11-16-00 Th 4:51 PM

What is this feeling of aggravation? Ugh. Whatever. I’ve got this “most-people-are-fucked-in-the-head-but-I’m-just-a-good-guy” feeling. I have to plant the little rose bush. My wife is easily defeated. Self-defeated. Whatever. She’s afraid the baby barfs too much. I try to tell her it’s normal, my youngest sister barfed a lot, but she’s inconsolable. A little post-partum, perhaps? I’d like a smoke and a drink, is the way my post-partum is shaping up. Oh, wait—that was my pre-partum, too. A smoke and a drink might be able to help me think. She’s kissing the baby. That’s a good sign. Back to work tonight. That must be why I feel aggravated. Ugh. Ugh and fuck. Fuck and ugh. Whatever. Whatever. I read the news today, oh boy. It’s all just shit. I don’t know what else to do, though. I’d like to change my whole life. A new setting, new people. A new land. A new country. Ugh and fuck. Fuck and ugh. Whatever. What ever. What else? I’ve got the baby now. I’m holding her draped over my forearm like a wine steward with linen napkin. She burps. The Lakers and the Kings are on in a little bit. I’ve got some more Bradbury to read. Think I’ll have a cup of coffee. Now, I’ve put the babe on the table. She’s fooling around, kicking her legs and waving her arms. She grunts and tugs her lip. She sneers like Elvis. The skin on her hands and feet is peeling. Her mom went to deposit some checks and pick up some water and infant nipples. “What else can we write, Ada?” I aske her. She answers me with short, rapid breaths and lolls her head to one side. “How ‘bout a glass of wine?” I ask her. No comment. I assume that means she disapproves, but she’s leaving it up to me. I say each word as I write it, just to keep her involved. She seems to like it. She’s not squawking. I kiss the top of her head. What else? I wonder again. The car needs gas and to be washed. We gave the baby a bath today. She was a little grimy with dried, regurgitated breast milk. She seemed to prefer that condition to that of the bath.

 11-14-00 Tu 2:40 PM

It's Rochelle's birthday. We met one year ago today. I have cards to mail. I typed fifteen minutes before going to night school last night. I got tonight and tomorrow night off, but I have to take in lesson plans. I should ask in the office here at Wilshire Hill if I can take a couple more days as paternity leave. I still have to wrap Rochelle's presents. I read the news. A week later, we still don't know who the president will be. Crazy. I can't believe Rochelle's water broke a week ago already. I've got Koran to read and third person to do, but the moms and sisters are coming for Rochelle's birthday. We have a staff meeting today. It had been phenomenally cold this week. 11-15-00 10:03 AM W  I've got to get that card out to Kristine. Ugh. My brother is a crack addict. His roommate called to say so. I believe it. What can I do? Ugh. I almost don't care. I just wish he would stop ripping off the family. The chances of a happy ending with this are slim to none. I don't have to work tonight. I may get tomorrow through Monday off. I have to check with Phylicia. When did I last write? On the previous page, duh. We were all very happy at Rochelle's party last night--even and especially the baby! Even the dog. Rochelle liked her presents. We ordered Chinese. GIP came over. So did Thing and his brother, Glen. Glen's leaving today for alcohol rehab. When he came in last night, GIP and I tried to hide our beers. Everyone left, and went to bed around ten, I guess. Rochelle fed the baby at midnight and then again around two thirty. I could hear her snuffling around in her bassinette. I took her out and tucked her on my chest, tummy down. She worked her way over to my armpit and snuggled into my shoulder. Sublime. I stayed like that as long as I could. I left myself enough time for a two-minute shower. Dried off and dressed. The heater in the bathroom tried to burn the house down. We've got to call Felix. I ate a plate of leftover Chinese and donut. Rode my bike to school. Brought a plate of leftover Pollo Loco and potato salad and an apple for lunch. I was in the office when Roch called to say Ray called. I called Ray. I figured Mac was in jail or OD'd or murdered or dead. But he's just a living crackhead, which may be worse.

 

11-10-00 11:38 PM F

Rochelle is nursing Ada. They and Lulu and I are all snug in bed. We came4 home from the hospital at eleven thirty this morning. I typed fifteen minutes before I went up to Cedars. I corrected a spelling error on Jim last night. My dad and stepmom came. She cooked lasagna. He took a lot of pictures. We took the film down to the Sav-On. My neighbors came over to remind him of why leaves in Idaho. Mac came for a few minutes. I read the news in bits and pieces. The country braces itself for the results from Florida and the court’s decisions regarding the presidential election. Either way, half the country will be pissed, alienated, and unsupportive if not hostile. The Israelis continue to murder and oppress and no one seems to care. Los Altos won forty-one to nothing. I’m tired. We’ve got the movie [pencil sketch of baby’s face] “The Patriot to watch. I should put a photograph in here so I can quit writing, but I don’t feel like getting up again. I wonder how hard it’s going to be to work at Jim with my baby daughter on my mind. We have been watching “Saturday Night Fever” on TV while I read the paper. Now “Flashdance” is on. What else? Ada rode home in the car in what seemed to me to be quiet awe. Cumulus sculptures decorated a celestial gallery Rochelle took a long nap today. Ada was super good. Lulu has been sniffing curiously and seems to understand that caution is warranted around our fragile and precious new roommate. Walking cliché of proud papa [drawn red Valentine’s hearts above photo of father, mother, and newborn in delivery room]

11-9-00

Her head emerged into this world. The doctor flipped here out onto her mother's belly. Mom's eyes grew wide and her mouth rounded into an O. Dad held tight to mom's hand. The midwife took the baby to a receiving table and placed her under a heating lamp. Time seemed to freeze. The baby was left alone. The doctor and nurses were tending to the mom. Dad walked over, surprised and happy that he was going to be the first to speak with her. She seemed alert and strong, and she was looking around the room, which surprised him further. He wasn't sure if he was allowed to touch her. He watched her moving her head and her big ocean eyes to see everything. He hadn't believed a newborn could be so alert and curious so soon out of the womb. He had been bracing himself for her to come out misshapen and agonized. His heart filled with pride and gratitude and he said hello and welcomed her and touched her chest with his finger, then caressed her head, and put a pinky in her hand. He told her he loved her and that she was beautiful. She was slender, athletic-looking, even, lacking in baby fat. The nurse took her to be weighed. Six pounds, four ounces. Nineteen inches. Then, he picked up his little daughter.

 11-8-00 5:57 PM W

Ada was born at 4:10 AM. She weighed six pounds, four ounces. I had been sitting on the couch before night school watching CNN declare that Al Gore had won Florida's twenty-eight electoral votes when the phone rang. It was my dad, wishing himself a happy birthday. "Aw, I was going to call," I said. 

Rochelle came down the hall and said, "Honey."

My dad said, "I thought I'd save you the trouble since you've got so much going on."

"My water broke."

"You mean you didn't get the card? I just mailed it about two hours ago."

"Honey, my water broke."

"Hang on a second, Rochelle's saying her water just broke."

Whoa. I told my father I'd call him back. Then we called Dr. Schwartz. He said to go the hospital. We called the moms. I ran down to the polling place. If Gore won Florida, I figured it was locked up, and I voted for Nader and Campbell for Senator. I hurried back. Rochelle was packing some last-minute items. I assembled the bassinette and belted the car seat into the Olds. And off we went. We were hanging around triage when Rochelle's mother showed up after about an hour or so, followed shortly by Rochelle's sister and her husband. The atmosphere was festive. They ignored the rules. Rochelle insisted that weighing 177 lbs. was awful. The nurse said it wasn't so bad. Yes, it is, Rochelle insisted. I kicked the bed; the nurse weighed at least 185. Whatever. I went out to the lobby a sec. CNN said Gore had NOT won Florida. Oops. We were moved to another room. Rochelle's contractions became more frequent and painful. My mom and Mardi showed up with champagne. Everyone was partying down, getting buzzed on booze, and getting in the way of the midwife. Rochelle was crying over her IV, the fear, and the pain. I finally had to boot the party out into the hall. The anesthesiologist administered and epidural. That calmed her down. She even slept a little. The TVs then gave Florida and the presidency to Bush. Ugh. I was disgusted. My mom was disgusted that I was disgusted. I went out to the sidewalk for a wee puff. When I came back, the contractions had intensified. The TVs retracted Bush's win. No one knew who the winner was. At three in the morning, we wheeled Rochelle into the delivery room. A big window looked out to the Sunset Strip and Hollywood Hills. Rochelle pushed and screamed and moaned and pushed and panted and cried, and I kissed her and kissed her and told her I loved her and out popped this incredible creature.

 

11-5-00 Su 8:38 PM

I’ve got to give Gil a call. I typed fifteen minutes last night. Then I walked to Getoff’s. He’s packing up to move out after he and Carlin had a falling out. Carlin has moved to Echo Park. Getoff is still trying to decide on a place. I played around on his guitars. He put on Pink Floyd’s “Meddle” and also Eliot Smith. We drank winter ale. Estelle called. Her dog had gone missing. Getoff went to go help her post “Lost Dog” signs. I walked over to the GIP’s. He and Schwa were queuing burgers in the backyard. I played Josh’s guitars and drank a couple of Foster’s Lagers.  Schwa’s place is all kitsched out, beads hanging in the doorways, 50’s B-movie posters on the walls. He was generous, but something struck me as phony. He seems to want to compensate for insecurities in his stature with arrogance and energy. He talks about himself incessantly without ever expressing any curiosity about anyone else. I ate three hamburgers.

Rochelle was home from her mom’s when I walked in at our place. We went to bed shortly thereafter. We were going to watch “Casablanca,” but I was too tired. Rochelle wanted to yankee my wankee, but I wasn’t into it. She got miffed. Whatever. So when I’m done here, I’ll read the paper. Then a third person. I’m falling behind on the Koran [photo of third grade students gathered around a computer]. Put some more rain [pencil sketch of a boy in the photo] into the Meatloaf scene. Maybe we’ll watch some movies tonight. I have to put some stuff in the mail. Deposit that check from my brother. What are the odds of it bouncing?

 11-2-00 Th 4:37 PM

Rochelle and I are sitting at the kitchen table, playing Scrabble. The dog got a new bed, but she's lounging in her old bed, contentedly mauling one of her stuffed animals. I was an "R" short of spelling "QUAVER" with "Q" in the triple word score. I also could have spelled "GUAVA" but didn't want to use my "U" without my "Q," so I had to settle for "VANE." I'm getting my ass kicked. I've come up with "GROGS," "WART," and "MOOT." Funny how they seem to apply to my life. Like Tarot cards or tea leaves. Rochelle has "SNOOZER" and "MOPED," the roots of both she has been doing a lot of lately. I typed fifteen minutes this morning. Rode my bike to school. Did the whole day. Staff meeting after school: Harvard said how hard she's working, from seven to seven every day, "and still got to keep a man, Mr. Zurn." Huh? Whatever. I rode my bike home with the business page tucked under my arm and read it at the red light because some day I'm going to be a stock trading, wheeler dealer, once I've gotten the mega-bucks advance on my second novel. The dog seems to have a bladder infection. She just pisses without squatting, wherever she's standing, like, for instance, my side of the bed. My stepsister called. She and Rochelle are on the phone now, and the game has been temporarily suspended. 7:53 PM I'm at Los Angeles High School to teach my night school class. 10:10 PM I'm back home. Should I have a wee smoke? I used this pencil to poke free a clog in the stem of the bowl of my water pipe. What else? I feel like going for a jog. I spilled bong tar all over the next page. A Frenchman tried to parachute onto the statue of liberty with a fan on his back, but the winds were too strong. The baby is real close. It seems like I ought to get on my knees and pray for her blessings. If I want her out, I better believing it. The election is days away. The stroller and the bag still need to be put in the trunk. The clock strikes eleven. A Victoria's Secret commercial. FRIENDS. Help me, God. Bless our bodies and souls. You might wanna have a backup plan.