2-16-01 F 6:44 PM

I want an E tuning fork, even though I have a hi-tech, electronic tuner. Here, home, sitting on the couch, switching between the Kings and the Lakers. “The Maltese Falcon” is on the Turner Classic Movies channel in ten minutes. I’m going to tape it. I walked to school reading The Crossing this morning. It appears that Boyd has been killed, swept away by history and the soul of Mexico or something. I have about fifty pages left. Met with Paul’s mom and stepfather today. I’ll have to get the paperwork going on his dumb ass. We did our tickets out the door and our phonics and a lesson on sentence end marks, including exclamation points, question marks, and periods. At recess, I typed fifteen minutes on the laptop. Then, we went to the library. I let the kids read library books until lunch. Stone and Chernikov came in to “observe.” I sat at my desk, looking at the sports page and let them observe. I read the paper through lunch. Put in a video from the library about Jackie Robinson. The kids paid no attention. We went to P.E. for some handball. I walked home from school. Saw some kids on the way. They celebrated my appearance like it was 1958 and I was Elvis Presley. No one was here when I got home. Rochelle had been running errands. I finished reading the paper. Shit! I was four minutes late taping “The Maltese Falcon.” Fuck. Ugh. Shit. I kept watching the clock, but still, I missed it. Fuck. Urg. Shit. I rolled a smoke this afternoon. It didn’t come out too good. “In Cold Blood” is on after this. I’ve never seen that. I guess my dad and stepmom will be coming by between ten and noon tomorrow. I should try to straighten up a little before they come. You know they’ll be full of sunshine. I want to go to Fry’s tomorrow and get that external disk drive and a case for the laptop. I don’t know how the rest of it’ll go. Sunday, we’re supposed to go out to visit them at the Grave’s in Hacienda Heights. Monday, I guess I better sort out what I need to do about my tax situation. I wonder if I should get a Turbo Tax program or something. Too bad I can’t go fishing. I also need to figure out what’s going on with my 403B. [the author hanging from a palm tree I the dark near a can of Kalik beer in the Bahamas]

His head ached. He struggled through the sunshine. The light tore his eyes. He saw little more than the sidewalk. A phone. If he found a phone he could call. Who? He didn’t know. He’d cross that bridge when he came to it. Did he have change? It took a minute to summon the memory of how to reach into his pocket, to summon the will, the strength, the coordination. His pants were cold and stiff, and they seemed to have shrunk. He had to work his fingers into the pocket wriggle them down to the knuckles and push his hand in to the wrist. He had to stop walking. He felt like a blind man. His fingers felt the lighter. Some papers. He felt a coin. He pulled the pocket out and managed to dump its contents into his palm and studied what he saw there. A dime, a nickel, a penny. Lint. A receipt. He pulled out the other pocket. Empty. He made a half-assed attempt to put the pockets ban, but one hung out still and the other was only partially put back, so that it looked like he waws trying to play the old Kiss the Bunny game. He came to an intersection. State College. Fast food joints and gas stations. He could barely see through all the light. It wouldn’t have surprised him if none of them had any payphones.

 

2-14-01 2:36 PM W

I typed fifteen minutes this morning. I ate some kind of microwave che4esy past chicken thing for breakfast. I walked to school. The mountains were dusted with snow all behind the Hollywood sign. I read about a drunken confrontation between Billy and a Mexican patriot in the The Crossing as I walked to school. Harvard was directing traffic when I got here. I went to the store for a newspaper. They had these little guitars there for ten bucks. I bought one, but they suck, surprise, because the nuts are face and can’t be turned to tune it. I imagine all sales are final. I’ll just give it to a kid. Phonics. Exclamations. Havard came in. Whatever. I looked over the paper at recess. Whatever. Counting coins and bills. Called the cafeteria manager at Hoover during lunch. Silent reading. A video about Valentine’s Day. The video said that the Roman Emperor Claudius outlawed marriage so as to have more single men available to his army. But St. Valentine married people anyway, until on February 14^th, he was beheaded. No year was mentioned. The kids exchanged cards. I’ve got to walk home next. Get over to Hoover. Get to the hardware store. Write a third-person page. The Bridge Dweller’s Tale. I’m hungry. Get an external hard drive, carrying case, spare battery for laptop. Get C batteries for the desktop speakers. Take Buzz Lightyear and Dr. No to Aaron’s.  Rochelle’s got school tonight. It’ll be me and Ada. Kings play in Dallas tonight. I’ve been about to give up on them since Edmonton. But if they win tonight, and the Ducks can beat Edmonton, they’ll be tied for the final playoff spot. I guess I should pick up some flowers on the way home. Ugh. I can’t believe it’s only Wednesday. What else? I haven’t had a smoke in ages. I’ve got to call Gil. Rochelle took my cash card to buy parking a parking permit for Santa Monica College. I suggested she might just ride the bus, but you know how white women are about riding the bus. The skyscrapers peeking above the bare-limbed trees along the street look like some other city than LA. [pencil sketch of Mt. Rushmore]

His head ached. He struggled through the sunshine. The light tore his eyes. He saw little more than the sidewalk. A phone. If he found a phone, he could call—Who? He didn’t know. He’d cross that bridge when he came to it. Did he have any change? It took a minute to summon the memory of how to reach into his pocket, to summon the will, the strength, the coordination. His pants were cold and stiff and they seemed to have shrunken; he had to work his fingers into the pocket, wriggle them down to his hand and push until he was in up to his wrist. He had to stop walking. He felt like a blind man. His fingers felt the lighter, some papers, a coin. He pulled the pocket out and let everything dump into his palm: A dime, a nickel, a penny, lint, a receipt. He pulled out the other pocket: Empty. He made a half-assed attempt to push the pockets back into his jeans, but one hung out still and the other, containing his meager belongings, was only partially put back, so that he looked like he was trying to play the old kiss the bunny game. He came to intersection: State College. He saw fast food joints and gas stations. He couldn’t see through all the light. It wouldn’t surprise him if none of them had public phones.

 

2-12-01 M 6:57 AM

I’m writing at the kitchen table this morning. The wife and baby are still asleep. I’ve been having internal defenses of my job at Wilshire Hill and incriminations against the injustices I see. I have to meet Principal Harvard today. Last week was supposed to be my performance evaluation. About six weeks ago, I was passing through the office when one her secretaries had me sign up on a sheet for a date for the evaluation I signed for a date in February. At the beginning of February, I went back to the office and asked the secretary, Helga, what was the date of my evaluation. She said not to worry, I would be receiving a reminder. Ok. Friday, I got a sub. I had a doctor’s appointment and some other things to do. Even though, I got a sub, I went into Wilshire Hill and got the lesson plan ready for the sub and stayed with the class until she arrived. A I was walking out the door to leave, Harvard was coming in. “I have a doctor’s appointment today.”

“Your evaluation is right now.”

“I didn’t know that. Helga said we would be getting reminders.”

“Yeah, well, you signed for it. I had to change a doctor’s appointment for this,” she said.

“I’m sorry,” I said.

When I went to teach that Saturday class, there was a note written in red ink with a thick marker on my lesson plans: See me—G. Harvard

It was on my book and the page of plans I left for the sub. I’m guessing she just wants to reschedule, but maybe she’s got some other shit she wants to discuss or maybe I do. I can’t decide whether to say shit or keep my mouth shut. [photograph of barmaid serving drinks during Hurricane Dennis as water leaks through the roof, Nassau, Bahamas, August, 1999]

Ada’s got a doctor’s appointment this afternoon. We’ll have to figure out what to do with the car. I’ve got to bring a book over to Hoover. Stop by Wilton Place. See the cafeteria manager. I’ll read The Crossing while I wait in the office for Harvard.

 

2-10-01 Sa 3:40 PM already

Worked Wilshire Hill today. Maybe I got a hundred bucks for it. There was a check in my sign-in from LACAS for $476.00. That’s a big help. But I’m still financially screwed this month. Have to check email for laptop status. Bills. We looked at houses in Azusa today. Feels like acid today, the sun and rain. Woody’s Pizza in Isla Vista feels like a narcotic discovery when you’re young and drunk or high or frying for the first time. The clouds. The buildings. I’ll have some vinegar when I get home. I think it dissolves blockages of plaque, fat, cholesterol, glycerides. Whatever. Rochelle’s driving. We’re almost home, back from househunting. Ugh. Pico is all tow up. I need a drink and a smoke. 4:40 PM We’re home now. Got bloody Marys. Colorado is on the power play. I’m wearing a Blues jersey, feeling like a loser. Valentine’s Day is coming. I’ve got to get a new inner tube. Tomorrow. And pay the bills. Read Mysteries of the Bible. Rochelle went to get pizza. I wasn’t too thrilled with the idea. I couldn’t tell her why though: that I had a double cheeseburger for breakfast. The wife’s back with the pizza. “Thanks for opening the door,” she said when I let her in. I never considered the overpass in Jim. It should be a freeway maybe the 5 or 57, though I don’t know—it needs to be between Angel Stadium and the Crystal Cathedral. She brought beer, too. I need some exercise. When I’m done here. But I don’t feel like it. The Avalanche just scored against the Blues. I think the Kings should trade Blake to get the rookie Johnson and Al McGinnis. Ok. There’s a stock dividend here from ATT. Elven cents. “The Wolfman” with Lon Chaney, Jr. is on AMC right now. The 1941 version. I should call my grandmother. I drank some vinegar and water. I should call Gil. What else? Read some Crossing. Cherlynn took Typee of the shelf. Play some guitar. I need to draw a picture soon, too, but I’ve been too lazy. What was I reading before The Crossing? Oh, right. Leaves if Grass. Rochelle is bored and slightly miffed that I’m not hungry. The baby is asleep. Mainlaw has gone. I guess I’ll eat some pizza and wings and have a beer. Eternal life or reincarnation? Or something else? Write a third-person page.

Guess that’s it.

 

2-9-01 F 7:52 AM

I’m at Wilshire Hill. Took the day off but came in to leave a lesson plan for the sub. I had a Kahlua and coffee with Bailey’s and brandy last night, and a beer, and I went to the Bounty and had two merlots with Kelly and Sharon and two beers with Thing while I tried to talk him out of wallowing in self pity over his breakup with his emotionally unstable ex-girl. But that’s not why I’m taking the day off. I have a doctor’s appointment this afternoon to have this wart removed from my index finger. Rochelle’s going to have a suspicious mole on her chest examined. Plus, we want to take care of this laptop business, and I’m working tomorrow until noon, and then we’re going with a realtor to check out homes in Azusa, and we really need groceries, and that clinched it for calling in today. We might try to go to the museum today to see Teddy Edwards blow his horn and maybe the “California” exhibit. I’m supposed to go with Thing to Fais de Deaux for a while tonight. When I’m done with this, I’ll have a look at the news. Write a third person when I get home. Knock off some Crossing. Put the new lines on Jim. Play guitars. Write fifteen minutes. Watch “Doctor No.” Read some Cheever diary today. Go to the market. Call the laptop store. That ought to be a good day. I’ve got to tell Horowicz I’ll work for her tomorrow. Maybe I’ll go to Bob’s or something for breakfast before I go home. I’m doing a real suck-ass job of not spending money and not eating shit. What else? I hope that sub gets here on time. The Kings beat Carolina last night. Too bad Nashville also won. Hopefully, Edmonton will lose to Phoenix tonight. Guess I’ll put a phot down here. [Doc Johnson of Mississippi and wife Judy]

 

2-6-01 5:33 PM M

Ugh. Ack. Irk. Yikes. “Shane” is dueling “The Treasure of the Sierra Madre” on two different channels at the same time. I was too busy watching a porno to get a tape going by the time they had started. I’ve got to “Shane” on so far. I think I prefer Bogy. That kid in “Shane” gives me the creeps. Besides, Alan Ladd took himself out of the game, didn’t he? I can’t respect that. Bogy went the old-fashioned way: Drank and smoked himself to death. A guy limped by the window wearing a cowboy hat. Strange crossover. You gotta love LA. I had a wee smoke. Should I ask LACAS for a business card? That smoke made me weird. Now I feel like I need a drink. Shouldn’t I not get up until these three pages have been completed? What about for water? Mr. Zurn, can I get a glass of water? Zattan stopped by. Got a sore on my lip. Rochelle and the baby have gone to Orange County to visit mom and stister. Stister?—Sister, that is. Water. I’m hearing on the radio about problems on the 91 and a load of spilled steal pipes or something on the northbounch 57 at Tonner Canyon. That Bogy character’s freakin’ paranoid. The way they’ve got to go. I got up to put the shades down. It’s getting chilly in her, and it’s dark out now. I wonder how Gladys Aguila is doing. She was the best TA I ever had. She’d com into class and just start working with groups of kids. I never had to ask her to do anything. I’ve got to assign a group to work with Mrs. Valenzuela. I took pack of steaks out of the freezer. Boyd has been shot. Shane looks like it’s in Wyoming. Mariachi called to see if I could come out to the 35er in Pasadena to celebrate Esteban’s birthday. I explained about Christmas debts and said I couldn’t go, and he said, “Well, just say you’re going out with they boys, and I’ll pay for you.” I said, “I don’t know. These things are touchy.” Then I asked, “When is it?” and he said, “Saturday.” I said I’d call him back. Now Shane looks like it’s in a soundstage, pretending to be outside. I put it back to “Sierra Madre.” I will read another page of the How to Play Guitar book when I’m done here. Write a third-person page. Fart around on the internet, maybe send Villasenorita a birthday e-mail.

1228 AM 2-6-01 Tu

Ugh. Let see. I reached page 143 today. Put it on the kitchen calendar. I ought to get at tleast to 150 before the end of the month. Had to bring the car to school today. My bike got another flat. I popped the innertube when I came awkwardly onto the driveway trying to go around the car; the tire hit the curb at an odd angle. I should have taken it to Imartin last night, but I was suffering from motivational defeciencies. Went to go to Best Buy to price laptops, but Best Buy, it turns out, doesn’t carry Macs. I started for Burbank before I realized I don’t know where Fry’s is, so I went home. There’s a staff meeting after school today. Fuck. Urg Ick Aug. I’ve got stop this virulent thought process. Whatever. Got a newspaper from a sidewalk stand on La Brea. Got a lesson plan together for the week. Did the first of the week language ritual with our journals. Read the paper at recess.  Nothing to it. Worked with coins. Finished the paper at lunch. A Principal’s Day luncheon was held in the auditorium. The Big Ass-Kiss.  Who organizes this shit? I guess I am a real wacko. I don’t see how anyone could like me.