Monday December 2
I'm waiting for the latest incarnation of Jim Crack to print on the Mac here in the Sharp Ave El Library. I'm going to have to sneak out sixteen copies from the copier here. Yesterday I had to sweep Santa Monica Boulevard from Vermont to library. I think it gave me diarhea. A trio of homosexual prostitutes waited at a bus stop on Highland. One of them looked at me and hooked his finger in his mouth and pointed down his throat. The trash around the bus stop there revolted me in its volume, and my imaginings of the fluids it contained made it worse.
I read about Amory's little love affair. It was embarrassing in its drama, as first loves are. Fitzgerald, aware of this, presented the episode in drama form. A stroke of genius? I read it sitting on a couple of buckets of paint while waiting to sign out at the Hollywood Beautification Team yard.
When I got home, Shirelle fried some drumsticks and served them with stuffing and mashed potatoes and spinach. I read the paper and all about the epic SC/Notre Dame game that I saw from the end zone where all the last minute action was. It was a great game. I called the upset in the early minutes.
What else? It's hard to think here. There are children in the library. I wonder should I go home first or go straight to UCLA. I think I'll not drink until New Year's. Maybe I can see a movie. I still have to read the infertility story and write a critique. Before Thursday I have to finish the cruise ship jackers story and read and critique two others. I haven't had lunch yet, but I had some raisin bran and a bran muffin for breakfast.