The Monkeys, Their Typewriters, and the Most Prolific Writer of Nothing in the World

 Su 7-2-00 4:51 PM

I cycled down Venice Blvd about six miles to the Breakshot. It's dead in here except six tits and two pale mulatta irises. The Angel game will be on in about five minutes if I can get the pale mulatta's irises to gaze upon me for a moment. I'll also ask her for change for the payphone to call the GIP. The ride here was all movie and booze billboards and strip malls full of ethnic food restaurants. I love LA. The pale-eyed bartender is a bit snooty. Before I knew it, I was at the old Helms Bakery building in Culver City. A short twenty-minute bike ride and I was in place with bar I've never been in before! Wow. I'm pathetic. My mother called and said the reran the "Jeopardy!" I was on last night again on ABC. I tried to call the GIP on the payphone, but I couldn't remember his number. A girl playing pool is a baseball nut. I wanted to bend her back and give her a kiss. I'm barely scratching the surface. Not even that; I'm barely fanning the dust, barely fanning the dead skin cells. Whaatever. Gotta batten down the hatches for the storm of the next twenty years. Belcher's getting worked. He's given up three runs already in the first and the bases are loaded with one out, and even if he ever gets out of the inning, the Halos have to beat a hot Tim Hudson. A comic book artist is working something out on paper a stool over from me. He looks like a dork, but what I can see of his drawing shows more talent than I've got at anything. I wish I had some weed. Glaus should have thrown home on that one. When I'm done here, I'll play some NTN. I found enough change in my backpack to call information for the GIP's number. If I don't get a hold of him, I'll ride back and do my third-person page. Then I'll read some Chandler. Work on Jim. What else? I haven't been drawing much. The contrast on the TVs in here are all too dark. I'm on my third beer. Piazza has RBIs in fifteen straight games. What would Hegel say? I must be one of the most prolific writers of nothing in the world. The monkeys and their typewriters have infinity. Not me.

 7-1-00 Sa 5:50 PM

I'm at the bar in Barney's Beanery. I rode my bike here from Hudson. I'm sweaty. I rode past the GIP's house. He'd going to meet me here after he shaves and showers. I rode past Kendoll's house. It didn't look like she was home. Then I rode up Burnside in case Estafania's mom was out on the sidewalk in front of their house. She wasn't. It took about forty-five minutes to ride here. The barmaid is cute, Asian, and friendly. I ordered a Bud Lite. When I was waiting on the corner of La Cienega and Santa Monica for the light to turn, I felt like people driving by in their cars must have been thinking I was a fag. This is one of those places with license plates and street signs nailed up all over the place. This barmaid has a luscious pair of grapefruit-sized tits. Am I conditioned to think like that? Will it change when my daughter is born. I guess it will have to. I don't dare commit to paper many of the things I think about. The muscle between my neck and shoulder is sore. Sweet tight pussy. [blue ink line drawing of a horned, hang-tongued demon head] Hell hath no fury like the lawyer of a woman scorned. My reality check bounced. I would give my right arm to be ambidextrous. I'm afraid my pretty little barmaid is about to go and be replaced by the shrew who just came in. Some other poor bastard got shot down asking her for a date. "I'll take a rain check," she said. I need acupuncture. Some guy named John "The Beast" Brown is fighting some other guy on the TV. The Beast is doing a lot of clinching. I wonder what channel the Angels are on? Is that a question or a statement? I forgot my book. Fuck, what else? The new barmaid calls herself Sage. She brought in a bunch of sage sprigs. The Beast is fighting a guy who calls himself the Spartan. Every guy in the bar is hitting on the cute, friendly, Asian  barmaid.

 

6-30-00 F 3:54 PM

I’m sitting in a wooden chair at a café in a flower shop. One leg of the chair is shorter than the others. I feel like I’m on a ship at sea. The place is painted in colors that would clash if they weren’t pastel. They’re piping in some flute-filled symphony, so I asked the waiter if they had any chilled white wine “or something like that.” An octaroon-looking gal with short gray hair is reading the latest Oprah book club selection, A Map of the World, by Jane Hamilton. Go, girl!

A couple of car salesmen are trying to charm a secretary into bed. Three cell phones commune on their table. My waiter wears his hair short and a white shirt and black tie under his apron, but his pants have a Dickies label, and his belt has brass eyelets in his leather belt, so you know he’s probably some kind of clandestine punk do-gooder. The car salesmen and their snatch are all talking on their cell phones now. The guys walked out of the restaurant to talk without hearing each other. She’s wearing high heels that are only a strap across the toes and one in front of the ankle, one behind, and a sole. Her feet are dainty and sexy, but if she thinks I’m staring at her in lust, she’s wrong: I already jerked off three times today.

Here’s another beauty. This one’s a brunette. She’s wearing some tight, sleeveless, lavender thing. Her skin is latte colored. She’s awfully pretty. She looks like a nice person. What do I look like?

I dropped off my Chicago film at the developer. Maybe it will be ready on my way back. When I’m done with this, I’ll look at the LA Weekly. Then I’ll head home. Put on the Braves/Mets game and type a page. Read some more Chinaski. Move Jim along. Maybe I’ll go to that Continental place tonight. Or maybe I’ll wait another day. Rochelle gets off at ten or ten thirty tonight. She’s gong to meet up with me. I don’t like belonging to people. Not a lot I can do about it now. I’ve got to plan a fishing trip. I’m out of weed. Have been for a week or so now. Maybe I can play some pool tonight. UghAckIckFuck.

6-29-00 Neon Clown Like the Outskirts of Tijuana

 #49 6-21-00 -

6-29-00 3:15 Th

I'm at Highland Grounds, sitting on a high stool at the bar, wondering if they have wine here? I've just come from riding the new Red Line extension to the Valley. It ends around Lankershim and Burbank. I remembered from going to see Shirelle's friend Joe a while back that there is a liquor store around there with a big neon clown sign that I wanted to photograph, and I had my camera. I guessed it might be on Burbank, and I rode my bike along Burbank. It looked like the outskirts of Tijuana. I found the sign and took its picture. Now I want to take one at night. And one in black and white in day and night. I finished the roll. Now I can drop off the film and see what pictures I took in Chicago. I rode my bike through the NoHo Art's District. They should change its name to the HoHum Art's district. I kept riding looking for a place to stop and get something cold to drink and read the paper. I had been riding for an hour or so on the sidewalk going against traffic and no one wanted to see me until I stopped abruptly to avoid being rundown. Then they'd smile and wave. I'd smile back and flip 'em the bird. One fucker was on his cel phone, and I cut my knuckle when I had to stop short. I bled all over my shirt and newspaper. I finally found a cool place on Lankershim called the Universal Bar and Grill. They had air conditioning. It was just bright enough to read. The barmaid took good care of me. I was there three hours reading the newspaper. They put the Angel game on for me. I had to leave at quarter of three because you can't take you bike on the subway between three and seven. I rode it to the Highland/Hollywood Station. The one at Vine is the best. When I'm done with this, I'm going to hurry home to see John Rocker's reception at Shea.

 

6-28-00 Wed 12:30 PM

I’m sitting at the kitchen table. I typed fifteen minutes this morning. Then I went up to Bob’s to read the newspaper. They’ve mapped the human genome. Is that frightening? Orel Hershiser was released by the Dodgers.  I came back at eleven to meet Rochelle. She has been showering and doing the rest of her toilette since then. I sat in the shirtless in the backyard, hoping the sun might clear up those blotches. It’s worse now. Rochelle’s on the phone trying to clear up some banking snafu. I have an appointment with a dermatologist on Friday next week. There are roses in a glass pitcher on the middle of the table. I know “there are” is a cheap bit of verbiage. How else to write it? Roses pose in a margarita pitcher. The leaves are jagged. The thorns are magnified in the water. The petals are soft and delicately wrinkled. I can’t smell them because my sinuses are congested. I’ll read some more Chuck after this. Rochelle’s working from four to one tonight. Then she’s going to play nurse for her mom who’s having knee surgery today. Maybe I’ll go out drinking tonight. When I’m done writing. I’ve got a third-person page to do. Read more. I have to advance Jim. The water’s rising. The readers are impatient. How we gonna get going? Maybe go to Continental.  Whatever. Jim, you fucking pussy. You slow-moving, stupid sloth. Why would anybody care about an idiot like Jim?

 6-25-00 Su 10:00 PM

Still don't feel like writing. I would go out into the night and look for people and places and things to write about except that I would worry about getting home in time to be here when Rochelle gets home from work at one. So I sit here full of shit. Whatever. My resentment appalls me. How did I do this to us? Ugh. I typed fifteen minutes of lame resentment this morning. I read most of the newspaper. Carlos came about eleven thirty. Our game sucked. We blew a seven to two lead and lost eight to nine. I walked and scored in the first, but I struck out with two outs in the bottom of the ninth with the tying and winning runs on AGAIN. I also got hit by a pitch. I botched a rundown that allowed a run to score. Fuck. Whatever. Carlos and I came home and fell asleep to the Rockies and Diamondbacks. The phone rang. It was Ol' Rawler. I tried to hide my selfishness and crestfallenness from Rawler. I don't think he suspected. When we got off the phone, I made a steak sandwich. It was good. I found some bacon in a paper towel on the kitchen counter, so after I ate my steak sandwich, I made a bacon grilled cheese and ate that, too. Then I went to the bedroom and put on the fan and my worn-out porno. I read the rest of the newspaper. The Travel section reminded me of all the places I'd never be going to because I'm married. The Real Estate section reminded me that I can't live here anymore because I'm married and expecting and the wife wants to move to the suburbs. The business section reminded me that I have to look for a job in a place where I can afford a house with another bedroom. Fuck. Whatever. "Mighty Joe Young," the original was on, but I kept switching back to some MTV, thong-up-the-ass beach dance party. It pissed me off more. Whatever. After this, I'll read some Koran. Do a third person. Read some Bukowski. Jim sucks, too. It's me. I'm done for. I never had the fortitude in the first place.