2-8-00 Tu 1:25 PM
I'm at Wilshire Hill.  Today has sucked.  The kids suck.  They don't listen.  I'm a shitty teacher.  I don't want to do this anymore.  What else can I do?  I need more money.  I want to move to Wyoming. Maybe I can teach literature at the University of Wyoming.  There must be some kind of job I can do that doesn't suck the life right out of me.  Whatever.  I typed a third-person page this morning.  It sucked.  Rochelle was home with a tummy ache.  I rode my bike to school after I picked up a newspaper.  Tiger Woods had a phenomenal comeback from seven strokes behind with seven holes to play to win the Pebble Beach ProAm and run his PGA winning streak to six consecutive tournaments, tying Ben Hogan for second.  We played predicate listening game.  The results were abysmal.  These kids suck.  I made them stay in at recess.  I had to stay in with them.  We tried to correct our math work, but they were fucking around, so I made them put their heads down.  I made the four biggest fuckheads put their noses in the corners of the room.  They're in at lunch for twenty minutes.  I walked over to Taco Hell, but I didn't have any money.  Just as well.  I got a bag of butter toffee Cracker Jacks instead.  Went to Colbert's office to get the sample tasks that I need to copy for third grade's Standards-Based Assessment test.  I had had my own copies, but I accidentally made one-sided copies when I needed to make two-sided, then when I went to throw away the worthless one-sided copies, I accidentally threw away the two-sided originals I needed.  So, I had to raid Mrs. Colbert's office.  I have to go the instructional team meeting after school today.  Lucky me.  I just sent Walter to the office for throwing a Crayon at Yahaira.  I wanted to throw something at her, too.  Maybe a stapler.  They all had to put their heads down again for fucking around during social studies.  The four biggest fuckheads are in the corners again.  They're always the same four.

2-7-00 M 11:26 AM
I'm at Roscoe's.  Bout to order way a lot more food than I should. I typed fifteen minutes this morning.  Talked to Bernie.  She's happy.  Chicago and the flyin' life suits her fine.  Sent a check to John Ball.  Need to take two more pictures and drop off my film.  I'll take a picture of Roscoe's now that that FedEx van is gone from in front of it.  I read more of that Prince guy's notes on Book One of Paradise Lost.  I've got letters to write and third-person page to do.  Got to stop by LACAS.  Get a haircut.  12:07.  Back home.  A Mexican fellow is watering the lawn.  I'm on the couch.  Last night, I wanted to quit teaching kids and work strictly with adults.  I also wanted to move to Wyoming.  I wrapped a Kleenex around the eraser of my pencil and used it to clean my air.  I've got to get my tuner out of the trunk of the Honda.  I have to call Getoff and ask him to ask Estelle what was the name of that perfume Rochelle said she liked and where I can get it.  [pencil sketch of Getoff, Thing, and me playing guitars]  I'm a loser for not going to work today.  What'll I do after this?  Mail something.  Mail a bill.  Bail a story.  Saw a good desk for nine hundred bucks.  What else?  The LA Times said Graham Greene was kind of a dick.  I felt like I would be a well-rewarded writer of repute while I was walking around all the musical instruments, and amps, and equipment.  Ha ha.  Like some day, I would be able to have a sax and a bass and a violin and drums and an engineering board in a recording studio.  In Wyoming.  Jim Budano's bachelor party is February 18th.  I'll be in Idaho.  I'll read more of Brenda Ueland's trite advice.  Carl Sandburg liked her.  I'd like to get his biography of Lincoln.

The Only Truth is Action

2-4-00 F 2:37 PM

I'm at school.  The kids just went home.  I thought I was going to get a lot of reading done today, but I only read the paper.  We had a grade-level meeting.  I went to Burger King at lunch.  Miss Maloney invited me to eat with her.  She makes me suspicious because she's nice and beautiful and well-mannered.  The kids watched a bootleg version of "Tarzan" after lunch.  I need to go on a very long bike ride.  I'll read McCain. Work on Jim.  Read Milton.  Drink and smoke.  Watch "Payback."  Rochelle will want to go out tonight.  She's no different than But in that respect.  Being a writer is weird--to have this whole interior monologue that exists apart from one's actions.  Everyone urges you to write the truth.  That is patently impossible.  Marks that stand for sounds that stand for ideas that are abstract. The only truth is action. If I write about doubts in my marriage, say, but I don't express them to my wife or act on them in any way, then it doesn't attain the level of truth.  Does it?  Duh duh duh.  Bottle of whiskey.  Today is payday.  I made three thousand dollars.  I have to write a check for the rent.  I wonder how much I had left in my checking account after last month.  I better take care of those speeding tickets.  I've still got a lecherous heart.  I still want to be able to fool around with all the broads I want and still make my wife happy.  It's like a character speaking.  It's not real.  The outlines of transparent serpents float across the field of my vision.  What else?  Gray skies today.  Slight chance of showers.  Andrea's coming to see her bird.  What else?  The musicians convention is this weekend.  My game is at 9:00 Sunday.