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."
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."
Labels: El Doradoful
posted by johnz at 2:52 PM
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