williams didn't emerge with a poof to grant any wishes.

I like the ladies who run the shop. LeeAnn is shy, but engaging once she starts talking, and Stevi is beyond butch, much more manly than me. They're lovers and supposed to be partners owning and running the shop, but it's obvious that Stevi is in charge.

♦ ♦ ♦

After work, I came home wet and finally took my morning shower delayed. Pike's girlfriend is here, again, or still, and she talks too much and too loud, but she made burritos for dinner and made one for me, so we're best buddies.

I spent the evening in my room, though, door closed and playing music to drown out her nasal non-stop talking. Finished the book I've been reading, and it was terrific so let me tell you about Dream World, by Kent Winslow.

When I love a book I read it again, and this is the fourth time I've read Dream World. It's better than I'd remembered, and I'd remembered pretty damn good, so maybe it's resonating with me and my own recent life — it's about a guy who never fits in, anywhere he goes, and never much tries any more.

It's the author's life story, perhaps lightly fictionalized, from childhood in an unloving family to school and college, where society's high-minded platitudes and brutal reality are juxtaposed, and then onward to love and the inevitable loss that follows, or comes at the same time.

It's a lot like life, fascinating and unsettling, but with better writing. It reads like human existence really is, or at least mine — things never go quite right, and there are enemies and authority figures making sure of it. The last chapter isn't especially heartwarming, because this is not some happily ever after bullshit. The despicable bad guys don't get caught by the police or punished by the law, because the despicable bad guys are the cops and the law.

It's a painful and angry book, obviously, but it's also funny and thoughtful, and reading it is a kick in the head, like Dean Martin said. I am 99% sure that the author, Kent Winslow, is really my zine-friend Fred Woodworth, but my rave review and recommendation has nothing to do with friendship. It's simply an excellent book, and you ought to read it.

You won't find Dream World at Barnes and Noble, though. It's self-published, same as this zine (but the book looks better). If you want to read it, and you should, you'll need to grab a sheet of paper, write "Please send Dream World" and your address, and mail it with eight bucks cash to Fred Woodworth, PO Box 3012, Tucson AZ 85702.

What the heck are you waiting for? It's not pretty good, it's a seriously superb book. Dream World makes Holy Bible look unreadable crap, which it is, so read Dream World instead.

Addendum, 2022: It's been a few years since I last re-read Dream World, but it's still among my favorites, and some things never change so it's still not sold in book stores. The cost was $8 post-paid in 1995, so I'd guess $12 or $15 today, and worth it. The protocol hasn't changed, though — you have to mail cash, not a check, to Fred at the above address.
If that's too much hassle, used copies might be available on-line via AbeBooks or BookFinder.

There's no heat in this apartment. I don't mean that the gas hasn't been turned on, or the baseboard panels aren't connected to the electric, or the pilot for the furnace hasn't been lit. No, near as Pike and I can figure it, there is no heat, period.

Frisco has a moderate climate, and the city never freezes, but it does get cold. I'm sure apartments are required by law to have heat.

At the rez hotel, all the water pipes for all the building's radiators ran behind my wall, so that room was always warm... or too warm, or sometimes too damned hot. Moving to this chilly place, the climate change has been so abrupt my lips are chapped.

Nobody needs me to work today, and at the rez hotel I would've been naked or shorts only, but at this place I had to get dressed, just to keep my blood liquefied. Oh, the indignity.

With no heat and no curtains on my big bay window, whatever warmth there is rises up up and away, so I finally bought a space heater for $19.99. Pike likes it and says he's going to buy one too, and we're subtracting $40 from the rent.

I've never even met the landlord. He doesn't know I'm living here, but I'm reminded of the poet Tyrone Green…

Dark and lonely summer's night.
Kill my landlord. Kill my landlord.
Watchdog barking. Do he bite?
Kill my landlord. Kill my landlord…

♦ ♦ ♦

Here's the layout of the apartment, something I should've explained a couple of weeks ago: After coming up from the sidewalk through the locked front gate, you climb a flight of stairs to our double-locked front door, which opens into the living room.

Pike lives in the living room, so when you step inside the apartment you're looking at the couch, which is where he sleeps. No bed.

To the left is the kitchen, with our john beyond.

To the right is my bedroom, behind a door that's been painted over so many time it barely latches, but it locks.

Every time I leave my room, to take a leak or make a meal in the kitchen, I walk through Pike's room. If his girlfriend is riding him like Dale Evans on Trigger, I'm not supposed to notice so I don't, but I'm not going to wait until they're finished. And the reason I mention all this is that there's horseplay happening right now, and I've had no giddy-up since last summer.

And lemmetellyabout Pike's wake-up ritual. He honks and hacks and blows, honks and coughs and wheezes, then honks some more. He has more morning congestion than the Bay Bridge. Maybe it's bronchitis, postnasal drip, or all the pot and speed he lives on, but jeez it's annoying.

Still, he seems like a nice enough fellow, and there are worse things in life than opening your bedroom door and seeing people fucking. His girlfriend is here so much she seems to be almost a second flatmate, and that's annoying, but I haven't decided whether I hate her. Usually I hate people instantly, so not hating her yet might be a good sign.

At the rez hotel, you never knew what you might find behind the john door, so here it's a joy knowing nobody has pissed or puked on the toilet seat.

There's no elevator to wait for, only a few steps up from the street, and no building manager eyeing me every time I come and go.

The rains stay outside, and haven't yet dripped on my head, or on my zines. That's an improvement.

The Rainbow Store is much closer. I can walk there and back with my groceries, without having to schlep the sacks on public transit.

And we're getting a phone installed, one of these days.

And the rent is cheap.

For all those pluses, guess I'll get used to Pike's weird honking noises every morning.

♦ ♦ ♦

I spoke on the phone again with the lady who stood me up on Tuesday morning. She says she has someone else to help clear her garage, she doesn't need me, she has no intention of paying me for being there when she wasn't, and she told me to stop calling. I politely told her I wouldn't push it, wouldn't call again — and I won't. Tried to sound like a very reasonable man, wished her a pleasant good evening, and hung up softly.

If I was a better man, as zen and laid back as I sometimes wish, I'd let it go.

I'm not a better man, though. I'm me. When we first talked on the phone, I told her my price and terms and she agreed and hired me, but then she didn't show up, didn't pay me, didn't even apologize, and you know, I'm not terribly tempted to let it go.

The first rule of getting even is, chill til it's cold. If you act quickly, it's obvious it's you, and I'd rather be discreet than obvious. I'll give her several months to make more enemies and forget about me, and to give myself time to reconsider, to realize that the twenty bucks she screwed me out of is just twenty bucks.

I've marked my calendar, though. Maybe I'll be a better man by then. Maybe not. Either way, I'm utterly non-violent, of course. If vengeance is mine, it'll be a low-key, juvenile vengeance. Maybe she needs some shit in her mailbox, or a few marbles rattling around in her gas tank. I'll think it over and let you know.

Pike treats his girlfriend lousy, almost like they're already married, and not in a good way. Can't hear the words through the door, but I heard some of it before closing the door and turning up the music.

His tone of voice is Archie Bunker, but I don't think Pike is even twenty years old. How does a man get so aggravated, so young? She is a little aggravating, definitely, and she's yelling back at him, but 'yelling back' isn't quite the right term — it implies that I know who started it, and I don't. Also, I don't care.

All I know for sure is, I'd rather sleep alone 365 nights a year than have whatever those two have, where they're lovebirds sometimes but nightly it's verbal karate. It's depressing, man. And if it's depressing for me, what is it for them?

I not going to play marriage counselor. It's none of my damned business. If they ever get violent I'll bean 'em both with a frying pan, but so long as they're just yelling, I'll turn my music a little louder, as loud as it gets. I prefer it when they fuck instead of get furious, but my real preference would be that she goes home instead of hanging out here all the time.

♦ ♦ ♦

Clouds inside, but outside at last it was a day of sunshine. Ordinarily I wouldn't much care about the weather — I'm no outdoorsman — but when I'm standing in it, dry is better than drenched. Today I even went without my jacket under that silly cape.

My spiel, though, as I try to get people to take the shop's flyers — "Delightful new shop upstairs.. exotic gifts… unusual apparel… reasonably priced… up the stairs…" — seems to be getting stale. Fewer people are going up the stairs. Fewer people are even taking the shop's flyers when I try giving them away. Had a guy this afternoon recite my whole shtick to me, before I could say it to him.

It's fun for me, standing it the green cape and hawking the shop, but I imagine it gets old if you live or work in the neighborhood.

After work, I spoke with LeeAnn and Stevi about their flyer strategy. Seems to me, nine out of ten people on the sidewalk in front of the shop are very local — meaning, they live or work in this neighborhood, so by now I've handed them the flyer, and they know there's a shop on the second floor. If they're interested, they've already been upstairs.

I'd get better results for the shop, I think, if I was flyering on Castro Street every day — bigger crowds, only a few blocks away, and I wouldn't always be re-flyering the same people. LeeAnn and Stevi said they'd think about it.

♦ ♦ ♦

Something else about working on the sidewalk on Market Street — I'm getting to know the local homeless, by face and demeanor if not yet by name.

There's a sad old woman who never says a word, just walks up and down the sidewalk all day — going northeast, and then fifteen minutes later going southwest, sometimes on the shop's side of Market, and sometimes across the street.

There's a black guy who walks in traffic instead of on the sidewalk, almost asking passing cars to hit him.

There's a ranting man, babbling incessantly, sometimes about movies. He smiles at me now, because last week he said something about Sergio Leone, and I responded by singing the screeching opening lines of the theme from The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly.

There's a young white woman, pretty and clean enough that you could mistake her for an ordinary dyke in jeans, if she wasn't always muttering to herself and walking nowhere in a hurry and always wearing the same shirt.

And of course, there are more. Always more homeless people. It's the American way. Hope I have the green-cape job long enough to get to know more of them, too.

When I lived downtown, I got to know several beggars and bums, and most of them I liked. You get less bullshit from someone who lives on the street, than from someone who wears a necktie.

Haven't yet seen many homeless folks in the neighborhood where I'm living now. It might be too rough for them there, and nobody on my block has any spare change. Walk a block or two toward Mission or Valencia, and you'll see the homeless there.

'Forgotten men', they called them in My Man Godfrey. Always thought that was kinder and more poetic than 'homeless'.

Used the last of my deodorant yesterday, so today I'll be odorant. Usually I've applied chemicals to my arm pits only on special sweaty occasions — big date, job interview, etc — but not at work, because work for me was always just sitting in a chair in an air-conditioned office. Now that I'm actually working when I work, I've been using generic roll-on.

Not today, though. It's all gone, so let's see if I stink unbearably by tonight, or if I've been wasting $3 a month fighting body odor that never puts up a fight.

♦ ♦ ♦

LeeAnn and Stevi have invested in a spotlight, which shines down from the shop, on the second-floor porch, once the sun goes down. They have me working into the evening hours, in the spotlight with my flyers.

Wearing the cape was already like cloaking myself in a borrowed personality — I become strangely pleasant and outgoing — and the spotlight turns it up to 11. The cape flutters behind me as I twirl and spin and dance, badly, under the light, and invite people upstairs to the shop. My routine gets laughs from the neighbors and occasional applause from Stevi, who likes to stand by the spotlight and watch.

They kept the shop open and me on the sidewalk until 10:00, and the last half-hour got kinda crazy. A semi-drunk man, fresh from a bar down the street, danced with me for a few minutes. He let me lead, so I let him flirt. His friend had a boombox, and the song was "Money Money Money," by Abba.

Then his friend wanted to dance with me, too, which wasn't quite as pleasant. It was another Abba song but not a song I knew, and he was drunker than the first guy. He came close to toppling, and got a little handsy — squeezed my buttcheek — and then he made a suggestion my mother wouldn't approve of.

♦ ♦ ♦

Home from work, and sadly I smell myself and it doesn't smell good. Guess I gotta spring for deodorant. I don't mind looking strange, but I'd rather not have a distinctive Doug odor.

♦ ♦ ♦

My next trip to the movies won't be for a movie. Every year, the Roxie projects the Oscar telecast on their big screen, so you're surrounded by movie fans who taunt the winners when something sucky wins a statuette. Sounds great, like a party minus all the boring chit-chat, but I've only heard about it, never attended. Why would I pay, when the Oscars are free on TV?

A few months back, though, I gave away my telly, so it's either doing without the hilariously overhyped ceremony, farcical dances "interpreting" nominated songs, and the winners' pretentious or sometimes political speeches, or attending the show at the Roxie, for the price of one punch on my pre-paid discount card.

I think the Oscars are worth a punch, don't you? Having David Letterman in charge cinches it, or clinches it, or both.

So I'm going to the Oscars on Monday night — as a member of the press, sort of. "Anything legal for $5 an hour." I've been assigned to cover the Oscars at the Roxie, for the Anderson Valley Advertiser newspaper. Wonder if I can get the paper to pay for my popcorn…

Spent the afternoon into the evening standing on my fungi-infested arches, handing out the shop's flyers to everyone passing by, unless they politely refused. Lots of people refuse, and some of them aren't so polite any more, but they're not really rude, at least not yet. "Get a life, bub" was the worst of the day, so — not bad, really.

I'm annoying people, but that's my job, dang it, and I'm good at it. It's amusing to see how people react when they see me with my handful of flyers — same as they saw me yesterday and last week, and they're sick of it.

If they roll their eyes or shake their heads 'no', I'll let 'em pass unmolested, but most show disinterest by turning their heads, feigning fascination with a wad of gum on the sidewalk or the weather in the other direction. That annoys me, so I especially pester anyone who looks the other way. "Fabulous shop upstairs, sir!," I'll shout. "Have a flyer, ma'am!" "Fascinating wad of gum over there!"

Never been paid to get on people's nerves before, and I like it.

♦ ♦ ♦

"This has got to be the saddest day of my life." It's the Manhattans, singing "Kiss and Say Goodbye," as the block party continues directly outside my window.

It's 9:45 PM, and the talking and shouting and soul music has been going on since before I got home, 8:30 or so. It's a dozen kids, high school age or younger, liquored up and loud on the sidewalk.

Underage drinking is of no concern to me, of course. No booze until 21 is a stupid law, easily circumvented (obviously). If you're old enough to want a beer, you're old enough to drink one. Cheers, kiddo.

The fistfights and breaking bottles is sorta disconcerting, though. And yet, I was expecting this neighborhood to be hellishly rowdy all the time, so I was wrong — this is the first bad night out the window since I moved to this sorry street. Long as it's not noisy nightly, guess I won't go nuts.

And at least their music is to my tastes. It's all been old stuff from the 1960s and early '70s. Could be worse. Could be rap. Gotta respect it when even teenagers understand that the music of 1995 isn't good enough for a party.

♦ ♦ ♦

Meanwhile in the next room, there's another rambunctious scene, with Pike yelling at his girlfriend about something or something else. I went in and told them (didn't 'ask' them) to shut up. "If you two hate each other, hate each other quieter."

What a strange relationship they have. They sweet-talk and screw on the couch, and ten minutes later they scream at each other... And I don't know why it took until tonight for me to see some of Maggie and me when they argue.

Ah, it's none of my concern. Out the window I don't care if the kids get drunk and fight, and in the next room I don't care about Pike and whatsername so long as they talk instead of holler.

This is the world and it's often a shitty place — not always, but often. Tonight the shittiness is happening a few footsteps from me, in both directions, but none of it's going to keep me from inserting the earplugs and trying to sleep.

Dreams are supposed to mean something, we've been told by people who know everything, but I think dreams are usually just dreams. Your brain isn't sending you a coded telegram.

Consider this one — a dream weird enough I crawled out of bed and over to the typewriter and clicked it all out, before I could forget it.

I'm an investigative reporter, and my assignment is to find out how well various companies are complying with the Americans with Disabilities Act, the law that's supposed to ensure equal access and equal opportunities for the handicapped. Being a good reporter in pursuit of the story, I have my legs amputated. Makes perfect sense, right?

Now I'm in a wheelchair, applying for work at a dairy. If they hire me, my job will be buttermaker. Kallie, who's co-authoring the article with me, is applying for the same job, but she still has her legs, and in my dream they're fine legs, and bare. In real life, I only saw her in shorts a few times, and she doesn't shave. Her legs are hairier than mine, if I still had legs.

Well, Berkeley Farms doesn't discriminate, and Kallie and I are both hired. We make butter all day, and then I say goodbye to Kallie and wheel home to write my article, but I'm in a wheelchair so I can't get up the stairs to this apartment.

♦ ♦ ♦

Now I'm getting dressed for work, and listening to Pike and his girlfriend in the next room. Soon to be ex-girlfriend, I hope — for her sake, because they never stop arguing, and for my sake, because I thought I'd have one roommate in this dump, not two.

Pike is a nice enough kid, and he is a kid — 20, he told me a few days ago. His girlfriend seems like a nice kid too, albeit none too bright and she never shuts up, and every sentence she says I want mark up with a red pen until it somehow makes grammatical sense.

And she's almost always here, in the apartment I thought would be mine and Pike's, and when she's here they're always either all over each other like birds and bees, or all over each other like cats and dogs.

♦ ♦ ♦

After eight hours of handing out flyers at the shop, I came home and stapled a red ribbon onto my only slightly-dirty t-shirt, and walked a few blocks to the Roxie, for the Oscars simulcast…

♦ ♦ ♦

This is Doug Holland, reporting live from the Dorothy Chandler Pavilion of the Mind. I had my doubts that watching the Oscars in a theater would be worth the price of a movie, but it was, and a good time was had by all.

Unlike watching the Oscars at home, where you always end up wondering why you wasted the evening staring at so much stupidity, at the Roxie you waste the evening with an overflow audience of people wasting their evenings, and giving the telecast the disrespect it deserves.

The crowd was enthusiastic, possibly a code word for 'drunk', with the loudest hisses and hoots for Steven Seagal, Sylvester Stallone, Sharon Stone, and the endless nominations for Forrest Gump.

Jodie Foster got polite applause, and a chant of "Come out, come out, whoever you are."

When Tom Hanks began to go weepy during his Best Actor speech, I wasn't the only one laughing from crying, and as the steamroller for Gump climaxed with Best Director and Best Picture, catcalls were drowning out the theater's sound system. Me, I haven't seen Forrest Gump, but from everything I've heard and read I'd rather watch Newt Gingrich get an enema.

The theater was packed, perhaps illegally so. People were standing and sitting in the aisles, though curiously, there was an empty seat next to me. Ah well, I'm a fat guy, and nobody wants to sit next to a fat guy. It was nice to have the extra belly and elbow room, while clapping for my favorites, and joining in the recurring raspberries for Gump.

The happiest foot-stomping cheers were for Quentin Tarantino, Samuel L Jackson, Dianne Wiest, that Russian filmmaker's adorable little daughter, and the satellite link's intermittent sound problems that mysteriously seemed to cut off only the most insipid speeches.

Roxie management helped the evening along by filling commercial breaks with clips from past Oscar telecasts, which was unexpected and completely cool. Among the hundred or so clips they showed, let's talk for a moment about Marlon Brando's Oscar stunt — he wins, but skips the ceremony, and instead sends a Native American woman who stands up and refuses the award, in protest over Hollywood's stereotyping of Natives. Fair enough, absolutely. But the award was for Brando playing a 100% stereotyped character himself, in The Godfather.

The Roxie let Channel 4's news crew into the building toward the end of the night, to film the audience during the broadcast. Their lights were gauche and distracting, but the crowd screamed and applauded, like Americans have been trained to do whenever TV points a camera. I do not want to be on television, so my middle finger was over my face whenever the lights and camera were running. It was only for a few minutes, though.

Why there are dancers is an annual mystery, but tonight's dances were disappointingly subdued, with nothing as ridiculous as Sheena Easton's rendition of "For Your Eyes Only" from 1982, which we saw on tape during a break.

The starlets' gowns were as tastelessly silly as we've all come to expect, the pre-show schmoozing was delightfully dumb, and as host, David Letterman was funny, mostly. It's reassuring to watch people I'm tempted to admire, like Tarantino and Foster, stumble through idiotic off-the-cuff interviews, so I can remind myself to think less of them.

Also, maybe I blinked at the wrong half-second, but at least two big names were missing from the "In Memoriam" section, where Oscar supposedly remembers the dead. They forgot John Candy and River Phoenix? Was it an odd oversight, or a vicious slam against all us drug-abusers and fat slobs?

My only other complaint was the director's Sharon Stone fetish. Seemed like every five minutes, there'd be another shot of the lovely Ms Stone, laughing at something, smiling at something, as if a worldwide audience of billions wants to see her face all night long. She's a pretty woman, sure, but enough already.

It was like being at a party, but without having to talk to anyone — which made it the best party I've ever been to. There were prize drawings for all sorts of movie promotional stuff the Roxie had accumulated, like movie coffee mugs and movie pen sets, movie posters, even videotapes, etc. I didn't win anything, damn it, but I'll still plug the show for next year, and I'll be there. You'll always find me in the front row, on the left.

♦ ♦ ♦

Walking the last block home from the theater, without a word I stepped off the sidewalk and into the street, to help a couple of strangers push-start their beater pick-up truck. Not because I'm inherently a nice guy or anything; I'm a schmo, you know that. But maybe a kind deed now and then lowers my number on the "To Be Mugged" list.

Addendum, 2022: Factchecking back then wasn't an easy option, with no computer and no internet, but today a few clicks inform me that I was dead wrong.
River Phoenix died in 1993, and John Candy died in 1994, but early enough in the year that both were included in 1994's "In Memoriam," so that's why they were absent from 1995's.
Pathetic Life regrets the error.

I'm a sap, yup, but today I'm going to write about Margaret again. My apologies. I woke up with her on my mind, and a letter I've put off for weeks is now fresh finished scribbling.

What I've written to her is not completely honest, but it's close. I didn't quite say this, but I want her to either come see me and stay, or fade away. Either or. I am tired of our in-between "just friends" bull. Give me something to believe in and believe in me, Maggie, or let's not bother.

What I wrote and didn't write, I guess, reveals something about my character or lack, so it belongs in the zine. Here it comes.

But first, for new readers and anyone who's forgotten, a recap of who Maggie is, since I haven't mentioned her much lately...

I've known her for ten years or so, and during that time we evolved from flatmates to friends to more than friends, then lovers, then back to friends again. Lately, even saying we're friends seems less than the truth.

We were in Seattle when we were together, but now I'm here in Frisco and she's in a rural nowhere, twenty miles outside of some small farming town in eastern Washington. When we cranked our romance down three notches, she said she couldn't handle city life without me, and I couldn't live in the middle of all the wheat fields or whatever's home to her now.

It's not being so far away that's the problem, it's being so far apart. When we're together we argue. There's nothing between us beyond a sense of humor that's sometimes shared, sometimes not. Our senses of everything else are opposites, and her sanity comes and goes with the wind, even when she's taken her Prozac.

That's not merely a wisecrack. Her mood swings are dangerous. An innocent twitch of my eyebrow might make her furious, or on a different afternoon the same twitch might charm her. Gandhi couldn't be cordial enough to keep Maggie in a good mood for an hour.

When she visited last summer, I had just moved out of the slums (the slums I've now moved back to) and into a roach-infested rez hotel downtown. Maggie hated that hotel, and almost hated me. I wanted to show her my life and see what we could rekindle, but she wasn't much interested, and beat me up one afternoon. Not a figure of speech. Bruises.

Now she's coming to San Francisco to visit me again, and to visit her young daughter, who's being raised by Maggie's sister in suburban Livermore.

That's our background, and here's the letter I wrote her this morning…

Dear Maggie,
Maybe you wondered where I've gone. Haven't written much lately, and haven't called, but I'm still here, Mags, in beautiful San Francisco.
You should know that my situation isn't so swank as last summer when you came. I quit Macy's a month or so ago, to try surviving on odd jobs, moving strangers, wearing a ridiculous costume to hand out flyers on the sidewalk, and whatever comes up. Anything legal. It pays lots less than Macy's, and it's not stable work.
I moved out of that elegant hotel you hated so much. Currently I'm sleeping on dirty laundry in a shitty apartment on a beer-bottled street, shared with some guy I barely know, and maybe with his girlfriend.
It's simple, uncomplicated, scary sometimes, and I like it. What I don't like is working, especially meaningless work for some company I hate, like Macy's, so I am not looking for another job like that. Also not looking for a better apartment. Or a better life. This one suits me.
Maggie, I'm poor, and it's my plan to remain poor, maybe get poorer. Dumpster-diving? Not yet, but I'm not ruling it out. If you visit, I'm not taking you to dinner. That's beyond my budget. Just a loaf of bread, a jar of peanut butter, a package of ramen, and I can make us a good lunch from that.
There are rarely movies, and I gave away my TV. Fun is a bare-bones bus ride to a park, or a stroll at sunset. The city's zoo is free one day every month.
Don't expect more than that when you come to California this summer. Don't expect much from me. I haven't much to offer, except me.
Having no money would be a workable excuse for not calling. Long distance is expensive. A letter is only 32¢ and even I can afford that, so why haven't I written in a month? Well…
You didn't like my low-life lifestyle back when I had a real job, and now it won't surprise me if you're even less interested. So yeah, I've put off writing this letter, but you deserve to know, so there it is.
When you come in June, if you're still coming, things have gotten worse, is my point. I live in a slum. You're welcome to spend the night, but it won't be like a night you've spent anywhere else.
I do hope you're coming, though, and I will show you a low-priced good time. You mean a lot to me, Maggie.
In the middle of all that wheat and peace and quiet where you are, I hope you're doing well.
Your friend,
Doug

♦ ♦ ♦

A day off ought to be nice and it is, but it's also a worry if I let myself think too much. I never know more than a day or two in advance whether I'm working for someone or sitting on my butt, and most 'days off' I spend flyering the city for more work.

Today was one of those days off, so I rode the #19 northbound with a backpack full of sticky-back "anything legal" flyers, but I got distracted and the sunshine was too tempting, so fuck the flyers.

Gave myself the day off after all, and rode the next bus to the end of the line, behind godawful Ghirardelli Square, to the Maritime Museum, which sucks same as the Square, make no mistake — but nestled next to it, mere footsteps from the tackiest tourist traps, is one of my favorite quiet spots in the city. Welcome to Aquatic Park.

I love the bleak concrete steps at the shore, where there's so much solitude — my drug of choice. Closed my eyes, the better to listen to the waves, the gulls, and the huff and puff of passing joggers, the mechanical rumblings of the Sausalito ferry, and a young couple talking loveydovey several steps up and behind me.

When I opened my eyes again, even the beautiful women in halters and short shorts (everpresent in the city on any sunny day) couldn't compare to the fog-free view across the water, across the bay, to the mountains beyond. On a clear day, as they say, you can see forever. Two tall ships with their sails stashed away were docked across the ring-shaped pier, and even without my glasses, I could see tourists walking on Alcatraz Island.

At the shore, in front a "No pets on beach" sign, two families' dogs were fetching sticks tossed into the ceaseless surf. Children built illusions in the sand. One lone man swam slowly from the near side of the pier to the distant, then back again, and I mentally tacked a note to next week, to put on shorts and test those waters myself. Looks cold, though.

For today, I skipped some stones into the Bay, then walked to an ever quieter are west of the museum. Aquatic Park is so serene. So mesmerizing. So gloriously unknown or uninteresting to the city's too many visitors, all swarming like ants over the trinket shops a block away, unaware and uninterested in what makes San Francisco beautiful. Time slipped away, until twilight surprised me.

♦ ♦ ♦

"People are always saying things like, 'I want to go on a big road trip, but I need to save up more money first', or 'As soon as I move away from this town, things'll be better' — always ignoring the present, putting off their dreams for some future Promised Land, a future that gets further and further away."

—Iggy Scam of Scam
Addendum, 2022: Back then Iggy Scam was the writer and publisher behind Scam, a very good zine of punk rock and politics. Now she's Erica Dawn Lyle, an artist and author, and the guitarist for Bikini Kill.

Oy, such a day at the shop! Heavy lifting in the back room all morning (my spine's gonna remember it tomorrow), and then standing on my feet flyering all afternoon and evening. Stevi wanted to send me home at 4:30, because I'd worked eight hours and everything after that is time and a half. That's the law.

I was just getting warmed up, though, in good spirits and enjoying my sidewalk duty, and I need the money, so I told her, "My wage is $5 an hour. It says so right on my flyer, and I never asked for a raise."

Stevi thinks I'm nuts, I think, but she shrugged and said, "If you want to keep standing out there, keep standing out there." I kept standing out there for a few hours more, at $5 an hour. She gave me a nice tip, though — paid me for 13 hours, when I'd only worked 11½.

♦ ♦ ♦

I'm really glad I stayed, too. You never know who's going to come walking along on the sidewalk, and today I saw Penelope, a cute & tubby woman who temped at Macy's for a few months last summer, and then got dumped in one of their periodic purges.

"Doug!" she said, "Did you get laid off at Macy's?"

"Nope, I laid myself off. Gave them no notice, too — and look at me now!" and I twirled in my ridiculous green cape, and handed her one of the shop's flyers.

She laughed, and I thought about asking her out, but I didn't and then she said "See ya," and she was gone. It was just like old times, when we worked together and I thought about asking her out, and never did.

Well, probably Penelope would've said no. Or if she'd said yes, probably a date would've been a disaster. Probably, I'm an idiot.

Hey, my back doesn't hurt from yesterday's hard work! Maybe I'm getting the knack of bending my knees, not my back, when lifting.

♦ ♦ ♦

I've been an insomniac since adolescence, and explained it like that for almost as long, like I'm proud that my internal angst keeps me up nights. This morning, though, I woke up with a different theory.

Maybe just maybe it's not my ceaseless anxieties that have left me lying awake so many years. Maybe it's because I've rarely worked up a sweat, ever, in my life.

Check this logic: Since I switched from easy office work at Macy's — pushing buttons like George Jetson — to a daily grind that often involves picking things up — exertion and perspiration — I'm sleeping better, so long as the gunslingers on this block hold their fire.

Last night I slept 7½ hours, straight through, then woke up and wrote a little, and then slept another hour and a half. Nine hours total, in one night — that as rare as hot fries at McDonald's.

Gee, doctor, my insomnia is cured!

♦ ♦ ♦

I wasn't working at the shop today, and on the phone a man said he'd called because my flyer listed both dog-sitting and office work — and he needed both.

That was a few days ago, so this morning I rode out on the J line to meet him. He's a tweedy dude in his late 30s or early 40s who wanted me to stay in his house, watching his two big dogs. He introduced the dogs to me, and they're huge slobbering friendly things, but one of them had surgery recently, and had a cone over its head. My mission, should I choose to accept it, was to make sure the dog didn't scratch its cone off, or have it chewed off by the other dog, or just bark too much and bother the neighbors — and also, I was supposed to sit at the dining room table and input names and dates and prices into the client's laptop, from his substantial pile of receipts.

Well, I chose to accept the mission, and then the homeowner left me alone with the receipts and the doggies all day. Meaning, he left.

People are the damnedest animals, aren't they? I almost never let anyone into my apartment, even people I know, not because I'm embarrassed by the place (though I certainly should be) but because it's my place. Maybe, maybe you can come inside for a few minutes if I'm hoping we'll boink or you'll blow me, but that never happens, and other than that, I don't want anyone in my place, ever, even when I'm home.

The idea of letting a stranger in, shaking his hand, showing him my dogs, pointing him to a computer I could never afford, handing him my receipts, and then leaving for the day and saying, "I'll be back at 4:00 or so" — that's incomprehensibly alien to me. After the guy left I spent a few minutes in bedazzled amazement.

Then I made sure the front door and back door were both locked, and petted the dogs again.

Then I sat down at the dining room table and started working through the guy's stack of receipts. He spent $24.19 at South Park Cafe on January 2, for a "working lunch with Don, Jules, and Michael." On to the next receipt, and the next...

He hadn't asked me not to explore the house, but I did not explore his house, partly because the whole arrangement seemed so weird I thought there might be hidden cameras or booby traps, but more to the point because I do not give a damn about someone else's house. Many things in life I'm curious about, but not that slightly-graying yuppie's underwear drawer or whatever.

After inputting 75 receipts from January, I checked on the dogs, fed 'em and walked 'em. Then I input February, and checked on the dogs, and then March, right up to Saturday night's dinner for two at Tadich Grill ($68), plus parking ($6). If he can afford those prices, this fucker better tip well, was all I could think. Then I played with the dogs some more, and fell asleep on the couch.

The client came home at a little before 4:00, and scolded me for having my shoes on his sofa. Jeez, man.

We talked for a very few minutes, and he was cordial and seemed pleased that all his receipts had been input, and his dogs were alive and well. He paid me and included a gratuity, though not a Tadich Grill-level tip.

Then I was gone, and he never even checked my backpack to see if I was absconding with the silver (I wasn't). It re-amazed me, though, as I rode the streetcar home, to think that a businessman could be successful and presumably evil enough to buy a house, in a nice neighborhood, in the most expensive city in the world — yet so dunderheaded he'd hire me from a flyer stuck to a telephone pole, and then leave me alone in his house all day, five minutes after we met. Truly, the rich have no comprehension of anything but being rich.

♦ ♦ ♦

He's not the only dunderhead, though. When I came home, I checked my messages — Pike and I have a phone now — and some woman had called, saying she might have "anything legal" work.

Well, Stevi has promised me two more weeks of work at the shop, and Pike has been covering other "anything legal" work as it comes up. I was tuckered out, and just wanted to eat six ham sandwiches and type for a while, so instead of returning her call, I gave her name and number to Pike.

And of course, that particular phone call turned out to be a jackpot. The client is a college-age woman, majoring in journalism or photography or something, and for her thesis she's taking a zillion pictures in the Tenderloin, San Francisco's worst neighborhood. She wants a bodyguard — a man to accompany her on long jaunts through tough streets, sometimes at night, to keep thugs and beggars, addicts and winos at a safe distance. 25 hours a week, she says, for "at least" two months. My calculator says that's a thousand dollars, but… I gave Pike the callback, so it's Pike's assignment, not mine.

Doug the dunderhead.

For the past few weeks I've been wearing my dead dad's jacket, because it's watertight, whereas my own jacket leaks like the rez hotel. After these last few days of sumptuous sunshine, I'm back in my own jacket today.

Dad, though, was one size smaller than I, merely extra-large instead of extra-extra, so today feels like being unbound. I know I'm just as fat as before, but wearing my somewhat airier jacket makes me feel 30 pounds lighter.

♦ ♦ ♦

Flyering in front of the shop wasn't bring in many customers, so Stevi sent me a block and a half away, to Market @ Castro, and that's where I got kissed.

Lip to lip, the last time anyone kissed me was Margaret, last June. That's a long while without even a peck, but I'm so accustomed to the loneliness I never even think about it any more. Alone is what I've chosen, and there's no nookie when you're alone. No-one to talk to, no-one to trust, no-one to hold, hug, or smooch, but so what.

There I was, wearing the green cape and insect head, handing out flyers on Castro Street again, and along came a cheery triple — two men and a woman, liquored up and obviously intertwined all the way 'round, with hands in each other's butt pockets, laughing giddy, etc. Your basic threesome.

The woman (blonde, big smile) made a semi-clever comment about my cape, one of the men followed with another zinger, so I zinged 'em back and the four of us began pleasantly chatting. They were about to walk on down the street, but one of the men opened his arms at me, wordlessly saying, "Do you need a hug?" Beer does that to people sometimes.

My wordless reply was open arms, meaning "Sure, why not," so we all embraced like the last episode of The Mary Tyler Moore Show, me and three strangers at the corner of Market & Castro.

While we held that circular hug, one of the men kissed the other man's cheek, and he turned to his right to pass that smooch along to my cheek, and I passed it along to the pretty woman's cheek, and she passed it along to the first man's cheek. They were plastered and I was what the heck, so we changed directions and cheeksmooched the other way, still hugging all around. Then we all said good night and they walked away laughing. End of story, I thought, and started passing out the shop's flyers again. "Wonderful shop, down the street and up the stairs…"

But from two parking meters away, one of the men turned around and ran back to me, embraced me again and said, "You're so damn cute!"

Well, what could I say? What could I do? Manners matter, and the only polite thing to do in such a situation is kiss, so I kissed him again, this time on the lips, and added kissy sound effects — smooch! He kissed me back, slower and without any comical sounds. His eyes were closed, and his kiss lasted longer than mine, so I closed my eyes, too. It was nice. It was, uh, very nice. Nothing serious, of course, not even romantic, just two sets of lips meeting softly. No tongues, but that's probably for the better, since I hadn't brushed my teeth after an onion-laden tuna sandwich for lunch.

It was sweet, though, and it was good for him, too. He'd probably still be kissing me, but the other two pried him away, and laughingly called him a slut.

Then the three of them walked away, and I shouted after them into the evening, "Goodbye, sweet prince!" They turned and waved at me, laughed but kept walking, under the Castro marquee and down the street. My mood had morphed from "just doing my job" to Cloud Nineteen, and my fresh-pecked lips smiled now and then, the rest of the evening.

In my limited experience — very limited, I should say; high school boys with game have been kissed more than me — the difference between kissing a woman and kissing a man is mostly the stubble. To a lesser extent, it's the lack of boobs pushing at my own boobs, at least in our standing position on the sidewalk.

Other than that, though, no difference at all. A kiss is just a kiss, and as kisses go it meant nothing, but so what? It's better to be kissed on a Friday night, even by a stranger, even by a man, than not.