7-29-01 Su 10:35 AM

I wrote about the baby's IV nightmare somewhere else. I don't want to think about that horrible night anymore. I'm at Roscoe's. Ada was so dehydrated, her blood vessels had collapsed, and the med techs couldn't get the IV in. It was gut wrenching watching them stab her over and over and over again, but her feeble screams of confusion and anguish at least let me know she was still alive. After they finished mangling the insides of both elbows, they tried to insert the needle in her tiny hand. It took three nurses a dozen tries to get it. When they left the room, we discovered a problem with the IV; the baby was bleeding profusely. I went out into the hallway to try to flag down a nurse. Twenty minutes later, after the baby, her mom, the gurney blankets and I were soaked in blood, a nurse came to redo the IV. We were in the ER for several hours more. Around midnight, ten hours after we'd gotten to the hospital, we were brought up to radiology. The doctors had decided that x-rays and a barium enema might reveal the cause of the Ada's distress. The three stooges administered the procedure. They did not sedate her. We had to hold her down while they ran the tube into her behind. Ugh. It was all fucked up. The barium was leaking out and flooding the table. It smelled bad. They couldn't get it right. My one "comfort" was that they made her angry enough to squirm and yell because she had seemed dead in my arms earlier. Three times they fucked it up. We could see the barium on the x-ray monitor stop inside her at a certain point in the ghost image of her intestine. The "doctor" didn't know if it was her appendix. "I think that's the appendix," he said. Then the genius decided to tilt the table, believing the barium inside her might flow by gravity. I was not confident in the strategy. All they succeeded in doing was having all the barium shit around her from the failed attempts go flooding into her face. It was so awful. They couldn't tell if the barium in the x-ray had stopped because of intussusception or because of all the leaking. They sent us down to a room for the night. Her skin was frighteningly cold to the touch.

I can't think about this anymore right now. I've got a game in Crystal Springs in a couple of hours. That will help take my mind off of it. I'm supposed to go to the Dodger game tonight with Mariachi. I should have heard from him by now. Either his wife went into labor, or his dad went ahead and kicked the bucket. It's Fernando's bobblehead night, and Baldwin's making his debut for the Dodgers, who have just surged into first place. Call me an ass, but I hope he leaves the tickets at will call or something.

 

7-26-01  Th 10:20 AM

The baby vomited again in the pediatrician’s office. She felt like a bag of bones in my arms. I was trying not to be too worried, but I wanted everyone to drop what they were doing and figure out what to do to make her feel better. We paced the waiting room twenty minutes or so, and they brought her in early after she threw up again. Dr. Busch came in and asked a lot of questions. I wondered why they didn’t take her temperature but did not want to presume to question the doctor’s knowledge of what to do. He kneaded her stomach and looked in her ears and talked about a stomach virus and was about to send us home with some instructions for treating the flu when, almost as an afterthought, he had the nurse take the baby’s temperature with an ear gun. It was 95. I knew that was not good. “Oh.” The doctor slowed down. “Let’s wait five minutes and take it again. Low temperature can be as bad as high temperature. They took it again. 94. I felt sick to my soul. “Okay,” the doctor said. “She has hypothermia and you’ll have to take her to the emergency room.” He wrote on a slip of paper some instructions to bring and said he’d call ahead. The baby was colorless and unmoving. I hustled her to the elevators and ran through the halls and across the plaza to the bridge and into one tower and out another, afraid she wasn’t breathing. The doors swung open into an ER waiting room crammed with people—a hundred or more, most with no visible emergency. They looked bored or lonely, wanting to be seen for attention, for the sake of their psychological, rather than physical distress, in no immediate danger, clamoring to be next, to be seen now, and the triage receptionist insured them that they would be next. They seemed subhuman to me, these ugly fucking loser clogging the emergency room with their fat and sloth and gluttony and torpid stupidity; they overran the system along with the very old, incredibly old, hunched over, yellow-skinned, old, old people whose very next breath was life threatening, but who also, to me, should not have been in the emergency room just because they were so horribly fucking old, who should have gone home to die in their beds and not leave an angel baby with lives still heaving green bile on the floor before passing out, unconscious. I stood in front of the receptionist and said nothing while the hopelessly fucked insisted on being seen, those whose problems were known and chronic, while my beautiful baby girl could still be saved or still die. We waited three hours. “You’re next, sir” the receptionist lied without provocation, and we waited another hour and half more.

7-23-01 Man's Curse

 7-23-01 M 10:08 AM

This is going to be a tough one. I just typed fifteen minutes a little while ago. Not much new since then. I feel like shit. Allergies, I guess. Rochelle was saying the other night that she was going to sleep in a motel because she was drunk and acting like a bitch because she doesn't have any diamonds. Unbelievable. Whatever. So, what do I do? Kiss her ass to try to make her feel better. All women are fucked in the head, and it's man's curse to try to humor them. Whatever. I read varying accounts of Judas' demise. I had always heard he'd hung himself, but Acts says he collapsed in a field with burst guts.  Whatever.  Rochelle's taking the baby to Idaho for nine days starting tomorrow. I don't feel so good about it. I'm supposed to tryout for "Hollywood Squares" tomorrow. I hope I remember to tape it tonight. When I'm done here, I can read today's news. After that I'll do a third-person page, and then I'll read a chapter of Lord Jim. Then, I'll have to put a minimum of two lines onto Jim. Fart around on the internet, answer some email. When I finish Lord Jim, I think I'll read Michener's Chesapeake, hopefully before we go Back East. East is back. West is forward. ~~~ Ugh, what else? I'm going to have to put a photo here.

Nassau Harbor, New Providence, Bahamas: Disney's Cruise Ship, a Day After Hurricane Dennis Had Passed and I Nearly Drowned Snorkeling on Ecstasy.

David Duval won the British Open. More in the paper about the Klamath drought. What else? One of my TAs is Kuhl Singh. He's a Sikh from India. The kids call him Mr. Cool. I think Rochelle and the baby are going to come for a visit. Oh, shit! I need to mail in a check for nine hundred dollars on the Master Card. I'll have to make sure Rochelle cashed that check my folks sent. I need to call the Martinezes or my bank or something. I'm going to keep my beard for "Hollywood Squares," and I'm not going to mention "Jeopardy!." I've got to read a story to the kids. What else? I could read Charlottes' Web or My Teacher Glows in the Dark or Ghosts Don't Get Goosebumps. Ugh> What else? Finally, I'm done. 11:09 AM

 7-22-01 Su 7:27 AM

I need some coffee. The baby has crawled over to the window. She's sitting on her knees and slobbering all over the glass. She leans back to admire her work and lets out a shriek. Her mother is still in bed. The wife wants a diamond ring like her sister has. I got a message at school Friday that Mrs. Zurn had called. She said her sister, Milly, and her sister's husband, Stu, were in Redondo Beach, and they would pick me up and bring me to Orange County, where the wife was having lunch with friends, because my sister really wanted to see me before she went back to Chicago, and we were going to have a big Pictionary party, and then we could just spend the night since we were going to Cheesecake with Mill and Stu and Rochelle's mom the following night. 

It was payday. There went happy hour. It would mean an hour and more stuck in traffic with the in-laws but what were my options other than to agree? How many people would be snubbed and hold it against me if I said no? A half dozen? A dozen? Whatever. I said I'd go. "Are you sure? You don't have to," says the wife. Yeah, right. "I'm sure it will be fun," I said. I read my horoscope in the newspaper. It said, stay home, read, and write.

Milly got Stu a new jeep, and Stu's going to pay for Milly to go to culinary school; that's how much they love each other. Isn't that cute? After we went through what were my top-five movie dramas, top-five, comedies, five suspense/thrillers, we turned to why don't I get my wife a ring. Milly would be glad to help. Urg. The traffic worsened. I tried to explain that we have a child and one income (they have already declared that they will not have children, thus enabling them to more wholeheartedly devote themselves to themselves) and that we would like to buy a house and a second vehicle, and that if my wife also worked, I could certainly put a nice diamond on her finger, but that we preferred our daughter be raised by her mother and that I didn't want her raised by strangers at a daycare just so my wife could wear what amounted to a vainglorious bauble on her knuckle to compete with other possessors of vainglorious baubles. Milly and Stu hold hands between the seats where her diamond boulder sparkles. Plus, I've already paid for a fucking ring that was a huge waste of thousands of dolalrs.

 

7-19-01 Th 7:35 PM

“Bodies dissolve like fat in the sun. The country’s blood fills its holes like hot bronze in a mold…smoke lies on our city like a shroud.”

              -Sumerian lament @3000 B.C.   Lugalzaggisi defeated Lagash, Uruk, and Ur. Sargon defeated Lugalzaggisi. “Amorites were Babylonians…Hammurabi took seriously the responsibilities of public officials. [They] were expected to catch burglars. If they failed to do so, [they] had to replace the lost property. If murderers were not found, the officials had to pay a fine to the relatives of the missing person.”

              -Jackson Spielvogel’s Western Civilization

Who would want to be a housebuilder in Babylonia? If a house collapsed and killed the owner, the builder was put to death. If the owner’s son died, the builder’s son was put to death.

Striking one’s older brother and kicking one’s mother were punished by condemnation to slavery. Husbands, but not wives, were permitted sexual activity outside of marriage. A wife caught committing adultery was pitched into the river unless her husband asked the king for a pardon. 7-20-01 F 8:51 AM I wish I had brought that photo that I want to draw. I have been reading about the Columbia River: the dams vs. the salmon. It seems like there ought to be a way to have both. Whatever. We’re listening to Bolero. Rochelle is going down to Huntington Beach for lunch with her friend. Then she’s coming back, and tomorrow, we’re going down to Huntington Beach to have dinner with her sister. [pencil drawing of Virginia City, July 5, 2001, Near Dusk]

 7-18-01 W 3:00 PM

I wrote 15 minutes last night. I got an incredible amount done yesterday. Naturally, I'm following it up today by seriously lagging. I didn't read or write at all before school. I rode my bike. As soon as I arrive, Mrs. Rogers wanted to see me. Because I hadn't applied for the job initially, she said, my seniority was not a factor, and Ms. Skully was going to be taking my class. I could take a class in Tarzana. This was clearly a sexist fuckover with cliquish corruption from a gang of cunts with no regard for right or wrong as long as they got what they wanted. I pretended grace and asked no questions. For the people to whom truth matter, and there are more than a few around here, it is no surprise that Skully would stab someone in the back, fuck you over, and screw her grandmother out of nickel on her deathbed, and try to have you understand "it's nothing personal."

A woman walked in wearing over a bikini a tank top sporting a rendition of Snoopy in Sopwith Camel and the name of a place called Bally's Cockpit.

So, I said okay and taught up until recess when Skully was supposed to take over. I started thinking about these old battleaxe teachers like Mrs. Johns--there'd be no way she'd get displaced by a junior teacher, regardless of any paperwork technicality. I returned to Mrs. Rogers and asked if she was sure and who else could I call and what exactly was my payroll status? She started saying okay, we'll call this person and that person. Then the secretary said room 25, with 9 orthopedically handicapped kids and 2 aides, needed a teacher. Great, I said, I'll take that one. Rogers said, Great, you start Monday. I thought, Great, I got three days off, still have a job and won't be driving to Tarzana every day this summer. Then she said, and we'll just pay you for the whole day today, but you can go home now. Go tell Skully. Ha ha.

Now, I'm at Sloan's with Elmer. I beat him at eight ball, two to one. We had split pitchers at Papa Rico's, and I called in sick to LACAS.

7-17-01 The Lost World

 7-17-01 Tu 10:24 AM

I typed fifteen minutes this morning. Rode my bike to school. We had a staff meeting at 8:30. Checked the kids’ homework. They’re at brunch now. I’ve just finished rereading “The Three Day Blow.” Hemingway’s exposure to manliness: i.e. fishing, baseball, drinking, and pride in practicality (in fact, the word “practical” is repeated often, most notably when Nick disregards Bill’s mention of a “symbol”) are to cover up fragile emotional states. These men are actually fickle and indecisive. Nick is happy that “nothing is irrevocable,” while Bill says, “Everything’s got its compensations.” So much for masculinity.

Then I read a Dorothy Parker story about two young women, “The Standard of Living.” Midge and Anabel have selfish, materialistic fantasies about what they might do with a million dollars, arguing over whether a silver fur coat is a worth purchase. When they spy a pearl necklace that costs a quarter of a million dollars, they decide that a million dollars would not be enough to satisfy their vanity.

When I’m done here, I’ll read the news. I’ll write a third-person page when get home. I have to figure out what to do with Him. Have to get him out of the road. I’m about three lines from page 161. I need to figure out where we’ll sleep in Pittsburgh. I wonder when the Little League World Series is. I should call Tim. I wish I had brough that picture of Ada and me that I wanted to draw. The original 1928 silent version of “The Lost World” is on PBS on Friday. I have to remember to tape it. I’ll be starting Conrad’s Lord Jim today. Mrs. Mason brought donuts. I ate half a cinnamon roll and threw the rest away. [The Way to School, Looking North from Keniston Avenue, South of Olympic, color photograph of snow on the San Gabriels, Hollywood sign between palm trees]

 7-15-01 Su 4:30ish

I'm in Charlie O's in the Alexandria on 5th and Spring. The TV is on an English channel, but the jukebox is singing in Spanish. I've just come from my game, and I'm sitting in here wearing my Phantoms uniform. We got murdered 16-4. This is the worst fucking group of guys I've ever played with. Not talent-wise, but attitude-wise, as far as teamwork goes. The health department gave this place a C. Whatever. I flew out to left, popped up to third, hit a long, high double just fair in left, knocked in a run, stole a base, and scored. Whatever. I added a small paragraph to Jim this morning. I thought I was already on page 161, but I'm still on page 160. I wrote a third-person page. Read about the Persian Empire in the late BCs: Cyrus, Darius, and Xerxes, about Zarathustra, AhuruMazda and Zoroastrianism. I typed fifteen minutes. Read about the Shroud of Turin and Herod's Temple and the massacre of Jerusalem Jews by Titus when the Romans invaded. Weird place I'm in. Old white guys watch Steven Seagal; cumbias bomp-bomp, I wonder what's Nietzche 's deal with Zarathustra? I want to see this "Titus" movie now. A short, fat guy with a Private Security chevron on his black shirt and a billy club in his belt answers the phone, "Bitch, where ya been?"

 A short, slow-speaking Mexican has enters. The bartender orders him out. "Pense que eres me amigo," says the old Mex. 

"Platoon" is coming on. This movie kicked my ass when I was eighteen or nineteen. I'm getting gooseflesh now. The new guys steps of a plane as they unload full body bags going back home. I could go for a smoke. I have a picture of the baby and me I want to draw. My Achilles tendons are totally fucked. I have to write a third-person page next. Actually, I have to read the Sunday Times. I'll fall asleep tonight before I finish that. I watched "Birth of a Nation" the other day. Grotesquely racist. I've been watching a John Wayne film festival, too. I'm going to put in "Blazing Saddles" tonight to undo "Birth of a Nation."