Invasion of the Weed Snatching Snatches

Tuesday October fifteenth
I got a substitute for my class tomorrow so I can rest and catch up with my writing and reading. My desk is a mess. A woman last night read a very interesting story written from the point of veiw of a coyote. It's good not only because it's original, but because of its great description and imagery.
spbht. I've been saving this marble-sized kind bud on my desk for over a week. Shirelle gave it to me, and I put off smoking it for days and days, waiting until the moment was just right. I knew I was taking the day off and planned on plying my imagination with that puff before I went to bed; I had some writing to do.
Sure enough, when I got home, the little bud I'd been saving all week was gone. Dumbitch strikes again. She didn't have to go to work today until one and her friend came over and they snaked my weed and watched the Disney documentary "Jungle Cat". Then they went off to work on their TV show together. As if it wasn't bad enought they got rip me off to get high, they got to do it before they go to work. Not only that but she only just bought the bag a few days ago, sixty bucks; smoked it right up. Non stop. Just like a dumbitch. Couldn't save none. Smoked it all up, one hit after another til it was gone, til she was smoking just to watch "I Love Lucy". Smoked through all hers and then smoked mine. I said, "You've got to pick and choose your moments. Save your highs for the right time and place. You makin' the highs cheap and the weed more expensive just wastin' it." She says, "Well how do you know the time is right?" I said, "When you don't know, you got a problem." She's just a completely stupid byautch. It's my penance. My curse. Be careful what you pray fro. I want out.

Horny Zorny

Monday, October fourteenth
Now I'm sitting in The Cooperage food commons on campus here at the University. The Braves are whipping the Cards early on the big TV to stave off elimination. I finally figured out that Adventures in the Skin Trade is a collection of unrelated stories. I had been confused wondering what had happened to Samuel from the opening story. I just finished one about an incestuous minister who kills the resultant offspring in a fire. The stories are all written bizarrely. This sort of dadaist narration.
I'm tired. I'd like to go lie in the grass and nap for an hour. I'm still feeling a bit under the weather.
There's nowhere on campus to get a beer. There were no newspapers at school today. I feel undressed not having read one today. I thought I might like to buy the book Tar Baby by Toni Morrison, as well as a cassette of her Nobel lecture on literature, but I'm concerned about my financial viablility. It would cost around twenty dollars.
The Green Bay Packers will play the San Francisco Forty-niners in football in the best matchup of the season. I had a dollar fifty turkey sandwich, plus a sixty-nine cent macaroni salad and a Hansen's Super Citrus Smoothie. It was three ninety all together. A slice of pizza and a plate of pasta in red sauce with garlic bread are nagging to be eaten as well.
I wonder if I was supposed to type what has been established in Judith Hearne for the class.
I also have to write five to seven more first lines for my Thursday class, and an A to Z story of twenty-six sentences each beginning with the letters of the alphabet in order.
Two security guards asleep at the table next to me. I wish I had more energy. I'd like to impress the others in class tonight with the rapidity of my wit and personality. Last week, that woman Duffy, who'd seen the Dalai Lama's aura, noted my name and asked if the kids made fun of it. I thought she meant when I was a growing up. "You know what Dummy--I mean Duffy," I said. "Horny Zorny".
Now I realize she was talking about my class, so she's probably wandering around horrified thinking that my fourth graders call me Horny Zorny.

I didn't even know what it meant when I was a kid. It became pretty much true. Ah, but everybody's horny, right? We just have to walk around most of the time and pretend like we aren't. What's up with that?

I could go for a puff, a little paranoid intensity. Ill at ease is better than nothing.

Burned the Roof

Sunday October thirteenth
Yesterday was the day Cristobal Colon sighted land. On the verge of elimination are the Orioles as NY moves toward the rarefied air of the World Series. After this game the NL has their final. The air is chillen around here. My mouth is raw and tastes bad. I burned the roof of it at Punjab Cuisine. The GIP had the beef curry. Walters called. He was heading out from San Marino to look for a place to live in Santa Monica.
I can't think. Too much M and M. My brother Mac called. He said he was getting high again with Garo, who's a dentist now (hairiest Armenian hands ever), and Barrio, and Ramone. He said. He said they're having a disco party in Northridge next weekend. He said he'd be walking around mangled.
I read about Gideon, who, after the death of Joshua, steered the course for Israel during a series of infidelities against God, during which He allowed the Canaanites to challenge for power. Book of Judges.
Let's just get through this now and throw away three pages of nothing good to say. Now the Cards and Braves are on. I don't care much tonight, but I don't know what else to do. I need to go grocery shopping. I'm worried about how little I can spend. I read the first 3 chapters of Judith Hearne as was assigned by Linda Ashour for my First Novel class. We need to answer the question of what has been established to this point. It is established that Judith is an unmarried Catholic woman in Belfast who has just moved into a boarding house. Mr. Madden is recently back to Belfast from New York City where he was handicapped in an accident. He seems to have a drinking problem. He too, is Catholic.
That's the obvious part. The story seems to be gearing toward an exploration of sexuality in a sexually repressed culture where sex and sin are so closely linked. There is also talk of what is Irish nationality. The autor switches narrative from Judith's to Madden's point of view.
What else? I emailed Rob Roberge with an ill-planned joke about homo-crushes and the f-word, but some other ideers about a story from Sudden Fiction we had to read, a gruesome story about a man who had been skinned.

Sat. Oct. 12 morning
Sitting on the brick step in front of the house, Latin polka sounds from across the street, two guys work on two different cars. I'm waiting here in the cool shade for Gip. We're going up to Bob's Big Boy on Wilshire for some breakfast. I want to walk, but fatman won't want to. The other night he rang me up after midnight; I was so tired, and he wanted me to move my car so he could go get a cheeseburger. He'll be complaining how he needs to watch his weight while he scarfs down bacon on the breakfast bar, and later today he'll go out for another cheeseburger.
Little dew gems sparkle on the lawn.
I sat on a low wall outside Bob's waiting for Miguel who was inside buying a brownie. We did actually walk up the tree-lined streets, past a street fair a couple of blocks away with three stages where bands and a magician entertained a sparse crowd. There were booths and barbecues where residents sold hot links and cheap sundry items. I asked Gonzalez what he did last night, and he said his mom expected him for dinner, and he'd told his father he'd be over to watch the baseball game with him. But, Miguel said, he didn't go out because he wasn't feeling well. I myself had been feeling under the weather. "Oh," I said, "did you get this cold, too?"
"No," he said, "I've got these hemorrhoids. They were really bad last night."
"That's from eating too many cheeseburgers."
"I know."
"I'm not really even sure I know what a hemorrhoid is. Aren't they just like painful bumps on your asshole?"
"Kind of. It's kind of like it's hanging out."
"What is?"
"It."
"Your asshole?"
"Yeah."
He said he went to the doctor. It was a woman named Dr. Pricker. That was her name.
"She looked at your bunghole?" I teased him.
"Yeah,"
"'D'you get a boner?"
"No," he said, but he didn't say it very quickly.
At Bob's I ordered the all-you-can-eat breakfast bar. Miguel ordered the Super Big Boy Deluxe Double Bacon Cheeseburger Combo with fries and "just" a coke, the coke being a concession to a healthier diet, because what he really wanted with his breakfast was a milkshake. He asked if he could get french onion soup instead of a salad, but they didn't serve soup until after two. "Well, I don't want the salad," he said.
"You know what, Miguel? You're killing yourself, man. You're going to die early if not of heart disease, then of colon cancer or rectal cancer."
"I know. I thought I had AIDS. They say hemorrhoids is one of the symptoms."
"I think they're only a symptom of getting fucked in the butt. Have you been getting fucked in the butt?
"Screw your, Zurn."
It was time to let it go.

O's and Yanks again. Yanks up 5ive 2wo against rookie Coppinger at Camden yards. Future Hall of Famer Cal Ripkin is up. That hot-headed dork Kenny Rogers just walked him.

Constantly in Conflict

Friday October 11
Today was payday. I made $1,376.80 this past four week period, after taxes. I wasn't doing nothing I wasn't doing nothing I wasn't doing nothing then I grabbed my pen and this book and Shirelle walked in.

"You and your mom." : A retort. The Yanks and O's are on Game 3 of the ALCS at Baltimore, series tied one to one, but Cecil "Big Daddy" Fielder, who played in the same Little League I did, has just struck, knocking one into the stand to break a two-two tie. It's the ninth inning now, and former Dodger, John "Psycho" Wetteland, who hasn't changed his cap this season, is about to put it away for the Yanks. And that's it. The Yanks have come from behind for the fifth time in this year's playoffs.
There. I turned off the TV. I'm lying in bed now. I almost never write lying in bed anymore. I thought I was feeling a little rundown, and this might be a good night to just lie in bed. It's only 8:00. Thing and Shirelle listen to romance-tinged Chris Isaak songs. It sounds nice tonight.
-
The desire for success is like a lion you must fight off with a chair and a whip.

I'm afraid I'm going to start crotting all over the place.

: I began The Lonely Passion of Judith Hearne. Read the first chapter, title character unpacking from move to boarding house, placing picture of departed aunt on the mantle. We are introduced to the woman who owns the place, and her pudding-y son, and we learn of the whore who'd repented but was denied by the priest from donating an expensive wrought-iron kneeling apparatus because the priest did not want the parishioners receiving the blood and body of Christ supported by the wages of sin. Judith reveals her prejudice? Unforgivingness.

I can't find any guitar picks. Shirelle said, "Why do you say it like that, like I had something to do with it?"

This term snowjob. Pulling the wool over one's eyes.

The mustang just rumbled down the street. I said, "Take a cab it you get too hammed."

I think when I'm done with this I'll Email Rob Roberge. Amend a few thinks about Kafka and the Bible and humor and stuff. Very rare to be home alone on a Friday. I'm tired but not sleepy. I'll still read and type and play guitar before I go to sleep tonight. The potential onslaught--onset of an upper respiratory infection. Woke up in the middle of the night with a sore throat, so I nuked, as in microwaved, a small glass of salt water solution with garlic pepper, and I gargled and the infection fled my throat, escaping into my lungs.

I am sleepy, now. I want to write to the bottom of the page. I did the treadmill for over 30 minutes during the middle innings of the ballgame. We read this story, I forgot the name, about a guy whose skin has been stripped off of him during a war by what may be a father figure, this general who became mayor on the outer periphery of the story, but from whose actions the whole story is born, and thus his need for love is dependent in the scarring he receives from this father figure

I need to learn to write a file of email time and send it out. In other words, I want to compose a document off line and then go on-line and send it.
Man and Creator are constantly in conflict unless man is creating.