7-13-00 3:57 PM Th

I'm back on the sidewalk at Larchmont in front of the same pizza joint I was in front of when I wrote in here yesterday. I went to Pio Pico to talk to Susan Pitch. She wanted me to wait for her in the parking lot and brutally murder her, but I didn't bite--not to say I don't regret not doing it--the beady-eyed, pinched-face cunt. I talked to the gal at the sub desk and secured a job for the first three days of August. Then I went in to talk to the cunt Pitch. I went in real nice like. Said I had come in to find out about subbing and ask why we had been kicked out of our rooms. She said because we had had food and children in there and things had gone missing. I said we were just a convenient scapegoat. She said, "If you're going to be like that, I won't allow you to sub here." I should have lunged across the desk and throttled her, but I stayed calm and polite. I thanked her and shook her hand and left.      I'm at a table alongside a coven of Vogue worshippers. They have a little monkey on a leash playing a hurdy gurdy who also worships Vogue--you can tell because his sunglasses are way too big for his face. The matron talks of collagen injections for the forehead. "Why don't you just have the muscle between your eyebrows snipped, then you'll never appear to have a thought?" I said. Then their brows furrowed ever so briefly, while I looked away as if I'd said nothing.

Bernie came over with Nicole. Queria que hump Nicole todavia. Whatever. We may meet up with them tonight. 

I need to call Modchill. Should I have some lunch? Dinner? I have to read some Chandler. Some Miller. Do a third person. Should I order another beer? Tomorrow night I'm supposed to take my aunt to the Dodger game. This fucking place is overpriced, but I have another hour to kill. I'm surrounded by pricks and cunts. 

And belly buttons. Lots of belly buttons out today. One of the Vogue girls has an ankh coming out of her underwear.

 7-12-00 4:15 PM W

Larchmont. I've been riding my bike around to schools to offer my services as a sub. I stopped in at Wilton Place. Ed Martinez said hello to me. So did Rob Rosen. Rob said Miguel Graniel worked there, so I went and said hello to him, too. They introduced me to Principal Shyuen, and guess what? We said hello to each other. All the while I was waiting for the lady who works the sub desk with a worker's comp case she had to deal with. She was a big black woman named Macomi Rogers. She was tied up with worker's comp about a half hour. I watched the T and A come and go around the office. I put my info on a piece of paper: name, ph, Emp ID,Sp fluency, etc. When Macom got off the phone, I introduced myself and gave her the paper. She seemed receptive. I had showered and shaved and combed and gelled and put on pants and button-up shirt, and she fawned over me a bit, called me baby and honey, so maybe she'll give me some jobs. I thanked her and left. I rode up to Wilshire and decided to head to Hoover. A gal with enormous teats, round ass, and tight waist asked if she could help me. Uh-huh. I asked if Sonia still worked the sub desk. She said she did, but she had already gone for the day. I asked if Mr. Rawler was in. She jiggled her ass over the intercom and buzzed his room. No answer. I thanked her and left. All I can see is T and A today. I locked my bike up in front of the bookstore at Larchmont and walked up to the drug store to get my prescription filled. A beautiful, half-Persian babe with a hint of a mustache said it would be ready tomorrow. So, I walked down the street to the Greek place where works a find Australian-Italian girl. She was talking with an acquaintance on the street. The acquaintance was with her boyfriend.  "I'm in love," she told the Aussie. "Are you in love, too?" Aussie asked the boyfriend. He just nodded. "Me, too," said Aussie. They noticed me. "What about you?" she asked. "No. I'm married," I said. No one laughed. Maybe I should have said, "Yeah, with you." That probably wouldn't have gone over well, either. T and A and T and A.

7-11-00 What Happened When My Mother Stepped in Gum

 

7-11-00 4:42 PM Tu

“Come over! I’ll make you martinis!”

“To the Bat Pole!” I said.

I’m at home on the couch. I was going to ride up to Larchmont before class and pick up my prescription and write in this book, but it got late, and now I guess I’ll just try and watch a few innings of the All-Star Game before I have to go to work. I wrote nine new lines for Jim. The cops are about to give him the field sobriety test. I read ten pages of the Koran and lifted weights. Then I typed fifteen minutes. Took a shower. Read some Tropic of Capricorn. Made tacos. Watched “Sullivan’s Travels.” I haven’t yet read today’s newspaper. When I get home from class tonight, I’ll have to write a third-person page. Read some Chandler. Add more to Jim. Tomorrow, I have to go to Wilshire Hill and Hobart. Rochelle got us free tickets to the Dodger/Angel game Friday night. I’m going to bring my aunt. Saturday is that party. Our game is at nine Sunday. What else? I feel bummed. I’m not all that excited about teaching the alphabet tonight. I need to go by the office. Tomorrow. Fuck. What else? What the fuck else? The sky never got blue today. My mother and aunt came to visit Sunday. I took them out to the Marina, and we had lunch at Shanghai Red’s. I had crab enchiladas. We took a little stroll along the boardwalk after, and my mother stepped in gum. “Oh, crap,” she said, “I stepped in gum." She rolled her eyes and turned her palms skyward in a pose of “Why me?” As she did, a seagull shit in her hand. Luckily, my aunt found a Summer’s Eve Feminine Wipe in her purse, so my mother douched her hand. We drove to the Beverly Hills Hotel. We sneaked down to the pool and ordered nine-dollar cocktails, just like we belonged there. My mom wanted to get a pastry for Rochelle, so we stopped at Sweet Lady James and got a fruit tart. We left the tart on the counter overnight, though, and the ants got it. After my mom and aunt left, we watched “Silverado” on TV. The GIP called. He suggested we go get a beer. I wanted to go, but Rochelle didn’t. I told the GIP I wouldn’t go, but Rochelle said I should.

 

5:11 PM 7-7-00 F

6:09 PM I rode my bike to LACMA. Elmer said he’d meet me here, but I don’t see him. While I was riding here, I thought all kids of hateful things I might say to Shirelle if I were to see her here. She lives around here. I locked up my bike and headed up the stairs to the courtyard. I got a Heineken and stood in back of the action, looking for a place to write. An artist I had seen sketching with pastels the last time I was here was sitting at the same table, sketching again. An old man at his table got up and left. I approached. “May I sit here?” He said, “Sure.” Now we’re all up to speed. He scans the crowd, looking for images to draw. I do the same looking for something to write. [quick sketch in pencil of artist’s face wearing square-rimmed glasses] I see a lot of eyes and hair. The guy’s drawings are simple geometric impressions of people. The bassist tonight [quick sketch in pencil of bald but for clown-like curls on the side ala Larry Fine with Dali type mustache just short of handlebars, head and neck of bass] is a bit more avante garde then the soulful guy whose name I forget from last time. [roundhead, wide nose, furrowed brow, sad eyes, slight smile] Maybe I’ll go to Malone’s from here. Or ride the bus to the Beverly Club. I should read some more and then do a third person page. I read some Black Spring this morning, about Miller’s father’s tailoring. I moved Jim to page one hundred and twenty-two. I took the Alero to get the oil changed. I read the paper. Typed fifteen minutes about all the little hassles going to the doctor entailed. I lifted weights and read chapter five of Trouble is My Business. Took a shower. I put on dress slacks. I see lots of father with tots strapped to their backs. I’m out of cigarette papers. I don’t think they sold me a full pack. I don’t remember where I got them. I thought of what a nice oreo me and the Williams sisters would make. I’m starting to see nipples with all the eyes and hair. Out of nowhere I think: Vegas is a dead-end for married men. I can smell that oreo. I heated some meat and mashed potatoes and ate it with a salad before coming here. The Braves were beating the Red Sox five to nothing. Every femme in the joint’s got nipple erections. I wonder to whom all other than me their erections are transmitting. Crass. You can tell I’m reading Miller.

Portals for Exploring the Only Time You Are Not in Conflict with God

 11:20 AM Th 7-6-00

Farmer's Market is crawling with septuagenarians. Occasionally, a twenty-something piece of ass walks by, and I feel like Henry Miller. The wife didn't go to work today. That disgusted me. She can always get that lost fifty bucks off me, I guess. Maybe she'll go to class, but why should she when she's got a mule to ride already. Whatever. I added ten lines to Jim this morning. I read Mailer's juvenile takes on Crazy Cock. He makes one point, about vagina fixations that they, vaginas, are flesh and blood portals for exploring creation. I feel justified this morning in all the cunt craving I do. See? It's a philosophical pursuit. Too bad I'm too big a pussy to do anything but stare and wonder. Whatever. It's all the urge to create. Who said the only time you're not in conflict with God is during the act of creation? Was it Miller? Bukowski? Bukowski quoting Miller? Or some quote I read randomly from some other word spewer?

I rode up here on my bike. I took a paper into DuPar's and read it with eggs Florentine. I thought of riding to Los Feliz or taking the red line further up Lankershim. I've got to do a third person still. Read Chandler. Put some more words to Jim. The cop's blue eyes. The hour of drinking. The detailed spiral out of control. A cyclone of detail. The plot of a tornado, touching down, moving aimlessly. Whatever. Dupar's has Fabulous HOT MEAT PIES, so reads a sign.  How about a fishing trip? I've got to call Thing. I know he won't go. He was talking about something at the Viper Room tonight. Maybe I won't drink 'til later. Maybe I'll go to Cheetah's. There's a gal with big melons looking at the tits in the produce section. I feel wormy squirms behind my dick. Whatever. No me gusta ser casado. Se chupa. Whatever. Cualquier. What else? Ride bike. Write a page. Lift.

 7-3-00 M3-13 PM

“There’s something perverse about women…the less you notice them, the more they chase after you…they’re masochists at heart.”

I’m going to start calling Thing “Godot.” The “Wizard of Oz” is on TV. Getoff’s having a BBQ tonight. I typed fifteen minutes this morning. I read Miller and lifted weights.

7-4-00 Tu 12:36 PM

I wish I was on a big sailboat somewhere, celebrating Independence Day. A brother on a payphone says, “Sometimes a man gotta bury his pride and be a slave.” I’m hungover today. Tired. I cycled the videos back to the store on Wilshire. Now I’m sitting in Bob’s to get this out of the way. I didn’t get much writing down yesterday. I was drunk all day. What did I do? I lifted weights and read Miller. Called some people. Had a little nap. Whipped up some BBQ sauce and brought some ribs to Walter’s at the old place on Keniston. Gabi was there with her boyfriend, and I do mean boy.  Too young for her. I couldn’t figure it out. I didn’t try too hard. We ended up playing guitars and singing. It was lame. Whatever. Round midnight, I went home. Rochelle was asking me if I don’t bone her cuz she’s fat. Ugh. I made something up about how fast we jumped into everything and how it’s going to take time to build real intimacy—something like that. She seemed to accept it. I didn’t sleep well. Morning came quickly. I straightened the place up. Did the dishes, made the bed. Collected the laundry. Cleaned the bathroom, took out the trash, etc., etc., etc. Watched the end of “Play it to the Bone.” Lame. The neighbors are having a holiday party in the backyard. I have to take the chicken out of the freezer. I should get more exercise than this little bike ride. I’d like to shoot some pool or bowl today or something. I’ll go home from here and read the paper. Do a third-person page about the cop. Start drinking. Read Chandler.