Tu 3-4 (actually We 3-5)
It's after midnight. I had some french roast this evening. I did some fifteen mintues and typed some e-mail. Tomorrow to Torrance. Tomorrow night, Largo. The blinds are horribly dusty. How do you clean them? I'll ask GIP. Maybe I'll go to Molly Malone's after class before Largo.
I was talking a little fiction and story and film with Sharon Powers, the teacher next door at Pio Pico. She's working on a thesis feature for UCLA film school. Sven, the one-eyed, one-handed, limp-legged, half-wit is coming down from Fresno, Hanford, actually. The Thing is suggesting a trip to Rosarito. We'll see. What else? I read most of the New York Times today. Crossword, too. Read Neruda poems, "Leviathan" and "Las Aves Maltratadas", both about man's violent nature.
What else? There's so much and so little. I ought to just keep going so I can finish and relax in dreamland for a few hours. Last night I dreamt of skydiving in South Africa with my father. There was a moment of panic when the chute wouldn't open, but I did just glide down. I'm a little hungry. I ate a plate of leftover lasagna and rolls and a cafeteria "BBQ" pork sandwich. Tomorrow, I'll call Mariachi, Ford, and the Pepper. Before class. I'll be a wreck Thursday in Hacienda Heights if I'm not careful. Last night's Neruda poem was about the prow of a ship washed up on the beach, like a mermaid. I didn't get to read any Bible Sunday because I was still suffering from shock and stupor. I must resist lunch tomorrow. I wrote the check for $200 for the CTCU Visa. It's under 3 G's. It will take at least six months to pay it off if I don't incur any more debt.
My eyes, er, my vision rather is blurry. Tomorrow will be a long day. What else? I e-mailed Boddington. It's one thirty. I have to get up in less than five hours. There's still some paper unread alonside the bed.
My thumb is sore. Coffee burning holes in my stomach lining. E-mailed Gibson and Castle. Funny joke from Jon about Samurai slicing flies.

3-3 Mon
I have about twenty minutes or so 'til I have to head to LA Community Adult School offices to see how bad I screwed up the attendance records for the last two weeks. There's a lot of little things to report. I don't really feel like telling any of them. I'm on the toilet right now. After the garage sale, Mac, and Chuck Woodlock, who is my uncle-in-law, and I went to Brea to play nine holes. I had tweaked my back and I was depressed about--I don't know--my stolen clubs and the shitty rentals?--and my swing sucked and my game sucked and it was sad and boring and I lost about ten balls on errant shots. We went back to the house and I scarfed lasagna and went into my mother's room and crashed for a while and took a shower. When I came back out, everyone was watching "A Time to Kill". Racial courtroom drama. I didn't like it. When it ended my aunt and cousins and Chuck all went back to Vera's. I slept on the couch. When I woke up, I was still dry and hung over from Friday. Flynn and Jan Grezick stopped by. Flynn was on his way to Australia. They said Crystan had a good time at Diamond's. They asked if I did. I said, "Oh, yeah. I stayed on my feet." They said, "We heard." I watched the Dodgers suck against the Mets in the first televised game of spring training. I cooked up some ground beef and sprouts and jack cheese and ate it with mayo on bread. K-mart worked on her WWII report. Mom went to meet Kay and Kate and McGee at IHOP. I waited for them to return to the house so I could say good-bye. I loaded some of Grandma's furniture into the LeBaron. I put the top down to do it. I drove to Brian's and had a couple Bud Lights with Josh and Jon Biggers and Chuck. Cock-eyed Lisa was tending bar. I didn't have much to say. I said good-bye. Driving up the 57 with the top down reminded me of the Fiat I had when I was 18-19. The Thing and I lugged the stuff upstairs. He said my mom called to say I'd forgotten my bag with all my career shit. I was to meet her and the girls at the Bonaventure to get it. I paged Shirelle. We took a shower and I slurped her vagina and we went to the bed and boned. Then we dressed and went to the Bonaventure. We met them in the revolving bar. I led them to Marie Callendar's on Wilshire. I made a little fuss about getting the check. We left the restaurant. I'd forgotten my bag again. I had to go back for it. We got home. "On the Waterfront" was on. Shirelle got high and got on the phone. She said she was too tired to bone again. I said, whatever. School was a burn today. I didn't have the spirit to handle the kids. We were doing standardized state testing. I read the LA Times that I bought at the liquor store on Van Nuys and Bartee. I did the attendance figures.

3-1 Sat.
Yesterday was the memorial for Grandma. The family was out from Pennsylvania. I got pretty ripped. Bern and I drove up to a place called Diamond's at the Brea Mall. My pool game bit. Crystan came over. I asked her how many hamburgers she sold. She asked me why I kept looking at her. I said, "Cuz I like your face." I asked if I would have to wait for someone else to die before I 'd see her again. She smiled at me strangely.

Gramma's big framed pastel impressionist painting is walking down the street on little kid legs. The weekend scavengers pick through her stuff. A lifetime of stuff sold in bills and change. We drove it over here to my mom's like Okies leaving the Dust Bowl. K-mart put a purse on her head, to fight off expressing all the weird inappropriate feelings Death tries to foist upon the young.

Her Lhooks

2-27 Th
I hope I can get through this quickly. There is much to do today. I'm at school. The students are translating and illustrating a poem.
Now they're working on their fractions concepts. It's cloudy out today. Shirelle spent the night. We had a pretty combative lunch. She probably shouldn't have stayed over. We'll never see eye to eye on domestic matters. Tomorrow is Grandma's memorial. Shirelle wants to go. I think it's more a matter of displaying her lhooks than paying her respects. When I said we'd have to go in separate cars, she lost her enthusiasm. It looks like I'll be spending the weekend there. It might be a nice change.
I have to call Pat Ortegachile when I get home and talk to her accountant. She's getting back $3400 bucks. I did the 1040EZ and I owe $488. Hopefully he can change that for me. Should I eat lunch here at school today or can I make it until I get home? I have to fax those figures to David Chant at Tech Ed. I need to straighten out that fucking BCLAD stuff and talk to Marco the guitar man and enroll in the UCLA class. Plenty of shit to do. I've got to teach tonight. I've got to Xerox some stuff. I feel like getting obliterated. I have these videos to watch. I have to remember to bring the treadmill in the trunk to John to get welded. I've got to get gas before I drive home today. I've got to crap. What else? I want to read my newspapers. I want to get high. I need to clean my desk. I cleaned the one at home, now I have to clean the one here at school. I'm hungry. They're having corndogs in the cafeteria. Crystal says all her grandmothers are rich. Mario just sneezed all over my desk. Carlos is helping Karla. What else? I read another couple of chapters of Sweet Remedy. I'm mainly just skimming it now. I finished the "Evolution of Chicano Literature" by Raymund Paredes. Chicanos feel they are neither Mexican nor American. He recommends Anaya's Bless Me, Ultima and a writer named Niggli and some others. He talks about Oscar Zeta Acosta and all but dismisses him. He talks of the corridos which were the principal form of folktake in Spanish North America, like" The Ballad of Gregorio Cortez", who avenged his brother's murder by killing the Texas sheriff who did it.
I have to make lesson plans for the sub tomorrow. I have to wake up tomorrow at 7:30 at the latest and leave the house at 8:45 at the latest.

2-26 Wed.
I cleaned my room this morning, even made the bed, but not until I'd read through the LA and NY Times, doing both crosswords, and speed reading a few chapters of Sweet Remedy. I called the GIP from the payphone across from Blockbuster at dusk. We met at Numero Uno There were pretty girls along the way. I had a glass of cheap chianti and a bud light and a salad and a personal pizza and something disgusting called lafirenze that tried to pass off biscuit gravy as alfredo sauce. I picked up the tab. We went to the Goose. It was my idea. Then we drove to Placentia. There was some automatic weapons fire in Artesia so the 91 was closed and we had to detour through Bellflower and up the 605 to the five to get there. I've got to teach night school tonight. I'll have to stop by LAHS first. Ug. What else? I didn't type yesterday. I bought a couple of books. I used my ATM. I need to get new time cards. Pio Pico. Who was Pio Pico? Didn't he surrender to Fremont? Shirelle called last night. What did we talk about? I was mad. I had a sip of coffee and a bite of 25 cent chocolate covered chemical peanut butter wafer and grabbed an orange. The coffee is in a Winnie the Pooh mug. Tigger is bouncing around like Pablo Mariachi. Pooh is like Steven Gracias. Eeyore is like Jeff Goldcastle. I'll check my e-mail. I wonder if she's still coming. I've got some typing to do and clean this desk and figure out my taxes. This orange is from Corona. It's stamped in purple partially. I'll peel the orange as I write. I didn't take my vitamin this morning. Who the hell figured out this vitamin thing, anyway? She just called. She said she'd be here in an hour or so. I suggested we might go up to Book Soup so I could find that Zoetrope stories. It looked like the Tales was closed down. Taxes! Taxes! IRS. The books I got at IL literature are the National Book Award winning authors' collection of essays and interviews. It had a quote early on inside by Ralph Ellison that convinced me to get it, about the torture of writing and the reason for doing it. I have the videos "Mean Streets" and "Vanya on 42nd Street". There on top of grandma's tv that I plugged in. Apparently Peach is coming over to play some music tonight. Getoff wants to borrow my guitar. I'm out of ink.

Tu 2-25
I woke around midnight to the sound of my truck starting. I sprang to the window in time to see it driving away, a dark indistinguishable figure behind the window. Within seconds I had dialed 911. I gave them the info. They transferred me. A laughing lady picked up. I said again that my truck had been stolen. They took the info. I got the feeling the info was not going out to any patrol cars. It had only been seconds. Couldn't the get on the radio? They could have caught the guy on Olympic. I get the feeling the LAPD just waits for the car to turn up and then charges you for towing and impound fees after it's been stripped. Two cops came to take a report, a squat Korean fellow, and a tall blue-eyed redhead. I invited them in and then had to run up the stairs ahead of them and throw my weed in a drawer, when I remembered it was sitting out on my desk in the living room. A nudie mag was sitting on the desk while they interviewed me, though. They took a report casually and offered a few platitudes. I showed them my insurance papers. The papers listed my two DUI's. The cops left. I couldn't sleep. I looked through the New York Times that was on the porch. I read a couple of chapters of Linda's book. I smoked a little and laid in the dark and looked at the clock and worried about life and the computer training I was supposed to coordinate at school and whether or not I would be able to get there. I thought about how February was the month my girl left me and my gramma died and my car got stolen.

Sun Feb

Mon. Feb. 24

Grandma Vera died Sunday morning. I was reading the paper, and I fell asleep on the couch. The phone rang, and I didn't feel like getting up. I let the answering maching get it. There was this little anguished moan and whoever it was hung up. I figured it was Mariachi playing a game. The phone rang again. It was my sister, Bernice. She said Gramma Vera had died and Mom was hysterical. I said, Ok, I would be right down. I sat down. I couldn't think. I read the funny pages. I took a shower. Shirelle called. She wanted to go. I said I thought it would be better if she waited for the funeral. She said she'd wait at the house. It was a delicate situation. Bringing her crazy into it wouldn't help. But cutting her out might maker her crazier. She asked if I would leave a key for her. I said I didn't know I guess ok. I'll leave it under the mat. I made a pot of coffee and poured it in a big plastic cup, and I grabbed my book bag and left without my coffee and forgot to put the key under the mat. Luckily, I remembered to get gas. There was a Sigalert. The 5 and the 60 were jammed. I had to take the 110 to the 105 to the 91. When I got there, the mobile home seemed empty. I walked into Gramma's room. My grandmother was laying in bed, she looked pale but peaceful. My mother was holding her hand crying. Bern and Mardi were in the room crying. My mom found her. They were supposed to have gone to lunch. When my mom called over and got no answer, she had a bad feeling and when she got there and didn't hear Sinatra, she knew, she sobbed. It looked like Gramma was still breathing. My mom went to call the coroner. She asked me to take Gramma's hand. She didn't want her to be alone, she said. Gramma's hand felt dry, but not dead. My mom came back and asked me to go to Brian's Saloon to get my stepfather. "Dryballs!" he said when I walked in. He was having a beer and a sandwich. Jim, his golf partner, wasn't there. I asked where he was. "The ugly head of menopause reared its head at Jim's house this morning." He asked what I was doing. I put my hand on his shoulder. "Vera passed away this morning." He handed me one of his beers and we toasted Vera. He asked how my mom was doing, and I said, pretty good. We drove back to Gramma's. He talked about the first conversations he and she had had when he and my mom were dating. He was still technically married to he ex-wife at the time, he said. Gramma didn't trust him at first. He told her he'd die for my mom. She said, "Well that's more than that other asshole would do," referring to my dad. John and my mom cried together when we got there. The coroner was a peppy guy. I could still see her chest rising and falling. It was sad when they carried her out in the bag. One of the men in black bumped his head on the lamp as he carried her out. When I drove home it was sunset. It was a beautiful day, rays streaked from the clouds. Appropriate glory, I guess. Shirelle was weird when I got back. My dad called.
"Schindler's List" furthered my depression

Deaf Girl Talk

2-22 Sat
Well, I was unable to last to the bitter end again, you see, falling short of my goal of three pages. There was aknock at the door as I sat writing. I walked to the window over the porch and stuck out my head. It was P. Lee. I told him the door was unlocked. He refused beer or wine. The conversation was a little awkward. We smoked and ate cheese and crackers. Jeff and Peach showed. I read them "Pomegranate Necklace", but they got antsy before it was finished. Said it lost them. Then I read the new Jim pages. Jeff immediately said he hated it. Peach said it reminded him of "Beavis and Butthead". P. Lee remained silent. Peach changed the strings on my guitar. I played a while. Getoff never came, so Peach left. Then Jeff left. P. Lee and I walked up to Girl Talk for a beer each. It is a Tijuana dive bar (on La Brea just north of Olympic), complete with a fat girl dancing in her underwear to Mexican polkas. A short little bowling ball of a woman lifted her apron to reveal a short, phallic-looking little club that must be used for conking agressive drunks, though it may have been a dildo. The other bartender, a woman who looked like a cross between a man and a poodle saw her laugh and said to me conspiratorially, "She's always happy."

The deaf girl banged on the door this morning. She might be about thirteen or so. She is my neighbor. I don't know her very well. She handed me a note that said she wanted a ride to her sister's. Her note was barely intelligble. I thought it was her sister that wanted a ride. The deaf girl mouthed words through a tin can on a string and showed me an address on the paper. She honked that she needed the ride at 9:30. That was when I was expecting Rawler. The address said Wilshire and Sixth, which are not far, but do not intersect. I shrugged and nodded my consent.  Rawler got here, then the Insanity Pepper. The girl was waiting on the porch when we came down. We dropped her off in the seedy neighborhood up around Vermont and Sixth on Grandview. The paper with the directions said a Latina name at the top I don't remember and at the bottom it said Emmanual