3-12 Wed.
The little old round Hawaiian lady, Diana Watanabe, is blabbing, holding us up from bailing. I'm feeling zonked even thought I slept plenty. Got to teach again tonight. I just go in there and wing it for two and a half hours. I haven't puffed much lately. I don't want to get high before teaching night class, and when I get home, I'm tired and not creative and figure it will only knock me out and be a waste. This Saturday can be Write-All-Day day. I'm taking Shirelle to Yamashiro's for a 7:45 reservation Friday. There might be some true nature in this format learning styles. I got Gramma's car smogged yesterday. It only took about fifteen minutes or so.
Phyllis Scantron was kind enough to pick me up for the drive out to Torrance today. We're going to drive back to LA now.

I'm home now. Shirelle just called from Christina's. I said I'd tuck her in. She said she'd be here in about twenty minutes. Maybe we'll bone. Glen said, "God." I said, "What?" He said, "I can't find my shit." I said, "What shit?" He said, "My shit." I said, "Oh." He said, "Exactly." I didn't say anything. He said, "My vodka." He said, "Please don't tell my brother." I said, "OK." I guess I'll have a beer since Shirelle is coming over. Maybe I'll have that puff, too. Will I be able to read at all? Damn o damn. What else? I just typed my fifteen minutes. It was trouble writing that much. I called my sister back, but she was on the other line to someone in Florida. I'll go have that puff. Maybe something will come of it for the next page. Probably this stupid movie will suck up my thoughts. Shirelle's bug just buzzed up. What'll it be? There's a little dick in my class with a bug who made me edgy. Bliss from a popsicle.

3-11- Tu

Here we are at old La Subida elementary school wasting a lot of time on semantics. I'd really rather not be writing in this, environment, but I should get it out of the way ASAP, because I've got to take the Chrysler in for a smog check today between jobs. I don't know when else I'll be able to do it. I don't recall any dreams. I've been awake for two and a half hours, so there's not much to report. No stimulation. No inspiration. I did some laundry this morning and read the first section of the NY Times. Mr. Bennigan just dropped me a copy of today's LA Times. Diana Watanabe is giving a cloudy lesson on the declarative-ness or procedureal-ness of different teaching strategies. I don't understand what good knowing this is.

"You bet your sweet bippy." "You'll never find a more wretched hive of scum and villainy." I have to crap. We talked about movies and college basketball and racism in the car on the way here. Phyllis and Sara picked me up. If I was high my wheels would turn. I'd have something to say, even though it might not make any sense. Sitting at my table are Sandra Clippinger from Indiana, Geraldo Cubias from Guatemala, Hagar Gomez from Pacoima, Phyllis Scantron, from Woodland Hills. I haven't eaten anything but a tangerine in the last twenty-two hours. I've got to call AIS today. I'm wearing green corduroy shorts with a green Polo-style shirt and white sweat socks. What else? Sandra has a niece off Broadway in New York who she says is perfect for me. She showed me her picture. The girl was good looking. Another actress. I said she was out of my league. Sandra said she wasn't. Dick from Minnesota is teaching us about "Reciprocal Teaching." Ho-hum. "It alerts the hippocampus," he says. It's still an hour and a half until lunch. I finished a bunch of Neruda's odes last night. I like them. I wonder how much of the~~~ I don't what I was going to say. I remember! How much of the paper can I read during this lame workshop. Oh, be nice. It's time to finish this up. That's all folks

You'll Never Find a More Wretched Hive of Scum and Villainy

3-10
Here I am at the night school class I teach at Pio Pico Elementary at Pico and Arlington. I've just come from the library. I checked out a video of "Ishi, the Last Yahi" to show to my class this week. I haven't done any handwriting since Friday. We went to Rosarito, B.C., Mexico on Saturday. We went in the LeBaron. It was silly. This Cuban Jersey deadhead dude named Roberto, who the Thing knows from his comic book shop, came. He was a little irritating. I typed about him yesterday, so I won't go into it again here. The main dumb thing was, I, me, I let a puta have a hundred dollars. I wound up getting played by still another and the first one took my dough. When the cab first dropped us in Rosarito after the Jehovah's Witness driver gave us a brief history of the different cultures in Mexico, like the Tarascos, and the Chiapenos, we went to the bar at the Hotel Rosarito. They were refurbishing the one bar I like, so we settled for another where a Santana-like band was coaxing couples to drink. At this point, I'd already had several beers while we were playing Monopoly back at the condo. To these I added two margaritas at the bar while making small talk with a woman who was frank and unperturbed that her eighteen-year-old daughter was upstairs banging her boyfriend. Thing, Berto, and I moved on, popping our heads in one place, then the next. Ate some tacos, fish, chicken and carne asada at a sidewalk stand. Rock n' Roll Taco was the hip, bumpin' spot, loud and hard to see in with dark and ever-changing multi-colored lights. We didn't stay long, but I had another nasty margarita. Then we went to Papa's and Beer. I had a scotch and a few more beers and played pool on a scarred table with some Navy people and some cool fucks whose jugulars I wanted to tear out. I kept having my quarters snaked due to my own lack of attention. Though I did finally play six games. Won three, lost three. We went to another bar and had nasty maggies and danced to dead eighties tunes with chicks who didn't know we were there. We moved on. We went to a place called Cuatro Caminos because the guys wanted to go where there were whores. The place wasn't to out satisfaction, so we caught another cab to a place called Endless Summer where they wouldn't let us in, but sent out una puta gordita, who, you know, took my dough. She came with us to another bar, but none of us wanted to talk to her.
The hangover the next day was vicious.

Even as the Cops Approached

F 3-7
Well here I am at school. The kids are doing their standardized state testing. It's pretty much kickback time for me. We did go to the Goose last night. I had a couple bourbons and a couple of beers. Gip bought one of my bourbons. On the way there, I told the guys how smashed I got at that titty bar in Manhattan when I fell off my chair. We had been taking cabs, but somehow we ended up in my car driving wasted around Manhattan looking for an open liquor store at three fifty in the morning before it became illegal to sell booze at four. Once we had beer, Drew said he was going to get me a hooker. I said I wouldn't get a hooker, but I still drove us around looking. Doing that I made a right turn at a red light which is a no-no in New York. We were laughing our asses off drunk, and when the NYPD flashed their lights, our laughter was not diminished. There were cars parked all along the sides of the street, so there was nowhere to pull over. I just stopped in the middle of the street. Even as the cops approached the car, where we were both sitting with open tall boys between our legs, we laughed. I showed them my license and they noticed the picture of my father in his LAPD uniform with the American flag behind him.
"Who's in the picture?" the officer asked.
"My father," said I.
"Where's he work?" asks he.
"LAPD," I say.
"LAPD!?" he says. "Follow us."
They led us to a place to park my car and told me not to drive it again until the sun came up. "Go get some bacon and eggs," they said.
Drew and I wandered the streets, checking out the twenty-four hour sex shops, and somehow we got separated. For an hour or so I couldn't find Andrew or the car. It was drizzling, but I was hot and sweaty from the walking, so I took my shirt off and was walking Times Square with no shirt at four thirty in the morning. The sky was graying in the East when Drew and I ran into each other in front of Madison Square Garden. Then we stumbled upon the car after another hour of walking around looking for it and drove back to his pad on East Ninth.
John B. came with us last night. He said he's resisted titty bars for seven years, but Gip talked him into going last night. A big nasyt redhead approached me about a table dance. I told her I'd love it but not to waste her time with me. She pouted. I said, " I wouldn't be able to keep my hands off you."
She said, "That's your excuse?"
I said, "That's my story and I'm sticking to it."
It's hard enough (pun intended) to keep my dick from exploding at a distance. Who knows what would happen within touching range.
I woke up thinking about Sanyo Bricklayer. I'm suppposed to be going to Pablo's tonight. I wonder if there's any chance of seeing her. We're going to watch the "Hunchback of Notre Dame" today. What else? Esmeralda just offered me a word search.

3-6 Th
A cricket is stuggling weakly against the sides of the tub; he seems to be on his last legs, though shapely they may still be.
I'm crapping. It's night. One-eyed, one-handed, gimp-legged, gimp-brained Thing 2 has just arrived from Union Station. We got a full house.
Today's workshop was in Hacienda Heights. Phyllis and Sara were late picking me up, but I didn't read much of the paper because I thought I was too tired to get up earlier than I did, even though I wasn't. GIP is on his way here. He wants to go to the titty bar Wild Goose. I said Maybe.
Class went well tonight. I had energy. The class was content and laughing. They're starting to ask questions. What else? Now I'm pretty tired. Bayless drove us in Gramma's convertible to Molly Malone's. I spent twenty-five on Jameson's and Amstel. The singer was gorgeous and knew it. It was driving me nuts. I regret going. I should have stayed home and saved my money and read and slept. Who are the girls? Remember the one-inch eye frame. Get from the ATM to the girl's house. Well-to-do. She lives with her father.
I would like to call Sanyo Masonic. Pablo says it's over between them. I've been imagining conversations. "I know this is weird. We weren't exactly friends as much as acquaintances, but I liked you the moment I met you, and it's a shame to think I'll never see you anymore now that Pablo isn't." Is that sleazy? What else? Thing's playing the new U2 album. The Kings are hosting the Rangers and making them feel right at home by giving up five goals. We did some tongue twisters in class tonight. I still have to type and do some e-mail. Call that accountant. Get the VIN number off the Chrysler. What about that Methodology class Saturday? Will I enroll at UCLA? U. of Phoenix? What else? I'll stop by the pot shop tomorrow. It will have been two weeks. Steph Gracias is going to pick me and take me out to Pasadena tomorrow. Ug What else? I napped on the couch under the window this afternoon. I read some more Neruda. I'll e-mail Linda soon. Que mas? Just a few more lines. I had a fat-ass Monte Christo at Bennigan's for lunch.

3-5 W
I wonder if I can get this done before lunch. Hi, Craig. No reading over my shoulder. You might not like what you see, and you risk boring yourself to death. Diane's telling a story about a lady who had a stroke. I haven't been listening well enough to know the point. We did a cool exercise. We drew a Picasso sketch of Stravinsky upside down while listening to Pachbel's Canon in D. The exercise is designed to let the "left brain" take over. It worked like a charm on me. Very peaceful, my breathing got that crying hitch. My eyes thawed. I could have done it all day.

There was a little traffic on the 10, but the 405 was smooth sailing, which is rare. "...there's plasticity in the brain," says Diane. This kind of talk does little for me. It's not how much intelligence, but what kind. I'll have to find more drawing projects for Emmanuel ande Jesus. What else? I have a wart on the fingerprint of my thumb. I tried to burn it off with a stoveflame-heated paperclip, but it has grown back. Everyone's going to luncch. I caved in like an abandoned mine shaft. I'm writing this as we ride in the car to whereever we're going. My boss, Principal Cicada, is driving. I think we're going to a Japanese place. We're talking about how to utilize laptops and create a computer lab at school.
So now we're in the lobby of Marie Callendar's. I got in the wrong car for the Japanese restaurant. Judith and Gustavo are talking in Spanish. I'm not going to eat. Where's Rosa? She must have gone to the sushi place. So now we're back at class. I had Monterey Style Idaho Rainbow Trout for lunch. We're about to brainstorm the names of as many classroom activities we can think of. They said, pick someone who can write fast, and I volunteered. It's warm in here. I've read section A of the LA Times. I need to figure out how to transfer to another school closer to home. What else? Aurgh. It's hard to think in here. The sky is blue. I rode back here in Judy Iguana's car, the one I drove to San Diego. I'll just babble through these last lines and be done.