Beer and Night Train

12-27-96 Friday
Well, I almost wrote three pages yestereday. I e-mailed Julia Gibson today after I dropped off Shirelle at her Mom's to go to her stepfather's funeral. Not sure how I got out of that one. It's raining for the funeral, but no traffic clogged the freeway. Al is on his way here to get me to go and drink and eat enchilada's at Steve Garcia's new pad in Santa Monica.
Al's here now. I'm rude writing. I can't write and talk at the same time. Al's reading the Jim Krazkwks beginning right now. Which makes me feel like a jackass. Cathy Howrad was to call today. The phone rang at eight thirty. I didn't get it until just after the fourth ring, the answering machine had just come on, I said, "Hello," but whoever it was hung up. Cathy is too busy to play games. She said she was going to see "Evita" up here Sunday. I made some snide comment about, "another chick-sleeping-her-way-to-the-top story". I'm an ass. Shirelle was complaining about the groceries I bought, cereal and bagels. She doesn't like that. "Why didn't you get bacon and eggs?" she asks bitterly. I said, "You know, you used to only whine and complain and bitch about stuff once a month. Then it became once a week. Now you do it every goddam day."
Ed Abbey's characters are anarching all over the painted desert blowing up bridges. It excites my hate of ownership. Yoh yaw. Let's go. Maybe after we get moving I'll be able to write more; I'll have more material. Shirelle's stepfather, Larry, is one of four sets of twins. His fraternal sister was a Vegas call girl who took the three-year fall for some drug boss who set her up for life when she got out with a house and income, according to Shirelle. She babysat a white boy whose parents never returned, so she raised him as her own. Larry's best friend had never seen him drink a glass of water or milk or orange juice in his life. Beer and Night Train and a pack or two of unfiltered Lucky Strikes a day. He was forty-nine when he died.
Al made a noise, a long restless sigh.
"That bad?" I asked.
"No, no," he said "It's good. Real good." Not according to that sigh, I think.

12-26-96 Thursday
I drove east on Pico through Yucatan nieghborhoods and Eighteenth Street territory to the county courthouse on Hill Street. I found a parking space at a meter right in front with twenty-four minutes left. I put enough coins to make it an hour. The flag out front was half staff. Two men in security uniforms leaned on a glass door at the entrance, tattoos on their forearms, talking to each other. I approached them. They stopped talking and looked at me. "Excuse me for interrupting. Why is the flag at half staff today?"
"Probably for that copper..."
I puzzled it out a moment.
"...that got shot."
"Oh, yeah," I said.
I walked to the elevator, pushed the up arrow, and waited, not thinking about anything. I noticed another button with an unlit arrow that showed it had not been pressed. I pressed it. Soon the bell rang. The doors parted. I stepped in. I pressed the two. Yesterday, the lady on the phone had said, "Second floor. Window seven or eight." The doors opened. I stepped out. Only one person waited in the line before windows seven and eight. Amazing. Why isn't everything all screwed up here like it is at Van Nuys, I wondered. I got my paper stamped and then had to go up-elevator to Division Sixty on the third floor. Only one person was waiting. I went up to the window. A fat black woman sat at a desk doing nothing. She saw me and hit a key on her keyboard, slowly, and then another. A young pretty Latina girl came down the hall. She took care of me. I went back down the elevators through the lobby, back to my car. There were still forty-five minutes left on the meter. I thought of driving up Hill, downtown, to see what I could see. Drive to Sears on Santa Monica. Look at washers and driers. I decided to wait until my next paycheck, though, on January third. I just went back on Pico the way I'd come. It's overcast today. I heard there's a storm system on the way. I spoke briefly with Catherine this morning. She said she will call again tomorrow, that I need to plan to do something fun and unusual. Shirelle's cousin picked her up to take her to Alta Dena to do her mom's hair for the funeral tomorrow. Maybe I'll boil some pasta. I don't know what to do with myself. Maybe I'll read all day and rent some movies. The movie "Time Bandits" is on television right now.
My life has no intensity.

Nothing Seems to Kill Me

Wednesday December 25
My breathing is terrible. I can't think. It's Christmas day. I don't know what that means. Shirelle and I have just come home from my mother's. My life flashed before my eyes on the way there, in the silver twilight, the buildings glowed, all the people I've known and loved were in my thoughts. Nothing seems to kill me, no matter how hard I try. My stepsister's baby was there. I held her on my lap. I guess I better go to court tomorrow. Can I call them first? Call Cathy Howrad. I look at me through your eyes. I see a guy with big ears, buck teeth, and a long tail. It was hard to sleep last night. Every time I fell, I kind of kicked myself out of it, because I was afraid I'd stop breathing. You see. I do want to live.
I'm checking my e-mail. I don't feel so good. I need to do some daily planning. What else? I just stare at things. Linda Ashour replied to my e-mail. Shirelle's stepfather died. The funeral is Friday. Kristie talked about when her water broke, so my mom said of her four kids, her water only broke when she had Michael. Karen asked, what does that mean when your water breaks? My mom said a few quarts of fluid came out, and Kris said it was kind of yellowish, and Michael said, Oh yeah, did I tell you about the boil I popped on my butt, and everyone laughed. I've got to call Dan Chronis. There was prime rib for dinner. My dad and grandma and grandpa and Jan called over to my mom's house from Hatin' Lake. I was watching the movie "Tin Cup". I've got to call Pablo and Steve and write to my aunt and to Rob and call Jeff and Nina. This PILOT EXPLORER FINE is running out of ink. Now all of the sudden it appears to be full of its vital fluids. Janey got a gun. Scott Biddlecombe at Berkeley Court, the pool with Keri Hom. Kristin Gresich. I've got to E-mail Julia. I have to write five more pages to Jim Crack before New Year's Eve. Crank out some shit. Spend five pages at the counter? I'm a loser baby, so why don't you kill me? Dead cattle sits in my gut. Call Kim Boucher. I'd like to read some more Abbey tonight and type fifteen minutes still and add one sentence to Jim Crack. I already read a few poems. One about the grandson of a British soldier who campaigned in India and Africa. Forgettable.

Gemini Erogenous Zones

Mon Dec. 23
Geez, I didn't write in here again yesterday. How does that happen? I went to Border's yesterday and spent two hundered dollars on books mostly. I feel sad. Shirelle's eyes were all red when I got home from dropping off the paperwork I need to pick up the paperwork I need to show the court I've completed my community service. She was on the phone with her mother. Her stepfather Larry is in the hospital with pneumonia and had a heart attack with complications from his cancerous organs. He should die in the next few hours. Shirelle never liked him much, but she was sad.
I'm supposed to meet with this girl Justine tonight. She spent an hour on the phone last night telling me about gemini erogenous zones. I'm at Mariachi's in Rosemead listening to the Kinks. I'm in a soft leather easy chair. I just opened a cold Michelob. I'm reading The Monkey Wrench Gang by Edward Abbey about a small group of eco-saboteurs in the Four Corners desert.

12-24

Shirelle and I have just settled in for a long winter's nap here at the Fairfield Inn. We were at my grandma's. Shirelle says she is going to the vending machine. She says there is no water. I was washing my hands. She had me bring up all the Christmas presents out of the car. We heard nine rapid fire gunshots. What if he keeps splitting and splitting until there is actually more than one Jim Crack running around? She's come back with a Sprite--make that a can of Slice, a bag of Doritos, a Snickers, and a Grandmother's cookie. The colorized "A Christmas Carol" still looks black and white. Once a year happens all the time. I can't think because "A Christmas Carol" is on

The Longest Night of the Year

12-22-96 Sunday
It's six thirty in the morning. It's dark and raining outside. There is not even a hint in the east that the sun will ever come up, but then this is the longest night of the year.
Someone gets butt-screwed as much as Zelin probably does have to be careful about what she eats. She told me she was hungry, but she turned down a sandwich and a bowl of Shirelle's gumbo.
I got an A in my Intro to Fiction class with Rob Roberge. I fixed the furnace last night. I helped Carlin move in. I must write those letters today. A light blue hole just ripped open in the clouds, and below the cloudline, the horizon is blue and rose as suddenly as if someone had flipped a switch. I fell asleep during "It's a Wonderful Life".
When we left Bob's Frolic Room II, she had wanted to wait until dusk. She pleaded with me not to leave until dusk. I hung on the parking meter on the sidewalk in the ungoldening twilight.
I keep looking out the window and thinking about what to write my dad and his wife. I keep thinking of snide comments like does the swastika fly above or below the stars and stripes in Hayden? Is everybody white or do they keep a gang of Mexicans under lock and key to do the dirty work?  Should I tell them about my DUI?  I hope this storm blows through so I can work on my car today. I've got Bible pages to read and the Sunday entry and the fifteen minutes to do today. Monday I'll take that paperwork down to Santa Monica and then the court.
When Armenian-Russian George was driving us around in the van to remove graffitti, he spotted an ice cream truck and said, "I know that guy." He made a u-turn and flagged the guy down and bought everyone ice cream. There is a preacher on TV discussing Samuel 30:06. That's close to where I am. He's talking about heeding your mouth. His name is Crenflo Dollar. I'll go to Staples today. "If there is no God, then everything is permitted." Dostoevsky. There's a half full bottle of wine in the kitchen. I'm at my desk now.  "Good Morning America" is on. Thing's flipping through the entertainment section of the Sunday paper. I hear him shake his carton of orange juice. Shirelle is in bed cutting the longest farts I've ever heard a woman make. I should put on some socks. Thing is brewing a coffee in the coffee maker I gave him for Christmas. Mr. Martinez installed the pane of glass on the window that was broken on the front of the house. It was a flaw that gave the house a measure of character like a scar over the eye or the gap in my teeth. I don't have to set my alarm for fifteen days. Now I'll type for fifteen minutes.