3-20-97 Th 10:45 PM

"His alcoholism contributed to the disintegration of his marriage, and he and his wife separated in 1955. But they never divorced, and she remained his close friend and colleague, maintaining her own house near his in East Hampton until her death from cancer in 1989.
After the separation, De Koonig, who was always attractive to women, moved in with commercial artist Joan Ward. She bore his only child, Lisa, when De Koonig was 52. He went on to other liasons, but both Lisa and her mother remained close to the artist, later maintaining separate homes near his. They were also friendly to Elaine."

As it should be. Well, we got the car with relatively little hassle finally today. I had to stay after school late a while to talk to Emmanual Fernandez' mom about his lack of effort. When I got home, GIP was here. He got off work early to help me. He and John and I went to Wilshire Division and they buzzed us into the Detective's Office. The whole place seemed designed for bloody holdouts against armed rebellion. I felt my arm being twisted. Dealin' in pain. The Detective had the right answers.
I myself stated a vision. Now I'm trippin' on the effectiveness of well-coordinated radio communication. How did they identify him as one to do dirty work? Fearlessness from utter fear.
Here come the blessmysouls.
Oh, you get howlin' in the city it finds its escapes
I'd like to go back to that IL Literature book store and get the book of the stick man even though I haven't even started the last two books I got there.
Where was I? I asked Richard and Jose if they had any guns. Neither did. There's another chopper out there. Time to close the window. Got no shirt on.
How would you get eyes so wide? It sounds like someone skipping rope outside.
Maybe I should always call him Mr. Pugh, instead of Dennis, since he hired me, and he always wears a tie and walks around stilted and aimlessly, but I don't want to say 'Pugh' because that's the sound we make when something smells bad.
It's already elven thirty. I got through most of both newspapers, but I haven't read any of the Fante yet today. I like what I read about Willem De Koonig, the artist of whom I had never heard previous to reading his obituary today.
I haven't typed the one page yet, but I've typed fifteen minutes and trodmill a half hour. School went all right. I was a little looser I think tonight because I got my truck back. Doris has a gold tooth. I'm falling asleep at my desk. Maybe I better just enter blab mode so I can finish this before tomorrow. I think I'll just go to bed. I heard a car idling in the street outside and got suspicious and went to the window. It was only the Domino's guy delivering next door. Sounds like a good drug story. Just a few more lines. Amparo and Doris walked out holding each other around the waist. What would I say to Cathy Tomorrow?

3-19-97
Nobody would believe the fucking runaround I went through today, or maybe actually, it's all too typical. When I drove up to the house, Jersey Johnny was on the walkway with a grin and a thumbs-up. "They found your truck," he said.
My response was guarded. "What's left of it?"
"They said the stereo's gone, but other than that, it's okay."
"I doubt my fishing gear and golf clubs are still in it."

Yeah, yeah, anyway it's a quarter to twelve now. I have to sleep. GIP is going to meet me here after school tomorrow so that we can take another crack at trying to get my car from the bureaucracy that's as bad as the thieves that stole it. I've already accounted for most of what happened in my typing file. The cops couldn't do anything because those hardworking detectives go home at three thirty. I didn't get to tread today. I scanned through the papers just now and sped through the crossword. I did my fifteen minutes and wrote two pages in my page-a-day file and still didn't cover the entire pain-in-the-ass it was not getting my car back today.
The cop put us off to help a woman who came after us. He expressed a need for a "stolen identity form" , but didn't know how to go about getting one. He scooted around on his chair and opened a few drawers. Then he typed a few numbers on their ancient computer. "It's very slow," he advised us. I had determined within a minute that he could not help us, but we hung around for forty minutes before he came to the same conclusion. I have to bring a checkbook to school tomorrow to pay the tax man. What else? I need to sleep. I didn't get high. I ate a bagel with peanut butter for breakfast. I had a school lunch and a fet alfredo microwave tray and want to bone a little gold-toothed hussy and made some ravioli and coudn't get online.

"All Those," I said

3-18 Tu 9:22 AM Airtel Plaza Hotel, Van Nuys
Dry, droning, technical jargon, but I feel good today. Spring is coming. I caught a nice buzz last night, and I have no hangover this morning. Women talked with me last night. I was charming and conversant for a change. I don't remember how Cathy's and my conversation started. I told her she reminded me of Catholine Ebbetsfield, who was my girlfriend in high school. She, was it she? or someone else asked me where my accent came from. I went through being born in Hollywood and told her part one of my life story. She told me hers. Forty-year-old divorcee from North Carolina with teenagers who didn't like California and went home. I talked with her about my mother's guilt and offered reassurances. She accepted a chardonnay. I teased her about the age difference. I started calling her Mrs. Reis. She gave one of her cards to some guy. I told her I had been feeling clammed up. She said what did I mean. She ran down a list of what I could mean: 1. I wasn't in the mood to talk. 2. I wanted to talk, but couldn't 3. There was no one worth talking to. I told her it was a combination of things including guilt about cutting my night school class to go out drinking. She gave me a card. I walked her to the door. Then I sat with a Jewish comedy writer and smoked a clove cigarette. A tall, leggy brunette, beautiful despite a bent nose, smiled at me when I looked at her but declined a conversation, indicating the foulness of my cigarette. For some reason I asked a girl at the bar if she was a lesbian. She said, "You're either very rude or very drunk or very blunt and straightforward." "All those," I said. She said she was writing about pornography. I told her I'd send here some of my work. Her name is Skye Lerner. "A lovely name. So literary," I slurred. She wrote her PO Box number in my little notebook. I danced with a big, round, full-bodied blonde. We went to Taco Bell. I left my coat in GIP's Montero. There are so may lovely girls. I've got spring fever. I want to marry two in this room here and have dozens of children and live long loving lives in the Utah wilderness.
"I got my ass kicked by buses and trucks and red lights and shit-heads all the way here."
"I love women! Even though I can't stand them. They're so lovely. Mayra and Jennifer, I love you both!'

A Rush to Get It Tonight

3-17
Miguel's mom's dinner smelled great. You need a permit to park here. Back where we started. John, this sucks. Some people are in a rush to get it tonight, be it drunk or pussy or security. I ditched work to drive like a tornado. Where Biggie Smalls got what he thought.
The Pepper is going into Jack in the Box. I asked, "You won't be offended if I stay here and finish this?" He said, "No." I wasn't sure.
I feel sick. I need to brush my teeth and shower. What am I going out here with my lips stuck to my teeth again? I should have taught tonight. Look over your shoulder. I'm thirsty and nervous. Aiyaiyai Help! What else? Hurry up and finish and help Miguel have some fun. I got high and had a complete turnaround. A U-turn.
Ate a BBQ lamp sandwich today. Lamb, that is. Got to hurry. Time's a wastin'. Giddyap. Aooyaaa. Beer, only slow and easy. Be friendly. Talk to people. Ignore the rest.
I've come into Jack in the Box. The light in here flickers in the fans. Is that an Ultimate Cheeseburger?" I asked. There's a baby practicing her cords in short notes. It's like a song. I love it. "Dah!" he shouts out a baby shout. My mouth is dry. I don't want to celebrate alcohol. GIP would rather find an, Irish whore. Who can blame him? His burger is done. Here we go.
"Girls! Fucking girls! Are there any good ones out there?  Is it workth looking?" We're in the car driving not long. "Here we go!" We've parked again. The door is open. GIP is going to wait in line. I said I would be right there. A woman walked by. She had no love. I only took a glimpse. A bald girl walked by mean and came back humming. The face of the crescent moon stared dreamily at a star that could not have been there between it's horns where it is not the sky but the shadow of itself, promising fortunes told, five for twenty-five dollars, and a bear advertised two-way radios. Another girl walked by and sneezed daintily. "God bless you," I mumbled.
Waiting to get rolled. One more line. That's all folks.

Like That Would Really Spruce Up a Veggie Burger

3-16 Su 4:20 PM
Let's get this one. No excuses. Then I should treadmill even though the counter doesn't work anymore. Then I'll type a page in the one page file and copy a page from the '92 journal and finish Neruda. Maybe I can watch The Simpsons tonight. Maybe while I tread. I just ate an orange. When these maudlin Jesus tunes Bayless likes go off, I'll put on side two of that Pavorotti tape. I've got a couple phone calles to make. I need to move from this thievin' neighborhood. Where? Studio City? Wyoming? Prague? Costa Rica? What will I eat tonight? A Garden Burger on toast? We haven't got much in the way of condiments. There may be some lettuce in the fridge. Like that would really spruce up a veggie burger. I should call Jen. What else? It's gray out there. What about typing those college Alaska stories? Sounds like Bayless is heading up to Kinko's. Getoff is recording Laura Cohen today. I read about the specifics of Solomon's Palace for the Ark today. The NY Times crossword beat my ass today. What else? Girl is gone. Forget about it. Modern love walks on by. Gets me to the church on time. Beats my ass. Embarrassed myself in front of Josh Wesley dangling that bag in front of his face on the evening of Vera's memorial. Mind wanders back to Kristen, looks like relative safety, practically anyhow, the heart, however, can always burn. Maybe I'll watch some porno since Bayless is in the shower. It's the first time the room has been free in weeks. Now I'm writing in front of the TV, some old guy in a new suit trying to say Chinese have bought the President. Pst. It's Orrin Hatch. What is Newskete? Something on PBS about monk dog trainers. The massacre of the sea. Geneaology over the net. Running up the juice bill leaving the computer on while I don't use it. Gorton's fish fillets? There are some in the fridge--er--freezer. The local news. Is this The Last Emperor? Some rich Chinese. It looks pretty cornball. She doesn't need the umbrella. I think it is the 1989 Best Picture winner. It's looking pretty dated. I found some bleu cheese to put on my veggie burger. I could eat more. Now what? Hasta luego.

3-15 Sat 1:05 PM
Laying in bed. The Dodgers just beat the Orioles in Tampa. There are clothes all over the floor, but the pillow cases are fresh. Shirelle's dad thinks I stole her car. I read the LA Times. The story on Arab/Isreali relations depresses me. Despair is on the rise. These sheets need to be washed. I feel drained. Shirelle just walked in and saw I was writing and walked out, then in again, and out once more. Getoff and I had a little jam session yesterday. The Dodgers have great individual talent, but they're not much of a team. Rick Monday is talking with Todd Worrell about muscle mechanics and accuracy to within eight inches. Shirelle's pager just went off. I washed the dishes. My mom just delivered my treadmill. I've got to use it definitely before school starts. What else? I'm falling asleep. Shirelle is going to need help buying a car now. I guess I'm going to have to ride out with her to Monrovia in the Chrysler. We're on our way out there now. If my writing gets bumpy, blame it on the road. The top is up, but we're piping in a little Cuban rhumba. Dark brother doin the Walkman up Crenshaw. I did my fifteen minutes of typing. I feel like brain's been stole, my spirit sapped by unrighteousness. It's a nice day. You could almost see Gabriel descend from the wisp in the blue. Stop and go freeway wheezes through downtown's paltry skyline. The traffic is making us late. Historic Arroyo Seco Parkway is covered in grafitti. Now where in Pasadena. Anarchy in Albania.
I need to whip through this now. I can read Neruda poems all the way home. I've got to read Kathleen's story soon, too. What else? There's just nothing to say. Shirelle has some cop-killing rap coming over the radio now. Tell 'em a hooka-smoking caterpillar has given you the call. Feed your head. I hope we're not too late.

3-14 F
I was crabby today. I am sorry. My guitar has lost some of the fluidity it had a week ago. Rosa's computer. What else? What else? What's up, you fuckin snivelin Hollywood sychophant?  Hit me. Hit me again. Stay.
Pretty well off Mad, Sven was, cuz the girl couldn't come. He rode off drunk down the street fast with his friend the scooter fixer, who fixed the brakes. The other guy cut in front of him. He was in a coma for five weeks. His head swelled beyond the size of a basketball. He was unrecognizable. The girl went to see him. She was pregnant by his friends. She had a little baby. He underestands. He was pretty bad.
"Your hand's been like that since birth, though, right?"
"Yeah," he answered.
I said, "Glen, you were a wild and crazy rebel-man weren't ya? Don't you need two hands to ride a scooter?"
"Yeah," he conceded, and shot himself in the head with a gun he made from what good fingers he has.

3-13 Th
We did, but she was high and tired, and it wasn't that fun. It feels over. My life doesn't seem like my own lately. Lately--how rare it is when it does. I'm in my night school class right now. They're working on a worksheet. When I get to the bottom of this page, we'll go over the worksheet. I feel like I'm wasting my life. I never work on stories anymore. Today we had a minimum day at school. I still didn't finish the newspaper because busybody Rosa called for a meeting that accomplished nothing other than she got to hear herself talk. I napped on the couch this afternoon. At school today, the girls tempted the boys to chase them. The boys obliged. Levi caught Sandra and knocked her head against the wall. Jackie grabbed him around the throat and choked him in vengeance. Mr. Seeger came to class and lectured us. I put their play areas on the board. I have to remember to bring my tax info, what little I have, to Jose Smith, CPA, after school. I have to remember that Ishi video.
Home now, burning, bombarded by others, false dialogs, spin cycles invading my brain. Bless my soul. Bless Shirelle's soul. Bless Thing's and Glen's and Johnny's souls. And our bodies, too. Thanks. What else? Trying to get online. O for one so far. Violence and crime glorified. So what. I hear the short quick wheeze of the dying. The rise and fall of the dying's chest. It takes longer than we think. What else? Got to type after this. The fuckin tv. a rusted nasty nail, a screw with candy stuck around it from working with her dad. Try not to feed too much sweets to the little one. There's a CAT IN THE HAT BEGINNERS DICTIONARY on the floor here. It's in English and Spanish. "The Jetsons" came on.  Sven says, "Oh! Let's watch this." Then he said something about the Munsters, and now there's some fucking rescue 911 emergency procedure documentary surgery show on. Shirelle called. She'll be here around three tomorrow to spend my money. I ate an Italian sausage sandwich.