10-28-00 Sa 6:12 PM

I’m at the Bounty. Thing and Mark have gone out for a cigarette. I rode over here on my bike. I got “Lion King” tickets at the Pantages for Rochelle and me on our anniversary. I typed fifteen minutes while Oregon played a spectacular come-from-behind OT game full of goal-line stands and last-second Hail Marys. Bernie called from Chicago. We’ve got two more beers on the way. UCLA’s playing Arizona on a tv up on the corner. Florida State’s up on North Carolina over in the other corner. The juke box is quiet. Thing and Mark talk movies, movies, movies. One of the sopranos and the conductor from the LA Opera are going to perform selections from Mahler’s “Symphony Number Nine.” I thought Rochelle might want to go, but I called her, and she says she’s tired. So, I just asked her to put the chicken in the oven. I’m trying to decide whether to call Senoritavilla to invite her to GIP’s party. I’m sure she won’t go, but I may still invite her, even though it’s getting late. The bar has Halloween decorations—plastic spiders and banners with ghosts on them and paper pumpkins and glowing plastic Jack-o’-lanterns. The fish in here smells good. “I can’t shake this melancholy today,” says Thing. “It’s the fall,” I say. “Who’s the new bartender?” I ask. “That’s Mimi. She works days. She’s been here since July,” he says. "I found a bar in Portland I liked called The Driftwood Room,” he says. We break into contrasting LA against other cities in the country. The three of us agree LA is a colder place. The conversation moves onto a show about “teens who fuck or are about to fuck or have just finished fucking or talk about fucking.” I’m on my third beer now. I need to get going. It’s dark now.