Two Galaxies Collided on My Kitchen Table

10-22 9:40 AM W
After Back to School Night, Tim Modchill and I went over to Molly Malone's.  I had a Jameson's and complained about Shirelle.  Then I had a pint of Harp and talked about how I hope I have the nerve to ask Miss Karen for a date.  The World Series was on, but soon a terrible band of pierced fat people took the stage and made some bad music.  We went to Tom Bergen's.  I had a Bushmill's and another Harp and a Caesar salad with cheese toast.  A Spanish-speaking couple drank next to us at the bar.  The girl was from Uruguay and the guy from Israel.  The Marlins scored seven runs in the ninth to take a seven-run lead.  In the bottom of the inning, the tribe mounted a comeback, scoring four runs before ultimately bowing out.  We went back to the house and had a couple glasses of wine.  I called Shirelle and we had a little verbal tug-of-war about whether or not one of us should visit the other.  Neither gave way and no visit was made.  I set Tim up on the couch and went to bed around midnight.  Don't remember any dreams.  Woke up around two, suffocating.  I hacked up a lunger, drank some water and took an inhaler blast.  Woke up at six to National Public Radio.  Brewed a pot of coffee.  Ate some raisin bran, drank some juice, took a vitamin.  Looked over the headlines.  A Hubble telescope photo of two galaxies colliding 63 million light years away sat on my kitchen table on the front page.  I might like to have another big cheeseburger for lunch today.  I should wait 'til I get home and make something from my kitchen.  I need to get my flu shot soon.  Sharon invited me to El Cholo with her and Jim and Tracy tonight.  I don't know if I'll have the stamina.  I'll probably be wanting a nap after school.  Tomorrow is museum day.  Friday is pupil-free day. 
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The music teacher is here now.  We sang "Old Mrs. Witch".  I can't wait to grub at lunch.  I guess I'll walk up to the B of A on Wilshire and La Brea and pay a fucking buck fifty to take out twenty bucks.  Should I eat at the chicken place or at Jack in the Box?  What else?  I'm kind of horned out today.  Urg.  What else?  I haven't heard from Jim in weeks.  I'm going to have to bug out on my next writer's group maybe.  No, I'll go, but I'm afraid I'll have nothing to share.  After this I'll read some Mailer.  Weird how I seem to have dropped the ten-year habit of reading the entire newspaper every day.  Today is picture day.  I always look like hell on picture day.

Said She Was From Lawn Guyland

10-21 12:10 PM Tu
Tonight is Back to School Night.  I'll have to kill a few hours after school until six when the thing starts.  I had  to take the night off from night school without pay.  I guess I'll get some milk and cream cheese and coffee from the market.  Wait out some time at Papa Rico's with a pizza, watch the beginning of the World Series in Cleveland.  Maybe tonight when it's over, around seven thirty, I'll go over to Molly Malone's for a few.  Of course, if I was wise I would just walk home, have a peanut butter and jelly, read and write, and save money and calories. 
What else?  Shirelle stopped by at 6:30 this morning to "borrow" three dollars.  Three.  She's that broke, as usual.  My sister, Bernice, called last night to express her fear of the depths of my brother Mac's corruption.  I could hardly write last night.  Haven't worked on Jim in days.  Don't know if I'm supposed to meet with Ford and Gibson or not on Friday.  I have a softball game that night anyway.  I want to ask out this woman Karen who assists my visually handicapped student once a week.
--6:27 PM     Was tripping a little in the auditorium, standing on the dais behind the principal during teacher introductions, I felt my face was making all these crazy faces, and whenever I made audience eye contact, I'd trip out a little more.---Got Vin Scully and Torborg calling the game on my classroom radio.  Darren Daulton just hit a solo homer to break a two-two tie.  Roselle invited me to her class for a Pepsi.  Karen said she was from Lawn Guyland, "Home of the Islanders," she said.

M 10-20 4:05 PM
I have to go up to the office at LA High and drop off my attendance and time card.  Maybe I'll go to the library.  I walked to the Seven Eleven at lunch and took out money at the ATM so I could pay Dwayne Tyler the league fees for softball.  I ate a chicken sandwich because I passed by Burger King.  What else?  I wrote a bunch of random stuff just now in the fifteen minute file on my Mac.  What other kind is there?  Ms. Crewes said, "Damnesia really wants us to meet.  Didn't you hear her screaming?"  I said I was in a hurry.  Ms. Crewes doesn't know how crafty Damnesia is.  What on Earth next?  My palms and fingers are damp.  Many homes are scaffolded as roof repairs are done in advance of coming El Nino rains.  Remembering Chubasco.  Why am I depressed?  Should I make some chili?  I just decided to write whatever I could think of and finish this, and get it out of the way.  The library might be cool, but I could also hang out and do the same thing here.  I wonder what time it closes.  Carlin and Glorious doom themselves to victimhood with their self-sorry assessments of equality; wrong so many ways you don't know where to begin.  I've got The Naked and the Dead here waiting to be read some more.  An actress posing as Jane Eyre stares balefully off the cover of the TV Times.  Didn't I write that Jane was a Freudian neurotic wreck bent on emasculating Roderick?  Got an A on that.  Feminist professor, too.  I had to compare it to 'Hiroshima Mon Amour', the screenplay.  We had to do a Freudian analysis of the two lead female characters and the comparitve health of their psychiatric states.  What else?  The leaves all behind her are dying.  Wonder if I'll get on my treadmill tonight.  I should work on Jim.  I feel like I won't be able to.  The humidity in my palms today makes me feel guilty.  What else?  Thing picked up and onion and and a roll of foil for me.  I use the foil to make a pipe.  I roll a tube of it around a pencil and bend a bowl in one end.  Chili?  No wine.  [an ink scribble of the men from the Naked and the Dead]  Call sHirELLe.  What else?  Call Steve.  Call Newport.  Fill out low-interest credit card balance transfer form. 

Shooting Range Warning Signs

10/17 9:53 AM F
10-19 5:41 PM Su
I'm sitting in the chair we call the Kirk chair because it's like the captain's chair on some futuristic Star Trek Enterprise with its superior vantage point and remote control capabilities for the fount of life: TV.
Yeah.  I didn't write here yesterday.  Thing and I drove up to Lancaster with the top down on the convertible.  It was sunny but chilly.  I felt impervious even in my short sleeves.  We had thermoses of coffee.  We listened to Soundgarden and Van Halen.  We stopped at a Denny's off the Antelope Freeway.  Driving through Lancaster on the way to see Chuck Yeager break the sound barrier above Edwards Air Force Base, I asked Thing, "If we got pulled over for speeding, do you think the cop would let us go if we told him we were trying to break the sound barrier?"   We had the opposite problem, though.  We sat in grueling traffic.  Everyone and their grandma was trying get down the long narrow road to the checkpoint onto the base.  I looked at the big blue sky and said, "Do they call it an air show because of all this air?"  It took us about an hour and half to drive two hours because the traffic was so bad.  We pulled of the road within sight of the base entrance and thought we might just park there and walk in.  We trudged toward the gate past the SHOOTING RANGE warning signs, by one of which I stopped to piss.  At the gate, I asked the guard how much farther it was to the air show.  "About seven or eight miles," he said.  We decided to shitcan the whole idea.  I called Kronos, whom we were supposed to be meeting at the air show, to see if he'd left yet.  No one answered.  It was going to be another Zurn flakeout.  Thing and I went to a bar and drank bloody marys and read the paper which was all I really wanted to do anyway.  After a couple hours, I tried Kronos again, but there was still no answer.  Lancaster seemed kind of lame, and I really just wanted to get back to LA. 
Once we got back home, Carlin came up to see if we'd help Glorious move.  Neither of us wanted to, especially after their idiotic, victim-coveting, self-sorry, white-man bash at the Bounty the night before, but we did.  "Mighty white of us," I said, and Carlin groaned.  We sat in more traffic all the way the fuck down to Santa Ana or Tustin or wheverever the hell it was that Glorious was moving.  Biyatch wasn't there.  We went to see my mom.  My step-sister and her daughter were there.  I was tired and had no personality.  We called Glorious again, and now she was home.  We loaded a roll-top desk and a television and some other crap into the back of Thing's truck, and then waited around a couple hours while the poor girl tried to get her shit together.  She was leaving her boyfriend.  Then we drove her stuff over to her new pad in Santa Ana. 

"Ask Me What Sick, Horrific Thing Is Going to Happen Next"

10-15 W 12:05 PM
What makes that static?  That light night, after the Star Spangled Banner, TV static on the sides of some buildings on a sunny day?
And last night, that audacious lampshade-light moon rising in the copper twilight downtown, the buildings bathed in rose?
I have only ten minutes left to eat my lunch.  I hope it's ready soon.  I came to Fatburger because I had a coupon, even though I could have wisely had just popcorn and an apple for lunch. 
What the hell else?
10-16 Th 11:41 AM
Don't really feel like doing this today.
10:15 PM
At Renee's.  Thing says there's a "Fuck-of-the-Week" web page.  Last week was a woman with pubic hair all up her stomach.  "Yikes!" he yells.  "I think we should call in a napalm strike."
"Ask me what horrific, sick thing is going to happen next?"
Thing says he's trying to live a monastic lifestyle.
A woman's spine...
"If I stop masturbating, will I have bigger balls?" I asked.  I mostly wondered if I'd be braver when it came to talking to women, but I held my hands apart as if I were talking about the size of a trout that got away.
Thing said masturbation was lo-tech virtual reality.
I spotted a girl who looks like Lois Lane.  I said, "Thing, get that girl to sit down with us."
He said, "You do it." 
I realized if they sat with us, I'd go from little-to-say to nothing-to-say.  I looked at her again.  "She's probably stupid," I said.
Later I said, "I think I'm impotent."  I wiped a big snotty booger under the table.  When I'm famous, people will seek this table out.  Table in the northwest corner of the main bar; yellowish booger.  Then I dipped my fingers in my Scotch and soda and ran it through my hair, and dabbed a little on my neck under my ears. 
Thing says his blood alcohol level constitutes that he's a like a walking Miller Lite.

Satan worships me.