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.
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.
posted by johnz at 11:09 AM
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