An Edotr's an Editor, I thought
8-9-98 10:17 PM Su
I'm at Home. I want to the Dodger game with Rawler and his brothers. My head hurts a little from beer and yelling. It felt like Miami, it was so humid, thanks to tropical depression Frank. Shirelle's on her way over. Here she is now.
8-10-98 3:45 Su PM
I'm in my kitchen. I'm heating broccoli in a pot on the stove. I'll leave for class in about an hour.
Ugh. I went up to Dublin's to meet this guy "Smitty" who has a screenplay. I added some to Jim this morning, so that was good.
I had a shot of black Bushmill's in my coffee, then I had the house vodka in my orange juice, and then again in a bloody mary. This Smitty showed up, six broken ribs he said he had. I doubted every word. When I met him the first time, he had said he was an editor. Later I learned, if he was telling the truth, that he was an editor for Hustler. An editor's an editor, I thought. He might have some constructive criticism for JK, which isn't without its sexual content. I gave him a copy with my address and telephone number. Then I had a smoke. Maybe it was the smoke, but I began to see the guy as a fucked-up sleaze-ball, and I regretted having given him my work and contact info. He proceeded to tell me he had lost his job and he was telling me about how he kept getting beat up. His screenplay seemed decent, but yikes. He asked about the CBEST and teaching. I asked if he had any arrests. He said or insinuated or joked about a molestation charge. I called him an idiot and told him I had to go. Ugh. I was depressed all afternoon. I was so depressed I got fast food for the first time in two months. That made me even more disgusted and depressed. I wasn't that hungry, but I didn't know what else to do. I told myself to save my money for back-East. But I was just sitting in the car waiting to go to work, reading thirty-five-year-old Jim Murray columns, and the next thing I knew I had started the car and was going to Jack in the Box. Ugh.
I'm at Home. I want to the Dodger game with Rawler and his brothers. My head hurts a little from beer and yelling. It felt like Miami, it was so humid, thanks to tropical depression Frank. Shirelle's on her way over. Here she is now.
8-10-98 3:45 Su PM
I'm in my kitchen. I'm heating broccoli in a pot on the stove. I'll leave for class in about an hour.
Ugh. I went up to Dublin's to meet this guy "Smitty" who has a screenplay. I added some to Jim this morning, so that was good.
I had a shot of black Bushmill's in my coffee, then I had the house vodka in my orange juice, and then again in a bloody mary. This Smitty showed up, six broken ribs he said he had. I doubted every word. When I met him the first time, he had said he was an editor. Later I learned, if he was telling the truth, that he was an editor for Hustler. An editor's an editor, I thought. He might have some constructive criticism for JK, which isn't without its sexual content. I gave him a copy with my address and telephone number. Then I had a smoke. Maybe it was the smoke, but I began to see the guy as a fucked-up sleaze-ball, and I regretted having given him my work and contact info. He proceeded to tell me he had lost his job and he was telling me about how he kept getting beat up. His screenplay seemed decent, but yikes. He asked about the CBEST and teaching. I asked if he had any arrests. He said or insinuated or joked about a molestation charge. I called him an idiot and told him I had to go. Ugh. I was depressed all afternoon. I was so depressed I got fast food for the first time in two months. That made me even more disgusted and depressed. I wasn't that hungry, but I didn't know what else to do. I told myself to save my money for back-East. But I was just sitting in the car waiting to go to work, reading thirty-five-year-old Jim Murray columns, and the next thing I knew I had started the car and was going to Jack in the Box. Ugh.
posted by johnz at 11:08 PM
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