writers used to lead interesting lives but not anymore

 

8-15-00 Tu 10:55 AM

I’m at Wilshire Hill, in my room. I haven’t taught a lick today. The kids have just been writing definitions of their vocabulary words while I’ve read the newspaper. The cops assaulted innocent bystanders as they’re wont to do. I hope the LAPD gets the shit sued out of them. It ought to come out of the chief’s salary and the mayor’s pocketbook, motherfuckers. I don’t know why it matters to me.

I typed fifteen minutes this morning. Ho-hum. I’ve got to think about this tow truck encounter. I could use a shave. No me gusta ser Casado. Whatever. I can read some Pulp when I’m done here. What else? I wonder if we can leave Thursday night. Pbbt. I think I should be more influential. More of a mover and shaker. What’s Al Gore got that I haven’t got? A senator father. A non-shitty attitude. Whatever. I’m a writer with a bad attitude. My writing will only draw negative attention to myself. I’ve got to work on a third-person page when I get home. Tow truck troubles. Read some Pulp and do some ab exercises. Maybe go for a bike ride. Have some microwave lunch. Teach my night school class. Work on Jim. Watch “Magnolia.” Start all over again tomorrow. It’s sunny and humid. What else? What in the heck else? What on Earth else? I was reading or I heard some pundit saying that writers used to lead interesting lives but not anymore. Ain’t that the truth. Maybe it was Ferlinghetti. [color photo]. Here’s a photo from February, 2000, when my stepmother met her new daughter-in-law for the first time with a pillow stuffed under her shirt for a gag.