12-29-99 W 5:20 PM

I’m writing this at my desk in my office.  I haven’t been very productive today.  I struggled to type fifteen minutes this morning.  I finished Poe.  What a boor.  I ate an English muffin.  I put butter and garlic parmesan on one half.  I had to maneuver around the moldy parts with my knife.  I hung that shelf in the kitchen.  I’m not loving it.  Kay and Chuck came by with the girls and the Brougham, and I brought them to the airport.  I went to the market and got a paper and an extension cord.  I read the paper and watched x-rated films and slept.  Syracuse beat Kentucky in the Whatever Bowl.  Now Washington and Kansas are on.  I poured some bourbon in a bucket of ice, but I haven’t sipped any yet.  I packed a bowl, but I haven’t smoked any.  The cynical parrot has a brooding brow.  So Jim and Lorena or Lorisa or whatever her [pencil and crayon drawing of a Senegal parrot] name is are at the gas station now.  Ladies at the gas station need help putting transmission fluid in their car and enlist Jim’s help.  I’m not sure this scene adheres to Poe’s definition of plot.  I’m pretty sure it doesn’t.

                What will I read next?  Dan Jenkins?  The McCain bio?  Blake?  Swann’s Way?  I’ll read a Lardner short.  And an essay.  I still have to do a third-person page and work on Jim.  I haven’t played any guitar today.  What else?  What to do tonight?  Go out?  See a movie?  Rent a movie?

                Rochelle just got home.  I gave her a long kiss.  I felt like saying some Pepe Le Pew things about her lips, “…So full, so firm, so fully packed.”   I poured her a glass of wine, and then I kissed her another long one in the closet where she was changing her sweater.  We talked about going to a movie or watching the one I rented, “Election,” or going out for a drink.

                 I could go for a smoke.  Mac is supposed to call in about fifteen minutes to arrange a dope drop.  All alone ain’t much fun, so you’re looking for a thrill.