"What kind of Face Is That?"
Tuesday. November 19
I didn't have the heart to get out of bed this morning when the alarm went off so I didn't do community service. I had five beers and a pig nose scotch and a Jameson's and a margarita before class yesterday. I just ate some pasta. Went to Campanile at the La Brea Bakery and had a crappy over-priced poached egg while I read the paper. Next Monday I turn in Jim Crack to the novel class. I'm going to want some bud. I've called me brother but the line is busy. If they won their game last week, he may be practicing for the playoffs today. Life has been very boring lately. Tomorrow I sub for Schiff. Friday at Leo Politi. I've got to mail something to Bayles today and call GTE or rather check out their website. I ought to figure out what to do with the DMV, too. Get a BCLAD app still. Get up to Staples and get a new desk calendar. My brother will leave me some in his desk drawer if I want it. All I got to to do is drive out there. Could be worth it. Rawler was investigating state disability claims. He had an interview in the neighborhood, so he stopped in and we had the requisite Insanity Pepper conversation and watched the Andy Griffith Show and talked about Pete's movie and La Unified buearacratic obstacles. I said to Shirelle, "Your 'tude is causing me too much ass pain." She asked, "What kind of face is that?" I said, "That's my 'I wonder if I just shit my pants face." What else? A rat was about to gnaw the Boy Wonder to freedom when the cable went out. Somebody cut the lock off my bike and stole it from the front porch.
I'm back now from a trip out to the Valley. I got a few buds and a porno. Nothing else was remarkable. I hugged the wheel and steered with the insides of my elbows. What else? I started This Side of Paradise in the bar Madison's in Westwood Village, a collegiate affair. A Smith-lookin' guy asked what it was. I told him. He asked if it was good. I said it was. I said every sentence covered a lot of story. I said it was Fitzgerald's first novel. He wrote it when he was twenty-three. The Smith guy told me about a children's story he'd done about racial-type tension among black and white pigs. He refilled my beer several times and only charged me for two. I thought that was a little strange.
I didn't have the heart to get out of bed this morning when the alarm went off so I didn't do community service. I had five beers and a pig nose scotch and a Jameson's and a margarita before class yesterday. I just ate some pasta. Went to Campanile at the La Brea Bakery and had a crappy over-priced poached egg while I read the paper. Next Monday I turn in Jim Crack to the novel class. I'm going to want some bud. I've called me brother but the line is busy. If they won their game last week, he may be practicing for the playoffs today. Life has been very boring lately. Tomorrow I sub for Schiff. Friday at Leo Politi. I've got to mail something to Bayles today and call GTE or rather check out their website. I ought to figure out what to do with the DMV, too. Get a BCLAD app still. Get up to Staples and get a new desk calendar. My brother will leave me some in his desk drawer if I want it. All I got to to do is drive out there. Could be worth it. Rawler was investigating state disability claims. He had an interview in the neighborhood, so he stopped in and we had the requisite Insanity Pepper conversation and watched the Andy Griffith Show and talked about Pete's movie and La Unified buearacratic obstacles. I said to Shirelle, "Your 'tude is causing me too much ass pain." She asked, "What kind of face is that?" I said, "That's my 'I wonder if I just shit my pants face." What else? A rat was about to gnaw the Boy Wonder to freedom when the cable went out. Somebody cut the lock off my bike and stole it from the front porch.
I'm back now from a trip out to the Valley. I got a few buds and a porno. Nothing else was remarkable. I hugged the wheel and steered with the insides of my elbows. What else? I started This Side of Paradise in the bar Madison's in Westwood Village, a collegiate affair. A Smith-lookin' guy asked what it was. I told him. He asked if it was good. I said it was. I said every sentence covered a lot of story. I said it was Fitzgerald's first novel. He wrote it when he was twenty-three. The Smith guy told me about a children's story he'd done about racial-type tension among black and white pigs. He refilled my beer several times and only charged me for two. I thought that was a little strange.
posted by johnz at 3:38 PM
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