SATURDAY — Sold fish. Went shopping with Judith & Jake, and bought prune juice, because I was moderately constipated. It was a basic blah day, sorry — no good news, no bad.

Tomorrow will be the same, except there'll be no need to go shopping, and no constipation if the prune juice works its magic overnight.

♦ ♦ ♦

SUNDAY — Sarah-Katherine will be visiting for a few days in a few weeks, and I'm getting antsy. Not about seeing her; she's a friend, she knows better than to expect I'll show her a good time, so we'll have a good time.

But I'm concerned that we might not have a place to sleep, probably separately. For a week and a half I've been holed up in the guest room at the house where I'm supposed to be moving in, waiting impatiently and sometimes helping clear out the room that's supposed to be my room. Most of my stuff, meanwhile, remains at Pike's apartment in San Francisco, where he doesn't know I'm about to vacate the premises. I'm tentatively planning to pack that place up on Monday, and be gone on Tuesday the 4th of July.

Judith says my new room will be habitable by Thursday the 6th, which would leave me a week to get unpacked and semi-settled here in Berkeley, before Sarah-Katherine arrives. Fingers crossed, but living in the guest room is no fun, and I do not feel at home here.

I need a room of my own, with my books on the shelf, my old zines in the corner, and my mess — not someone else's — all over the place.

♦ ♦ ♦

Vendor politics is probably boring to read about, sorry, but it's boring to live through it, too. It was a big frustration today (again), so I'm going to write about it (again).

I sell fish stickers and magnets on Telegraph Ave in Berkeley. The vendors are heavily regulated by the city, and there are 27 rules to follow, and I try to follow them. There's a lottery where vendors draw numbers to decide where they'll be selling that day. It takes about half an hour, and there aren't many customers before noon, so I don't do the lottery any more. Instead I do it the alternate (but still city-approved) way, using the "late sign-in" procedures. You show up, sign in, and pick the best unclaimed vending spot.

So this morning that's what I did, but to my great annoyance, when I rolled my cart to my chosen and properly signed-in space, another vendor was already there. Or rather, another vendor's table was there, stocked with hand-carved pipes and bongs, but there was no vendor to yell at. I recognized the merchandise and the displays, knew whose table it was, and it was a vendor I dislike, and the feeling is mutual.

I waited five minutes, but she was nowhere, so fuck it, I decided that by the time she'd returned from the ladies' room or wherever she was, and I'd asked her politely to move out of my signed-in slot, then asked her rudely after she said no, then dragged her table into the street and thrown a few punches… it would be simpler and less sweaty to go back to the sign-in sheet and pick a different location.

My new slot was two blocks away, and someone was in it, too — two someones, actually. The vendors on both sides of me were in their assigned spots, but they both had oversized tables, so my spot was filled with the north side of one guy's table and the south side of another's.

This time I argued, all three of us argued, and it got loud. They weren't going to relocate unless the city clipboard schmuck told them to, and he was nowhere to be seen. I suppose I could've tipped their tables over, and I was tempted, but it was a hot day and I just wanted to sell some damned fish, so after a few minutes of yelling and swearing and being yelled at and swore at, I took an empty space across the street. Without signing in.

By the time I'd set up my table, about half an hour had been wasted, and I was in a bad mood all afternoon.

Abolish all the rules, I say. Especially if nobody's following the rules anyway. Certainly, abolish the licenses for vending on Telegraph, and the daily lottery for spaces, and the sign-in sheets that nobody really looks at except maybe the clipboard schmuck. Instead of this over-complicated system that nobody really follows, how's about this: you show up, pick a spot, set up your table, and that's your spot for the day.

The turf wars and politics piss me off. Jay and I have played by all the stupid rules and paid all the stupid fees, and for our trouble I got dicked around today.

And I don't even know what I should've done. It didn't seem worth the bother of losing my temper when my first spot was taken. I lost my temper at the second spot, but even then I backed down. Should I have dragged the other vendor's table out of my space? Am I supposed to go to war over four feet of retail space on the street?

MONDAY -- BARTed under the water to work half a day at Black Sheets in San Francisco, and then I walked to my old apartment to start cleaning and packing. Last I'd heard from Pike, he'd found a 9-5 job, but when I turned the key in the door at 2:30, he was there. Thankfully, Terry wasn't.

"Day off for the holiday?" I asked Pike.

"Every day is a day off," he explained, snorting the rent off the kitchen table. "I failed the urinalysis." Thus preoccupied and with no occupation, he never asked where I'd been since last Thursday, and showed no curiosity as I took out several bags of trash, started unplugging my appliances, boxing up my blankets, etc.

Defrosting my mini-fridge, I unplugged it, ate what was inside, and put my space heater against it to de-ice the freezer. Through each step of this, roaches scattered in slow waves from the fridge. Guess it's warm by the coils in the back. I hammered 27 of them, as they scurried down the legs of the table, up the walls, across the carpet, everywhere. It was great fun for me, less fun for them.

It might be my last roach-killing festival. Weirdly, despite the staggering mess inside Judith's place, it's roach-free. To keep it that way I drenched my fridge with Black Flag.

Then Terry came home, and the rest of the afternoon was a night at the fights. She screamed at Pike about the dirty dishes, the phone bill, and the low-quality coke, and he screamed at her about the screaming, the moldy toilet, and the tampons she'd inexplicably left in the microwave.

Screaming is their foreplay, I guess, because then they had sex, loudly screaming at each other during and after, until mercifully there came a quiet spell.

As I continued packing up boxes in my room, occasionally taking out sacks of trash, neither of them noticed that I'm obviously moving out. Eventually I closed the door, and faded to sleep amongst the boxes in my room and more bellowing from theirs.

♦ ♦ ♦

TUESDAY — Spent last night at Pike's place, my last night there, then BARTed back to Berkeley this morning. Judith is still asleep, because she lives on Judith Time. I got here at 11:00 AM, and now it's 5:50 and I'm eating dinner, and that's OK. There's no particular schedule.

Whenever she wakes up, she's going to borrow Cy's truck, drive across the bridge to San Francisco, help me load up my few possessions, and then I'll be Berkeley-based for good.

Everything's pretty much packed already, except my heart. I'm going to leave it in San Francisco.

Not sure where all my stuff goes once we get it to Judith's place, though. There's no empty floor space anywhere, and they don't have a garage or basement. Nothing could conceivably go into my future-bedroom, not yet. It's full of Judith's stuff.

Time keeps on slipping slipping slipping into the future. I wanna get moved in, and Sarah-Katherine will be here soon, and I know we're making progress getting my future-room cleared out, but it's not going to be my room today or tomorrow or the day after, and I can't even imagine it'll be my room in a week.

When I was 9 years old and sharing a room with my older brother Clay, I knew that a room of my own would be so much cooler, and it was, and it still would be. A room of my own is all I've ever needed to cope with the 20th century, and I haven't had a room of my own since coming to Berkeley.

The guest room is OK, but I don't want to be a guest. The door catches on the rug, the window sticks, and there's no curtain, so every morning and evening as I dress or undress my fat ass is on display for the world. Judith's books are on the shelves, while my thesaurus and dictionary balance on the edge of a coffee table where the giant dog's wagging tail knocks 'em to the floor. The door has to be open for ventilation, so the cat that poops everywhere comes in whenever she wants to, and poops everywhere.

It's giving me headaches, and I'm usually not susceptible to headaches. It's about control, I think. My life isn't much but I like it, so long as I'm somewhat in control, and I do not feel at all in control of anything at Judith's house. Not until my stuff is in my room and I can close my door will I feel at home.

♦ ♦ ♦

So there we were, Judith and me, at my old apartment off Heroin Alley in the Mission. Pike and Terry were there, but had no interest in meeting Judith, no wondering why we were carrying stuff down the stairs. They remained oblivious until we'd toted several boxes out, and Pike suddenly/finally realized that I was moving.

"Why, man?" he asked.

"It's not you, Pike," I explained. "It's her." I can't live with a perpetually screaming imbecile, I didn't say, but only because she was right there.

Pike is always stoned, but Terry is always stupid, and he had to explain to her that I was moving out.

Pike's reaction seemed to be mostly hurt feelings, and I am sorry, dude. Terry's reaction was anger, and she screamed at Judith and me the way she usually screams at Pike.

"How are we gonna pay the rent?" she yelled.

"You won't have any problem finding a new flatmate," I said. "Nothing's wrong with the room, and I'm leaving it tidy."

After that, Terry was all Fuck you and Fuck you and Fuck you some more, so I didn't have anything else to say, except a final goodbye to Pike.

"Fuck you," he said as we shook hands, and then I was gone.

Now there's a tower of boxes, everything I own, stacked in the guest room at the new place, all the boxes waiting just like me for their journey down the hall to my own room, whenever that happens, which I hope is soon.

♦ ♦ ♦

I've loved living in San Francisco. Always felt I was just getting to know the city, but after 3½ years in three rez hotels and the Mierda apartment, I only know the neighborhoods near the better burrito stands and movie theaters. Never saw any of the city's famous museums, never ate in any of its famous restaurants, and I haven't really even seen Golden Gate Park, except as a patch of green to cut across on my way somewhere else.

Ah, but I've inhaled the city's ever-present scent of urine, seen its streets of tenements and broken windows, seen its brutal police and Republican hills, so I've seen the city enough to know that I've seen the city enough, at least for a while. My mailing address remains San Francisco, but it's only a rented box. I'm in Berkeley.

Adios, San Francisco. I used to live there.

Today I worked a few stalls down the street from Umberto the anarchist, and I'm starting to rethink my first impression of the guy. The day we met, he thought I was going to give him shit, and he's not interested in that. Today we chatted a little, almost like people do. I've decided he's OK, and I sorta regret my Umberto rant from last Wednesday.

Not enough to edit it out, though.

♦ ♦ ♦

The two things occupying my limited intellect these days are, as always, my pathetic zine and Sarah-Katherine's upcoming visit.

About the zine: I like my life, but I'm well aware that almost anyone who's not me would hate it. Most days it's a challenge even for me, to work up enough interest to write about it.

Writing much of anything feels impossible tonight, so most of today's entry was actually written tomorrow. On the actual day, July 6, Judith was bringing her books and papers into the guest room from my future-room, and Lugosi, the ultimate dog, was even more slobberingly insistent than usual about wanting to play fetch. And doggone it, I wanted to play fetch with him, so we played fetch. Tossing his spitty ball and getting it back over and over again was the best part of my day.

About Sarah-Katherine: Insert a sigh here. The new issue of her new zine came in the mail, accompanied by a letter. The zine's great, the letter's better, so what little I wrote on Wednesday was a letter to her.

Pasty is Sarah-Katherine's zine, and her new issue is all about things she hates, which include barely-clad girls, too much sunshine, and her hellishly anal ex-roommate. I can't pretend to write a fair review of something written by someone I'm very fond of, so I will only say it's bright, funny, sharp like its author, and simply the finest thing I've ever seen that's held together by staples.

For a small sample of the lady who has me enchanted, send a dollar and two stamps to Sarah-Katherine, █████████████████, Seattle WA 98107.

A big fat family from Orange County stopped and stared at my fish stand today, frowned and sneered. I haven't been selling sacrilegious fish for long, but long enough to know the look of disapproval on Mr and Mrs Fat's faces. They're people who believe in God, and their god has no sense of humor.

They didn't get all righteous and sanctimonious and lecture me about the fish, promise me I'd burn in Hell or anything. They didn't say a word about the fish, but they didn't walk away either, or when they did walk away they walked right back. They were offended, and wanted to continue being offended.

They spent half an hour at the hairbobbing booth next to mine, as fat momma and both fat daughters had multi-colored thread sewn into their hair, but while the fat ladies had their fat heads strung up, fat daddy and fat grandpa continued exploring Telegraph Ave, and their fat explorations had their fat asses bumping my table every time they walked past.

Some parts of the sidewalk aren't wide enough for jumbo people to squeeze past. Not where I was working today, though.

Sometimes Telegraph is very crowded, and bumps are part of the hustle and bustle. Today the crowds were light.

I'm too patient, and thought the first few bumps might've been accidental, so I didn't say anything. After the fourth bump I started suspecting they were intentionally trying to topple the fish display — a vertical rack that sits atop the table and proudly presents several levels of all the fish. I said very politely, "Please stop knocking my table every time you walk by," and I said walk, not waddle. Being fat myself, I don't taunt people for being fat.

Usually. Today I'm making an exception.

One of the fat men apologized, even sounded like he meant it, and they stopped waddling past my table, and instead leaned on a building until fat momma was done being bobbed. That woman, though, blasted the table with her butt, but good, when she walked past, and it was on purpose. No mistaking it. The fish would've gone flying if I hadn't reached out and steadied the display.

"Excuse me," she said, but with no 'excuse me' in her 'excuse me'. I was bullied when I was a kid, and heard it all again in her voice.

I'd been cutting fish from the mylar sheets, and I stopped and stood up, but didn't put down the scissors. I folded my arms, smiled my meanest smile, and stared at fat momma until fat daddy and fat grandpa noticed and came over, so three fat adults were standing in front of my table, one behind it. "You're blocking the way," I said. "Please move along."

The fat children were still getting their hair bobbed at the next table, so the fat adults couldn't move along very far, but they waddled to a wall ten feet away and waited for the kids. There were no further words and no further bumpings, but what was that all about?

There'd been four feet, maybe more, between my table and the hairbobbers, and even fat momma wasn't that wide. Christians are supposed to be Christ-like, aren't they? Christ might've lost his temper and overturned my table — dude had a notoriously short fuse — but I don't believe he would've wordlessly bumped it with his fat holy ass half a dozen times.

♦ ♦ ♦

Sarah-Katherine will be here in a week, and I'm not at all worried about making a good impression. That's not the goal. Making a good impression means being something you're not, and I'm done doing that. We'll both be ourselves and we'll see what happens. I'll try not to pick my nose if we end up in bed together, but that's the maximum effort I'll put into making a good impression.

I'd like her to feel welcomed and comfortable, though, so I'd sure like to be living in a room of my own before Sarah-Katherine gets here.

It's Thursday, the day Judith promised that my room would be ready for moving into, so first thing this morning I opened the door and looked inside. It's still hopeless, but at 6:30 AM Judith was in there, sorting through the rubble on the floor. The room is looking better, and to be fair, she had told me days ago that the room would be ready at the end of the day today, not at dawn. "Come back at midnight," she said when I poked my head in this morning.

Today I spent a few hours helping her clean the room, and a few hours cleaning the room without her, which was basically just pushing things out the door. It's hours before midnight as I'm typing this, and I'm turning in, and I'm not going to set an alarm to wake me at midnight, to check on the room, because... I've seen the room, seen the mess, and there's no possibility it'll be demessified by midnight.

After a day of selling fish, I came home and Judith spoke the awful truth when I walked in the door: My room isn't ready. It isn't anywhere near ready. She had wanted to clean it out her way, and she tried, but it ain't happening.

It's no surprise, and it's not like I didn't see this coming. She tried her best, I've accepted her gracious surrender, and now we'll do it my way, which involves boxes.

Judith hates boxes. It's one of her phobias, and there's a word for it: cogombophobia. Since boxes frighten her, she wanted to clean out the room without using any, just sorting through every individual piece of the monstrous mess.

It can't be done, though. The deadline has passed, and now I'm in charge of cleaning out my future-room, so I told her that my plan involved buying 40 big boxes at U-Haul. She shook her head 'yes' and walked away, and the work of clearing that room is now up to me, so everything is going into the dreaded boxes.

It's somewhat uncomfortable doing this, and not just because of her cogombophobia. The mess is all personal stuff that belongs to Judith: her manuscripts (she writes poetry and science fiction), her family photos and mementos, her old clothes, etc. Boxes or no boxes, I'd hate having someone else going through all my stuff, so I asked Judith if she wanted to be my coach — pull up a chair and give me guidance about which things to put into which boxes — but she declined, and went to sleep instead. I think she's embarrassed, or just can't bear to watch. Can't stand to see all the boxes. Or maybe she was just sleepy.

I'm not sorting anything in any way, just scooping her stuff into boxes — eleven so far — and carrying the boxes into the library, the room in the house with the most unclaimed floor space

Good luck ever finding anything in those boxes; I'm not labeling them, because every box contains everything.

And good luck getting to the bookshelves by the time I'm done. Jake & Judith's library will be permanently closed, I expect.

So tonight I worked on my future-room for a few hours, and it is looking… slightly better? The drifts are still very tall, and Sarah-Katherine will be here in six short days. Fingers crossed, but I'm writing this while caked with sweat, and I'm exhausted. It's time for a shower, and then it's time for bed.

SATURDAY — I was supposed to sell fish all day Saturday and Sunday, but after eight hours of sitting in the sun I'm always all sweaty and never have much energy left, so there wouldn't be much progress made on clearing the future-bedroom. And then on Monday I'm working at Black Sheets, and after that two of my brothers will be in town, and we're having dinner that night.

For me that's a busy schedule, and it would leave only Tuesday and Wednesday for a mad rush to get the future-room empty, and then fill it with my stuff from the guest room and the boxes from San Francisco, before Sarah-Katherine arrives on Thursday.

And the room isn't the only thing that needs to be done. This whole house needs at least a light going over, just to vacuum the ubiquitous dog hairs and clear a few inches of table space in the kitchen.

Too much was happening, too much to do and too many worries, so I asked Jay and she let me take the weekend off from selling fish, and instead worked on clearing the room and moving into it. So no fish stories today, and thank you, Jay.

♦ ♦ ♦

Dropping everything of Judith's from the bedroom into boxes, taping them shut, and stacking them in the library, on Saturday afternoon I got my first real look at the rug in my room. I'd never want to walk on it — totally stained with cat shit and coffee spills and who knows what, tiny bugs crawling in the threads, and it was stuck to the floor not by nails but by decay, and it stank. It's garbage, so I rolled it up and dragged it out of the room, down the stairs, and left it rolled up behind the trash cans.

Technically, I should've gotten Judith's OK before junking it — it's her rug, after all — but she was sleeping, it's impossible to wake her, and I didn't try, because she might have wanted to keep it.

Now it's 3:30 on Saturday afternoon, and instead of selling fish and earning $5 an hour, I'm looking at an almost empty bedroom that stinks but it smells like victory.

There's dust and paper clips, bottle caps, pens, marbles, broken records and old plastic silverware and a billion other bits on the floor, everything that dropped off the rug when it was pried loose and carried away. I'm taking a ten-minute break to type this, and then I'll sweep, and after that the room will be as clean as it's ever going to be, before I move in and make it a mess again.

♦ ♦ ♦

Now it's 4:45, and the room's been swept, the windows opened for airing out, and I've unplugged my typewriter from the guest room and carried it in, and typed this sentence, which makes the new room officially mine.

Judith is still asleep, so I'll drag my futon in alone, because I'm sleeping in in the new bedroom tonight. Not sure I've ever been so dang tuckered as at this moment, and I'm going to sleep on that futon soon as it's dragged, and soon as I take a shower.

♦ ♦ ♦

SUNDAY — I'm unpacked at last, and by golly, I live here.

Two of my three brothers are vacationing in San Francisco, mostly to see me, so we met for dinner tonight. My third brother Ralph couldn't make it, and sent his apologies, but he's in prison.

It was nice seeing Clay and Dick. Also, it was nice saying "Good night" and seeing them go. Family is hard for me, and works best in small doses.

For four hours this afternoon and evening, we tootled around the city like tourists, and talked, and every time the conversation threatened to become interesting, one of my brothers changed the subject. Or sometimes I did.

"Why are there so many beggars on the street?" Clay asked, a question straight from suburbia. It was actually a light count for the loonies, hardly any out there, and I was wondering where all the homeless people were. That's what I wanted to say, plus a brief overview of how America's almost-complete lack of help for people who need help leaves helpless people with nowhere to be except on the streets. And I started saying all that, but Dick interrupted to say something crude about a barely-bikini-clad woman walking by.

Boys being boys, we all chuckled, and then Dick talked about baseball, his fiancée's bicycle, and his ex-wife's new boyfriend, and Clay talked about his duties as a church elder, and assured me that despite the rumors (which I hadn't heard and don't care about) the Seahawks aren't moving to Los Angeles.

I didn't talk much, because mine is a family with few boundaries — if they know where I live, they will eventually knock on the door. If nobody answers, after a while they will let themselves in. I'll come home one day and they'll be waiting in my living room. That's not a hypothetical; it's happened.

The less the family knows about the real me, the freer I feel. That's why they don't know my real-world address, only my maildrop address. They don't have my phone number, just the voice-mail service. I didn't tell Clay and Dick what I do for a living, or that I recently moved to Berkeley, or that a ladyfriend is coming to visit me. They don't know that this zine exists, and for that matter, they don't know the word 'zine'. I'm reticent to talk about what I've been up to since I left Seattle, because they'd disprove, and their disapproval bores me.

♦ ♦ ♦

Clay brought his two sons with him, and I had a few minutes of subversive conversation with Tom. He's a cool kid, but his younger brother, Michael — what a pain! He wouldn't do anything his father told him to do, and his father seemed proud of him for it. "We've never spanked either of our children," Clay reminded me.

"Well, I'll do it for you," I volunteered, because Michael is impossible, and dangerously out of control. Didn't know I was really gonna do it, but — I'm getting ahead of myself, sorry.

Here's where I — father of none — confess my ignorance of the difficulties of raising children. I've never had to give it much thought and hope that's permanent, but I'd say children should be reasoned with, not beaten, once they're old enough to listen to reason. I'd also say there's a time for brute force. Certainly, when me and Clay and Dick and the rest of the siblings were kids and deserved it (and sometimes when we didn't), our dad paddled us.

Or, I might be full of crap. Tom, the older of Clay's two boys, was well-behaved, kept reasonably quiet, and when he said something it was either funny or actually added to the conversation. So maybe Clay & Karen's no-spanking policy does work, and when Michael is a few years older he'll be as charming as Tom.

Not sure he'll survive those few years, though. At Union Square, a place children probably should not roam freely, Michael ran a full block away, crossed the street by himself, and hid between two parked cars when his father called his name. When we rode a bus, he wouldn't sit or hold a handrail, but instead stood up on a seat, and Clay didn't even ask him to get down. Clay is not a bus-riding person, so he didn't know the danger, but when I said something he shrugged. It's almost a miracle the driver didn't brake hard and send Michael sprawling to the floor.

♦ ♦ ♦

We ate at Denny's, because Clay said "You know what to expect," and Dick said he loved their breakfasts. I didn't suggest my favorite place, the Sincere Café, because when I'm out with the family there's a good chance something bad could happen, and I'd rather be embarrassed at Denny's than at a restaurant I'd come back to.

We waited fifteen minutes just for a seat, and then spent ten minutes going over and over the kiddie menu, and then Michael slapped my arm. "Please don't slap me," I said, and he laughed and slapped my arm again.

"I mean it, please don't slap me," I said more sternly, pushing him away, and he laughed harder and slapped my arm a third time.

It almost makes sense — the kid's never been slapped, so slapping someone is a game. Well, he's a little boy, but his slaps did hurt, and my willingness to laugh it off was nil. I wanted grown-up time with my (somewhat, legally) grown-up brothers, not slap-happy-time with this kid I barely knew. And why wasn't Clay saying or doing anything?

"Hey!" I said firmly, but not shouting, because we were in a busy restaurant. "Third and final warning, kid. Please. Stop. Slapping. Me." And that was the funniest line of the night, so Michael laughed and laughed and slapped me again, while his father continued describing the plumbing problems they're having at their new home.

Was it wrong what I did? I stood up, lifted Michael out of his chair, and slapped his butt four times, but hard. The brat had slapped me four times, so now we were even. He bawled, of course, loud and annoying, but he didn't slap me again all night, and after the bawling he was hardly a nuisance at all.

You think Clay got angry because I broke the no-spanking rule?

You think we argued and it ruined the evening?

You think it was at least an awkward moment?

Nope, nope, and nope. Me swatting Michael four times at Denny's didn't even interrupt Clay's story.

He put an arm around Michael, patted the kid's shoulders until he stopped crying, and seemed like a pretty good dad actually, but he didn't even pause his talking about toilets.

And when that story about was over, Dick had a story about the place where he works. I paddled Clay's son right in front of him, but neither of them even mentioned it.

♦ ♦ ♦

And that was our evening. We saw some San Francisco sights, ate at the city's most average restaurant, Clay and Dick talked a lot, Tom was cute, and Michael got spanked for the first time in his life.

They're family. I love 'em, and they offered an invitation to get together a few more times over the next few days, maybe go to a baseball game, but I weaseled out of it.

Sorry, bro and bro, neph and neph. Enjoyed seeing you, and a ball game might be fun too, but your visit couldn't have come at a worse time — Sarah-Katherine is coming, and I want the house not to smell like the giant kitty-litter box it is, so I need that time for cleaning up the place.

I'm leaving town tomorrow, I told them untruly. I'll be gone for a few weeks, helping some guy who doesn't exist set up a shop that also doesn't exist. When the lies gained some momentum, I also mentioned that I'm two months late with the rent and on the verge of being evicted. All BS, sure, but it sounded real, and it won't surprise me if there's a check in the mail from Mom when she hears about it from Clay and Dick.

Finalizing the furniture in my nifty new room, I was sure surprised to find a roach climbing up the back of a chair. Killed it, of course, and let's hope that's the only one that rode over with me and my stuff. I don't want to be the guy who introduced roaches to this place.

Then I spent most of the day setting up a shade I'd bought for the skylight. Yeah, there's a great big window in the ceiling of my new room — damned swanky, no doubt, but the sunrise wakes me up in the morning.

I'm not inherently handy, and the instructions for installing the shade were written by or for people who don't read English. It took six hours and half a roll of duct tape, a hammer, and my biggest magnet to make it all semi-functional. It's as ugly as your sister, but it ought to hold back tomorrow's dawn.

♦ ♦ ♦

On the train to the hardware store to buy the shade, I overheard a couple of people talking. The woman is a teacher, and she was remembering the last day of the school year, when at the closing bell all the kids ran out of the classroom, except one. One student stayed behind to briefly say thanks and goodbye to the teacher, before running after the others out the door. Guess that doesn't happen often, because the lady sounded like she might cry.

It made me stare out the window, into the darkness of the tunnel and the nothingness of a memory. Being raised with good manners, I'm certain I said thanks when teachers loaned me a pencil or let me stay ten minutes after class to avoid being beat up, but never ever did I say thanks to a teacher for teaching me. Never even thought about saying it, and that saddens me.

Can you imagine being alive without being able to read and write? I'd feel marooned in my own mind — no way to communicate with the outside world except through the horror of talking with people? "I'd rather be dead" seems cliché or hyperbolic, but my life would be simply shit without words on paper.

Yet I never said "Thanks, teach," for explaining the letters of the alphabet, and how to read, and how to write, and proper grammar. The teacher who taught grammar is the one of very few teachers whose name I remember 20+ years later, and she was already old so she's probably dead by now, but — thank you, Miss Sherwood.

I tried to give Lugosi a bath, so he could be petted without having to wash your hands immediately after. But he's the man of the house, not me — I couldn't get him into the tub, even when it was empty. That dog is huge and stubborn and smells bad, same as this reporter, but shorter.

Instead I swept most of his hair off the steps and out of the hallways, which makes the place look better, and sprayed Lugosi with Lysol, which makes the dog smell better. Then I washed the dishes, scooped the kitty litter, and cleared a corner of the kitchen clutter so a person could maybe make a sandwich or pour a bowl of cereal.

Sarah-Katherine will be here tomorrow, and this huge apartment is still a mess. I've made a reasonable effort to tidy up, because she deserves that, but now I'm out of energy so that'll have to do. I refuse to try harder to make this place, or myself, more presentable.

I like Sarah-Katherine, which is unavoidable, and she likes me, which is inexplicable, and if this place is beneath her standards she (or we?) can get a hotel room.

It's damned unusual for a woman to be (sort of) in my life, especially one who's not mentally discombobulated. (Here's looking at you, Maggie.) Maybe I'm supposed to give her flowers, and make plans to show her the city, but I can't afford flowers, and I'm not a guy who makes plans.

My thinking is — she's read my zine, and knows it's non-fiction. I really am the slob I write about, a blubbery balding boy with chronic flatulence. It would be stupid and pointless to pretend anything else.

I did buy some Gasex pills, so we could maybe chat over the roar from my rectum. Other than that, though — no pretenses.

Oh, and I did five loads of laundry.

And bought deodorant, which smells weird.

And there are breath mints in my pocket.

And I hung an air freshener from the skylight in my room.

And tidied my crewcut and trimmed my beard.

And clipped my fingernails and toenails.

And bought new underwear, because all my old briefs had skid marks.

And put clean sheets and matching pillowslips on the bed, and washed the blanket.

And tomorrow morning, for the first time since the 1970s, I'll make the bed.

Other than that, though — absolutely no pretenses.

Waiting for Sarah-Katherine at the same airport, the same gate where I waited for Maggie thirteen months ago, a few comparisons flashed through my mind. Sarah-Katherine is twice as nutty but three times as sane as Margaret, immeasurably more fun to be around, and I'm certain that even if our weekend goes disastrously. Sarah-Katherine won't beat me and bruise me.

And then Sarah-Katherine's plane landed, people came out the walkway, there she was, she kissed me hello, and — why had I even been thinking about an old flame? The new flame is afire.

At the bus stop, we were talking about death, mortuaries, and Sarah-Katherine's dream career as an embalmer, until some guy overheard and stepped into our conversation. "Sounds morbid," he said.

"Exactly" and "Yes indeed," we said together, and the three of us chatted for a few minutes, but he turned out to be an utterly normal sort. Sarah-Katherine had brought copies of her zine to leave on the plane, sell to bookstores, give to strangers, etc, so she offered him a copy, but as soon as he saw the cover (Pasty: The hatred issue) he shook his head no.

"Life is too short to spend it hating things," he said, and prattled off a list of things he claimed made life worth living.

Well, that's normal, and stupid, and life's too shitty to go a day without hating something, someone, or everything, everyone. We laughed about that guy later, or hell, maybe we laughed about him soon as he said it. It was the start of a long, busy day, and it's hard to remember. All I remember about that guy is that he wasn't memorable, and that he said no to taking Sarah-Katherine's marvelous zine — what an idiot, but what the hell. Ordinary people like ordinary things, and neither Pasty nor its author are ordinary.

I don't love Sarah-Katherine — I'm stingy with that word — but I love that she's not ordinary. She's beautiful, book-smart and street-smart, funny, she likes me, she's here, and you know what? Life is worth living.

♦ ♦ ♦

After dropping her luggage at my place, we went to San Francisco's Chinatown, where Sarah-Katherine left a copy of her zine in a Bible book store. We explored an old church, and then did the FAO Schwartz thing, where she subversively left a copy of her zine in the Barbie section. And all day we talked about whatever was on either of our minds, the words coming easy and occasionally punctuated with a kiss.

Marvelous for me, and I hope it wasn't awful for her. My breath is notoriously bad from years of dental neglect, and I wasn't popping the mints from my pocket as often as the kisses.

♦ ♦ ♦

Sarah-Katherine barely slept yesterday, so she's taking a nap as I type this, resting up to see more of San Francisco's beautiful sights. Sarah-Katherine herself is the most beautiful site in Berkeley, stretched across my bed. She's a sight I'd like to see more often… and might.

She told me she's thinking of leaving Seattle permanently, and moving to New Orleans, or New York, or San Francisco. That last option sounds good to me, of course. There's more to the story — she has a guy in Seattle, a decision to make which probably has nothing to do with me — and until that situation is resolved I won't invite her quite as enthusiastically as I'd like.

Without repeating some of the things she said — hey, she was talking to me, not to you — my impression is that she's happier being her than I am being me. What she does without hesitation, without regrets, I would hesitate to do, and then later regret not doing. Sarah-Katherine does whatever she wants, and I admire that. Seems fair to say that though I'm years older than her, she's lived more than me. Maybe I can catch up if I try.

I do what I want to do too, of course, but on big decisions it's only after months or longer thinking things through. It took me three years to leave Seattle, after knowing I needed to. Sarah-Katherine has decided she's leaving Seattle, and wherever she's going, she expects to be there within a month or three.

♦ ♦ ♦

After her mid-day nap, we BARTed back into the city, and walked Upper Grant, one of my favorite neighborhoods. It's what's left of the beat era, a few blocks of walking poetry and jazz. We had a drink at some espresso bar, gawked at the monument to Carol Doda, the Condor's first topless dancer, and browsed at City Lights, the big indy bookstore and publisher, where I'll admit to some tingles when Sarah-Katherine smiled and pointed to Pathetic Life on the shelf. Then we took a #30 bus to Fisherman's Wharf, not to see the tourist traps, but to laugh at all the trapped tourists.

Came home dang well tuckered out, from more walking than I've done in one day since the last time I showed San Francisco to visitors. Judith had been asleep when we were home for Sarah-Katherine's nap, but by evening she was awake, so I introduced them and they immediately began yak-yak women-talking as only women can yak. I say that affectionately, but also impatiently, since I was hoping to get Sarah-Katherine into bed while I still had some energy in me.

They're both bisexual, and Judith seemed a bit flirty, so maybe she wanted to welcome Sarah-Katherine the same way I do. Whatever. I'm broad-minded.

When the ladies' conversation tapered off, Sarah-Katherine and I were both too tuckered to do anything but kiss goodnight and then snore. She fell instantly asleep, and I drifted after.

Sarah-Katherine slept ten hours straight through, but me being me and extra keyed up, I woke up early. Usually I'd go back to sleep, maybe masturbate as a sleeping aid, but not this morning, not with a woman I have feelings for lying next to me, her hand intertwined with mine — and she did it herself while she was asleep.

With her chin on my neck, her breath on my cheek, her legs curled over my knees, and her big ol' bobbies nuzzled into my side, I was wide awake. It's not often that an attractive woman sleeps under the blankets on my bed, so I just laid there, listening to her petite snores and whatever sounds leaked out of her dreams, and knew I was a lucky man.

When she woke up, yeah, I was a lucky man.

♦ ♦ ♦

Back to San Francisco we went, and first thing, she tried to get her zine Pasty into a few shops. They both said the buyer wasn't in, try again some other day, etc. It's the ordinary runaround that keeps Pathetic Life out of all but the finest newsstands in America.

We went to Good Vibrations, the adult toy store that should be a holy pilgrimage for anyone who'll admit enjoying sex. Sarah-Katherine does, so she bought a vibrator the size of a baseball bat, which I'm hoping she won't need to plug in until she's back in Seattle.

We late-lunched or early dinnered at the Sincere Café, which remains the finest cheap diner in the nine-county metroplex. Sarah-Katherine ordered the lemon chicken, which looked good, and she said it was terrific. For a mostly-vegetarian like me, the Sincere's printed menu looks slim, but here's a secret — if you say "No meat, please," they'll serve a #1 porkfest without the pork, which is almost as good as a #1 porkfest.

Our next stop was Epicenter, which sells an outstanding selection of underground music and publications, including Pathetic Life and now Pasty. My favorite part of the store is the free reading room, full of old zines and comfortable couches, where we loitered a long time and never felt unwelcome, so let me add a plug: Epicenter is on Valencia near 16th, a block from the BART station, easy to get to but hard to find. The sign is tiny, and it's up a flight of stairs behind a plain glass doorway, at 475 Valencia. Doug says, those stairs are worth climbing.

Finally, we took a #33 bus to the Castro district, and I bought a pre-read novel at a reasonable price at Books Etc. Then we wandered inside A Different Light, where the prices aren't so reasonable so I didn't buy anything, but Sarah-Katherine did.

And through the whole day, talking about our mostly-aligned moral codes, politics, and hatred of idiots, and about some of the crazy things we've done in our lives, the words were always easy.

That's not the way it is with me, not hardly ever and with almost nobody. Even when I'm writing, words don't come easy, and when I'm talking words sometimes don't come at all, but today was different. Sarah-Katherine makes me comfortable enough to melt my silence, and that's rare.

She's moving from Seattle, she says, and hasn't decided where, and I hope it's here.

♦ ♦ ♦

If the time and place can be worked out, she's been asked to pose for sexy pictures for a zine or magazine while she's in San Francisco. No, she wasn't asked by me, and I don't even remember the publication's name, but I plan to buy thirty copies and paper my bedroom walls.

Sarah-Katherine isn't sure what she'll be wearing or how much she won't, so back at the house Judith volunteered a menagerie of her lace, leather, satin, silks, and funky but not really sexy hats (there's no such thing as a sexy hat), while a lucky man sat on a lawn chair in the living room, enjoying a fashion show and taking notes.

Sarah-Katherine and I took a bus ride to nowhere, up in the charred hills over Berkeley. The fires did lots of damage to lots of rich people's homes, and that's tragic, or so I've heard.

Then we came back to town, where she sold some of her zines to Comic Relief, and we walked Telegraph Ave. Yacoob, a vendor I very slightly know, gave her a free pair of earrings when he saw that she was with me.

It's a kindness that startled me more than Sarah-Katherine. I've worked next to Yacoob a few times, and we've chatted and I've watched his table while he peed and he's watched my table while I peed, but "free earrings for your girl," he said? That's a $5 value! I don't think she's my girl, but thank you, Yacoob. You're a prince among vendor scum.

People's Park was all gussied up for Sarah-Katherine — flowers in bloom, no rowdy kids, picnics on blankets, and even the cops were nice. It wasn't much like People's Park at all.

Then we ended our day in a lingerie shop, where Sarah-Katherine bought some slinky stockings for her photo shoot. Judith wasn't with us, but she knows the shop's proprietor, and she'd arranged a casual job interview for her there. You know, "just in case" Sarah-K decides to move here. I'm all for that, of course, so "my girl" and the proprietor chatted a while, as I admired the porn and leather.

♦ ♦ ♦

It's been frightfully hot here the past few days, and across the country I guess. The heat has melted most of my sense of humor and I'm perpetually caked with dried sweat, but I haven't had any inclination to snap at Sarah-Katherine, and she hasn't snapped at me yet. We're getting along better than two people have a right to in this weather, especially spending all day and all night together.

♦ ♦ ♦

This is my diary, and in my pathetic life I'll write about anything even slightly interesting that happens. It's not Sarah-Katherine's diary, so there won't be any reports that intrude on her privacy. No bedroom scenes, ya pervs.

I'll briefly summarize, though, that we're sharing a bed, and she hasn't rebuffed me, but I haven't been fully functional at every opportunity. Nerves and worries, I guess. What keeps happening is that I'm at least semi-hard, often fully hard, all day long… until bedtime.

The male pattern response to this is supposed to be extreme embarrassment, but it's happened to me before, so the awkwardness is minimal. Sarah-Katherine isn't laughing at me or anything, and we've found creative workarounds.

It's frustrating, though. I was a teenager during the "sexual revolution," and it almost entirely passed me by. Now I'm 37, and a beautiful free spirit is sleeping in my bed for several nights, and again I'm missing out.

I probably ought to see a doctor, but that's beyond my budget. And I'm remembering that in one of my early letters to her, I promised Sarah-Katherine that I'd be "nothing but disappointment" if we ever met. Words of the prophet...

Of course, all the leading experts agree that any man with problems maintaining an erection should write about it in a published diary, detailing all his failures, so here I am, taking notes while looking at this ravishing woman I want to ravish, sound asleep beside me, and I'm ready now.

I could wake her and take her, I suppose. Can't imagine she'd decline, but I can envision I'd deflate, and it seems rude to rouse her for another round of disappointment. Being a gent with good manners, I'll let her sleep.

At 3:35 in the morning, she awoke at the whisper of her name, unraveled and shared the blanket, put her arms around me, kissed me soft like a kitten, and immediately fell asleep again.

There have been certain difficulties, yeah, but these last few days have been so much more than a schmoe like me could hope for. And we only met because we liked each other's zines?

♦ ♦ ♦

The photographer flaked out, didn't call to finalize the details and didn't answer the phone when she called, so there was no photo shoot for Sarah-Katherine. She was disappointed, sure, but we improvised a back-up plan of spending the day with dead people, and it worked out nicely.

♦ ♦ ♦

We rode the #6 bus to Mountain View Cemetery, walked through the giant mausoleum maze, and onto the graveyard proper. It's an enthralling place, and more peaceful than anywhere among the living. It was eerie, strolling between the headstones, but also fantastic — a few hours walking atop centuries of corpses, wondering whether anyone still mourns the children who died in the flu epidemic of 1917, and how many of the people under us had been assholes. Most of them, probably. Some things never change.

The worries of 1995 seem as trivial as they are, when you're stepping on the dead by the thousands. When we reached the neglected and crumbling tombstones of people people born in the 1700s, we leaned on another monument in disrepair and kissed.

On our way out of the cemetery, we stopped at the guard's station at the gate, and since the guard wasn't there and the door wasn't locked, we went inside and rifled through the logs and incident reports. So prosecute us. Taking several pages as souvenirs was Sarah-Katherine's idea, but it was a good idea.

Maybe I've mentioned once or twice that I'm not a "Support your local police" kinda guy, and what's a security guard, except an unsworn cop with even less training and oversight? Here's one of the incident reports, from a security guard who could probably have a fine career as a full-fledged police officer:

September 11, 1994, 19:00 hours
Male Caucasian jumped over the fence, coming from cemetery. I had him jump back over the way he came, warned him that he was trespassing, and escorted him out through the gate.

I had to read it twice to be sure, but that's a security guard forcing a trespasser to jump back over the fence — to trespass again. What a silly, childishly authoritarian command. What if the now-forced trespasser falls off the fence and breaks his back?

Anyway, back to sweeter stuff: Sarah-Katherine and I walked through a sketchy part of Oakland, talking about dreams, and then a pretty stretch of that city, talking about death.

We rode BART to the end of the line and back, because Sarah-Katherine is almost as fascinated with public transit as I am, and BART can be a fun ride.

Then we took the bus into San Francisco, a much better view than riding BART under the water. Up at 16th Street, we walked the north Mission, the neighborhood where I lived a month ago, past the apartment I shared with Pike voluntarily, and with Terry against my will. When Sarah-Katherine said she liked the neighborhood, I smiled.

Oh, I've complained about it, sure, but if it wasn't for Pike's godawful girlfriend, I'd still be living there, amidst the graffiti, crackheads, and whores — and liking it. Nobody 'normal' could like my old neighborhood, but I did, and Sarah-Katherine does.

All during her stay, she's been saying things I believe but hardly ever hear anyone else say, about everything from poetry to anarchy to justice or the lack thereof; and now, about the beauty of the slums.

I'm a weird person. Probably sick in the head, or so I've been told often enough it's probably true. And it isn't often that I'm with someone of approximately my level of sickness. Just about everyone I know is either too normal or too crazy, but Sarah-Katherine is like the third bear's porridge. Just about right.

She's so easy to be with, sometimes my intentions aren't even filthy, and I'm comfortable just loitering with her. She makes something as mundane as a bus ride into something special, but maybe our time is over. She's flying home tomorrow.

The is Sarah-Katherine's final morning here, and her first chance to spend some time away from me. I walked her to the BART station and kissed her temporarily goodbye, as she took the train to the city to have lunch with Gordon. He's the major domo at Epicenter, and she's been corresponding with him, so I'm selfishly hoping they're having a great time while I'm typing this. The more friends she makes here — me and Judith and Gordon would make three — the more likely she might be to move to the Bay Area.

And while she's in San Francisco and I'm in Berkeley, some thoughts while they're fresh…

♦ ♦ ♦

When Sarah-Katherine accepted my invitation to visit and told me she'd stay for five days, I wondered if we could stand each other for that long. Usually when I spend that much time at a stretch with anyone, we end up wanting to kill each other.

Well, guess what? Neither of us is dead, and there've been no close calls. That's highly irregular. I'm still enjoying our time together, sad that it's coming to an end, and I like her more today than before she came. I like the maniacal look in her eye when she's laughing hard. I like her apparent lack of any goals beyond simply enjoying herself and her life. I like how her hair is a jungle when she first wakes up. I like the sexy scent of her hairy armpits that never smell like something from a bottle of perfume or deodorant. I like that we both hate the zines everyone else raves about. I like that she's at least a little, maybe a lot smarter than me, but she doesn't rub my nose in it. I like that she hates the word 'love'. I like her tattoo, her taste in music, and her general outlook and inlook on life.

She puts up with my faded hearing, bad breath, ill manners, and my shortcomings in the sack. She prefers shadows to sunlight, baldfaced truth to civilized lies, authentic bums to middle-class poseurs, and big greasy meals to tossed green salads. And so do I.

So is Sarah-Katherine the girl of my dreams? Ah, it's way, way too soon to say, but she is certainly a girl worth dreaming about.

She's not looking for a commitment, which is convenient, since I'm not sure I have any commitments to give. The concept kinda frightens me. I've dated women who wanted to wrap themselves around my life, and expected me to be wrapped up in theirs, and it didn't work out. Anyone who wants that kind of dedication should get a dog.

I treasure my solitude, and I've given it up for the past few days, but I'm not willing to give it up entirely. Much as I'll miss her, I'm also looking forward to being alone, having some serious Doug-time every day. One of the best things about Sarah-Katherine is that she seems to feel the same way.

So we're not anything more than good friends, I think, albeit friends who like to play naked. She's easy to like, so I do. She's easy to listen to, laugh with, be with, and hold. I've enjoyed these few days and I'm hoping for more days like these, but she's cling-free, and I like it like that.

You know what I don't like, though? I don't like what I've been writing this morning. It's too damned gooey, and I ought to delete all of it. How embarrassing. It makes me want to go wash my hands.

It's what I'm feeling, though, so I had to write it and I'll let it stand.

♦ ♦ ♦

Well, holy shit.

When she came back from the city, we went to lunch at Makris Café on University, which is by the way a better-than-average diner, but it's not worth saying "Holy shit." What I'm holy shitting about is what Sarah-Katherine said as she finished her chicken chop suey or whatever it was. She'd told me days ago that she was leaving Seattle, and she told me in the café that she's decided she's not moving to the Bay Area.

"I've always wanted to live in New York City," she said, "but I don't want to live there alone. Would you move there with me?"

Holy shit.

♦ ♦ ♦

I would seriously consider moving to NYC to be Sarah-Katherine's lover, but after a few horny months I'd regret the loss of my solitude. I'm almost sure of it. I am a solitary man.

She's not asking for a lover, though. She wants us to share an apartment, not a relationship. We'd be fuck buddies — friends sharing a flat, who might sleep together when we're both in the mood. An open relationship, is what it used to be called, though even the phrase sounds more formal than what she's offering.

I've been in open relationships before, only I didn't know it because the 'open' part was happening behind my back. It was the finding out that hurt, though — the betrayal, not any jealousy — and if we had no promises I guess there'd be no betrayal. Maybe it could work.

If not, what's the worst that could happen? We'd get settled in New York, and after a few months she'd start to hate me, as every woman in my life has. We'd go our separate ways, and I'd be all alone in a strange new city, but big fuckin' deal. I was alone in a strange new city when I moved to San Francisco four years ago, and I landed on my feet. I usually do.

Pretty sure, though, that Sarah-Katherine and I could never hate each other, so that worst case scenario isn't going to happen. What's the second worst, then?

Much as she wants to be untethered, she'll probably find some special someone some day, and it probably won't be me. She'll fall in love, and I'll be alone, but big fuckin' deal again. I've been alone for as long as I've been a grown-up, maybe as long as I've been alive. What she's offering still sounds like a good deal, for as many months or maybe years as she wants me around.

What else could go wrong? Well, one or both of us could get mugged or killed, I suppose. Rumor has it NYC is a big mean city. So's San Francisco, though, and so's Seattle. We could get mugged and killed anywhere, so that worry is moot.

We could decide we're 'only' friends, so no more boinking, in which case we'd each have a good friend for a flatmate. Every woman who's every boinked me has decided we ought to stop boinking, so that hardly seems like a worry. More like an expectation. Mark your calendar.

Turning her proposal over and over in my mind, I'm unable to see a downside, unless I turn it down. I'd be blue as hell, I think, if I said 'no' to this invitation, and then started receiving occasional post cards from my pal Sarah-Katherine in New York City.

Nothing is holding me in the Bay Area. I have some semi-jobs and some semi-friends and I know where to find a good burrito, but there's nobody here I feel half as much for as the woman chewing chop suey across the table and asking me to move with her to New York.

♦ ♦ ♦

All the above went through my mind in about a second and a half, between the time she asked and the time I said 'yes'.

Holy shit.

Guess I'm moving to New York City.

Then I asked her on a date to see Letterman, and we walked to the library to look at a map of the New York subway system and start thinking about which neighborhood we could afford.

♦ ♦ ♦

Manfully, I didn't cry when we kissed goodbye at the airport. My eyes were a little misty, but I don't think she noticed, so it didn't really happen.

Then came an empty feeling in my gut as I rode BART home without her, and jangled my key at the door with only myself to let in. Walking upstairs alone, I asked myself the big question, even bigger than the question Sarah-Katherine had asked me, and decided that the answer is 'no'.

The answer is 'yes', we're moving to New York, but the answer is still 'no', I'm not in love with that woman. Maybe I'm too selfish to feel it, or to care that much about anyone but myself. Or maybe I wouldn't recognize the feeling, having never felt it. I like her plenty, though, and already miss her.

In the apartment, I talked with Judith for a while, petted the dog, and then wrote for a while. The writing stank so I crumpled it and went to bed, where the pillows, sheets, and blankets still smell wondrously of Sarah-Katherine.

TUESDAY — The lady left a few things behind: a book she'd bought, some tragically unopened lubricant, and me.

♦ ♦ ♦

WEDNESDAY — "Screw off, you honky motherfucker!"

So screamed a moldy-looking homeless man, slouched against a building, aiming his insult at a passing gentleman in a suit. Both the screamer and screamee were white, which bewildered the businessman and also me, so the bum screamed it again, "Screw off, honky motherfucker!" Then he smiled an ugly smile, and laughed and shook a plastic cup for change.

I've been an urban boy all my life, had lots of cups shaken at me, handed over a few nickels dimes and quarters over the years, and I would've thought calling people honky motherfuckers was bad panhandling technique, but the laugh sealed the deal, and it worked. The well-dressed honky gave the honky in rags a few coins, then hurriedly walked on.

This was that guy's line. "Screw off, honky motherfucker!" He said it to anyone passing who was white and seemed prosperous, so he didn't say it to me. He also had nothing to say to anyone who wasn't white.

A few other honky motherfuckers dropped change in his cup, and then I was gone, selling fish farther up the street, so if he later got a bloody nose for telling the wrong honky motherfucker to screw off, I didn't see it.

It's good to have 'normal' back in the world, and this is normal for me — watching the abnormals, but watching alone, from across the street. Humans amuse me, but always from a safe distance, please. Actual interactions with actual humans? That's dicey, and to be avoided.

Reading my diary for three bucks, you might have the impression I'm a wide-open guy, willing and eager to reveal everything about myself, but it's only on paper. Nobody reading this knows my face, and I'll never see you in real life, so I'm free to be me in the zine. Alone in the world, and alone typing the zine.

If some game show offered a $1,000,000 prize for anyone who correctly defined him- or herself in only one word, my word would be 'alone', and the show would be over. Make that million-dollar check payable to Doug Holland. He's that guy over there, alone.

If anyone else is in the room, or in the world, I'll be at least somewhat ill at ease. In social situations, I evaporate. No club memberships for me. No buddies to talk to. No friends in San Francisco, and I'm not sure I still have any friends anywhere else.

For a few days there was a friend here — Sarah-Katherine — and gosh, that was nice. I'd like to have her around again. I like that lady. I'm relaxed with her like I never am with anyone, and we talked about everything while she was here, and she kept up with me when she wasn't racing ahead and then waiting patiently for me to catch up. She's invited me to move to New York with her, and I've said yes, and I think we're going to do it.

But here's something I hadn't seen coming: It's not breaking my heart today, that she's gone.

Sharing all day every day with her, and sharing a room, and a bed, was wonderful, absolutely. I would do it again if ever she's willing, but — temporarily, please. Long-term, as an ordinary way of life? No.

I've always survived by being alone. In my head, I'm alone everywhere, even on the subway, or on Telegraph Ave. It's always a huge relief to step into my room at the end of the day, close the door, and be actually, finally alone with my thoughts. Alone is excellent.

Let me quote the noted expert on love and human relations, Michael Jackson:

I used to say
I am me
Now it's changed
Now it's 'we'

According to Jackson or his lyricist, that's what love is, but that's not where my head and heart is. Not yet, probably not ever, and probably not with Sarah-Katherine. I am still me, not we. At the end of the day, every day, I want to close the door and be alone.

That's why her New York City offer seems so perfect. She doesn't want to be my girlfriend, my wife, or even my lover; she wants to be the girl down the hall in the same flat, friends and fuck buddies. She wants to close her own door at night and be alone, and that's what I want, too.

My new room has passed its peak of tidiness, and the inevitable decline has begun. Everything was in its place because I'd just moved in, and it stayed that way because Sarah-Katherine was here, but she's not here now.

Yesterday a cheeseburger wrapper rolled away from me and landed at the foot of the futon, but bending over is a lot of effort so that's where it'll stay. Soon it'll be joined by other molecules of mess, gradually making this room into a black hole of slobbishness, much like it was before I moved in, only with my mess instead of Judith's.

♦ ♦ ♦

I am not quite myself lately — an improvement to my personality, but not so much for the zine. Feels like I've been babbling about nothing but Sarah-Katherine for a week and a half, but I guess it's only been a week. Gotta be boring to read, and it's finally becoming boring even to write.

With a little luck, today's entry will be the last one about her for a while, and it's not even about her, really.

What I'm thinking is, I'd know better what was going on with Sarah-Katherine if I had more memories of other women to compare and contrast, but for a man my age in this libido-enloosened era, I haven't had much experience with women.

Haven't had many friends either. Not sure any of my past ladyfriends were also friends, but Sarah-Katherine is, and she's my first friend who's seen me fully naked and didn't laugh. Maybe she snickered after I'd fallen asleep.

A list of my true friends would be short indeed, maybe three or four names, all men. Bruno mostly, and Leon and Stu and Brian. That's about it, and I've never been much of a friend to my friends.

A list of my girlfriends, though, is a list of the major mistakes of my life. There were good times with each of them, memories worth remembering, but mistakes were made, mostly by me. This morning I started remembering too many details about those women, and wrote too many paragraphs, but as an act of kindness I've trimmed it down to one paragraph for each of them. (You're welcome.)

The recurring motif with the ladies in my life is that she — any of them — started getting on my nerves, usually quite early, for any number of reasons. All people get on my nerves, of course, most people instantly, while for others it might take half an hour. It's difficult to have a relationship with someone who annoys you after half an hour. If the sex is good, though, guess I'm willing to put up with a lot.

Whether everyone's annoyingness is their fault and all people are assholes, or whether it's my fault because I'm an asshole with no patience for anyone else's shortcomings, I'm never certain. Probably it's both, or you say 'I diet' and I say 'idiot'.

So here they are:

At my high school I was the number one dweeb, so the boys beat me up and the girls ignored me or laughed. I got a job in fast-food, though, working with kids who weren't from my school. Since it didn't say "dweeb" on my name-tag, nobody knew I was a dweeb, not even Molly. We talked, we laughed, and when we got to know each other and she realized I was a dweeb, it was too late — by then she liked me. Thank you for that, Molly.

A few years later there was Cathy, a co-worker at my first office job. She taught me the filing system, and I talked about science fiction. She had major psychological issues — major, even compared to mine, which scared me. Then she told me she loved me, which terrified me. I was 19 damned years old, didn't want to hear 'I love you' and knew I had to end it, so I simply stopped calling. What an asshole I was (and probably still am, but I wouldn't drop anyone so coldly again).

Then there was another Cathy, a lady I sometimes called Cathy-2 or New & Improved Cathy. She was saner, but we were both embryos. I barely knew myself, and she was almost as perpetually nervous as me. Strangely, an old movie brought us closer together, and we abandoned all hesitation, opened up about everything, and soon we either fell in love or came dang close. Only time that's happened to me. It couldn't last, of course. At that age (and still today) I'd probably rather wear a mask, than hang out with someone who knows me maskless.

Then came April, a violation of the laws of physics — she was far too conventionally gorgeous to date me, because even before I was fat I was obviously freaky. She gave me years of her life, though, and they were the best years of my life. To this day I don't know what was the breaking point, but I think she wanted to be normal in ways I never could be, so she dumped me. It broke my heart, sank me into years of depression, and I self-medicated with Big Macs. Within a few years I was at least 75 pounds heavier.

Then came Margaret, a/k/a Maggie. She was moderately mentally ill, but aren't we all? For a while I half-believed the gaping holes in our mental health might fit together like a jigsaw, but that only happens in movies and pop songs. I waited and hoped she'd quit being so incessantly angry all the time, and instead enjoy some fraction of her time on earth, but some people have decided they're going to be miserable no matter what, and Maggie's decided. Now she's gone from my life, too.

There were a few short-term smooches too, but those five ladies were the ones who mattered to me.

Cathy-1 was one of the worst thing I ever did — just walking away without a word. We ran into each other at an all-night mini-mart a few years later, and that was an awkward event. I was there to buy condoms, April was in the car, and Cathy-1 was working the register. I had always wanted to apologize and hoped she was doing OK, so it was nice to see that she was still alive, but she said "Hi, Doug," as she rang me up, and I said "Cathy," without even "hi." I should've said more, wanted to, but didn't. She was immediately selling a pack of cigarettes to the man next in line, and I walked away.

April was the one who hurt me worst, and the only one of the five who unambiguously broke up with me. It was nothing 'mutual', never would've been my idea, and ten years later, there's still a notebook with photos, mementos, a ribbon from her hair, and poems written for April. I haven't added to the notebook since a week after she dumped me, so I'm not totally crazy, but still, I kept the photos and mementos because… I don't know why…

And I kept the poems because I wrote them and thought they were actually good, so an hour ago I pulled that notebook off the shelf, and looked at those poems for the first time in years, not from wistful memories of April but because I thought I'd cheat and rewrite one of those poems for Sarah-Katherine. News flash — they're awful, syrupy things. I ought to throw that notebook away, and one of these years maybe I will…

In life's rear-view mirror, it seems accurate to say that with all these ladies, except Molly I guess, something seemed not quite right at the start, and I disregarded my misgivings, so the misgivings grew bigger.

With Sarah-Katherine, as with all the others, I have early-onset misgivings. Maybe it's all a big mistake. Even though I don't want a real relationship with her, an alarm sounds in my head because she doesn't want a real relationship with me. That's so stupid I have to laugh at myself, myself. Of course, all my real relationships have ended up sucking, so her not wanting one ought to be a tick-mark in this new lady's favor.

What today's mess of words all comes down to is, I don't know shit about shit about anything, except that one way or another it's going to hurt when it's over. That's what's happened every time, to me, and to five women I've known, but that's never stopped me yet, and won't stop me now.

I was cutting fish from mylar, oblivious, lost in fantasies of a pizza I can't afford, when Alicia started screaming, "Are you gonna put that back? You gonna put that back?" Alicia is the woman who was working the jewelry stand two tables down the street from me and the fish, and her shouting startled me. I didn't know what was going on.

There was nobody at Alicia's table. She was shouting more toward my table, and at first I thought she'd spotted someone trying to swipe a bong from the paraphernalia table between her table and mine. We get shoplifters sometimes, and I've seen vendors yell and threaten to arrest thieves, though I don't know how that would work, really. There are always cops on Telegraph Ave, but all they do is hassle the homeless and tell kids not to jaywalk. I don't think they'd want to interrupt that important work, just to handcuff a thief.

Not wanting to give chase without knowing who I'd be chasing and why, I stood up to survey the sidewalk scene and see what Alicia was hollering about. When I stood, rising up over the rack of fish that had blocked my view, I could see that two kids, maybe ten years old, were at my table, and they were the ones Alicia was yelling at. I scowled at them, and one of the kids opened his notebook and took a 'Scream' magnet out, and put it back on the rack he'd swiped it from.

"I wouldn't have taken it," he said sheepishly.

"Bullshit, kid. You would've taken it. You already had." And he would've gotten away with it too, if not for Alicia watching over everything. We vendors look out for each other. I pointed those two brats down the street, and they walked away, and I said thanks to Alicia and gave her a fish.

Memo to kiddies and other incorrigibles: There's a Gap down the street. Shoplift there.

♦ ♦ ♦

Sometimes you look at a stranger and just instantly know you'll hate him or her. At least, that happens to me. There came a woman, white, maybe 40, and she looked like someone who hadn't smiled since she was a kid, and I hated her. She had three adolescentish kids with her, and one of them hesitated for a moment, curious about the fish.

"Keep on walking," the girl's mom commanded. "These are very immoral fish."

I laughed long and extra-loud at that, making sure the mother heard me as she hurried away. Yeah, fish morals ain't what they used to be.

♦ ♦ ♦

Well, it's official, the cops get away with murder — again.

According to this morning's Chronicle, San Francisco's medical examiner, a known hack and unwiped ass named Boyd Stephens, has concluded that Aaron Williams died of "cocaine-induced acute excited delirium." That young man's death had nothing to do with the vicious beating administered by a dozen cops, witnessed by numerous nearby residents.

See, Williams was high on drugs, so the police had no choice but to tackle him, and handcuff him, then pepper-spray him three times, and kick his jaw, and beat him about the face and torso with their billy-clubs until he collapsed and a few more kicks and blows after he collapsed, and then shove his comatose body into a paddy wagon, and give him a 'rough ride' to the police station instead of getting him any medical attention until they finally noticed he'd stopped breathing. SFPD investigators say they've found "no convincing evidence" against any of the officers involved, so that settles that.

Is anyone surprised by this outcome? I'm not. Happens every time.

Hadn't seen one for a while, and didn't want to, so I froze and swore when I saw a roach climbing the wall above my typewriter. Quickly I splattered it with my dictionary.

It was male, I hope, a lone bachelor roach that might've been asleep inside my dirty clothes or a box of cereal when I moved from Pike's place to Judith's. It's gotta be the last roach here. I sure hope. Cuz I don't want to be the man who got this house infested with cockroaches.

♦ ♦ ♦

What seemed like a couple of hundred hippies and homeless and un-indicted co-conspirators came marching down the Avenue at dusk. As they approached I wondered what they'd be protesting — there's so much to choose from. "Free Mumia," or "Free Leonard Peltier," or "Free everyone in prison for drugs," or protesting the cops' murder of Aaron Williams or a thousand other black people, or a dozen other causes I believe in, but it was none of the above. This was just a wake-up-and-smell-your-stink hoot & holler fest, and it was beautiful.

Actually, "Boycott Christmas" was the first rallying cry I heard from them, but after only a few recitations that faded into "Fuck Wall Street" and then my favorite, a repeated chant of "Buy more shit, buy more shit, buy more shit"…

The guy selling t-shirts next to my fish-stand took it as an endorsement, and started shouting, "I have the finest shit, right here, so buy buy buy…"

I didn't have any smart-ass remarks. I just watched all the colorful, angry but happy people march past, protesting against whatever you got, and wondered why I wasn't walking with them.

Why am I sitting here selling cute but completely useless novelty fish? And when this gig comes to an end, what ridiculous thing will I be doing next, instead of marching with the people who've opted out?

♦ ♦ ♦

When I got back home, home bored me, me bored me, everything bored me, so I walked the new neighborhood, six blocks one way, four blocks the next way, eight blocks south, and then two blocks back to home, and you know what? I'd thought this was a boring neighborhood, but after exploring it, I'd say it's a very boring neighborhood.

Brooklyn might be more interesting, and I might be there soon.

This morning, like most mornings, I rolled the fish-cart to Telegraph Avenue, got there at about 11:40, and started asking around to see which vendor had the sign-in sheet. It's someone different every day, a volunteer gig, so there's no knowing without asking. Usually when you ask, though, you get an answer — it's Frank on the third block, or it's Chang on the second block. You walk to that block, find Frank or Chang with the sign-in sheet, sign in, and sell some damned fish.

Today was different. The answer to the question — Who has the sign-in sheet? — was Rinaldi. Never heard of him, and he was impossible to find. "I saw him walking thataway a few minutes ago," said one vendor, so I rolled my cart thataway, but where's Rinaldi? He was nowhere, so I asked someone else.

"Rinaldi was down by the market a while back," she said, so I wheeled the cart the other direction, toward the market, looking for a face I didn't know. When I asked a third vendor, I also asked for a description, and he told me Rinaldi is a white guy with wavy black hair, carrying a clipboard.

Wait — a clipboard? Schmuck alert! Rinaldi isn't a vendor, someone who'll be sitting at a table somewhere, and I can tap his shoulder to see the sign-in sheet. He's a clipboard-carrier, today's city bureaucrat.

The clipboard-carrier's job is to walk up and down Telegraph, (pretending he's) supervising the vendors, who of course need no supervision. What we do need, though, is the sign-in sheet — so why was it given to a wandering city schmuck, instead of to a vendor who'd sit in one place so you could find him and see the sheet?

I looked for Rinaldi for 45 minutes, but never found him. Another vendor was rolling her cart too, looking everywhere for the invisible Rinaldi, and we were both shouting, "Rinaldi! Is there anyone named Rinaldi?" I made three round trips the length of Telegraph Ave, pushing my cart instead of selling fish, before giving up, and setting up the cart un-signed near Durant Avenue, far from most of the foot traffic.

I'd like to take this opportunity to congratulate Rinaldi and the City of Berkeley for seeing to it that the today's sign-in sheet couldn't be found, so me and that other vendor lost almost an hour of selling time, and ended up in a shitty illegal location. Business was lousy, and I sorta suspect that's the city's ulterior motive. They don't want vendors on Telegraph at all.

Russia, 1917. Sure, it didn't work out too well, but it still seems like a good idea.

♦ ♦ ♦

I was in a shitty mood, and as soon as my table was set up, Berkeley's famous Hate Man came by. He's a homeless man who's offended if anyone says good morning or good afternoon. "Don't say good afternoon to me," he says, "when what you mean is you hate me! Say you hate me, damn it!"

So I said "I hate you!" and flipped him off, and he smiled and said he hated me, too, and then we said fuck you to each other, and he walked away. It's a treat to get hate from Hate Man. Cathartic. You gotta love the guy.

♦ ♦ ♦

Once the fish stand was finally set up and I'd had my much-needed blessing of hate, I sold fish all day. Like the old guy in Love and Death, the fish are my life, and for added fun, there are usually a few Christian wackos — righteous and self-righteous morons who object to seeing their sacred fish made into a novelty item.

I've gone round and round with complaining Christians more often than I've written about it, so I'm wary when someone's looking at the display but not smiling. They might be quietly deciding whether to buy a Cthulhu fish or a vampire fish, or they might be working themselves into a fury, getting ready to do me with Deuteronomy.

Some Christians are polite about their objections. Some shriek. Sometimes they only complain to each other, but loud enough they know I'll hear. Sometimes they quote the Bible at me. Sometimes they pray out loud. Sometimes they don't say anything, but simply sneer.

Typical was today's first indignant idiot, a mid-30s buppie who studied the fish display and frowned and sighed and asked, "Why are you doing this? Why are you putting this out into society?"

"Because it's funny," I said, but he frowned frownier, so I said what I usually say to diffuse people — that our fish aren't meant to be hateful insults to everything he learned in Sunday School. They're just a laugh, and that's allowed, ain't it?

Another guy yelled that the fish will earn me a ticket to Hell, but same as the earlier man, after he'd blown his BS at me he walked away.

It's part of the job, I guess, like false alarms if you're a fireman, obnoxious kids if you're a teacher, rude customers if you're working in retail or waiting on tables, etc.

It's the same story every time it happens, and it bores me to tell the same story again and again, so after this, I'm going to stop mentioning it in the zine when angry Christians tell me I'm evil or earning the wrath of God. Well, unless one of them takes a swing at me or something.

MONDAY — Today was a day off from working, and from zining. Slept late. Ate greasy food. Walked around the block. Took a nap. Ate more greasy food. Typed this, and now it's bedtime. Good night.

♦ ♦ ♦

TUESDAY — What with my move to Berkeley and Sarah-Katherine's visit, I'm just starting to read through the June issue of the zine, editing out the more pointless parts (it's all pointless, so it's hard choosing), making up phony names to put real people behind, inserting punctuation, and so on. It's plain it's going to be plain, a lousy and uninteresting issue, but that's happened before and never yet slowed me down.

♦ ♦ ♦

A guy with forearms like Popeye and tattoos on his tattoos walked past the fish stand. He looked like a thoroughbred Marine, and he had his little son with him, maybe six or seven years old. They stopped right in front of the fish stand, but didn't look at the fish. The kid was clearly distressed about something, holding back tears. What he was distressed about, I don't know.

"What did I tell you about crying?" said Daddy, in a voice too severe for Berkeley. Too severe for anyone to speak to a child that's loved.

"Big boys don't cry," the little boy sniffled.

This pissed me off, and I wanted to say something, but I come from a long line of cowards so I hesitated. I don't know anything about raising children, but I can guess how to do it wrong, and this was so wrong.

Then I calculated things. It was a sunny day, so all the vendors were out, and tables were lined up tight against each other. That big spinach-eating ape would nave to topple my table or crawl under it to get me, so I decided to be brave and stupid.

"Hey, kid," I said softly, loud enough for the kid but I was hoping not loud enough for his asshole father to hear. The little guy looked up at me, eyes red, and I said, "Big boys do cry. Men cry. Everybody cries, and it's OK to cry."

The kid looked at me for only a moment, then looked down at the ground, so I don't know if my words got through to him. Probably not. Something got through to his father, though. He took the kid's hand and marched away without saying anything. Last thing I heard was his son hollering, "You're holding my hand too tight, Daddy, it hurts!"

Dumbshit Doug. I shouldn't have said anything.

Between the fish sales and one or two weekly shifts at Black Sheets, I'm making enough money to survive, so there haven't been many odd jobs lately. I'm still willing to do anything legal for $5 an hour, but the flyers get ripped down by asswipes within a few weeks, and I haven't posted fresh flyers in ages, so there aren't many calls on my "I'll do anything" line.

A call came in yesterday, though. Some guy left a message saying he had a "wallpaper emergency," and needs wallpaper hung "STP." His message helpfully explained that STP means "sooner than possible," which is one notch beyond ASAP.

He left his phone number and address, and his address is San Jose. That's 50 miles south of San Francisco, and San Francisco is 15 miles west of me. I'd have to BART to Frisco, then CalTrain to San Jose, then somehow find the guy's house — which might be nowhere near the train station, and I don't know public transit in frickin' San Jose. I've been there maybe half a dozen times, and certainly never posted flyers there. It's a different damned area code.

I'm not doing it, and also not calling him back. He can pick his own no's: No, nothing about wallpaper could possibly constitute an emergency. No, I'm not working for someone who wants work done sooner than possible. And no, I'm not spending two hours — and two hours' wages — riding two trains to and from San Jose.

♦ ♦ ♦

Instead, feeling mysteriously motivated, I spent today sorting through my stack of accumulated mail. Between moving in, having a houseguest, and my general laziness, it had been three weeks since I'd even been to the maildrop — it's a train ride to the city now, not a quick bus ride like when I lived in SF.

The backlog of mail was a hassle, but I wanted to get it done STP, and I did. Dozens of envelopes full of my life are now in the mail to suckers connoisseurs of fine literature all across the globe. Maybe I sent one to you!

There were also letters, of course, which I almost never answer. People, please, consider the math. You can write me a short letter in a few minutes, a long letter in an hour, but you're not the only one who writes. I got nine chatty letters, just in today's mail, and I am not spending hours answering them. I've read 'em, and snipped excerpts that might be printed in the zine, but I can't be a pen-pal machine, and still have time to write a zine.

♦ ♦ ♦

Today's little triumph was getting a bunch of _Pathetic Life_s into the mail, but other than that everything has been boring since Sarah-Katherine went home to Seattle.

No, damn it, I'm not withering in my shell, pining away for her. I don't pine. I'm a loner, a hermit, a recluse, and the day I need a damned romance in my life will be, well…

... Today, I guess.

I rarely answer the personal letters that come to the zine address, but Sarah-Katherine has my home address, and her letters get answered lickety-split. She's still writing to me, and a letter from her came today, so I'm going to write back to her, right now.

THURSDAY — Who comes sexy-sashaying up to my fish stand this afternoon? The lovely Carlotta, who used to work with me and flirt with me at Macy's. She was surprised to see me, and me her, and we talked for ten minutes. She's unemployed — laid off from Macy's a few weeks ago, along with everyone else in my old department, from Babs to Kallie. Which reminds me, I ought to give Kallie a call.

This was the first I'd heard that everyone I knew is gone from Macy's now, but it's not surprising. Always knew that ship was sinking. It's why I jumped overboard.

Lottie is looking for a new job, has her application in all over San Francisco, but her husband makes good money so she says it's not a worry if it takes her months to find a new job.

She asked, "How in the hell did you end up selling fish?" and I explained how I'd done odd jobs, and how that had led to selling fish, but left out any mention of the zine. The zine is always on a need-to-know basis, and nobody in my real life needs to know.

Maybe because I'm so reclusive, a loner who's lonely… a pretty face gets my attention, and a pretty face that smiles at me gets my undivided attention. Just a few months ago, Lottie was the pretty face smiling at me, and I thought she was the most fabulous babe in the universe. Sometimes I had a sore arm from all the whacking off.

You think now I'm moderately obsessed with Sarah-Katherine? Look at the January issue of this zine for some real obsessing.

There was never any possibility of anything with Carlotta, of course. She's married and normal and perfectly accessorized every day. I'm fat, not normal, wearing a thrift store wardrobe. She flirted with me at Macy's, toyed with me and I enjoyed being a toy, and I melted for her like a grilled cheese sammich she'd never eat. And today on Telegraph, she never said a word that could conceivably be misconstrued as inappropriate.

Now I work up the street from a university campus, crowded even in the summertime, and see hundreds of attractive young women every day. I do dearly love the view — it's the only perk of the job.

So today one of the pretty women passing by was someone I once sorta knew, Carlotta, and we talked and laughed about old times, people we'd known. Then we said goodbye, and as always I rather enjoyed watching her walk away.

♦ ♦ ♦

I've wondered whether Sarah-Katherine is just the next pretty face that's got my attention by smiling at me. She has it, for sure… the pretty face, and my attention, and if she's toying with me like Carlotta did, at least she's not just teasing. If we're 'only' friends, we're friends with benefits. And she is a friend — we see the world the same way, as the rotten daily catastrophe it is.

There's no denying that I like Sarah-Katherine, more than she likes me. Probably that'll be a problem, and probably it's all a mistake, and if so, so be it. I've made bigger mistakes, and undoubtedly even bigger mistakes are yet to come.

When she comes to her senses, she'll walk away too, but for as long as she's smiling at me, I'll enjoy it.

♦ ♦ ♦

FRIDAY — Haven't gone to the movies all month, and tonight there's a Quentin Tarantino double feature at the UC Theater. I'd been hoping to see it, but I'm tired, sweaty and sunburned from selling fish all day, woefully behind on fleshing out these diary entries, and besides, the UC is such a gamble. Something always seems to go wrong there — missing reels, missing subtitles, too-talky customers, stale popcorn.

Whatever goes wrong at the UC tonight, I won't be there to see it, hear it, taste it. I'm skipping tonight's Tarantino, to read zines and eat peanut butter sandwiches instead, and think about things that need to be thought about.

When I'm selling Jay's funny fish on Telegraph Ave, there's also a little book she wrote, for sale on a corner of the table.

It's a zine, basically — a self-published, photocopied collection of short articles and clever poems she's written, including one piece that won a prize. There's some good stuff in there, and I re-read some pages of it now and again while eating lunch at the table.

(No, I'm not trying to sell you Jay's chapbook. If you're curious and send two bucks, though, I'll send you a copy, and even make sure the cash gets into the till.)

Jay's book is called What Lesbians Do, and underneath the title some smaller print adds, and Other Maladjusted Yet Informative Sex/Art Rants. The title gets your attention, and that's the idea, right?

Well, today it got a different kind of attention. A guy walked purposefully up to the fish-stand, pointed at the booklet, and said, "You'll have to remove this from your table."

"Excuse me?" was the best response I could come up with. It was early. I was sleepy.

"We've received a complaint that you're selling sexually explicit material, in violation of your street vendor's license. It's got to go."

I don't take orders unless you're my commanding officer, and this sounded like an order. Wearing t-shirt and cutoffs, the man looked like a tourist to me, but by his nauseating 'kiss my ring' demeanor, I surmised that he was either the Pope or a city employee.

"Well, first off," I said, "who the hell are you?"

He sighed and flashed a laminated ID card from his wallet, establishing that he was from the city's Department of Make Vendors Miserable, and he was here to do exactly that.

He said again, almost word for word, his spiel about sexually explicit material being prohibited, and I said, "Sexually explicit material? If you know where I can get some, I'd be interested." Then I handed him a copy of What Lesbians Do, and said, "Sorry, no naked pictures," as he thumbed through it.

That's when two vendors working near me came around to the front of the fish-stand, and started whining about the book, calling it "pornography." Slow as a sunrise, it dawned on me that they'd seen the zine's title, and gone to the schmuck in a t-shirt to have it banned.

Of course, neither of these ladies had actually opened the booklet to see What Lesbians Do. There's nothing in the text or illustrations that's particularly explicit, and these ladies lacked the courage to say anything to me about it. They'd literally judged the book by its title.

Ignoring the vendors, I explained to the schmuck, "This is a book of poetry." I spoke very slowly, as if I was talking to a moron, because I was. "It's been through the city's approval process, it's funny, it's not porn, and it costs two dollars—"

I almost added, "and if you want it off the table, there are ten copies, so that'll be twenty bucks please." But if you practice too much free speech to a government worker's face, it always makes things worse, so I shut up.

I was pissed off, though, and eager to argue, as the schmuck continued flipping through the chapbook, hoping to find titty pix or something, but nope.

The rude prude vendors were prattling on, and one of them said to the city schmuck, "This book is very tacky, not up to the standards of what's permitted on Telegraph Avenue."

"Neither are the horrid fish he sells," said the other vendor witch.

"Well, if tackiness isn't allowed," I said, "let's talk about the ugly pottery you're selling."

"OK, OK," said the city schmuck, cutting off the argument just as it was getting interesting. To me he said, "Has it been vetted?"

"Yes it has," I said, and it's true. That's another part of the head-scratching maze of bureaucracy Jay had to go through to practice capitalism in this town. It's illegal to sell on the street without a permit, and in order to get a permit you must first have a license to sell on Telegraph, and in order to get that, your merchandise must first be approved, which involves sworn affidavits and/or photographic evidence that everything you're selling is made right here in Berkeley (though it's an open secret that most of the jewelry sold on the Ave is imported from Thailand) and made by hand. The bureaucracy decided that Jay's poetry meets the definition of "made by hand," which makes this next sentence literally the truth: What Lesbians Do has been approved by the City of Berkeley.

The schmuck turned to the two witches, and said, "You'll have to take it up with the office." Then he put Jay's booklet back on my table, and walked away.

Victory!

Schmuck defeated! Witches defeated!

The witches walked back to their table without any further comment, so I decided not to gloat or taunt them. My table was between their tables, I'd be there for another three hours, and I didn't want three hours of their BS.

♦ ♦ ♦

In the late afternoon, there was BS from a different direction. Four Jesus freaks started working the pedestrians at my corner, sharing their tall tales of what wretched sinners they'd been before Jesus H Christ made them such swell people. They didn't just stand at the corner, they wandered around, preaching at people near the corner, which included me. One of them leaned over my table to complain about the sacrilegious fish, and added that Jesus loves me anyway.

"I love Him too," I said. "Why, I've been a Christian for twenty years, and I teach Sunday School at the Nazarene Church two blocks thataway." A 24-carat lie, of course, but it was the best line I could think of to bluff his bluster, and it seemed to work. He looked at the JR 'Bob' Dobbs fish I was wearing on my hat, couldn't reconcile it with what I'd just told him, and walked away confused, to bother other people instead.

The four of them took turns standing on a milk crate, preaching to the heathens of downtown Berkeley, but we heathens weren't very interested, and I don't think they made any sales or conversions.

There was a great moment that started when a panhandler in rags flashed them the Satan sign (index and pinky fingers up, which I wouldn't have known if Sarah-Katherine hadn't shown me (and thank you, dear)). The Christians saw the sign of Satan, were greatly offended, and one of them started screaming at the panhandler, so he stood on a very sturdy trash can and started counter-preaching their preaching.

"The Bible is full of lies," he hollered, "and Christians have killed more people than Hitler." Probably true, though I haven't seen the stats.

One of the Christians started screaming at the homeless guy, "You don't deserve His love, but God loves you!"

And this shaggy, skinny, bearded man — in sandals, yet — screamed right back, "Don't listen to them! They're Christians, and Christians are fools!"

"Oh yeah, listen to a homeless wino instead," one of the Christians screamed back.

The wino hoisted his paper-bag-wrapped bottle above his head and whooped, "At least this is something real! Maybe I worship a bottle but you fuckers worship thin air!"

"We worship the one true God!" one or two of them shouted back.

"I'll drink to that," said the bum, and he did.

"He'll drink to that," said one of the Jesus Freaks derisively, and another said, "The only thing you believe in is that bottle!"

The bum lowered the bottle, looked at it lovingly, shook his head and said, "Praise the Lord."

All this quickly devolved into so many shouts — "Worship the whiskey" and "May God forgive you" and "He'll forgive me as he's licking my ass" — I couldn't take notes quickly enough. Four street preachers against one unbelieving bum, and after a few minutes the bum mellowed and went back to panhandling. Gotta make a living.

"I'm going to Hell," he said, "so I'm gonna be thirsty. Spare change for a beer?"

The witch vendor next to me said something disparaging about the guy, so I gave him five bucks, a cookie from my lunch bag, and a pat on the back. He said thanks and vanished.

♦ ♦ ♦

So today I made some fish, made some money, and made some enemies. All in all, it was a fine and sunny day on Telegraph.

Last thing as I was packing up my stand, one of the vendors who'd complained about What Lesbians Do said to me, "Good night." She was looking right at me when she said it, so I cocked my head like a dog does when it's confused, and she added all nicely, "Hope you didn't take it personally," and gave me a phony smile.

Lady, I've been bothered by small-minded people before. You're not the first, last, or smallest-minded, and of course I take it personally, but also I don't give a damn.

Didn't say any of that, though. If I start saying things when I'm angry, I can go on all night, and I wanted to hurry home and eat peanut butter sandwiches.

When I half-opened my eyes at the crack of nine this morning, a cockroach was crawling across my shoulder in bed. From years of experience living with roaches, I instinctively slammed my hand at it, but instead of splattering it flew across the room.

A flying roach? They have wings, and I think some kinds of roaches fly, but that's rare behavior for American roaches, so I got out of bed and walked to where it had landed, gave it a closer inspection, and it was a cricket, not a roach.

Splendid. Judith has a terrarium full of frogs and other reptiles, and feeds them live crickets, and now and then a cricket gets loose instead of getting eaten. I'm not at war with crickets, so I congratulated it on its escape, and got dressed to go to work.

♦ ♦ ♦

With more than a hundred vendors working on Telegraph yesterday, I'd ended up in a sorta lousy location by the time I'd signed in, so Jay says I should go to the daily drawings for a while, at least on the weekends, in hopes of landing a better sidewalk slot.

She's right and it makes sense to be there, but it still stinks. Participating in anything is anathema to me, the hermit, and participating in something stupid is even worse. The daily drawing is just dumb. Some college boy must've thought up this system.

All the vendors show up in a crowd and toss their names in a hat every morning, then sit around wasting time until they're picked. Then they wait around in a long second line to choose a space, and then finally they know where to take their merch and set up shop. They do this every damned morning.

Was this system itself drawn out of a hat? Why not do the drawing by phone? Or do it the night before, so we could just get up and go to work like normal people? Why not have one drawing every summer, and then rotate the spots every day, so the last pick today is next-to-last pick tomorrow? So many better options seem obvious to me, including — no drawings at all.

With no drawings, I'd just wheel my cart to where I wanted to set up shop, and set up shop. If someone's already there, then I'd pick an empty nearby spot. Early risers would get the best spots, and late sleepers would get whatever spots were left, which seems fair to me. Guess the city thinks vendors would shoot each other over their vending locations, so we gotta have a system, a lottery, and city employees with clipboards in charge of it all.

So today I was up two hours earlier than I wanted to be, to endure another dumb daily lottery, surrounded by people I'm none too fond of. I'm still a rookie, but there are several vendors I already hate, because of their scowls, their idiotic small talk, their persnickety snits ("Your table is two inches into my space!"), or their crazy politics, which (even when I agree) I wish they'd shut up about.

And today was a little extra awkward, since I was wondering if some vendor would come out of the crowd to accuse me again of selling smut.

Some of the vendors hate me, because I'm quiet, because I'm merely an employee and not an arteest, or because I'm selling fish they find offensive. And some of them don't like me because, well, the truth is I'm not very likable.

A few of the vendors shouldn't be shot, though. Yacoob is cool. Umberto might be OK. Like co-workers at any job, some are easygoing, some are pricks, and most are mostly mindless.

Whoops, looks like I've written a rant, and gone all anti-social, too.

Ranting wasn't my intent, but I ain't taking back a word of it. When I'm sticky and grumpy like this, keep your distance, or I'll scratch my ass inside my pants and then shake your hand.

Today was a day way too hot, and my t-shirt was drenched with sweat before even leaving the damned lottery — 97th pick out of 99, so not sleeping in accomplished nothing, really, and hardly anyone bought any fish today, anyway.

Ah well, tomorrow will probably be worse. Time for a shower, half a dozen vanilla frosting sandwiches, and then it's time for bed.

It's not for certain we're moving to New York City, Sarah-Katherine and me. It's a possibility, something we're thinking about, talking about. Seems likely, though.

Today I'm thinking about the open arrangement she wants — we'd be friends, in separate rooms, flatmates who'd sometimes fuck but wouldn't own and be owned by each other.

I'm an old-fashioned boy, hesitant even to be ordinary boyfriend-girlfriend with anyone. An open relationship would've never occurred to me.

Maybe, though, it's exactly right for us. Maybe.

If she was "my girl," I'd have to work at being "her guy," something I've never been much good at. Just ask any woman I've dated. I'm lazy, so less effort sounds good.

I won't have to worry about earning and keeping the #1 position in her heart. Life isn't a pennant race, and my ego is tough enough it won't gnaw at me when I'm #2 instead, or #7. Long as I'm high enough in the standings to hold Sarah-Katherine's hand, life will be as sweet as cherry pie. Right? If she'll save a piece for me now and then, please.

♦ ♦ ♦

At least, I think that's what I think. I'm new at this, though. Maybe that's only what I want to think.

If we share an apartment and an open-bed policy, when Sarah-Katherine brings someone else home, when happy sounds are coming from her room while I'm alone in mine… I dunno. That's something I haven't experienced yet. Can't predict for sure how I'll feel about that, until someone I care about is down the hall fucking someone else.

Searching my mind as deep as I can dig, though, I don't think there's any jealous rage waiting to bubble up. The worst reaction I'd predict from me is just, "I wish it was me," but I feel that way about anyone being boinked by anyone — every time I see a pretty woman holding someone else's hand, I wish it was me.

♦ ♦ ♦

The math of the move is a more immediate problem. It's going to cost about $2,500 to get Sarah-Katherine and I relocated to New York City. That's the estimated price for bus fare, UPSing our few possessions, and making the damage deposit for a slum apartment in Brooklyn.

My half of that would be $1,250. I don't have it, of course. My lazy lifestyle has me earning just barely enough money to buy bologna and ice cream, pay the rent, and see a movie once in a while. I don't have a savings account.

My rent at Judith's place is supposed to be free in exchange for housework, but I haven't done any housework, so the rent is due tomorrow. After that, my net worth will be about $500 — Jay owes me $400 for fish work, and Bill owes me $100 for my work at Black Sheets.

There's a few hundred dollars stashed for emergencies, which leaves me about $750 short of the funds needed to move east with Sarah-Katherine.

I'll need to start living leaner than ever — no Twinkies, no movies, no meals except ramen, and absolutely no unnecessary or unexpected expenses.

And I almost said "no zine," but I did the math on that, too, and if I can believe my own jackass accounting, this zine breaks even. Plus it keeps me semi-sane, so I'm not giving up the zine.

If I scrimp on everything else, maybe I can scrape up $750 by the end of the year. That's a long wait, though, and I have no shame, so I'm also soliciting donations.

Yeah, that's right — you're about to be panhandled. You were kind enough to send cash for the zine you're reading, could you be kind enough to send something more than three damned dollars? Would it help if I said 'please'?

No hard sell tactics from me. Go ahead and tell me to stick it.

But hey, if you can afford it and if you're feeling generous, here I am, rattling a tin can. You kind contributions could make Berkeley a better place, by getting me out of town.

♦ ♦ ♦

Two of the too many letters recently received seem worth sharing:

Kids suck! Damn, I could relate to your screaming at the kids in the hall. I do the same thing and I don't feel bad. They are infringing on my personal space with their goddamn screaming and jumping and bouncing off the walls. Go the fuck outside or go back in your cage, I say.
In reality it's the adult's fault — they cram their children into these tiny apartments and expect them to be normal. They ain't (the parents or the kids). All I see in this building and neighborhood are pregnant women. Don't these fuckers know there are already too many people in the world? Why anyone would want to raise a family is beyond me. Blame it on religion, whether it be Christianity, Hinduism, whatever. All the major religions think procreation is the only reason for life.

—David R Wyder

Children are, I suppose, necessary to perpetuate the species, but there are far too many humans already. Enough already, with being fruitful and multiplying. That said, you seem to dislike children even more than I do, and maybe I lack the imagination, but when I see a pregnant woman I don't immediately think, Damn it, more kids.

—DH

♦ ♦ ♦

I admire your determination to remain cynical no matter what. Rave up in Factsheet 5? Prominently mentioned in The New York Times? Mysterious legions of fans? Pshaw, none of it dents your dour veneer!

—Jacque Rowden

I gotta be me. What else could I be?

—DH