The Myth of Moral Decline

Friday January 10
I am in Cudahy, a city I never knew existed. We're doing a workshop on incorporating games involving body movement to promote languare understanding and social cooperation. We did this knotting up game where you join hands at the center of a group and try to untie yourself without letting go hands. I knotted up with a finely shaped Latina name Mathilde in such a manner as to stir the penis.
Now we're out on the yard watching a grad student give a leson to a group of students. They have towels and balls. A simple lesson, but the kids seem to enjooy it. I'm falling asleep. If I write I'll stay awake. We went to Sizzler for lunch, but I didn't eat because I had eaten two homemade burritos during the break. The burritos were for sale to raise money for a student trip to Washington D.C.. I'll have to pick up my prescription at Larchmont and rent a couple movies tonight. Get high, read and write. Last night, Getoff and I saw a few bands at the Troubador. It was mostly uneventful and unremarkable.
I'm home now at the desk; radio, TV, Mac: on. Took a wee rip. Gonna make a Garden Burger. Read the foreward by Saul Bellow to The Closing of the American Mind which Getoff said was a must. I don't know if I accept the premise that America is in moral decline. I think morality is unquantifiable and if it could be measured, you would see that morality and immorality have been about equally balanced from the beginning. Talk of moral decline is a way for holier-than-thou types to reassure themselves of their moral superiority. Actually, look at the the history of man. Has he ever been more moral than now? Slavery has been abolished. Genocide is frowned upon. When was it more moral? In the fifties, when blacks rode the back of the bus and weren't allowed to vote? Is this the better moral period we have declined from? To say that university professors close minds in ridiculous, unless you believe the only people that get into universities believe everything they're told and the the only people telling are the professors. If anything the amount of competing opinions people are exposed to today makes it eve difficult to make up one's mind, let alone "close it". I suppose the moral decline camp liked it better when young people had only their parents to believe.
My mom called. We lamented the lack of freedom on the freeways. The fifteen minutes are waiting. Lisette said that I was nice. I am nice. But not always. Am I really hungry? I ate two homemade burritos. I was dumb today. Soul coughing. Sky dimming. Smashing Pumpkins. The Four Seasons turned inside the Windstar MiniVan via Vivaldi. I got a Dodger ticket magazine in the mail today. I thought my transcripts were in a manila envelope that came, but it was information to be in something called the Chevron Club. Petroleum rip-off. What are you thinking about?

Thursday January 9
Shirelle just got home. Oh, shit. Getoff just called. I told him I would go up to the Troubador with him to see some bands. It will be harder to write, now. At the in-service today, we did a bunch of problem-solving and logic tests. Went to TGIFridays with the princial and some other teachers. I played NTN and put Sharp at the top of the leaderboard for the month.
Shirelle presented me with a six-pack of Pale Aspen beer. She said, "Look, Honey, I got you some beer."
I said, "Yeah, right, like you won't drink it all before I get to it."
She said, "No. I don't like that beer."
I looked at it. "Pale Aspen. Why not?"
"I don't like those microbrewery beers."
She's on her third one now.
"I thought you said those beers were for me?"
"I don't know," she said. "I decided to try one, and they were good."

I read a nice little essay by Louise Erdrich called "Skunk Dreams". She contemplates and episode in which a skunk cuddled up to her while she was sleeping outdoors in a sleeping bag. This is incident is a springboard to a dream of a fence in a forest. She later encounters this fence while awake in New Hampshire.

Shirelle is making Hamburger Helper.

Tomorrow: Cudahy--Some workshop on incorporating body movement into learning.

I mentioned Edward Abbey to the group today, and talked about blowing bridges. They stared at me with their conservative faces.

I ate a little tuna salad on an old kaiser roll. Did a few threshhold push-ups. Shirelled made hot link sandwiches with cheese and mayo. Brand new Cranberries. Called the pharmacy. Still haven't gotting this golf thing straightened out.

Calling John at United Rock Products. You ask the operator for the mill. They play country music on hold. I think I'll floss after this. Then I'll do those fifteen minutes. What else? Look through the bag. Read Neruda. Local H. Shirelle dropped a plastic-wrapped brownie on the desk. Check e-mail. Sent that letter to Scott.

January 7, 1997
"Move up the side, let the man on through" is the song on the radio. It sounds like something they would play when Mike Tyson jogs out to the ring. Now it's Beck with my favorite song "Loser". My friends are calling about becoming teachers. Justine, Kayo, and my brother have called about it in the last few days. To whom will I send my poems? Julia and or Linda. The year passed with little reflection. Hopes for the new year--It's copascetic. I got a letter from my stepmother and a card from Scott Biddlecombe in Australia. I shall write them back promptly. I don't feel too bad, but Shirelle and I had a row. She pulled on me two nights in a row of surprise guest stars and again last night. I revolted. I had been planning to treadmill and write. I was so disheartened by the intrusion that I retreated to the bedroom and pouted listlessly.

Jan Miller wrote about the people of Hayden Lake, Idaho, "...their thinking is what true America was suppose [sic] to be. Everyone feels that you are accountable for your actions and if you cross the line you pay. In the paper they list everyone who has an outstanding warrant, civil suit, bankruptcy, etc."

Don'tcha sometimes wish the press would stay out of people's personal lives?

I ate all these leftover shrimp that Shirelle had made for her an her girlfriend over which to chat. This don't-end-a-sentence-with-preposition thing is funny.

What else? Adrianna Gonzalez was my first TA. She's subbing for me tomorrow while I attend some workshop at the Levy Center County Office of Education in Torrance. I'll tread tonight and read that essay with God's help, right, old pal?
I ate an orange not long ago. Levi asked me how they know that light travels a hundred and eighty-six thousand miles per second. I guess they use some mathematical formulae and some high-tec, photosensitive timing equipment.

Hole is on the radio. Shirelle went to Kristina's. The Thing is in the kitchen. I smoked a little. I've got some sniffles, some difficulty breathing, need to call the pharmacy. I'll type for fifteen and then go with some other files. Yawn. I need new guitar strings. I'm wise enough to know the possibility of drawbacks is not non-existent.

I'm For Not Dickin' Anybody Over

Tuesday January 7 1997
I was bummed to have left this silly little book on my desk at school over night, unable to write to the botton of the next page like I had wanted. And I was so fecund yesterday. Armageddon was confirmed yesterday when Peter O'Malley announced the sale of the Dodgers to Fox News Corporation. The business climate of baseball has succumbed to utter corporate evil. Baseball will never be the same. Ticket prices in LA will go out of reach for the average fan. Just when the Dodgers were on the verge of a dynasty, the rug gets pulled out. Our five consecutive Rookies of the Year will go their own ways in search of more dollars. Fucking Jerry Reinsdorf and Wayne Huizenga are responsible for this. O'Malley is a wise man who couldn't face he disgusting level of greed that was imminent in negotiations with Piazza, Nomo, Karros, Mondesi, et. al. A dark day. The bells toll for baseball. Ugh.
I have to e-mail Linda. I can't find Rob's e-mail address. I need to phone Julia. I soke with Pam today about a computer network. She was sympathetic, if not understanding, to the difficulty I face as point man. I need to work out a whale-watching trip,. I need to go to Marti Bravo's class tomorrow and call the fucking CLAD office. I guess I'll send Julia and Kathleen copies of Miracle Mile and my two new poems. There's nothing on TV tonight. Isn't that nice. I'll just watch Jeopardy and Simpsons and treadmill off some of the bloating Michoacan lunch I ate today. Read a few Neruda poems and one of The Best Essays of 1994. Tomorrow I'll talk about what Mrs. Pantoja mentioned about cramming. When I'm one here, I'll puff some and type for 15 minutes and pick some other files until 7:00. I'll stare at Jim from eight o'clock until nine o'clock. Then I'll lie in bed and read. Shirelle got a thousand dollar check fo her lines on a TV show called "The Parent 'Hood." She brought back $184 worth of groceries from the supermarket. The new washer and drier kept tripping the circuit breakers. I had to run an extension cord along the wall to the plug on the other side of the ktichen so they wouldn't be sucking off the same outlet the refrigerator does. Lord save me! Help me do the right things. The song "In God's Country" just came on the radio. I love this song. I get love from this song. It does have the big beautiful sound of Nature's God. Really.
Well. At the bottom of this page I'll have written through another book. This one is equal to the first. Isn't that disappointing? Equality.
Men make the Adam and Eve myth, write it, anyway, but women dictated it.
Cool. Bruce Springsteen.
You know what I'm for? I'm for not dickin' anybody over. That's what I'm about. I do feel good now. Nice high.
Ah, but there are always consequences, even to joy. Kayo just called. He wants to teach. We're supposed to golf Saturday. I'm going to call Hansen Dam. Shirelle's rapping in the kitchen. Mrs. Pantoja talked about cramming words together.

Tap Thoroughly

Monday January 6. 1997
A ferocious wind blows today. The Hollywood Freeway was littered with uprooted trees. I'm at school now. Only sixteen kids came. They have been off of school for two months. Alejandro said he heard on the radio that these winds were from Alaska. The trees on the 170 were toppled east to west, on the 5, north to south. Out the window, debris blows west to east. The power flickers on and off. The children are working conentedly on a page of four digit multiplication problems.
I wrote in the memob pad a little poem about Christmas trees laying like winos in the gutter, hacked from the earth, stripped of their glory, under the palms, in the city of angels, needles dry and blowing away, the wooden crosses that were their stands, stand upright while the trees lay prone, suffering the hangover of the world's joy.
I really ought to be planning some lessons. I selected a volume of Neruda poems from my bookshelf. I'm hungry. We've put off doing laundry while waiting for the washer and drier I bought to be delivered this evening. I'm out of underwear. Freeballin'. I have to tap thouroughly after I urinate to keep from having wet spots around my zipper.

1-5-97 Sunday
I just finished reading Mokey Wrench Gang--Good, old-fashioned, subversive adventure. Keen insights on man'ss destruction of the environment. Straight forward storytelling. "If you don't drink, don't drive, for freedom, not safety, is the highest good." Carlin, Getoff, and I went up to the Dublin Whiskey Bar and watched two football games. New England beat the Steelers, Carolina beat Dallas. I predicted all the outcomes this weekend. Green Bay will win next week. Jax vs. New England is harder to call. Tomorrow school starts up again. I should be alseep right now. I napped form like six to nine, though, when I got home, after Shrill, and I boned. Now I'm not sleepy. I should do the 15 minutes, and I have Bible to read, and what about e-mail? I wrote a weird poem last night about swallowing a shard of Corningware. It sounds a little homo. Thing was supposed to meet us at the bar, but he never came. Gavin and I worked the crossword during commercials. We had a great spot on a deep black leather couch, more like a bed, the tv was right in my line of vision, my neck positioned comfortable. I thought some things in bed last night, but I've forgotten them now. We stopped at Pink's on the way home. Ugh. I did thirty minutes on the treadmill tonight for the first time in weeks, maybe months, while I finished my book. We played darts and pool. My pool game was decent, but my dart game sucked. Our waitress was a beautiful young blond girl with sparkling blue eyes. She wore a snug-fitting v-neck t-shirt cutoff midriff. I said to Gavin, "I'd spend half an hour on her belly button." A delcious inny it was. Dallas receiver Michael Irvin appeared to suffer a psychological meltdown on the first play of the game. Sins catching up. Deion Sanders got knocked out of the game and wheeled off the field. It was all nearly as beautiful as the waitress' belly button. Justice, however, has still not overtaken Erik Williams. I'm starting to feel tired. What will we do tomorrow? Time to re-dedicate. Time to enact Effective Positive Challenge

Brad Pitt and I

1-4-97
I watched football games today. Green Bay beat San Franciso, and Jacksonville shocked Denver, though I suspected that upset all along. Last night we went bowling at Hollywood Star Lanes. It was a big group of lively people. Shirelle has a strong energetic group of friends. My friends and I are not like that. They've all stuck together since high school, Fairfax hipsters. Few of them have carreers or families, still live at home or on incomes subsidized by their parents.
Shirelle is going up to Cafe Largo to see her girlfriend Ileyni sing. Thing's girlfriend is taking him to Ed Debevic's for his birthday. The Guatemalan Insanity Pepper is an idiot. is superficiality is appalling. I should not rip on people. My oberservations are all so mundane.
I was watching Seinfeld while I heated my leftover spaghetti in the microwave. The bell went "ding". Kramer cut himself on a coffee table he had made from a windshield. I laughed and dropped my plate on the counter and cut myself trying to catch it. Isn't it ironic? Oh, God, give me some inspiration. Maybe if I walk down to that underground tea place on La Brea. I wonder if any cool chicks ever go there.
I ate the spaghetti that I scraped off the counter onto a new plate. There were shards of the old plate in it. I tried to pick them out of my mouth when I felt them. One cut my tongue, and the salty blood mised well with the tomato sauce. There were a few gritty mouthfuls. This morning I shit out an arrow-shaped piece of ceramic plate. I pulled it out of my butthole after wiping my ass. I couldn't believe how sharp it was to have caused so little discomfort.
Shirelle asked, "What are you going to do tonight? Stay home and watch "Legends of the Fall?"
"Yeah," I said. "I'm going to jack off to it. I'm going to pretend Brad Pitt and I are taking turns buttfucking each other."
"Why do you have to be gross?"
"Who am I talking to? You're Shirelle Buttler, right? You love that picture. Gross. You're the one'd be jacking off over that."
I'm an ass. There's no denying.
Ebonics is a joke. How about we validate surf slang? Maybe I'll watch "Slingblade" tonight.
My life is a bore. Too safe. I should quit my job. Live poor. Just write. Carlin gave me a couple of Band-Aids. I wonder how my forbears are weathering the storms in Idaho.