Now that I’m scrounging for work again I have to economize, but I’m wondering if canceling my subscription to the San Francisco Chronicle was perhaps a bit too hasty. Though it’s overpriced and mostly a PR rag for the Chamber of Commerce and big real estate conglomerates, last week a Chron headline popped out of one of those archaic newspaper racks on Market Street which gave me pause on the good riddance to tabloid rubbish front. There, in glorious bold type above the fold, was a question which stopped me in my tracks: “Is Richmond the new pickle ball Mecca?” Hard-hitting journalism is alive and well at 5th and Mission, no doubt about it! Sadly, I still decided not to renew the subscription.
The “IRL” phase of my job search began on a comic note last week, albeit with the joke being on me. Arcadia’s regular letter carrier, Larry Somethingorother, had given me some skinny on not going postal while working for the post office, handing me an index card-sized plug for a USPS “hiring event” in the process. Since I hate wasting time and brain cells navigating websites of giant bureaucracies, I was happy to add “go to 5654 Geary Blvd. after 10am” to my July 27 to-do list. After all, it’s not a big deal to spend an hour or so reading on the bus to avoid being stuck online.
Upon arrival at the advertised building, I found not a trace of anything resembling the promised “in person hiring table in the retail lobby.” Assuming there was some logical explanation for the mini job fair being nonexistent, I stood in line to speak to one of the stamp-slingers on duty. When I handed my NOW HIRING mini-flyer to the lady working the counter she gave it a brief scan and told me she knew nothing about the touted employment shindig. She thought of another worker who might have information pertaining to it, but naturally that person wasn’t around just then. She asked if I could come back later. I explained that I would soon have to go to work so, uh, no. Any chance I could take three buses back out there the next day? Again I answered in the negative. Luckily she imparted the useful info that I could apply online. I kept my cool but did point out that the reason I lugged my ass out to 21st and Geary in the first place was to avoid applying via the internet, what with real live humans being more helpful than cyber cul-de-sacs. Oh well!
The joys of aging and mortality have been on my mind lately, and yes “joys” should be take with a block of irony-heavy salt. I’m fine but not all of my nearest and dearest are, to put it mildly. Throw in various other travails soulful types such as myself must endure in this thing we call life and you get Human Condition 101 shit kicking my ass. Suffice it to say that I’ve been appreciating the late-model Muddy Waters line “someone has made a mistake when they said life is just a bowl of fruit”* at a deeper level lately. On the other hand I have to grudgingly acknowledge that as much as I still hear Billie Holiday singing about gloom everywhere whenever I try to meditate, moments of bliss or something approaching it still occasionally manifest themselves given that I do get exercise, eat a lot of vegetables, and, more importantly, now have most of my CD collection covering a big chunk of wall space in my squalid bedroom (a big perk from clearing out office space that had turned into a storage locker). Of course, when it comes to reasons to live praises continue to be offered up to the SF Public Library along with the daily go fuck yourself I shout out to the universe.
Yes, that morning affirmation, a perverse echo of Neil Diamond’s existentially-fraught chestnut “I Am, I Said,” does wonders for my constitution. So does recalling a line cranked out by the hack advice columnist writing on deadline in Nathaniel West’s novel Miss Lonelyhearts: “Life is worthwhile, for it is full of dreams and peace, gentleness and ecstasy, and faith that burns like a clear white flame on a grim dark altar.” Admittedly, the character who types that sentence is less than sincere and the book wouldn’t be out of place perched next to Sartre’s Nausea, but it’s good stuff when you’re craving a delusional Hallmark moment.
Back in the real world, we’re still getting rid of the remaining stock at the Arcade, which is nice because I need another paycheck in order to cover Pacific Film Archive tickets. Happily, the work entails toiling alongside several of my favorite humans, contact with whom continues to be a saving grace. Patrick is pretty much in locked down with laser focus on deadline mode but can still crack wise when he feels like it; Andy the Canadian is a solid co-worker and stellar human who I always enjoy chatting with; and Gent’s demented sense of humor and way with words serves to further enhance my final days of jobsite contentment.
Despite the good company, it’s sad packing up so many darn books that I’ll no longer get to see the hoi polloi peruse and sometimes purchase. Last time around I mentioned a few key titles on the staff pick front. Luckily for you, there are plenty more where those came from. Fasten your seat belts, my friends, while I throw out a few other tried and true Arcadian recommendations before I sign off on this latest column for the Dispatch archives!
Gent noted that when he was working at City Lights Bookstore he made a point of showcasing stuff which couldn’t be found elsewhere. One of those bad boys, which I loved, was George Sanders, Zsa Zsa, and Me, a wildly entertaining, sharply written memoir Patrick also promoted. I felt good foisting it on various customers searching for smart entertainment and am going to miss doing so. Maybe I’ll hang out at Bird and Beckett (conveniently located near the Glen Park BART station) and force it on browsers in that fine bookshop. George Sanders, Zsa Zsa, and Me‘s author, David Slavitt, knew both celebrity actors of the title while a film critic in the Fifties, and he adroitly captures the bizarre world of their celebrity bubble. In doing so, he deals with matters of the heart and soul in engaging, insightful prose which makes this delicious treat hard to put down. It’s not an entirely happy-go-lucky ride, as Sanders did commit suicide, but for you lovers of darkly sardonic communiques the content of the great actor’s final note is worth remembering: “Dear World, I am leaving because I am bored. I feel I have lived long enough. I am leaving you with your worries in this sweet cesspool. Good luck.”
On a more upbeat note, I was gratified at how much Professor Podell, my main consultant on arcane theater and film history, enjoyed a copy of Hotel Kid: A Times Square Childhood I mailed him from work. Stephen Lewis, who for years wrote children’s cartoons and educational films (TMI? I think not!), wrote this fine entry in the literate but never humorless memoir sweepstakes. Patrick turned me on to it and I in turn worked tirelessly, or maybe tiresomely, to get Arcade patrons to scarf it up. Anyone interested in fabulous New York City living during the Depression and World War II should check this baby out; relish descriptions of staff and residents at the swank as all get out Taft Hotel, where Lewis grew up, and remember to thank me after having done so.
I tried to range broadly enough in my page turning to cover swaths of several sections in our dear departing Arcade, which, what with my scattered-by-nature brain and prioritizing of reading over most other human activity, wasn’t overly difficult. It helped that Patrick stocked such interesting books. Naturally our noir and crime fiction nook was kind of a default corner where I steered both criminally-curious readers and people annoying me with requests for a traditionally moronic beach read. In this department I was quick to plug Dorothy B. Hughes and Dolores Hitchens as well as Hammett, Chandler, and Ross Macdonald; alas, aside from Walter Mosely, most contemporary crime writers bore me to tears. Though shelved with literary fiction, Ann Petry’s The Street and Richard Wright’s The Man Who Lived Underground, two wildly underrated 20th Century depictions of the perils of LWB** in the allegedly-liberal North of the USA, rounded out the gushing about noir.
The Man Who Lived Underground, Wright’s follow up to Native Son, was deemed too negative by his dumbass publisher, who probably didn’t like Dostoevsky either. It languished in a drawer before finally being put out for the first time a few years ago. I’m sure that if you dig into what I consider Wright’s masterpiece you’ll agree that much respect is due the Library of American for sending it out into the world after decades of neglect. Additional praises unto Patrick for ordering it and encouraging me to put any title I loved on a display stand, yet one more reason he’s the best employer I’ll ever have. And then some!
Bye-bye until next time. Stay away from long Covid and rampant fascism, and if we’re both lucky I’ll see you in the funny pages.
*From the song “No Escape From the Blues,” off the stellar 1978 album I’m Ready. If you’re a blues purist and disagree with that superlative, no problem, I understand. But do me a favor and keep it to yourself.
** Living while Black, a duh.