Stumped

Aug 26 Monday 1996
It's so much harder to get going on the first pages of one of these. I'm stumped as to what to write next. I think again of the altercation between my brother and me and dismiss it as merely alcohol--Somebody outside, down the street just wee-ooped and wooed and yowled again and now the dogs howl. I'm full. I treadedmill when I got home. Shirelle laid a plate of rice with chopped carrots and broccoli and a slab of salmon and two big tempura fried shrimp and a bowl full of lemon butter down in front of me while I was taking a bong rip here at my desk. Not (or is it?) a good thing for the first page is a bong rip. I try to keep it down and cover it up.  "Oh well" will save me for now. "Anyway" helps, too.
What I do today? The alarm went off as Ross Porter was recapping the Dodger game. A few minutes more and I got up and turned it off and shaved and took my toothbrush into the shower and shampooed and washed my dick and got out.
How is it decided who judges? Fundamental question, no fundamental answer. uhr. Here's a paycheck stub. It added 1403.93 net to my account. oh that fly that looks like a bee CAN sting you. for the month. My sister talked to my father. Disjointedness Shirelle said she'd trim my head at 6:00. I wanted to take picture of the living room window on the reflection of the dimmed screen, but I jarred the keyboard drawer and alerted it back to light. I said I'd give a computer training at work Tuesday and Wednesday every week. Maybe I'll check my email. After I finish to the bottom of the next page.

Check Engine

Sun Aug 25

I didn't bother getting up to go to community service this morning. Karros just homered on the radio. SC can do nothing right against Penn State in the Kickoff Classic. Should I feel bad about not going to community service today? Do I feel bad? I might. Should I check my e-mail today? I have until Dec. 31 to complete 12 more dates. I had better get on that treadmill today. I almost did some curls just now. I only got as far as looking at the barbells, though. Should I bother getting my car fixed before I get my license? I could go and take a look at the fuel filter. I ate a lot of pizza today. I read some horrible things I wrote about Christmas Eve with my family. California, Los Angeles, the West is much less settled and still more dangerous than the longer-settled East. Frontiers are strange places, populated by those who have been pushed out.

Shirelle and Christina will be returning here to lunch and then I won't be able to think. Not that I can think right now. I've got to do my Bible pages today. Tomorrow. There will be PIE after school. How will I get to school? Should I call Marina Frank? It's not exaclty a car pool because I can't drive, but I can pay for gas. What time? I took my Toyota to Kim's right here on La Brea. He said it didn't pass. The fuel mixture was off, it could be the fuel pressure regulator, or a problem with the fuel injection. He couldn't run a diagnostic because the 'Check Engine Light' wasn't working. There used to be this plastic panel under the steering wheel that I noticed was hanging loose, and all the screws were gone out of the speaker on that side, round about the same time the alarm I bought for it ceased to function. I tried to screw the panel back in, but it was stripped and kept coming loose. Tried to just remove the panel entirely, but there was a knob attached to the panel from which a cord ran up to the dashboard lights. I got mad and just snipped the cord to throw away the fucking panel. After that the speedometer, fuel meter and 'Check Engine Light' didn't work any more. I only needed 'em at night. Like when I got pulled over for speeding and got that DUI the other night. I think Kim just didn't want to work on it because I put oil in it and forgot to screw the cap back on the oil well in the engine block. The engine was fouled with oil. So I took it to Quino's and his son took it over to some other place and they got all the oil off and gave me a smog certificate for $125. Only it runs like shit now, my truck.

On Fuller, Up Near El Coyote

Sat. Aug 24
Redneck, tatoos-down-the-forearm, saloon with realist western countryside mural behind bar, a place called Curly's with oil pumps like dinosaurs out front. I ought to call Harry Youtt tomorrow. Should I take another writing class at ucla, or would I rather go on a trip? Can I afford to go an a trip? Can I afford not to? Peach just showed up. We're supposed to go to a barbecue at Shirelle's friend's house on Fuller, up near El Coyote.
"Dude, his wife got kinda drunk and was uh..."
After the barbecue we want to check out a movie. I've just come from a barbecue at a pool at whose house it was wasn't exactly clear. Deanna's father, whom she hated, lived in a guest house there by the pool. A girl named Clarissa lived in the main house. I wondered how old the pool was. I had a feeling a murdered body had once floated in it and sunk. Peach remarked several times he smelled shit. Maybe it was the ghost smell of a rotting corpse. In the driveway, a rusted old Jaguar sat like a prop from the dark history of the city. It seemed at any moment the party would bust out into an orgy. I waited like I was in jail, resigned to inevitablility; eventually I would get home. Women seemed to be the path of sin. No city in the country preys upon the innocent the way LA does. This town will rip you in half.
I read the first 14 pages of Crack to Peach. I don't think it sounded too bad. I'm poised to relate the debaucheries which prompt Adam to head for Utah. Acid and underage girls, I think it will be. Slivers of light cut through the blades of the yucca he attempted to use for shade.

Feels Like Kerouac Night

Fri Aug 23
Principal Cicada called me into her office; there was an all-call over the PA to report there. I had screwed up some paperwork, legalities and insurance 

[pencil drawing of Camus-hair slicked back 50's-style, black overcoat, cigarette hanging artfully carelessly from lip, lugubrious French existential circles under the eyes] hassles related to bringing the kids up to camp, but no-- she was very sweet and only wanted to hear about the trip [smiley face]. ☺
Migs called. He said Andrew's band is playing at a place called The Foothill, on Cherry in Long Beach. I got a $200 check today from the 1% raise the union negotiated from the district. Woo woo. I think I'll drink it all in beers tonight. I do have to get at least one day of street sweeping out of the way this weekend. Tomorrow or Sunday. Shirelle called and said she won't be home until 2 AM, working on some film at the airport. Ya gotta wonder about this Shaq stuff.
I can't believe how close this book is to being filled already. I still haven't gotten over my grief at having the half-full one in the cab along with the Chandler book when I got out of jail. When I get to the bottom of this page, and the inning ends, I'll go down to the Gip's and we'll drive off into the crazy-ass night. It feels like a Kerouac night. I remember in Manhattan when Y. Madama made a point of repeating to me over and over that she liked corn. Migs and the Thing are talking about computer viruses. Like you're not gonna drive a car cuz you might get in an accident. The cable company has added some new channels, much to the delight of Thing and Migs. Thing and I are hungry, but Migs ate at his mom's, filet mignon covered in bacon, eliciting a chorus of fuckyous from Thing and me.

Clearwater

Thurs Aug 22
Camp Clearwater here in Angeles National Forest where I am now with my class has been fun for the kids, swimming, hiking, arts and crafts. I've been too consumed with writing about the episode in Mammoth with my brother to record much of what we've been doing the last few days. I've been getting a lot of reading done here. I have my own room and the kids are with the counselors most of the day. I read Chandler's Lady in the Lake which I thoroughly enjoyed, compounding my loss of The High Window in the taxi when I got out of jail. I'm almost finished with Camus' American Journals which are fascinating if only because they are so dull I cannot glean the slightest inkling of his celebrity. There is mostly, I think, melancholy in his inability to describe adequetely the physical world around him and draw connections to his inner self. He had or recorded many more conversations than I do, less other content.
There's a counselor here, Nancy, with one of those sandy girl voices who likes to sing camp songs as loud as she can. Mark, is a big bearded bear of a fellow, the director of the camp. In fact, everyone calls him "Bear." He has a low, resonant voice to match his nickname and is ideal for his position. Krissy has nice tits, Zoila a beautiful round freckled indian face and thick raven hair. Thoughts of sex are even more unavoidable up here than down below, as it is possible and impossible to consummate. Last night the two junior counselors, high school girls, one of whom is named Norma and who, like myself, brought up the rear of our hike and is attractive in plain kind of way that my mind keeps returning to; she and the other came to visit me in my room and giggle for about twenty minutes or so. They called my guapo. The desire was thick in the air between us. I asked how old she was. She said 17. I said, when's your birthday? searching for how close to 18 and legality she might be. Last Monday, she said. Then Judy, one of the directors seemed to catch on to what was up and directed the girls to bring a walkie talkie to one of the counselors. They were back in a few minutes, shrieking, ostensibly at the shadows, so I escorted them across camp. Then I said good night and returned to my room. Sigh. I called Shell. She wasn't there. I left a message saying to call me when she was through with Shaq. She met the 120-million-a-year-earning, seven foot tall basketball superstar on the set of a movie, and he's been calling the house leaving messages asking her to go out with him. I told her she should dump me. Whatever. I sort of want to call Kristen. I sort of want to ask Karen at alcohol school for a date. Whatever. I have to do at least one day of community service this weekend. I wonder if shithead will pay me the $120 bills he owes me.

Cain and Abel Stuff?

We managed to all get in the car and drive back to camp. Mac threw his shit in his trunk and said he was leaving right away, to drive five hours through the dark mountains hammered off his ass back to Northridge. Angel said he wasn't going to get in the car with the big dummie. I wanted him to leave, and was glad when he did, but as his car disappeared in the Sierra night, I knew he'd be back when he realized he had to pinch me for gas money. The next morning he we found him parked nearby asleep in his truck. He said sorry. Was it just a drunk thing? Is he really upset about my estrangement from my father? Or is it Cain and Abel stuff? I think it's all about the alcohol.