When I Tried Out for Jeopardy

7-14-98 Tu 1:40 PM
Well, the bug spray didn't kill me.  I'm staying home to write in here today so I don't spend any money.  The Angel's are losing a day game to the A's. What else?  That came awfully quick today.  What else? Yikes!  There's another one. 3:51 PM  I just ate an entire medium pizza, and I dipped every bite in Alfredo sauce: More evidence of my total lack of will power and determination. My brow sweats from the work of getting that pizza down.  I can't eat wisely or work on Jim.  Why is that?  What's so hard about
7-15-98 1:20 PM W
I'm in the bar at Sportsman's Inn up on Ventura Boulevard.  I'm having a screwdriver.  Shirelle brought me up here to drop off some of her headshots and bathing suit shots to some horny production assistant who complimented her on her legs and said he had some work for her.  You can imagine.  She was here yesterday playing set mother for Susan Turner's son who's making a commercial here at the pool.  Susan invited Shirelle and me to San Diego and to some supposed VIP party at Papa's n Beer in Rosarito.  Shirelle wants to go.  I have mixed feelings, but I mostly don't want to go.  "Rosarito can get pretty ugly," I tell h      8:17 PM  That was the third pen to run out on me in three days.  I'm at my night school class. Shirelle kept pestering me there at the bar.  I finally said, "Fine, we'll go."  As usual, once I relented, she went and told Susan we wereN'T going.  What I wasn't saying was that I don't trust Susan.  She's a big horn-dog partier, and she gets Shirelle in trouble.  She fucks different dudes all the time.  I know this because she always tells me so.  A few years ago, Shirelle was house sitting for Susan and
7-16-98 6:15 PM Th
I guess I'll have to finish that story another time.  I tried out for "Jeopardy!" today.  I passed the test and was invited to stay for a mock game.  I'm not sure I was energetic enough for them. I think I even came off a bit dull, even though I answered almost all the questions.      I had a beer while I tried on shirts and ties before the audtion.  There was a glass of wine that Shirelle didn't finish the night before.  I drank it.  The last thing I did before I left the house was I took a big gulp of chilled bourbon.  Then, on the way to Sony, I stopped at Q's by UCLA to play the National Trivia Network and warm up.  In two tries, I racked up the month's two highest scores.  I had a beer and a turkey sandwich and a glass of Bushmill's Irish whiskey. Then I had a cup of coffee.  Then I drove to the Sony lot. I completed the crossword puzzle while we waited with about a hundred other people.  The "Wheel of Fortune" line had about ten times our number.  Two guys led us to the set where we took a fifty-question test.  It was kind of hard.  Not multiple choice.  Write in the answer.  If you missed more than fifteen you were cut.  I wasn't sure if I was going to make it, but when they called the names of people, they called my name third.  About twenty of us passed the test.  Then we played the mock game with the buzzers. They said they were looking for personality and gamesmanship.  It was weird because they just called on whoever regardless of when you rang in so everyone would get a chance.  I got called twice.  I answered both my questions correctly, but I almost forgot to phrase one of my answers as a question.  I don't know if they'll hold that against me, and I kept ringing in too early, so that might be a strike, too, and finally, I just said I was teacher, and that if I won enough money, I'd take some time off one of my jobs to work on a novel I'm trying to write.  I think I came across as kind of a bore.  Oh, well.  All I can do now is wait and see if they call.  I wish I would have been more energetic or suave or commanding or something.  Oh, well.  Fuckem.  The traffic bit on the way back.  Shirelle wants us to go to the beach tomorrow. I've got to water color those two pages I accidentally skipped in this journal or something.  Who knows what, though?  I haven't typed yet today.  Still got to call that Smitty dude.  We're not going to San Diego and Rosarito it looks like.  Buck Owens is playing at the Santa Monica Pier tonight.  Thing's going, but I'm stuck here at work.

Do Not Induce Vomiting

M 7-13-98 5:30 PM
I'm at Starbucks trying to wake up before I go to work.  My belly is enormous today.  The bark peels off a eucalyptus right the other side of this window.  I remember when this was a photo lab. 
This morning, a fly landed on the screen of the window where I was eating a toasted bagel with cream cheese.  I had declared war on the flies about two minutes earlier when a company of about two dozen had bivouacked on that same screen. So the can of aerosol poison was still on the table right there, and I uncapped it without getting up and aimed at the fly on the screen from where I sat.  Just as I depressed the spray button, the fly flew away, and a breeze decided to blow the poison right back into my face.  I went to the sink and washed my face and flushed my eyes.  Then I went back to my bagel.  I thought about it.  Some of the spray probably blew back onto the bagel.  The bagel and cream cheese and jelly were probably only worth about twenty-seven cents or so, all together.  But it couldn't have been that much poison.  I took a bite of the bagel.  Did it taste funny?  Maybe a little, or maybe that was my imagination.  I read the label on the poison can while I finished the bagel.  "Do not allow contact with skin or eyes.  Can be absorbed through skin.  Wash thoroughly.  If swallowed, seek medical attention.  Do not induce vomiting; may cause aspiration."  Uh-oh.  That had to be overkill, right?  It wasn't that much poison, was it?  I went up to my class.  I was looking to see if my camera was there.  I started talking to Aileen Lincoln.  She said word had come down that we would not be getting air conditioning in the bungalow we share.  She was telling me all about it and I started to feel a little funny, like I was on nitrous, a little light-headed, a little deep-voiced.  The camera wasn't there.  Someone probably stole it.  I went home.  I felt very sleepy. I lay on the couch.  I was very drowsy.  I fell asleep. 

Su July 13 12:29 AM
I'm lying in Shirelle's bed.  She's making me watch this stupid-ass movie called "First Knight".  It's one of her favorite movies.  She loves any movie where two men are in love with the same woman.  This one's got a lot of movie stars parading around Arthurian England trying to affect some bullshit romantic nobility.  I was working at home so nicely.  I would have typed all night.  I could have worked on Jim.  I could feel it working up.  But then the selfish baby called.  She didn't care, wouldn't understand, wouldn't leave me be for one night.  This movie is embarrassing:  "I can tell when a woman wants me.  I can see it in her eyes."  Oh, brother.  I want to slap Shirelle for liking this stupid movie.  Ugh.  I could have typed all night.  I'm such an idiot, but the selfish baby would not allow it.  So, fuck.  What else?  I was thinking the biggest difference between Bukowski and me is that he can go for much longer periods of time without eating than I can.  That's important.  What else?  I drove to Borders today.  I bought Farewell, My Lovley, three Bukowski volumes, a short story anthology, The Crossing, and Sexus.  Whatever.  I was in such the perfect mood to write.  I can't believe I'm not working on Jim and that what I'm doing instead is watching this asinine movie.  What else?  You cant think with this drivel in your ears.  Can we get a little mustard for this corndog?  Put some honey in the cornbread?  I said I was going down to the kitchen to put together a plate of leftovers.  When I came back, Shirelle had the news on.  "What happened to the movie?" I asked.  "I stopped it so you wouldn't miss anything," she said. "Oh, thanks.  How thoughtful," I said.  I could go for some Maalox.  I've got to get my camera fixed. What the fuck else?  What on Earth else?  I bit the inside of my lip.  Prince Malagant kidnapped Guenevire.  This shit is nothing like the legend as told by Mallory.  What else? [a red-ink sketch of a man playing a bongo]  I'm so broke.  I need to get on "Jeopardy!" and win thirty grand.  We're supposed to go to Lassen next week.  My car needs a lot of work.  This movie is a total chick fantasy.  Bad guy rips off heroine's clothes.  Two guys fight for her.  When I take this back, I'll get "Henry and June"  and maybe "The Unbearable Lightness of Being" and maybe "The Year of the Dragon." 

Women

7-10-98 2:45 PM F
Dublin's again.  The Miller rep just had the bartender pour me one "on the company."  A free beer from me from the agent of the maker itself...We were going to see a movie at the Laemmle, but I screwed up the starting times, so we came here for a drink, and now we've missed the second starting time as well. 
So now what?  I'm going to go sink a rack.  Then I don't know what.  A nice-looking viking broad is sipping something by herself.
7-11-98 6:10 PM Sa
Rita Flora.  Stopped in at the Tales Bookshop.  They had a few books that I wanted, but none that I desperately wanted.  Then I walked up the street to Pulp.  They had a bunch of books I desperately wanted, but I didn't get any of them because I am afraid to spend the money, and there are still so many books at the house I haven't read.  Maybe, after I get paid next week...Or maybe I should wait until I've read all the books in my house.  I wonder how long that will take.  Years, certainly.  Maybe as few as two. I can't wait that long to get all the other books I want.  I listed the names of all the authors I want in my little notepad, but I won't reprise that here.  Got a fucking six dollar glass of cabernet.  Doh.  I was going to get the spinach pie, but then I decided again I was afraid to spend the money, and it's not on the menu tonight anyway.  I wonder if you can still get it.  I love the way the ivy hangs down from the ceiling of the sidewalk overhang outside this place.  There were other things I wanted to write, things that seemed important, but, as usual, trivial things seem to be forcing those other things out of the way. 
"What happened to my rings?" Shirelle held open a little velvet box that should have had in it a set of three matching rings she cajoled me into buying for her a year or so ago, two silver bands with little cubic zirconiums embedded all the way around them and a daintier silver ring with a larger zircon sticking out of it.  She bugged me about them for days.  I didn't want to get them.  I understand the symbolism.  She had been pretty much pissing me off for a solid year, but we had been together so long that, though I'd had visions of alternatives, and even little plots here and there, I couldn't, wouldn't, didn't make any clean breaks.  And she kept bugging me, so I got all pissed off and grim, and drove us to the fucking mall, she, by then, of course, the whole time telling me to forget about it.
At the mall, the jeweler noted my stoic countenance and said to me, "Ah, look au appi she is."
"Yeah," I said.
Well , she wore them for a while, and about a year later she gave them back to me because now she wants the same rings but in platinum and diamonds instead of silver and zircons, as an engagement ring--or rings, I should say.  I don't know when I'm supposed to be able to afford that.  Not until I pay off my ten grand in debt. Anyway, they've been sitting on the top shelf of the hutch of my desk in their little velvet box for the last couple months.  Carlin from downstairs, a girl with too much Claremont psych "education" and an overly-sensitive attitude about perceived slights to her status by men, starving for attention, lonely because of her education and her attitude toward men and her refusal to recognize sexual politics, and horny and looking to score, was up here again, interrupting my writing to ask what I was writing, and twenty other pointless, lonely, questions.  She picked up the velvet case and opened it and fawned over the stupid rings and put them on her finger.  She said she wanted them and asked whose they were.  I had to say they were Shirelle's.  Carlin hates Shirelle.  Shirelle hates Carlin.  Carlin's always trying to break us up, telling me how bad Shirelle is for me and trying to get me to do things with her instead of Shirelle.  Well, Carlin wore the rings down to her house even though I had asked her to leave them in the box.  I had to go down and get them back.  Now Shirelle always hassles me about Carlin.  I keep telling her that she has NOTHING to worry about Carlin and her negative attitude--I tell her that she and I are friendly only and sometimes barely that.  I sympathize with her loneliness as a fellow human being and that is ALL.  But Shirelle has little sympathy, says she hates the bitch, wants to kick her ass, mutters that she better keep her hands of her boyfriend, etc..  And now Shirelle's standing there with the empty case saying,"Where's my rings?"  "I don't know," I say, but I have an idea. I went down to Carlin's and knocked on the door.  "Do you have those rings again?" I ask.  "Yeah," she says.  "Dammit!  That pisses me off.  You're causing a big mess for me.  I already asked you once not to take them and you went and did it again!"  "Sorry," she said and handed them back.  I didn't say anything else to her.  I went upstairs and gave the rings to Shirelle.  "Why does she have them?" she asks.  "I don't know," I say.  "Really I don't know.  I have nothing to do with it.  I swear."

You Yourself Do

6:10 PM July 9, 98 Th
I'm at my night school class.  There are only two students here. That's weird.  Not much to say. It will be another epic struggle to fill these pages right now.  I already typed this afternoon.  Listed all the things I'd done and need to do.  Rodolfo walked in.  "Buenas tardes," he said. Here's Maria.  Now there are four students.  I'm wearing shorts today even though the ASSistant director, Nicholas "Prickless" Roberts said not to.  I asked the class to practice their short vowel sounds.  They sound like they're having sex.
What else?  Wish I could just read and write instead of teach. 
What else?  What else?  There is nothing.  I feel like screaming. I'LL WRITE IN ALL CAPS! THERE AINT A FUCKING THING TO SPEAK OF.
9:10 PM
I'm at Plummer Park, I think.  It has none of that seedy used-condom West Hollywood feel.  Old couples stroll arm-in-arm all over the place.  The Russian refugee orchestra is jamming in the public hall.  A father and daughter are playing tennis.  The moon is full through the trees.  There are kids on the swings.  On the way here, I got some frantic driving jazz on the radio, perfect for taking turns at moderately high speeds under a full moon in L.A..  The orchestra music is a little more big bandy.  Shirelle wasn't home.  When I'm done here, I'll find a place to page her.  A woman walks her cat on a leash.  A guy just asked how I was doing.  I should have ignored him.  Now he has asked if he can sit down.  "It's a public park," I said.  He said, "I know, I just want to be careful about intruding on other people's space."  He says he was an intelligence officer in Vietnam, a captain.  His came is Cortes Kwikl.  He seems a little shell-shocked.  He's drunk.  He knows Russian from his intelligence days.   Been all over the world.  This is the greatest country.  His Dutch mother was born in Oklahoma.  Mosquitoes or fleas are chomping on my calves.  I want a drink.  The Captain's talking all born-again Christian now.  He says all the churches around here are gay.  He says he's not gay though.  Says he got offered a thousand bucks by an El Dorado full of gays.  He said he told them, "I'm sorry.  I just don't do that kind of stuff."  He asks what religion I am.  "My mom was Catholic," I say.  He says, "The Pope has no red phone to God, but you yourself do."

7-8-98 W 1:59 PM
I'm at Larchmont.  I picked up my prescription and got jelly and soap.  I've stopped at a little sidewalk table in the shade.  Two girls sit at a table next to me.  They are so sexy.  I am embarrassed to be this close to them or look at either one of them for more than a second.  They're talking about the Viper Room and who is a prick and how much apologizing one of them had to do to Max; it took three phone calls. 
"I'm a failure as smoker," one says.  "You all right?"
"I'm cranky," says the other.
"Why? Because I told you about Amsterdam?"
"Let's walk."
They're gone now.  I think they knew I was writing what they were saying.  Were those smoldering blue eyes real or contacts?  Short skirts, hot legs, high heels.  It seems right now that fashions change little.  Whatever.  What is this place?  No one has come out to take an order.  Can I sit here for free?  There was a newspaper on this table, but the classified section with the crossword puzzle was not in it.  That was the only section I wanted...I had already read all the rest.  This morning I left Shirelle's at four in the morning because I couldn't breathe, but when I got home I discovered that my inhaler had been in my backpack all along.
I drove here.  I was going to walk for the exercise, but I wanted to save time.  I can play basketball at the house or walk to school tonight.  What else?  Should I buy a newspaper just to do the crossword puzzle and sit somewhere else?  Are those little apartments above the stores across the street?  It would be cool to live there...even with the constant drone of all the automobiles driving by around here. FLICKA MY FAVORITE PLACE jamba juice Dry and shoe repair  Hardware  SAM'S BAGELS 32 Varieties    A balcony overlooks the street and cafes.  This street seems European.  Larchmont Beauty Center  Starbuck's Coffee   Public Notice  PLEASE DO NOT GIVE $ TO PANHANDLERS     Ask merchants for home net info  Wanderlust Travel    What else?
There's just no thinking going on in me these last few days.  Or ever.  Just a helpless carelessness.  I'll have a turkey burger when I get home.  Payless is now Rite/Aid     1 HOUR PHOTO LAB     Guy walks past [PED XING SIGN with silhouette of man in crosswalk] talking on his cell phone, complaining, by his tone, "...about all this petty gossip..."     "Get off the phone, shit-head," I think.  A heavy woman just came out with a paper plate of ravioli.  Out now comes an even heavier little bowling ball of a butch-looking woman in flat-top and rolled-up dungarees.  Women are wearing those pedal pusher pants like they wore back in seventh grade when their little clits popped up for the first time.  On now to Blockbuster.

Everyday Hollywood Nobodies

7-7-98 Tu 10:15 PM
I'm at Shirelle's West Hollywood apartment.  She just brought a bong down.  "Do you want a smoke?" she asks.  "Maybe just a little," I say.  "Nate called me today," she says.  "Oh, yeah?  Wha'd he have to say?" I ask, but I don't listen to the answer.  It's hot in here.  Shirelle made breaded, seasoned pork chops with stuffing and corn and cranberries.  She gave me a beer, too.  I opened a window.  The show "NYPD Blue" is on right now.  I want to take off my shirt, but I don't want to frighten and disgust Shirelle's roommate, Christina.  Shirelle's smoking a cigarette.  Smoking a cigarette seems so ignorant and stupid.  What else?  I watched "Dial M for Murder".  It was okay.  A little hard to follow at first.  The performances were irritatingly melodramatic.  The American League won the All-Star Game.  You can hear music in the building next door.  Cars driving by.  What else?  The characters in Bukowski's Hollywood are thinly-disguised Hollywood luminaries.  But he writes the usual caveat that any similarity is a coincidence.  It's a wonder no one sued him.  I played basketball for a half hour today.  I'm getting better.  We ate KFC today.  I did my fifteen minutes and my page.  Read the newspaper.  Did the crossword.  Taught my class.  That's about it.  More of the same tomorrow, I guess.  Tonight we're going to watch "The Last Tango in Paris," as long as I don't fall asleep in the middle of it.  What else?  Shirelle's got eight candles lit in here.  What else?  What else?  How can there be so little to say?  What the flying motherf*ck else??!!  Three sunflowers stretch from a van on a glass coffee table.

Mon 7-6-98 3:00 PM
You can always count on a Larchmont sidewalk cafe for some quality girl watching.  I finished the newspaper looking up after each paragraph to watch the girls walk by dressed in their summer clothes.  I only had the nerve to smile and say hello to one old lady, though.  I stopped up here to try to get my inhaler prescription refilled, but they have to call for my doctor's approval.  So I probably won't be able to get it today.  When I'm done with these three pages, I'll read a chapter of Bukowski's Hollywood, then I'll walk to the drug store and see what gives.  Maybe I'll stop at Blockbuster and pick up a movie or two.  Then I'll walk back to my place and type til the All-Star Homerun Derby at five.  It's at Coors Field this year.  Should be fun to watch.  Should I grab some beer and milk?  Is that too much to carry?  A guy in a wheelchair just coasted up to sell me some gum.  I said, "Oh, no, thank you."  Hey--a girl walking by smiled at me.  A woman sweeps leaves in front of her shop out to the gutter.  A sign hangs from chains over the door: Patisserie de Larchmont.  The Brinks truck pulled up to the bank across the street.  Flat-top unholsters his gun and they go in.  What else?  I have to go back to work tonight.  Ugh.  Teaching the alphabet.  Leaves keep falling on me and the table.  I have my sack, but I'll not smoke.  I went to the batting cages and tore up my fingers again.  [black ink sketch of WELLS FARGO sign behind a tree trunk and the Brinks armored truck]  Delivering more than your package says a van in front of the bank.  UPS Worldwide Delivery Service  Coldwell Banker Real Estate.  Perfumes Duty Free  15 Minutes Parking 8AM-6PM What the hell else?  I don't feel like copying all the signs I see around here.  There sure are a f*cking lot of them.  The cafe where I am has closed up for the day.  What kind of tree is that?  An elm?  If I wasn't so lazy I'd draw the stagecoach and horses on the front of the Wells Fargo building.  The manager just walked out of the cafe.  He said, "Okay, I'll let you take care of the store."  We laughed, and I said, "Okay, I'll do a good job."  What else?  Couple pushing a baby stroller.  The woman has a lisp.  The baby has a Tickle-Me-Elmo doll. 

Su 7-5 7:45 PM
Belmont Shores, the 36 36 Club.  I was at a barbecue at Bob Czech's.  I still don't know how to spell their last name.  My friend from college, Katy Howrad lives down the street, so I pulled in here to give her a call.  She wasn't home.  I hope the bourbon I just drank doesn't cost more than five bucks, cuz that's all I got right now, and I don't see a credit card hookup.  "Turkeys are three and half," says the bartender, Marty, with the Long Beach goatee.  Couple a pool tables, ESPN, three other barflies.  The only woman in the place just left.  Said an intimate goodbye to one barfly.  When she was gone, he said to Marty, "Don't ask." [The 36 36 Club sign]
What else?  I'm just going to finish this and head out.  Might roll a little green for the ride home.  Christine said all the windows in my house were held up with Coke bottles.  I disputed her, but it was no good.  Maybe I'll play one game of pool.  Marty's name gets called frequently by only three guys.  I got to go back to teachin tomorrow night.  "So your friend wasn't home?" Marty asks me.  "She didn't pick up.  She mighta been there listening to the message, though, you never know."  "I hate that," says Marty.  "Damn voice mail," says I.          "How do you spell Thomas Paine?  P-a-i or P-a-y?"  Marty's doing the crossword.  "P-a-i-" I say.   "Did you do this this morning?" he asks.  "I did the Times," I say.         Guy comes up to the bar for quarters.  "Wha'd'ya do? Knock the eight-ball in?" asks Marty.   "Yep," says the guy.
What else?
Marty: "You hungry, Tom?"
Tom: "I'm hungry."
Marty: "That goes without saying."
My bourbon's gone.  What else? 
"Thai?" asks Marty.
A collective "Nah" accompanied by mumbles against Thai.
"You guys cash only?" I ask.
"No plastic.  You want another turkey?"
"I got no cash left."
"Place down the street has cash.  I'll call 'em up, see if they're still open."
"...Tom was also drunk."
"Of course."
"Playing any more, Tom?"
"Yeah.  Just a sec.  I'm gonna get some cigarettes."
No homers for McGwire today.  A pager goes off.  My neck is still stiff.  What the f*ck else?  Guess I'll head out now.