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.