Went to the Waldenbooks on Geary.

At Powell Street there were two evangelists, the usual black man in the white suit, red feathered hat, and AIDS pasteboard, and an old white guy with a megaphone, which I thought was kind of unfair. On the corner of Powell and Geary was yet another evangelist, waving a black, floppy-covered bible, pacing and declaiming alongside a meek little old lady who was wordlessly passing out tracts. 

Then I passed a demonstrator, apparently against the Iran Iraq war. A lady on the street behind me crowed, “I’ve never seen a real, live demonstration before!” She was plainly from out of town.

In front of Neiman Marcus I walked past a group of people demonstrating against the wearing of furs.

This is a very opinionated city.

At Waldenbooks I bought a new diary (this one is about finished) and a paperback true-crime anthology.

The black evangelist with the red feathered hat and pasteboard was for years a fixture at the Powell Street Cable Car turnaround, where he could moodily grumble into his microphone at a captive audience of tourists queuing for a ride. I remember him as very dapper, with sunglasses and a well-trimmed beard in addition to his hat and three-piece suit. He would bring a small carpet to mark out his territory, and a chair where he sat next to his sign, along with a posted warning that he would charge a fee to anyone who photographed him — thus following the venerable San Francisco tradition of making a spectacle of oneself, then objecting because people notice. (The Castro did the same thing for years, its residents costuming wildly on Halloween Night, then complaining afterwards in letters to the Chronicle because “outsiders” were taking pictures.)

I was a regular in the area, so the black evangelist’s occasional growls were frequently aimed at me. Whenever I walked by, he’d raise his microphone to his lips and mutter into it something about women who weren’t virgins being unworthy of marriage. Obviously, that ship had sailed and there was nothing I could do about it, so I never bothered to respond.

Thursday, March 10

At work today Charlie took a few pictures of Trevin, Shelly and me. I had dressed up in a mini-skirt and black sweater, though I didn’t have much makeup on. If the photos are black and white it shouldn’t make much difference.

I took the cat carrier back this morning. As I went in, the blonde lady breathed the word “safe,” with relief. I hope the fact that the carrier’s been chewed on one side doesn’t get her into trouble.

Friday, March 11

This morning on my way to work, I heard that Ronn Owens would be interviewing Gerald Straub, the man who used to work for Pat Robertson. Because I didn’t want to miss it, I bought a cheap transistor radio at the Montclair Pharmacy and listened to the interview with the earplugs while I worked.

Straub is a voice in the wilderness. He wants to talk about the Robertson political agenda and everyone else wants to talk about money and sex scandals in TV evangelism.

We finished the first section today. Tomorrow, Charles and Shelly will take it in. We developed the pictures Charlie took yesterday and decided on one where I am being squashed between Shelly and Trevin. If none of those had turned out, we would have used a Christmas shot in which I’m sort of leering into the camera looking like one of the children from Village of the Damned.

Ronn Owens was San Francico’s morning talk show DJ, in the prime spot of 9:00 am. He prided himself on being the “reasonable” alternative to Rush Limbaugh. For me, Owens is best summed up by his response one morning to the single black caller who phoned in to answer Owens’ question to his viewers, “Are you better off now than you were before Reagan was president?”

“No,” the caller had said. “I’m WORSE off. And so is every other black person I know.”

“Oh come now,” Owens had responded, in his friendly, “reasonable” tones, “I’m better off. Everyone else so far who’s called says they’re better off. Don’t you think you’re being just a LITTLE myopic?”“

This morning after an abortive attempt at filling out the Taxpax form ( I really do have what amounts to a phobia about filling out such forms.) I discovered a premium notice from State Farm — $375 – due February 28. All of the forebodings and terrors I had felt staring at the TP form crashed in on me, and for a few minutes I just paced around the living room, flapping the premium notice and wailing inside.

At 8:30 I drove down to the Cat Clinic to pick up the cats. There was some trouble running out my bill on the computer. The vet complained to me that the program was lousy and kept screwing up billing and inventories. She assured me Capone (the bobcat hybrid) had been good. This surprised me. His last vet gave him an F in deportment on his card. He and Lucius (the Abyssinian) had refused breakfast that morning. Then she went back to get him.

There were a few thumps and the faint – almost just the impression – of a surprised voice attempting to soothe. When she emerged from the back, she was carrying the carrier in one hand (with Capone in it) and Lucius in the other. Capone refused to allow Lucius in the carrier with him, and my attempts at conciliation just got a few more growls. She leant me a cardboard carrier for Lucius, explaining that she wasn’t supposed to do this, and would I please return it tomorrow morning.

In the car, with Capone in the carrier in the back, and Lucius in the cardboard carrier up front, Lucius went berserk, screaming for help, moaning, and tearing at the inside of the box. I got so frazzled I turned the wrong way down Polk Street and had to do a U-turn to get out. Lucius managed to get his paw out of one of the holes and snag me viciously in the arm. I hope the woman at the vets doesn’t get into trouble when I return the carrier. He chewed it up pretty badly.

Once home, I called the insurance office and the male secretary who answered assured me that if I got the check to the office that day, it would probably be all right. I rushed over to Berkeley and wasted about fifteen minutes looking for the office on Shattuck. When I found it my insurance agent let me in. Like the other man he was – mostly – reassuring, and I left after writing him a check and giving him my day number. I got to work at 10:15. Charlie made no comment, except to give me a bangle watch that had come in the mail as a sample.

The 20^th anniversary issue is going to contain pictures of the staff. Charlie may have a picture taken of the new set-up. If I’m in it, I hope I can get my glasses off and my lipstick on before he snaps the shutter.

And now to take another shot at filling out the Taxpax form.