A Good Writer Could Write It Remarkably

Sat., Sept. 9, 1995
Did it three times this morning. Felt fine and chipper. After that we watched X-men cartoons. Shirelle called me a seX-man. Showered. Sang silly on the way to Bob's Big Boy for the all-you-can-eat cholesterolfest breakfast bar. Read the Times.
When we got home I spent a hella time replacing a radiator hose on the pick-up. To begin with, it was down under a tangle of other engine parts, and even afer I removed everything I could that was in the way, I still couldn't get my wrist at an angle that wasn't difficult to get at the clamp which, as it turned out, was rusted shut. I WD-40ed it. That didn't work, so I dug up some wire snips and cut the clamp off. The rubber hose was baked on, and had to be scraped off. Listened to the Beastie Boys while I did it. I was covered with grime by the time I was done; my fingernails are still black.
I mailed a letter to Teddy Carman.
I've been putting off seeing my dad. Awkward and hurtful always somehow. LAPD values. Fuckitol.
Peachtree came over. He has just returned from two and a half months journeying through Turkey, Italy, Austria, Slovenia, Romania, Russia, etc. He didn't say much about it, though. We watched USC demolish San Jose State, UCLA beat BYU, Notre Dame over Purdue, and the Dodgers beat the Pirates. A fine day for sports. Shirelle brought twelve Bud Lights. The Insanity Pepper and Danny came up with a video of knuckleheads who fight in a tournament with no rules except no biting and no eye-gouging. After that, we went to the Wild Goose to watch, uh, the DeLaHoya/Hernandez fight. The Golden Boy won easily. From there we went to a Los Feliz party, which was boring, so we went to the Dresden Room which was also boring. Everywhere we went everyone was just sitting around, so we went to my place, and we just sat around. Peach played guitar. Thing's girlfriend is fine. Blah blah blah. I'm not interested in detailing. Nothing was remarkable. A good writer could write it remarkably. A keen observer would have something to say.
Should I make some spaghetti? I already ate a bowl of Nutty Nuggets, and a few bites of Shrill's Big Mac, and some lasagna, and a couple carrots dipped in peanutbutter.
Lah dee dah. After this I need to turn on the computer and write an official paragraph. I think I'll work on the Tarpits story.
Old Mexican music is playing at the house across the street.~For a second I was in their living room.~ I'm reading The Dead Zone. I enjoy it, even if it's not much of a challenge.
My brother got whacked with a forty.
Babble babble babble. Almost there. Flash. Mtn. party. Tailgate party.

9-8-95 sex, sex, sex

Sept. 8, 1995

Today is actually Sunday, September 10th, but for the sake of posterity, I'll faithfully fill in nine pages of this mother so I can be caught up. Maybe if I write wordily, as some have accused Dickens of doing, being paid by the word as he was, and if I write with b i g s p a c e s between each word, and if I use big letters, maybe I can get through the nine pages without saying anything.

On Friday afternoon, the Guatemalan Insanity Pepper said, "Let's go get a beer." I had already allowed myself that I could that night, so I agreed to go. We went through all the usual Where-do-you-want-to-go-I-don't-know-where-do-you-want-to-go bullshit, even though GIP had known all along we were going to the Wild Goose. I protested that it was too far, and that I wanted to get home in time to make plans to go out somewhere semi-legitimate that night. He said we'd only stay an hour or two, but we were there more like six, because the Russian stripper he likes was there, and that's how long it took her to get all his money. I drank beer and turkey rocks and got beat on the pool table four out of five times for beers by the house hustler, a skinny old black dude who rarely loses, but it was worth it watching him rack the one he lost and go to the bar for my beer. "The Goose," as the Pepper affectionately calls it, has the feel of an old west can-can club, with all its wood and brass, but the girls' dancing is alot more provocative than can can. There seem to be a hundred of them writhing all over the place with two or three on the main stage at any given time. It's really pretty comfortable, better-lit than most strip clubs, no cover charge, reasonable pitcher prices, decent food, four big screen TVs, and friendly girls. Their dancing is exquisite to watch, an art form like ballet. It's divinely stirring, the form and motion of the female body. What's so seedy? The tease of the lap dance, which I avoid at twenty dollars for two songs, though I'm not sure it wouldn't be better spent than the money I throw away on lifeless alcohol.

Afterward we stopped by Demona's. She was talking sex, sex, sex, all night and all about "hitting the spot." I went to the bathroom and poured my beer down the sink. Shirelle and I went to her house, we did it, but we didn't finish, I was too drunk. Made it up the next morning. I learned from the GIP later that he went to the Lava Lounge for some more drinks, stopped on the way home to talk to a prostitute, and was harrassed by a couple of LAPD, but was ultimately turned loose, drunk off his ass, and he just drove his Montero a few miles to look elsewhere.

I spent too much money on useless bullshit, looking back on it. Ugh. If I'm going to spend money in a club or a bar, I wish I made rewarding acquaintances, had some enlightening conversation. Oh well.

The Dodgers beat the Pirates. Piazza had two two-run homeruns.

I Had to Use Scotch

The Guatemalan Insanity Pepper's watering the lawn again. It saves his soul. Lucky bastard, redemption comes easily to him.

Ol' Rawler called. He didn't get the stories and pictures I mailed last week. I probably didn't put enough postage on it; It was so over-stuffed I had to use scotch tape to seal it. I feel sabotaged. It was important to me that he and An and I have a reference point to talk about (my) writing.

Shirelle called. She wanted to know why I haven't slept with her this week. "Don't take it personally," I said. "I need to preserve time to write." She seemed to accept this reluctantly. Am I a dick?

I added a half page to Borderline Psycho, about the one-armed biker. I had set a pre-arranged and grandiose scheme of spending three hours writing--a half-hour on each of six different stories. I began an outline and character analysis for Borderline, and spent the next two hours watching "Coogan's Bluff", a diverting, sexist, Clint Eastwood cowboy-cop romp through 1968 New York. Pretty close to how I was conceived.

Ball called. He invited me to the big mountain party for drugs and live music . 'Cid and the others will be there. There's also the De La Hoya fight Saturday night. I'll get high in the mountains all day and drive down the long and winding road back to LA to watch the fight. That's a good plan.

Peachtree and Walters and I have tentatively agreed to look for a place to rent Sunday.

I started the garden with the kids today. We planted California poppies and pansies and cebolla. I told Andres I'd give him a story. Tomorrow. Lots to do. Assign notetakers to the garden. Arrange the Tar Pits trip. Take the kids to the library for the flag info. Teach the two-step problem-solving. Computer. Balls. What the hell else? Gotta get down to the nitty gritty. Tweak some nerves. L.S. So much to do. No time for regret. Tomorrow I may have a beer. Zane has a cold. "Why's it all wet, dude--Ew! Is that your snot?" We did a half hour or more (My watchband broke) of exercise at school today. I ate half a quesadilla, a bran muffin. spinach and fish, barley nuts with non-fat milk, and I did fifty-five push-ups. The book says to pray for guidance, courage, and humility. Guess I'll do that now. Amen.

Voodoo and Baseball on Hispaniola

Oh, don't read this. It's totally boring. Remember, though, I was a very young man when I wrote this, a fool...

Sept. 6

Oh, man, I've got to go to bed. For the second night in a row, I am writing these pages that are supposed to have been written in the morning. Isn't that remarkable? I don't think so either. It's okay, right, as long as I write three pages a day?

I seem to be getting to bed an hour later these days without getting anything more done, esp. in regards to finishing any stores. I want to work on a new story about baseball and voodoo on Hispaniola. - A hurricane, too.- but I keep jumping ship between these five different stories I'm working on. I enjoy working on whichever one of them as the mood strikes, but I need to pick one and finish it. It's hard to dedicate thought to one thing exclusively. I need to train my Creator. Whoa--blasphemy! Odd that I resisted any suggestion of systemizing as stultifying, an affront to my creative freedom. Clearly though, creation requires organization. I need to plan a strategy, break my hours down into pre-ordained assignments. Yes, this might be an immense help.

My lids keep closing over my vision. My mind keeps screaming like a first-time marathoner, to stop, give up, lie down. But I've still got a ways to go. This would be easier if my thoughts were not always dueling each other.~~~~~~My old man always drummed into me that a body needs ei8ght hours of sleep each night, and that I was not meeting my obligation to my employer if I didn't get a"proper" night's sleep before work. Yeah, The Man even owns my dreams.

Ripken broke Gehrig's record tonight. A stirring display of fanaticism followed; it did give chills and goosebumps. I remembered crying as a kid when I first saw "Pride of the Yankees". Dodgers lost and are now tied for first with Colorado.

The chest hair on my neck under my adam's apple tickles my chin. I've got to find some effing scissors. ~~~~~Today was picture day at school. I flustered at the kids (I know I'm not using that word right, but that's what I did) to line up from shortest to tallest. When we got to the photographer, he rearranged them all. ~~~I think I hear my mom crying~She's fifty miles from here.~~I lost an important letter--Don't remember what it was now.~~Danny may be suspended tomorrow.~The phone is ringing. Dread. 'Twas 'Chelle. Told her I was in bed. She accepted it graciously enough. I loaned? Gave? her $200 today because someone robbed (Yeah, right) the house where she worked as a nanny and she was fired. She needs the money for headshots to begin a career in modeling (Yeah, right). The Town Creditor, that's me. Low interest rates, cash on demand, pay at your own pace.

Tomorrow I start a garden at school: poppies :) and carrots.