6-21 Sa 9:47 AM
Amtrak Coast Starlight bound for Portland, Oregon along the graffiti-colored, rubble-heaped, steel-girded, concrete gully through which flows the LA River, which actually looks clean and blue and healthy with grass and algae and silt on its cement banks. Next stop: Glendale. There's the back of the crumbling Van De Kamp's bakery. Thing and 'Shell dropped me off at Union Station. The Glendale stop looks like an old Mexican outpost complete with man in cowboy hit drinking coffee like a Tejano in a lawn chair. Soon I'll have to locate the bourbon on this train and decide when to eat my mushrooms. Last night, Shirelle, Christina, April, and I partied in the Hollywood Hills home of producer John Ziffrin. The walls were adorned with Picassos and a Warhol Mao. How original. It's hot in here. It's cloudy today. I've still go to read the paper. Last night there was a full moon on the eve of the summer solstice and the junkies were out howling and friendly and hustling up their fixes. Too bad these windows don't open. This train acshully chugs. I had steak and eggs and hash brown potatoes and thick sourdough toast at the Pantry, and I'm stuffed. A bum made change for us at the meter. I guess when I'm done reading the paper, I'll walk the train from one end to the other. I wonder if it will be hard to sit in the lounge car. I wonder if there could be a TV with the Dodgers and Giants on it later. Last night's game was what baseball is all about: Storied rivalry, pressure, extra innings, dozens of subplots. I'm tired behind the eyes. Trailer parks, weeds, barbed wire, industrial warehouses, flood channel, brown hills, wrecked cars, gravel pile, construction site, steel drums, pick-up-on-blocks, radio tower, satellite dish, ballplayers, decades of junk, swimming pools, Biscuits and Gravy, Country Kitchen, Spanish Tile roofs, horses, plastic siding, boulders, good place for an ambush, Chatsworth, tunnel, dynamite gorge. Long tunnel, black outside, only the feeling of motion There's a stubborn piece of steak fat lodged between my two most inaccessible molars. I'll do my 15 min and1 pg in the big book.

Fri June 19 10:40 AM 1997
Feeling a little rush rush rush--Shirelle's driving while I write here in Vera's Chysler on my way to Stan's barber shop for a trim and a shave before my BIG interview at 2:00. We're going to drive to Westwood before that and get some mushrooms from a friend of Shirelle's which I may or may not take on the train. I'd like to fit in a bucket of balls at Rancho Park today, too, but I may have to cut that out for the sake of interview readiness. After that I've got to pay my bills and call the registry for Mao's wedding present. I'm probably forgetting a few things. I haven't even mentioned all the writing I've got to do. Old Rawler is coming around four. I forgot what for. I've got to gather together a little portfolio of Stulls and stuff.
Now I'm at Shirelle's. In the time it took me to get my haircut and face shaved and walk over here, Shirelle wasn't able to warm her food and eat, so I'm waiting on her again.
I have to call Amtrak and Ideeho.
Now I'm in the office at Wilshire Crest waiting for my interview. There was a just a bunch of shrieking and laughter emanating from Principal Dinerstein's office because a big cockroach was spotted. Ms. Dinerstein came out and looked at me and said, "There's no decorum in my office."
"I'll fit in just fine," I might have said, but I don't feel like myself in a suit. I tell myself, I'm adaptable. I can fit in anywhere. I'm more excited that nervous. I'm happy about the prospect of working in my own community. I like Sharp, but now that I'm teaching Adult Ed at LA High, I could really use that hour of commute time for planning and preparation. It will afford me the time to make more of an impact after school. What kind of after-school projects can I get involved with?
I floored 'em, I'm sure. They're going over my Stulls and discussing my worthiness right now. When I get back to the house I've got to call Amtrak and pay my bills. And wash the dishes and pack and wait for Rawler. And drink beer and smoke pot and eat mushrooms. And type for fifteen minutes and type a page and do '92 and call for Mao's wedding present.
I had some good whacks on the driving range at Rancho Park today and just as many that luckily didn't kill anybody. This is the second pen to run out on my while writing thi