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.