Thurs, 2-20
Hoo boy. What is there? Not much. The usual coffee and paper at the kitchen table under the window. I don't feel like writing. My writing is going nowhere. I was in Torrance today for another goofy seminar. Kathleen and Julia were here a coupla hours or so. I bought wine and cheese and crackers and Dos Equis. The traffic was Satanic. We had lunch at Marie Callendar's. I had seafood pasta. Dick recognized my comment on Sylvestre. I taught my ESL classes. We covered pronouns and past and present verbs, walk, talk, eat and be. I went to the pot shop before class last night. I parked a block away so I could walk up inconspicuously. I took off my sweater, so I would go in in my t-shirt, and I smoked a cigarette as I walked up. I rang the buzzer. Nothing. I rang again. A sign was written sloppily on purple paper. It said, be back in 15 minutes. A black man and woman sat in front of the beauty shop. A blond bum begged change across the street. I wondered if he was a vice cop. I went into the Chinese place next door and got a beer. I looked at the menu. I saw another guy go to the pot shop door, ring the bell, and then walk around aimlessly. The beer went down fast. Some trippy occult store sits next to the Chinese joint. I walked in for a minute and checked out a few pentagrams and walked out. I sat on the wall for the parking lot of the Catalina Bar and Grill. I tried the shop again. I was buzzed in. The guy behind the cage asked how I was doing. "Pretty good," I said, and asked him the same, but the transaction was over, and I moved on. Taught my class, got home, got high. Read some journal. Not bad.
What else? I'm pooped. I've a half urge to contact Shirelle. I hate to say it, but I may be too tired to do my fifteen minutes. It's a damn shame about my treadmill. Peter Lee just called. I told him about Dave Dawes' documentaries about Rachel, Nevada and about wedding chapel marriages, and about the Flat Earth Society, and about how Dave was looking for a director. I'll play a little guitar before bed. The lady next door at the community adult school also does film. Her film is called "Taxi Dancer". I should have walked out to the parking lot with her. I just wanted to bail. I've got to start thinking about Pamela and the girls. Thing's talking about a G.I. Joe convention. What else? Read another chapter of Linda's book. Toby may become Jim-like. She explores the fear of abandoned youth. I just missed "Seinfeld". I won't be getting to see it or "Jeopardy" or the "Simpsons" for a while, now that I teach nights, too. I've still got all these chores to do and calls to make and paperwork to fill out.
Hoo boy. What is there? Not much. The usual coffee and paper at the kitchen table under the window. I don't feel like writing. My writing is going nowhere. I was in Torrance today for another goofy seminar. Kathleen and Julia were here a coupla hours or so. I bought wine and cheese and crackers and Dos Equis. The traffic was Satanic. We had lunch at Marie Callendar's. I had seafood pasta. Dick recognized my comment on Sylvestre. I taught my ESL classes. We covered pronouns and past and present verbs, walk, talk, eat and be. I went to the pot shop before class last night. I parked a block away so I could walk up inconspicuously. I took off my sweater, so I would go in in my t-shirt, and I smoked a cigarette as I walked up. I rang the buzzer. Nothing. I rang again. A sign was written sloppily on purple paper. It said, be back in 15 minutes. A black man and woman sat in front of the beauty shop. A blond bum begged change across the street. I wondered if he was a vice cop. I went into the Chinese place next door and got a beer. I looked at the menu. I saw another guy go to the pot shop door, ring the bell, and then walk around aimlessly. The beer went down fast. Some trippy occult store sits next to the Chinese joint. I walked in for a minute and checked out a few pentagrams and walked out. I sat on the wall for the parking lot of the Catalina Bar and Grill. I tried the shop again. I was buzzed in. The guy behind the cage asked how I was doing. "Pretty good," I said, and asked him the same, but the transaction was over, and I moved on. Taught my class, got home, got high. Read some journal. Not bad.
What else? I'm pooped. I've a half urge to contact Shirelle. I hate to say it, but I may be too tired to do my fifteen minutes. It's a damn shame about my treadmill. Peter Lee just called. I told him about Dave Dawes' documentaries about Rachel, Nevada and about wedding chapel marriages, and about the Flat Earth Society, and about how Dave was looking for a director. I'll play a little guitar before bed. The lady next door at the community adult school also does film. Her film is called "Taxi Dancer". I should have walked out to the parking lot with her. I just wanted to bail. I've got to start thinking about Pamela and the girls. Thing's talking about a G.I. Joe convention. What else? Read another chapter of Linda's book. Toby may become Jim-like. She explores the fear of abandoned youth. I just missed "Seinfeld". I won't be getting to see it or "Jeopardy" or the "Simpsons" for a while, now that I teach nights, too. I've still got all these chores to do and calls to make and paperwork to fill out.
posted by johnz at 5:51 PM
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