She Seemed to Get It All in the Glass

7-29-98 10:30 PM  W
I'm at the Sonora Café on La Brea.  Upscale.  A flock of hot rich women are sitting on the patio, dude-less.  The bartendress has crossed eyes.  I ordered a bourbon and she seemed to get it all in the glass.  It'll probably cost me about six bucks.  My hands are marked black from putting transmission fluid in the Chrysler at the gas station just now.  I was lucky they had a long-stemmed funnel; the reservoir is buried pretty deep in that thing.  I stopped at the market.  I bought a lot to drink:  Beer, chardonnay, merlot, cabernet, gin (Gordon's--with a picture of Humphrey Bogart in "The African Queen" on the label), milk, juice, tea, Gatorade, and coffee, plus bananas, broccoli, carrots, and a plant to pump some oxygen into our place.
Two drunk queers just sat at the bar.  Seems like they've only tonight realized they're queer.  One of them calls the other Wolfman.  Now wait a minute--they've spotted the bitches on the patio, and now they're giggling.  They're trying to count them.  "There's nine--no, ten."
"There are eleven," I said.
"They keep changing shapes."
"They do that."

I humped Shirelle a good long time last night.  My astrological forecast said I would.  This morning I got up at nine and ate a bagel.  I typed for fifteen minutes, and then I walked up to the Chinese to see "Saving Private Ryan" with Shirelle.  It has soul-shattering battle scenes.  I almost resented the realism.  But I am all too jaded now, I guess.  I didn't feel as shot up as I did when I saw "Platoon" when I was eighteen.  After the movie, Shirelle dropped me off because my brother was supposed to be coming over because he wants me to write him a response to the County Office of Education's inquiry into his arrest at Lake Havasu on charges off assault before they'll hire him.  But he called at a quarter to three and asked to reschedule for tomorrow.  I was tired.  I just read the paper.  I was only able to do about 3/4 of the Xword.  I read reviews of the movie in the papers.  Two of them I agreed with, but Peter Rainier found no fault with its already-been-done characters.  I'm too harsh, though.  It's a well done movie.  I'm not sure what's wrong with it, except that it seemed so competently directed, so flawlessly edited, so neatly presented, it was unbelievable.  Still the tension is palpable when the Nazi slowly pushes his knife into the heart of the Jewish G.I. while the writer cowers on the stairs; I clutched the arm of my chair and tensed my toes and jaw and wished I could jump into the screen to help the G.I. 
I've got to go home and type in the third person.  When am I ever going to find the time to devote to Jim and Aaron and Tink and Vegas?  Shirelle's probably wondering where I am.  She'll be expecting me tonight.  My groceries are still in the trunk. 
I finished Dreams of Bunker Hill last night.  or is  it from?  Either way it was poor old dear sweetly-confused Arturo Fante John Bandini, simple and effective.  His natural sexuality does him in again. 
I ate a quesadilla while I read the news this afternoon.  I've only had that and the bagel today.  Maybe I'll have some pasta or a grilled cheese and bacon sandwich when I get home.  I have to use that bacon real soon.