The She-Male Rode with me to Bob's Frolic Room

12-18-96 Wednesday
I shoveled a pile of gravel into buckets this morning with the bearded guy with his Marcus Garvey button. We dug a trench along a sidewalk off Temple at the cactus garden where we'll put in some bricks and a wood fence.
12-19-96
Maybe I'll just let up on writing for a few weeks. Forcing it doesn't feel right lately. I'll just wait til I feel like it. Fuck gutting it out. I feel so unsatisfied. I'm at Dolores Restuarant on Santa Monica in West LA at the counter waiting on a beer and a BLT until the box office opens at the El Royale Theatre down the street where is playing "Breaking the Waves", a movie Linda Ashour said I "should see", and then she amended that saying, "How do I know what you should see, but I recommend it." I bought some books at the used bookstore. I don't know why. I'm not buying anymore books until I've read the ones I've got now. I want to get really drunk soon. Tomorrow will be my last day of community service.
12-21-96 Sat.
Man I'm having a hard time writing lately. I don't care. I have to write letters to Aunt Kay and to Cathy Howrad and to my dad and grandparents and e-mail Linda with my review of "Breaking the Waves". Today Shirelle and the Guatemalan Insanity Pepper and I went up to the Chinese to see "Beavis and Butt-Head Do America". It wasn't as funny as I had hoped. Jim Crack seems like a losing battle to me now. At the moment I'm worried about the tense and chronology: Is it too mixed up? The Thing's putting in a movie now called "Sling Blade". I finished my community service yesterday. Hugo and a guy who looked like Woody Allen and a big redheaded kid and I put in concrete and bricks around the cactus garden, and cut and notched wood posts for a fence around the cactus garden there on Temple northwest of downtown. Hugo gave me some publicity photos of Rochelle in her professional life as Holly Body, porn star. Zelin, the she-male, rode with me to Bob's Frolic Room II. I had three beers and bought her a couple rum and cokes and we talked about what to do with her homeless ass. She was just going to stay out and turn a trick, she said, if she didn't come with me. I called Shirelle. I brought Zelin to the house. She showered here and I gave her some milk and a banana and some vitamins.

At Least One of Us is Schizophrenic

Tues. Dec. 17
I am watching the momentous first match-up of the legendary Michael-Jordan-led Chicago Bulls against the Los Angeles Lakers of  the Shaquille O'neal era. I have a bottle of 1859 Cook's GRAND RESERVE Extremely Dry American Champagne. I finished The Human Comedy. Ho hum. Even war death is made quaint. I took a big pipe rip by the window where the froot-loop-colored Christmas lights blink in from the neighbor's yard across the street.

I know exactly what's up with her: She's an imbecile. At least one of us is schizophrenic. I think I'll e-mail you the first Monday of every month. It will probably be cooler in Idaho. Fine vision with poor focus. A brush fire rages in Rancho Cucamonga. The Lakers lost an overtime heartbreaker in Chicago after having led by twenty-two points. On the A-Team, Face created a diversion to capture guards by faking an asthma attack. Why didn't I think of that? Thing just got home. Shirelle is so obnoxious tonight. My Grandma Vera called and invited us to her mobile home on Christmas Eve. I asked Shirelle if she could go that long without getting high and having to be polite. She screamed, "Shut up! Your God-damned brother goes down there and uses profanity in front of you mom and grandmother all the time." Yes, ha ha, and the two of you would make a perfect fucking couple. How do they make batteries? I'll have to send a letter to Idaho. What else? It has taken hours to get this far. Tomorrow I will do community service if no one calls me to sub. I'm going to get a washer and dryer before January thirty-first. Maybe I should not go to San Francisco. It will cost $100.00 to get my new license in February. I have to have some transcripts. Make copies of GTE thing. Have Pam sign the insurance form. PacBell. I think I'll read Edward Abbey's  The Monkey Wrench Gang next. I've got "Bonanza" on with no volume while I listen to Pearl Jam's "No Code".  Lil Joe just kicked some ass. Most of what I write is pretty boring. Tomorrow maybe I can see "Breaking the Waves". If not, then Thursday for sure. Spartacus was crucified. "Midnight Express", about Turkish prisons, is on tonight at 10:45. I'd like to see it. Maybe I should just tape it. I have to go to Staples and Border's and the used book store at Sant Monica and the 405.

I Left Skidmarks on the Theater Toilet Bowl

Monday Dec. 16
I didn't go to community service. Ave Scuipac called this morning and asked if I could work for her. I told her I couldn't. I slept in for the first time in a long while. It felt good. Shirelle and I had breakfast at the Living Room on La Brea and Third. The we saw "Jerry McGuire". It was so-so. Good acting, but it's soul was all on the surface, no challenge, no depth. Shirelle liked it. She's pouting now on her way to the laundromat. I have to get a washer and dryer. She talks about spending money on a new couch and having clouds painted on the ceiling.
I got a Christmas card from my father and stepmother today. I've got to clean up my desk again today. Tomorrow I sub for Sciupac. It's sunny today. The first breaths out the door felt clean. My lungs are bad. Days like these make me think I won't live too long. Human Comedy is more a series of vignettes about a small town than it is a novel. Little psychic value spent as when following a character to the bitter end. We observe Homer from far off, even his thoughts come to us through the window, like the old man watching from in the house as the boys steal apricots off his tree outside. I pray for Shirelle at the big city laundromat. "Jerry McGuire" talked about being complete and not being built for love. My armpits smell a little skunky. I left skid marks in the movie theater toilet bowl. What about marriage? What does it change? I didn't say anything at the party. I didn't belong there, not only because I had something to do in the morning. I didn't care. I couldn't even try. My mom just called. She wanted to know about Christmas Eve. It always seemed so goddam solemn then. What if I walk to the liquor store by the laundromat and see Shirelle and get a bottle of wine? I don't know about these claims to know every detail of your character's life. You only know patches and threads. I've never even met Jim. It's like I can only write what I've seen and heard. He is completely unaware of me. Like people on TV. That notebook must be in my car. Bankruptcies. The story has no villain. Jim cannot help what he is. Maybe the fat bald man. Not the retard that works for him. I threw up on the policman who told me she had been killed. Long Jon quit the force. I have to clean my desk. Should I walk? Then clean my desk. Then pay these bills. Balance the old checkbook. I hardly read any Bible last night. I have a lot of typing to do. Cain and Abel.

Hooray for Hollywood

Saturday December 14

Got up and went to HBT this morning. Signed on for Hugo's crew. Zelin and Isabelle were on the crew with me. We loaded the truck with picks and shovels and roses and jasmines and hoes and rakes and buckets of earth and gravel.

Sunday December 15
I got to write just that much yesterday before Shirelle said we had to leave "right now" to go to a godam party she's been excited about for weeks. I bought a pocket-sized notebook at Luvalle Commons the other day. I like 'em that size when I go out; it's inconspicuous and it imposes poetic line breaks. The Czech photographer and I are on a lot of the same HBT crews. She likes me. I wrote her phone number on the first page of the notebook. I left the notebook in the back pocket of my jeans on the bathroom floor while I showered. Shirelle spotted it, took it, and now I'll probably never see it again. Like it's okay for her to have all her little Joe's and Adam's and whoever that I don't care about, but I can't have a Czech photographer's phone number. While we swept around Rosement El, a rude-mouthed black guy argued with a clear-eyed Peruvian over who did more coke. "Look up your nose," he flared his nostrils and pushed him in the chest. "Look up YOUR nose," the Peruvian guy said. Zelin, who used to be a man, has nice tits and a five o'clock shadow, said to me while I was working, "I see you can sweep a broom as well as you can a lady off her feet." I acted like I didn't hear her. A chola walked by screaming obscenities at a little guy walking with her. She punched him hard on the face, but he kept walking with her. She crossed the street and put out her thumb to hitch a ride. I sliced my finger loading a heavy potted rose. I was going to have to go with Luis to Highland Park to pick up trash, but Isabella sent Hugo to save me. Hugo said, "I need this guy." He dropped us off at the donut shop to have lunch. Rude-mouthed black man and a busy-bearded white Rastafarian babbling about the decline of the West came in high from RMBM's red Mercedes and sat down with us. We picked up all the trash the Hollywood Boulevard crew had bagged. I rode in the back of the truck with the trash piled high beneath and jumped out every time we slowed to grab another big bag of sick shit off the Walk of Fame. Isabella photographed the people we passed, winos and immigrants and all. I gave Zelin a ride home. I was too late and tired to see the movie I wanted to see so I just watched the Heisman Trophy presentation to Danny Wuerffel when I got home.
Today I got put on Sunset Boulevard. George told the crew to listen to me and do what I say. Thanks a fucking lot, George, I said. Then Rochelle, who is porn star Holly Body, bounced over and said she wanted to be on my crew, that I was a hard worker. All true.

Good Eye

Friday the Thirteenth
So far, so good. Knowing your way.   Been thinking about leavin' for a long time. I put on the video "Blue in the Face" with Harvey Keitel. A guy caught a kid who snatched a lady's purse, but the lady wouldn't press charges, so the guy gave the purse back to the snatcher. I was high for a little while when I got home. I wanted to go to the Los Altos/Wilson high school football game tonight, but I didn't because I have work to do at my desk tonight and communtiy service tomorrow. We watched "The Secret of Roan Innish" at school today. My beard is getting shaggy, but ain't it always. I didn't have this book with me yesterday to write in.   Nothing happened to write about, though, inside or outside. I haven't done any first lines lately, nor have I written vocabulary sentences in over a year. I got an "A" in my novel writing class at UCLA. My cold has moved form its leaky stage to its cloggy stage. What is love?  What else should I do with Jim Crack?   Stevo and Carlos just showed up. The Pepper was supposed to meet them, but he flaked. They came all they way up from Costa Mesa. Carlos is sleeping on the couch. Stevo went to Jabberjaw. The Thing's got one of those hip swing albums on. I have to get up in seven hours for community service. I've got to do my 15 minutes and my email, too. I should send holiday cards out. I have those post cards I took from Madison's. I subbed for Elva Munoz while she's in St. Louis. Stevo looked through my photographs. He said I have a good eye and if I spent more time on it, I could be really good. After community service tomorrow, I'd like to see that movie Linda Ashour recommended "Breaking the Waves." Shirelle brought back a Burger King chicken sandwich and fries that I dipped in safflower mayo from our fridge, and I drank iced tea, and ate a couple of bites of her burger. I had rice for breakfast, and I went to the Michoacan place by my school and had a couple tacos asada and a torta de carnitas. I've got to eat healthy tomorrow. I did treadmill for about four minutes today. I've decided I'll not take a class this upcoming term and just concentrate on getting Jim up to fifty pages. Now I'm eating chocolate malted Whoppers. They'd be good in a bowl of milk with a spoon.

Why You're Here

Wednesday December 11
I'm sick with a nasty head cold. I'm reading Saroyan's Human Comedy. It's sweet corn. My beard is growing. Julia gave me a ride to my car in the rain. My ears ache. Shirelle made shrimp and broccoli and rice and cucumbers in balsamic vinegar. I asked her what were the cucumbers? She got all mad and said if I didn't like the dinner to just put it in the kitchen. I only wanted to know what were the cucumbers with balsamic vinegar. My joints are stiff and crack a lot. My chest is starting to congest. Bronchitis will set in. I'm all clogged up. Getoff was at the studio until five AM, so he napped on the couch here until his class for a few hours tonight. I picked up my prescription and some light bulbs at Payless and managed to spend fifty bucks on crap at Blockbuster. I should email Julia tonight. I'll finish reading Maurice's story. I have to find a lousy book and crayon out words to make one long cool sentence. I have to write a paragraph response to Andy the pediatrician's crime dialog. I sub for Schiff again tomorrow. Roger will handle the class, so I should be able to get some work done tomorrow. I will see the "Star Trek" movie tomorrow, probably. I don't care about split infinitives or ending sentences with prepostions. We're going to find a globalization of language in the shrinking future in which meaning will be of import over syntax and grammar. The movies I rented are "The Secret of Roan Innish" and "Blue in the Face" and I bought "The Santa Clause" and "Fantasia". What about Jim and Adam are at the counter? They will argue in front of the Korean clerk who will decide not to sell to them. Odyssey for buzz and chicks. Next, I'll tape for fifteen minutes. I bought "Banks of Wishkah". I've got to buy a christmas present for Demina. I'm supposed to meet Mariachi on Friday. Demina's party is Saturday. I've got four more community services. I'l have to go to that office on the West Side and take my paperwork to court. The Ducks and Penguins are brawling. The rain is supposed to have cleared away by tomorrow. Cut myself on angel hair and baby's breath. What else? Hugo said to mix lemon with honey and tequila and gulp it down and it would fix my cold. Only one, though, he said. "One bottle?" I joked. "Heh-heh. Tha's why you're here," he said. I couldn't finish the crossword today. A lady was carjacked and shot in the eye. The bullet came out near her ear. She walked to a house and called the police and aplogized to the woman whose phone it was for waking her up. Sue from Pacific Bell called. I need a paper grocery bag under my desk for trash.

December 10 Tuesday
I got a miserable fuckin' cold. Today we jackhammered asphalt and hauled it away in wheelbarrows in the cold rain. The Czech photographer, Isabella, was on the crew, and a talkative negro, and a mixed-up boy of multiple facial piercings. Snot pours from my nose unabated. My throat is sore form the harshness of my sneezes. I told Zelin I'd give her a ride home, and she had a Russian redhead with her who needed a ride to Burbank and some other sheister who only wanted to be dropped at Gower. Isabella said she thought Zelin had been a man. I napped for a bouple of hours after a hot shower when I got ho

Monday December 9
I'm getting buzzed or maybe even drunk. I don't know yet, but I've got a couple of hours to kill still. I came up to Monty's to watch the rain fall on the village. It's not night yet, but the sun is long gone...Keep returning to that woman yesterday...For the first time in my life I wish I had an umbrella. The kids watched "Aladdin" today. All these love stories are working on me. It just occurred to me to put Jim in the riot on Mariachi's lawn...give him hero status...have the fog and the word of God pour from his mouth. Fuck all these cigar dorks. I've got to get the fuck out of here because I can't stand this fucker's pomposity. I could walk to Madison's now or that hotel up street with the newspaper in my head. "Drummer Boy" is on. My dad's favorite Xmas song. I have some stories to read for Thursday, and the bad book exercise, and the crime response paragraph. I ought to go over again the stories for tonight. I feel so emotional and teary lately. What is this? They showed a documentary on the Learning Channel about the 737 that crashed into the frozen Potomac. Helicopters tried to ferry victims too cold to hold on to the life preservers. I sucked tears back into my ducts.
I walked out down the street to the Thrifty one of Monty's patrons directed me to, fat raindrops plopped me wet in a few steps. Now, I'm at Madison's toasting the first umbrella I've ever owned with the first glass of Chivas I've ever drunk, as far as I know. I told the other patron in here and the barmaid that I'd just driven out from the Valley on the four o five, and I thought I was in that James Bond car from "The Spy Who Loved Me" that goes underwater. I've started Saroyan's Human Comedy. Simple and Sweet. Like Steinbeck, but simple and sweet.
He said, "Honeybomb, D'ya mind if I call you honeybomb? It's what I called my love who no longer does. I don't miss her, but I'm lonely. Could I call you honeybomb at no obligation to you?" ---Ya got any coffee? How 'bout a kahluer and coffee. I has sweet corn and cream of chicken soup and garlic parmesan pasta and am eating the cornbread and apple butter, even though it all clashes. I can feel the pneumonia settling in. If I'd brought my dope, I'd've smoked it.