19-25-99 She Already Had One

19-25-99 12:55 PM M

I’m at class.  I finished a third-person page this morning.  Ate an English muffin and drank a cup of day-old, cold coffee.  Mac slept over.  He put the couch cushions on the floor.  Free-loading bum.  I’ve got to tell him to get back on track.  I picked up the papers as usual, but I haven’t read them today.  I wrote out my lesson plan for the week while the kids wrote in and read from their journals.  I stook the STEPS crap to Principal Harvord’s office, but she’s not in today.  We corrected our Hundreds, Tens, and Ones paper, and then we started a lesson on counting and order.  At lunch, I read some more Caribbean.  Steven Calderon’s wife was murdered by Cuban expatriates because they had gone to Cuba.  Now I’m reading about Haiti.  An American-educated Haitian has returned to her island and is now rescuing a “zombie.”  I rode up to Il Literature and picked up a couple of copies of this Harry Potter sensation.  I mainly got them to give one to Miss Villasenor, who had mentioned them at El Coyote last week.  I’m so in love with her, it makes me nauseous.  I presented her with the book as lunch was ending.  She already had one.  I said I’d just give it to my kids then.  Fuck.  We have to start our social studies now.  2:33 PM We watched a video about national parks.  Tomorrow, we start a unit on deserts and mountains.  We played softball for P.E.  I got a ham and cheese croissant at recess.  I threw most of the ham in the trash.  I’ve got to try to move Jim along when I get home.  Gotta go to class tonight.  Ugh.  No World Series tonight.  The Union paper was calling for a picket on November third.  We’ll see.  Maybe if I have trouble writing, I’ll just read Caribbean.  I’ll be done in another fifty pages.  What else?  Sunny and clear.  Eighties and nineties.  Not a cloud in the sky.  Moderately high pollen level.  Feeling of doom low to moderate.  This seems like a waste of time.  I’m thirsty.  I could go for some lemonade.  I wonder if “Greed” will call.  What if I win fifty or a hundred thousand dollars?  I can’t believe I could be that lucky.  Couldn’t I quit my night job, though?  That would be nice.  I could take classes then, become more of a real academic.  I saw Miss Villasenor leave, but now I see kids going in and out of her room.  I have to find the application for those classes.  BCLAD classes start Saturday.

10-24-99 5:23 PM Su

I golfed the Ranch three-par with Ralph yesterday.  I shot eleven over par but was better than Ralph by three strokes.  We came home and put on some Limp Bizket and drank vodka and smoked and watched the Yankees beat the Braves in game one of the World Series. We thought about going to the Bounty after the game to see Mike Tyson fight, but I was too drunk by then—I don’t remember anything after that. I woke up in bed.  I didn’t feel hungover, but I couldn’t remember anything about last night. Shrielle invited Thing and his girl over for dinner. That game show audition went well. The producer said I was the “Valedictorian” because I had the highest score on the test. I should go on the show this or next Wednesday.  We’ll see.  Kenny Jackson just called to talk to my brother.  He was hammered.  He’s going back to Stockton in a few days.  He was pretty upset about the Pete Rose situation. New York’s up five zip.  Shirelle wanted me to try some cold shrimp and cucumber.  “I know I’m getting a sore throat,” he says.  “Don’t leave any here,” I say.  There was the sound of water hitting hot metal in the sink in the kitchen where Shirelle is.  Mac says he’s been meeting a lot of super models.  I had a wee smoke.  I lay in bed sleeping and reading the newspaper with the NFL on TV.  My father called.  My grandfather may lose a foot because he has poor circulation and hardened arteries.  I hope he still has a few happy years left in him.  I told my sister he would be trading an old foot for a new foot.  I wonder how that audition really went.  There was a guy there named Levi.  They kept pronouncing it “Levee” like a dam, and he kept pronouncing it “Levi” like the jeans, and he said, “Well, I am retaining water.”  It was funny.  He was a big fat guy with a shaved head.  Costas said Cox took Klesko out to the shed.  My brother got a kick out of it.  When I’m done here, I’ll have to read those Bible pages.  Mac heard gunshots around the Bounty last night.

10-22-99 Butt Nut

10-22-99 F 3:30 PM

My brother just pulled up.  Homeless again.  “Butt nut,” he calls.

 I ignore him a while.  I’m not going to answer to “Butt nut.” 

“Slut bitch,” he says.  “I gotta do some laundry.”       

 “Butt nut?” I say. 

“Yeah. You gonna open the door for me?”

 I stay seated. “You got any quarters?”

“Yeah, a bunch,” he says.

I doubt it, but he’s my brother.  I unlike, oops, I mean unlock the steel screen door’s deadbolt.  The trash cans need to be brought in.  I think I should be put in an important government position, so I can make policy decisions that will affect the history of the whole world.  The kinds of things madmen write in their diaries.  Psyotic, that is, psychotic or how about psychaotic?  My lips are dry and cracked.  A kid kicked a school-issue inflatable red rubber ball into my face today.  It had to have been an accident, right?  It’s that kind of weather.  Now Shirelle’s car drives back up.  She got a PIN number and an ATM card for the first time in her twenty-six-year-old life.  A guy or someone is honking an old rubber-bulbed horn.  “It sounds like someone’s asking to get beat up,” says Mac.  “Two more o’ those and—” [honk honk]  “I’m gonna tell him that means ‘Come beat me up’ in America.”  Shirelle asked him if he’d go for beer if she paid.  He refused.  “Is Shirelle under the impression that I’m helpful in general?” he asked.  I didn’t say anything.  “What happened to your lip?” I been hearing about my lip all day.  I went and looked at it in a mirror.  It’s white and cracked and dry with a bloody red patch in the middle.  “It’s the weather,” I said.  “I have this gap in the middle of my top teeth I suck my lip through breathing when I sleep, I think.”  Kenny’s going up to Stockton, he says.  It’s Pete’s birthday, he says.  He shows me a picture of some sex goddess.  Keri hooked him up.  A model.  I guess I’ll go and read after this.  Elmer said he was coming over, but he hasn’t.  I have to try out at a game show audition at ten tomorrow.  “Do you guys want me to get you on the list?” asks Mike.  Pete’s a talent agent at CAA and his party’s at The Garden of Eden.  Mac’s picking dirt out of his nails. Luis got moved to Koonan’s class.  I might play baseball Sunday with the old team.  I’m supposed to golf with Ralph after the audition tomorrow.  “John, can you do me a favor?  Can you take in the trash cans?”  “I wiz gunna,” I said.  The phone rings.  Mac picks it up.  “Butt plug,” he says.  “Why?  Cuz I took the truck?” he asks into the phone.

Will I Keep My Eyes Open?

10-21-99 Th 5:35 PM

I’m on Larchmont.  I’m sitting on a sidewalk bench in front of the bookstore.  I pedaled here because of the obituary of Nathalie Sarraute. She “pioneered the ‘New Novel’” that “downplayed plot and character in favor of the underlying emotions and thoughts.”  Sarte described her work as anti-novels.  I thought Jim must be something like that. Maybe the antidote for muddled.  But the bookstore didn’t have anything by her.  Evidence of the anti-novel’s popularity.  So I bought the opposite:  The Perfect Storm.  Now I guess I better pedal my ass to class.  Or maybe I should see if they have “Anatomy of a Murder” at Blockbuster.   The sun is going down.  I wrote a corny-ass lyrical poem for my third-person page.  I wrote it in Romantic language.  I read “Tintern Abbey” to remind me what lyricism is supposed to be.  I have to take that dumb “200 Cigarettes” back to Hollywood Video.  I’ve got to sort out this registration mess with the DMV.   Should I look into buying a house?  There was an article in the LA TIMES about the new fuel-cell Honda due to hit showrooms in December.  If I ever get a car, that may be the one.  I had half a bagel with cream cheese this morning, but I didn’t write.  I picked up the papers. We corrected our workbook pages when school started.  Miss Villasenor was not there today.  I thought of buying a Harry Potter book for her just now, but I didn’t.  A man in a turban just drove by in a cab.  We did a lesson on ones, tens, and hundreds.  I read the paper at lunch.  We did our chapter review on forests and prairies.  Felix was fixing the porchlight when I got home.  I made a veggie burger and read some Caribbean.  I have less than a hundred pages to finish the bastard.  If I don’t leave soon, I’ll be late for class.  What else?  There’s a sale on Swiss-Air at the Larchmont Travel Agency.  Walter kept making farting noises today.  I should have left a note with Shirelle not to make dinner.  I’ve got to try to work on Jim tonight.  Everyone has a cell phone.  I’m thirsty.  The sun is still going down.  Here’s a pretty girl on a cell phone.  “Well, I’ll keep my eyes open?” she said.  “Kay.”  She went into the bookstore.  A couple clowns pulled up in a clownishly painted bug with political slogans on it.  “Terrorism” is written on a fender and “Kill Barney” on the gas flap.

10-20-99 The Extreme Opposite of Muddled

10-20-99 W 5:01 PM

There’s no game on today.  The Braves eliminated the Mets and will meet the Yanks in the Big Apple on a day made for fighting.  Saturday, that is.  Duh.  Let’s see.  What about today?  I didn’t write here yesterday.  I corrected a bunch of papers.  Straightened out my school desk.  I threw my chalk at the board and glared at a child for not listening.  There was an SST for Pablo before school this morning.  That’s a Student Study Team.  Pablo can’t read.  There’s a whole process of paperwork and meetings to try to figure out why. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  I wrote checks for bills and put them in envelopes, but I haven’t any stamps.  I’m sitting in the parlor on the couch.  I’ve got to get on my bike soon and pedal up to the office.  I ate another one of Ana Gloria’s tamales after school today.  I read a criticism of a book written by movie-maker Wes Craven that the story is muddled.  Uh-oh.  I just realized that’s the problem with Jim.  Maybe I’ll just have to unmuddle it.  But isn’t Joyce a little muddled?  Or at least isn’t he the extreme opposite of muddled which is muddled?  Oh-uh.  Whatever.  I haven’t much time.  How shall I manage my mutual funds?  Sounds like a line from “The Love Songe of J. Alfred Prufrock.”  Other than that, Eliot was an obscurely allusional dork.  Talk about muddled.  How about “The Wasteland?”  Anyway.  Roger Kahn was on the radio talking about Jack Dempsey about whom he has just written a book.  Shirelle just called.  I asked her to pick up some stamps.  I see a little green booger  with red hairs in it on the photo album on the coffee table next to where I’m sitting.  My brother must have left it here.  I have to talk to the air conditioning guys TOMORROW!  Duh.  There they are the last two days, I haven’t said a thing.  I hope it’s not too late.  I already puffed a wee booger.  Can you tell?  Of course you can.  I had to miss night school last night to be at Back to School Night.  Pierce Brosnan is on the cover of a magazine on the coffee table.  Shirelle’s got this teenage obsession with him.  She’s bummed because her mom asked to borrow four hundred bucks.  Elmer said he had an interesting day in art class yesterday.  I said, “Oh, did they have a nude?”  They did.

10-18-99 Mad Useless Ramblings

10-18-99 M 2:32 PM

Ugh.  Mad useless ramblings.  This must already be one of the most embarrassing journals I’ve done.  My writing is lazy and pointless.  That fungus is coming back on my back.  Osvaldo shit his pants today.  He would rather have sat in his shit than admit it, but the stench was undeniable.  Luis’ mom didn’t show up in time for this morning’s conference.  But Teresita’s parents were there.  Whatever.  I had time to grab a newspaper after the conference.  Blahblahblah whatever whatever whatever so on and so forth and what else?  My nails need clipping.  We did sharing and journals this morning.  I got two chalupas from Taco Bell at recess.  We corrected our math tests.  The kids don’t give a shit.  There was another grade-level meeting at lunch.  Just bullshit.  I’m done with the paper.  I’ve got to read my Bible when I get home.  Read some Caribbean.  Do a third-person page.  Go to work tonight.  Work on Jim.  I’ve got “200 Cigarettes” to watch.  The Sox and the Yanks are on again tonight.  The Sox have to beat the umps as well as the Yanks.  I wonder what the Globe had to say about last night’s game.  I wonder if I can eat those pupusas.  It’s a hot and cloudless day.  A dry wind blows.  3:50  I’m home now.  I was going to put in an adult film, but my brother showed up.  He’s on the phone with my dad and stepmother right now.   [pencil line drawing of “Peanuts’” Linus knocked backward, all butt and limbs, blanket clutched in fist, AAUGH! In a word bubble]  I heated up a tamal that one of my adult ed students gave me a bag full of and ate it.  How’s that for an awkward sentence?  I ate a plum, too.  My regards to William Carlos Williams.  I rode my bike home.  There was a message from Rachel de la Puente, the assistant principal at the adult ed school where I work.  The grandson of the lady that made the tamales is a little terror.  He has written on the wall with crayons, and now he stole a bunch of marbles from one of the classes next door to me and the teacher who uses the classroom in the day was pissed, and they called over to the adult ed office, and it all came back to me.  Now I’ve got to tell Ana Gloria to leave Oscar at home.  Mac sits shirtless on the couch.  What else?  I asked Anna how her Saturday class went.  She said it was, “SFB.”  I said I’d have to think about what that means.  “So f—king boring,” she said.  What else?  I guess I’ll be riding my bike to school tonight.  The Yanks can eliminate the Sox at Fenway.  I’ll be able to see bits and pieces of it on the TV in the room next door.

God Said Meh

10-16-99 Sa 7:50 PM

At The Bounty.  Thanks to me, the conversation at the bar has turned to child molestation.  Ugh.  Boston massacred the Yanks today, thirteen to one.  Clemens didn’t last three innings.  I’ve been drinking and yakking with the other barflies.  We’re waiting on Shirelle and Dawn.  I’ve got a little crush on the Russian waitress who works here.  She drove me to do the Jumble.  We’re supposed to go to a street fair for the opening of Staples Arena.  Chris Isaak is going to give a free concert.  I’m not giving a good account off the people here.  USC was beating Notre Dame twenty-four to three and lost twenty-five to twenty-four.  I edited Jim a little this morning, but I didn’t type.  A big, gentle earthquake rolled through town last night.  A kiddie rollercoaster.  Forty-second ride.  Shirelle woke me, frightened.  It was like we were at sea.  The curtains swayed.  All of my end-of-the-world fears pounded in my heart.  Turkey, Taiwan, Greece, Oaxaca – It was God’s wrath, it had to be.  But the quake was so gentle.  It was felt from the coast to Tucson, a huge chunk of land rolled lovingly northward.  No one was hurt.  Nothing was damaged.  I feel like God must not be that upset with me.  Huh.  So, now what?  I’d have liked to have read some Caribbean today.  But I’m out of time.  I’m out of beer, too.  Anna wanted to know what I was writing.  “A journal,” I said (why didn’t I say, “A love letter to you?”)  “Why not a diary?” she asked.  “They’re the same thing, aren’t they?” I said.  She said, “Oh.”  A train was derailed by the quake.  And some videos fell off shelves.  What else?  I have a game at noon tomorrow.  I’d like to jump Anna.  I’ve got to type fifteen minutes soon.  Ugh.  I’m horned out, but not for Shrill.

Rattled

10-15-99 F 8:10 PM
Is it really eight ten pi em?  Todd Pratt is up in the bottom of the ninth at Shea in Game Three of the National League Championship Series.  I'm watching it at the bar in El Coyote.  It has been an extraordinarily weird day.  Extraordinarily WEIRD.  Where do I start?  Butt and I are having our problems, which is not out of the ordinary except that I'm pretending to take them seriously.  I left the house without kissing her today.  I went with Florelle to the corner market for some grape juice and a bran cookie.  In class, we corrected our statement/question homework and started our book reports.  It's the bottom of the ninth.  The Braves just won one to nothing.  Mike Ribitcha sucks.  Tangents.   A woman at the bar rubs her face.  Tangents.  I took my class to the library.  Two kids forgot their books.  No big.  Ozhyaday had to stay in at recess because she wouldn't say, "Okay, Teacher."  Call me a despot.  We took a math test before lunch.  Or the kids did; I read the paper.  I grabbed Taco Hell at lunch.  When I came back, the Assistant Principal and the Title One Coordinator, and the Senior T. A. were waiting for me.  One of my third graders had, pulled a girl into the bathroom, bound her hands with tape, gagged her with tape, and fondled her before she escaped, I was told.  None of them speak Spanish, so it came upon me to reprimand the boy.  He was sobbing.  I said, "Calmete."  He copped to it all.  Blech.  End of the world.  I don't know how to express this.  Maybe it's how kids play doctor in the nineties.  I explained to him what he did was wrong, and he said he knew and was sorry.  Maybe it's a forgivable mistake, something he imitated from some rated-R movie playing on cable at three o'clock in the afternoon.  Bondage?  In third grade?  I'm rattled. ~~~
I was riding my bike up La Brea to drink at El Coyote.  I happened to pass Miss Villasenor on the street.  Bless the traffic this once.  I told her I was going for a drink and invited her.  She said she had to go to the bank.  When I passed her again, she said she'd meet me at El Coyote.  More later.