Mon 2-17 Pres Day
Damn. I have not been very faithful. I didn't write here again yesterday. I did at least type before I went down to my mother's. We, she, John, Karen, and I went to see "Absolute Power" with Clint Eastwood, Gene Hackman, Ed Harris, and Sam Sheppard. It was mostly implausible. When we got home we watched "Outbreak" with Rene Russo and Dustin Hoffman, about the spread of a gruesome ebola-like disease. I left a message on Kathleen's machine about changing the location of tomorrow's meeting to here. I said, then I won't have to worry about my eyes swelling and turning red from the cat like I had ebola.
Mac and I went boating on Irvine Lake. The plan was to go fishing, but we didn't catch any fish, so let's just say we went boating. It was cold. Mac didn't have enough money to get in so we pulled off the road and hid him in the back of my truck under some blankets and junk and smuggled him past the gate. The lake teemed with herons and hawks and eider ducks and grebes and even loons, but no trout.
John Bayless just called. I'm going to meet up with him around six to hang out. I've been deliberating over whether or not to buy weed today. I had half-heartedly decided not to, but now that I'm going out anyway...Maybe I'll leave early and sit at the Earth Cafe and read and write for a while. Maybe I'll meet a pretty smart girl, and we'll strike up a beautiful relationship. Scott Gillwood, my dealer back in Hacienda Heights, is dying of lung cancer, my brother said. He's down to about eighty-five pounds. I bought a pack of Marlboro reds at the bait shop this morning. I packed some Skoal behind my lip, too. I drank three Bud Ice beers. I'll do my little fifteen minute typing exercise after this. I should wash the dishes and put some clothes in the washer. I wish I could drink some wine. I've got to call Chronos. I've got to got got to satisfy. I could go for a beer. I've got to fax that stuff tomorrow for the guitar class. I've got to print those Alaska stories if I can find them. I'm so glad I'm done here.

Fri 2 - 14
They were trailing exhausted hearts in the sky over the Valley all day today.
Sat 2-15
I'm getting pummeled in the writing department. The sun warms me as I sit here at the table. Shirelle left me last night because I am no longer comfortable with the amount she drinks and smokes. Am I a hypocrite? Not exaclty. I read the national edition of the New York Times this morning. It was delivered to our porch. The crossword was hard. I read the Rapa Nui poems of Neruda. They were complemented by the warmth and brightness of the sun. The shadow of my hand and pencil write along with me. I'm drinking a can of Kern's Whole Fruit Strawberry Nectar, and a pot of coffee is brewing. I put a load of pants in the washing machine. It used up the rest of the soap.
I e-mailed Rogeve, Julia, Craig, Jeff, and Jan last night. I typed for a whole fifteen minutes. I treadedmill for thirty-three minutes. I called my grandmother. I drew a picture of myself in high school in my football uniform. We went to Marie Callendar's on Wilshire last night. It was tense. Let's not go into it. I'm more a Fitzgerald than a Hemingway in the love department.
What will I eat this morning. How about an orange. I'm going to type and type and type today until I have ten pages of shitty first draft material to add to Jim. I read another couple of chapters of Sweet Remedy. John Bayless called last night. I just used my pencil to stir my coffee. Tonight is Getoff's birthday. Some of us are to go out and celebrate with him. How can I crank out ten pages for Jim when I can't even do three for myself. Maybe it will be easier if it's for someone else. Mockingbirds and blackbirds are battling for control of the backyard.
What else? After this I'll move to my desk and type until five o'clock with an hour break for lunch. All the windowsills are dusty. My feet are cold. A flat layer of clouds has obscured the sun.
Shit on all of it. Poop poopy doo. I had lasagna blanca in a garlic cream sauce with bruschetta last night. Yum yum. There is no alcohol in the house and just a little marijuana. I can plays some guitar. Check my e-mail. Call P. Lee. Piss off. Kiss my ass. Rent movies. Walk across the city. Kill bugs. Spit on the sidewalk, Not flush toilets.

Gases of Progress

Thurs. 2-15
Heating chicken carbonara. Man, I didn't write here again yesterday. I called in sick today. I have an interview at Los Angeles High to teach adult school. I don't know what the pay or hours will be. The GIP and I went to Molly Malone's and then to Dublin Whiskey Bar on Sunset. I drank mostly Jameson's. I think I had four Jameson's and an Amstel and two Miller Lites. I didn't feel too hot this morning. I couldn't get anything done. I e-mailed Julia on my newly upgraded America Online service. Shirelle came over. We boned. We went to sushi. Cost me sixty buck, arigato. On the way home we stopped at Staples so I could buy a new ink cartridge. I printed my resume. I wonder what I would be teaching? I've got to leave soon. Robert and Hulya and I ate lunch at Pescado Mojado. There was an ESL seminar at Noble Elementary across the street from the old Van Nuys drive-in on Roscoe near Sepulveda. It was pretty boring. I snuck out to read the newspaper. All blue sky today, except near the horizon where the gray gases of progress linger. What else? I didn't type yesterday, either. A letter from the DMV came saying my license has been suspended. I need to call those fucks. I've got to go. I can finish this when I get back. Or maybe I can do it while I wait to do the interview. Maybe I'll rent some movies tonight. UCLA plays #11 Arizona in basketball tonight. I'm going to walk up to LA High now.

The interview was ok. I was sweaty and shaky and dry from all the god dam alcohol I drank last night. I've got to gather together some paper work and go back next week. I'll be subbing adult school ESL classes. I'm listening to the "Romeo and Juliet" soundtrack. I need to clean my desk. There's all kinds of shit I have to do. I'm hungry. Shall I smoke? I bought a pack of Camel Lights last night, but I lost them. Taxes, DMV BULLSHIT. I'm a loser baby. What else? The Thing hung up a little poster for "Holiday Affair"--'Mitchum's latest! It happens in December...BUT It's Hotter Than July!'

Dreaming About One While the Other Demands

Tues. 2-11-97
I dreamed about Laurie Sunnyfield again. The dream seemed to go on all night. Haunting. I was looking out a window. She was in the reflection behind me. It was in the Caribbean, near Panama. There had been an accident. A tanker had run into the walls of one of the locks. I was on a riverboat. There was a campfire. Dirk Io and Adrian Cazador were there. My shirt got burned. When I woke, it was five twenty-three. I took a shower and read the paper and ate cereal and e-mailed Doss. I have inkstains on my fingers from trying to refill my printer cartridge last night. It is cold and damp this morning. My good-mornings are hollow. Mrs. Moddy gave me a hate-filled look.
Still winter. I had a wee hit this morning. I feel the great weight of all human emotion in my chest. Yeah yeah yeah. I put that letter to Julia on a disk so I can print it here at school. I still have to write my grandparents. I need to get the room straightened out for the faculty meeting today. Sandra Anaya is at the door. Smart kid. Someone to watch the bellflowers. Someone to research St. Valentine. Someone to type their friendship paper. Workbooks. ugh. Shirelle says she has a list of demands : 1. We get engaged. 2. We move out and get a place together. 3. I commit two days a month to her and romance. My head just started an achy throb. I need to hurry if I am to finish this in the five minutes left before the bell rings when I have to go pick up my class. A dog yips a high pitch in the back yard of the house just the other side of the ivy-covered fence outside my door. Tomorrow I go to some conference. What else? That's really it. That's all there is to my life. What do I think of Shirelle's demands? I don't know. Is she ready for that? Do I want her back? That's the question right there, and I don't want to ask it, let alone answer it. What do I do? Seek guidance from the Lord supernatural? I don't know. What if I could find Laurie? Ha ha. Knock it of, Dork Boy. Why is it so hard to be cool around the ones you love?

Mon. 2-10
From my desk at school. Danny Diaz, who was in my class last year, and another boy, are using the computer. It's cold and gray outside, appropriate February weather. I fixed Mrs. Mitz's computer. I still have to call the BCLAD office and Daren today. Shirelle is supposed to be coming over tonight. I had a bran muffin for breakfast and a biscuit with honey and butter for lunch. Tonight I will tread though "The Simpsons"and "Seinfeld", and I'll keep score on "Jeopardy". Yeah yeah yeah. So so so. What else? Am I really this big of a loser? Maybe we can walk up to Blockbuster. Augh. I need some new ideas for Jim and Adam. What else? I need a new drug. I need to relax and crack people up like the old days. I've got a lot of reading to do. I'm just writing the exact same shit I wrote here yesterday. Tomorrow, the faculty meeting will be in my class. Suheidi and Crystal cleaned the tables with soap and water. I've got to get the CARE tests over and done with this week. I've got to get a check to that guitar class. The kids will type their Friendship papers tomorrow. I just flashed the Yamashiro's front yard on Arabella in Cerritos where the white rocks wrote on the sidewalks like chalk, and we caught pill-bugs, also called rollie pollies, and pincer bugs--earwigs--which we called pincher bugs. The kids have an old mayo jar with caterpillars cocooning inside. What else? I'll have to dig up those Lincoln prints before tomorrow. I've still got to see Moody, Bravo, and Hatcher about their computers. I better set the list for the training which is in two weeks. What else? There are a couple of sparrows raising a ruckus in the ivy out the door. They're probably lovers. Woke up. Got out of bed. Dragged a comb across my head. I'll e-mail Doss tonight. I'm hungry. I can't think of anything else. This has been hard to do lately. What the fuck else? We worked on estimating quotients, and we read about new immigration laws in Time for Kids, and we played basketball and wrote about love and friendship. I've got some pineapple juice in my bag. Jack in the Box gave me a free cheesecake because my order took so long last week. I still haven't eaten it. Danny just left. "Bye, Zorn," he says. He comes back, tells me it's started to rain. "Really?" say I. "Yeah," he replies. And here we are.

2-9-96 Deranged Tie Guy

2-9-96
I am an idiot. I feel fat from McDonald's. I feel worse about eating a cheeseburger than I do about smoking pot. I wish I had the will to go vegetarian. Maybe I do. We went to Farmer's Market and ate gumbo in honor of Mardi Gras. I asked Getoff what he was giving up for lent. "Processed sugar products," he said. I think he meant "sweets." Live pure until spring. Lord, help me to do it.
Go to sleep, my baby. Cooks, cleans, does laundry, good in bed vs. doesn't read, needy, Cosmo girl. I'm like poison. We were in a candle shop.
Kathleen just called. I played along with the conversation. It's hard to write in bed. I fell asleep on the couch today. I don't even know how to be honest with myself. What else? My mouth tastes yucky. I should call Julia. And write to Dave. What else? It's 10:30. I need to get to sleep. I have to check on Cheryl's, Alois's, and Elvia's computers tomorrow. I didn't get near as much reading done as I wanted today. I must exercise tomorrow. I must, I must, I must decrease my bust. Judy Blume. All the girls in the fifth grade used to read Judy Blume. Super Fudge. Tales of a Fourth Grade Nothing, Are You There, God? It's Me, Margaret. I never read them. This weekend was a bust. I need to get in touch with myself. I need a day off. That fucking hangover this weekend fucking fucked me. I squashed a gnat on the wall with my fingernail. Sometimes you see things in acoustic ceilings besides cottage cheese. I see a lobster wearing a sombrero. There's a second grader's drawing of a rocket ship.
I drew a drawing of a round bald face with two big round eyes, one eye about twice the diameter of the other with small pupils and the corner of a rectangle lying flat for a nose and a thick straight line for a mouth and a necktie on the broad chin.

There's a crucifix in the closet door. Absalom was slain for conspiring against David. "Far be it from me," was a phrase in there today. David locked his concubines in a ward and never went up into them. Sheba, who has a cat food named after her, was beheaded. Remember the facial tissue ghosts in the ceiling? It was just my magination, running away with me. My guitar has been coming along lately. I'm supposed to fax my credit card number. What else? Almost there. "Star Wars" is out in theaters. It was such a landmark of my generation's childhood. What else? My Blockbuster coupon. I'm an idiot.

She Wanted Diamonds. I Wanted Water.

Fri (actually Sat 12:50 AM) 2-7/2-8
Steven influences 40,000 people five days a week. "Steve". No one's sure what button to press. Pablo tries to use soothing tones. High barbed fence rabid dogs wired. "Steve," I asked, "do you drink bottled water or tap?"
"Tap," he answered.
Pleasure Prison, said the movie.
She wanted diamonds.
I wanted water.

Sat 2-8

Let's see. I started the evening with two Rainier tall cans or three. Then I had a liter of wine at that Italian hole in the wall on Wilshire down there on the Westside with the red and white checkered tablecloths. Two bourbon or three at Q's and a Jameson's at Houston's. I didn't feel that fucked up, but I've got a headache this morning. The house is sadder and emptier, but I also kind of feel like I won the lottery. Dave Doss is working up funds for a documentary about 24-hour Vegas chapel weddings. Vegas. Vague us. I'll definitely have to treadmill today. I've just come from Bob's (Big Boy). I won't write what I ate. I need to go to the market. Pablo's having a party at his house in Rosemead tonight. Thing's vacuuming. Shirelle's gone. Mr. Martinez came by last night. Count Basie and Duke Ellington are jazzin' up the room. I feel sick. I hate alcohol. I'm going to do right tonight. Whatever that means. I put the paddleball thing into Jim last night. For my next trick I don't know. I've got to start thinking about the girls. Oh my. I wanted to write a bunch of letteers today, but I'm lying in bed hungover sick. My mouth is dry. Dave showed a profanity-filled cartoon of Jesus fighting Santa Claus. Oliver McCall broke down in the ring last night. My muscles are sore. I'm going to take a shower if I ever finish these three pages. Then I'll type for fifteen minutes. I'll call Bernie and Kathleen today. I'm missing that dictionary again. Oh, the irony! What I miss most about her is that big-ass dictionary, and she's illiterate. Ha. I want to look up the word shambles. I'm going fishing tomorrow. Hydrogen and Oxygen. I've got to make a shopping list. I can't think of another thing to write. There's a demon hiding in the flowers of that Hawaiian-print shirt.