4-16-01 M 9:16 PM

Mac called collect from federal prison in Maryland. He said he was asleep in the van in his underwear when they dragged him out into the rain at gunpoint and made him lay on the asphalt. He says he didn't know anything about the 87 pounds of cocaine under a floorboard. Says he would take a lie detector test if they would let him. He was sobbing and apologizing about acting like a jerk and that he loved us, and he was sorry about not coming to the hospital when Ada was born. I told him not to worry and to just stay strong and tough. He said he didn't have any water nor toothbrush. When he'd hung up, I broke down crying. I felt like, feel like, I always treated him like a bastard when we were young, and if he had ever gotten the love and acceptance he was looking for, he would never have gotten mixed up with bad guys he is mixed up with.

We drove down to Placentia to get the dog. I read in the in the newspaper about a guy who attacked actor Steve Buscemi with a knife during a bar fight in North Carolina; slashed his neck, wrist, and abdomen, and was charged with attempted murder. His bail was set at $50,000 of which one must pay ten percent, and he is a free man on attempted murder, made bail, and walks the streets. My brother hurst no one, is circumstantially involved in something he says he know nothing about, and his bail is two million. Ugh. It's fucking Big Brother. Some fucking hypocrite law careerist will use my brother to pad his stats and rank up at this law office for more pay. They'll make it look however they want. Whatever happened to "innocent until proven guilty?" That's a fucking bullshit myth in this country. ~~~I was bummed the rest of the day. I took the car to the Mobil station to get a carwash. The carwash broke down. I drove to the market and bought two hundred and twenty-something bucks' worth of groceries, after coupons. I read the newspaper when I got home. Called Grandma. She didn't seem to want to talk much. I tried to print the last of the tax forms. It didn't work. I transferred some Jim from the laptop to the desktop. The Kings beat the Redwings and shitty officiating in a thrilling 2-1 wing.

 4-14-01 Sa 4;34 PM

We're stopped at a gas station in Palo Alto. The baby was squawking, so we pulled off the 101 to feed her. She's not real serious about eating, though. I think she just wanted out of the confines of her car seat. I typed fifteen minutes in the hotel room yesterday after I came back from Hannold's. We were going to take the train to the A's game, but Rochelle wanted to take the car. It was cold and windy at Network Associates Coliseum, formerly Oakland-Alameda County Coliseum. A kid named Corey Lidle was making his major league debut on the mound for Oakland. He started Rusty Greer off with a strike, then a ball, then Greer smoked one off the right field foul pole. The next batter, Randy Velarde, also deposited one in the bleachers, en route to a thirteen to one thrashing by the Texas Rangers. Two hundred and fifty-two-thousand-dollar man, Alex Rodriguez hit his first homerun of the season. We had beer, dogs, and nuts. But it is a very noisy stadium with rock music blaring loudly from the speakers constantly. It was making the baby miserable, along with the cold. We left in the third inning; the A's were already losing eight nothing. It is a very non-descript stadium, surrounded by a big parking lot in an industrial area. Probably the least-appealing ballpark I've visited. Back at the hotel, I read more of Lamour's memoir (yawn). Then Rochele and I walked to the embarcadero and to Mo Jack's Bar, where you wondered if the characters were as tough as they looked. I put my name on the list to shoot pool. I was tenth. The same guy won all ten games, a big black dude. I drank beer and bourbon waiting my turn. The guy had a phenomenal bank shot the kind of man you can see has great all-around skill. Nobody in the room could beat him. Except me. I was just lucky that he never had any easy shots. His name was Earl. I started calling him "Earl the Banker." When I had to bank one, I said, "Hey banker, how 'bout a loan." Some guy called Ethiopian Joe started buying our drinks for us. I had six beers and two bourbons. From there, Rochelle and I walked to Jack's Rendezvous Heinold's First and Last Chance Saloon. Since 1882. You walk in and the floor slopes down to where the floor buckled in the great 1906 earthquake. You have to sit funny to keep from sliding off the stools. Rochelle was hungry, so we went to a burger joint on Broadway called Notions.

 

4-12-01 Th 3:??

I typed fifteen minutes this morning from a Motel 6 in Santa Nella. We went over to Denny’s for a cholesterolfest. Loaded the car and drove a couple hours through the hills of Livermore into Oakland. I couldn’t figure out why the windmills weren’t going. The aqueduct ran through verdant farmland and almond orchards, evoking a sense of an idyllic utopia. Our room has a balcony overlooking the harbor, but it’s all sort of industrial blight with no view of the bridges or of San Francsico. So, much for utopia. We had a few bloody Marys and an Anchor Steam, and I read the Chronicle while Rochelle and her mom put on makeup. I put some Miles Davis on the computer and called Hosebag and got Barf’s number off the internet. Hosebag and his girl are going to meet us in the bar of the Waterfront, and we may see Barf’s rugby game in Golden Gate Park on Saturday before we go home. We saw the Potomac, FDR’s presidential yacht on the wharf, and we walked around the block. Jack London Square doesn’t seem as promising as it did when I espied it from the dining car of the Coast Starlight a few years ago. 6:38 PM Back at the room. I sit on the balcony and listen to the lines bang against the masts of the boats berthed in the bay. Little moves besides the flow of the water and the flags flapping on yardarms on the dock. A pair of ducks land in the pool. No other living soul stirs until an old gent leans out of the starboard door of his yacht for a smoke. A couple passes by on the boardwalk below and then there is nobody but the gulls a flying v of cormorants. Baby and Grandma are asleep in the room. Rochelle has been feeling affectionate. I feel distant. I don’t know if it’s the writer in me, but she doesn’t deserve it. A hotel worker shoos the ducks from the pool. We may go up to the jazz joint Yoshi’s tonight. It’s right around the corner. I had read about it on the internet, and also the skipper of the Potomac recommended it to us.  Rochelle took my picture next to a statue of Jack London in the square. The inscription at its foot read that he would rather be ashes than dust, to flame out brightly than disintegrate in dry rot, to have the brilliance of comet than the permanence of a planet, to spend life living to live, not living simply to prolong it. Writers spew such nonsense.

 

4-10-01 Tu 7:12 PM

I’m at Yankee Doodle’s on Third Street Promenade in Santa Monica with Elmer Hernandez. I typed fifteen minutes this morning and read the newspaper. PG&E has filed for bankruptcy. The Chinese have still not released the spy pilots. I made reservations to stay at the Waterfront Plaza Hotel in Oakland and got three tickets to see the A’s game. I sent my taxes. I’m supposed to get two thousand eight hundred and seventy-five dollars in refunds. I did all that on the internet, eh. Then I ordered an old-school Kings shirt and an old-school Penguins shirt. I searched for Kenny Barf on Google and he came up as vice president of the Olympic Rugby Club, so I wrote him an email. Elmer called, and I read Lamour as I walked to his place. Lamour busted the axle on his car and is having to walk thirty-five miles through the Mojave. I cleaned a few sentences on Jim last night. We had some fattening appetizers; I feel bloated like a drowned corpse. We shot some pool. I won four games to two. We’re going to stop by Barnes and Noble. I’m going to look for Amis, Abbey, Adams, and The Power and the Money, and a book on pool. I’ve got to do a well-thought-out third-person page. I’ve got to get some exercise. Got to fix the tire on my bike. The Kings are on at four against the Redwings tomorrow. I’ve got to get a ring. I like to watch women shoot pool. The Lakers are playing some acrobatic basketball. What am I going to do about the fallen bookshelf? I never read the Bible or the Koran on Sunday. I’ve got to do a turbo read on Wandering Man so I can read John Barleycorn before we get up to Jack London Square.

The Rogue River maybe, from the window of a train, 1997.

 

4-6-01 F 11:44 AM

Tam’s Garden Chinese Food. My bike had another flat this morning. I had to take the car. I’m bummed about that. I read the newspaper. So, here we are. I ordered some sweet and sour chicken. I suspect it will be hours before I come up with enough to fill three pages, but you never know. I typed fifteen minutes this morning. I’m sitting in a vinyl booth. My wonton soups steams in the cool air flowing through the screen door.

I’m done eating. Now what? Twenty minutes left. My aide just walked in. Now I’m gong to have to tralk to her. She’s waiting in line to order her food. It’s overcast and cool today. I want to go to Alaska. Whatever. I’m waiting for my check. When I’m done with this, I can read some more Lardner. Maybe I should draw a picture. Jim is trying to make a phone call from Denny’s. “We can earn for everyone, even our adversaries,” reads my fortune cookie.

Back in class. The kids took their math tests. I started calling Louis, Louiser, and now I can’t stop. When second lunch ends,

we’re going to play some basketball, I think. The kids played MASH with me. I ended up marrying Jennifer Lopez and we had four children, and we lived in a mansion, and we had a limousine.

The bartender came up and shook my hand like I was a long lost regular.---

The artificial light in the bathroom made everything seem unreal.

Someone else’s handwriting: John said that Kendoll looked like Bo Derek + J-Lo.

4-7-01 Sa 4:50 PM

I’m at the ESPN Zone in Downtown Disney. I’m supposed to meet up with Stevo, Truman, and Louisa and some other old school chums. An, am I tired. Went to El Coyote and drank I don’t know how many margaritas. I didn’t remember coming home. Rochelle says Florelle brought me home.

 

4-4-01 W 5:15 PM

I’m at the Redwood House. My great uncle, Bill Eaton, used to run this place. Back then, its walls were adorned with boxing memorabilia—he was a big fight fan—and LA Times covers—the Times building being right across the street. He must have taken the boxing pictures when he lost the place. Back then, it was Eaton’s Redwood House. Everyone in here is drunk. I’m going up to see the Dodgers after this. Me dear ma drove up here to mind the baby. Frank sings “Devil Moon.” Not everything has changed about this place. Wood, brass, mirrors. Brass elephant heads hold the rail in their trunks. In the booth behind me, we used to drink Shirley Temples and Roy Rogers when my brother and sister and I were kids. The Braves and Mets are o the tube. I ordered a Monte Christo. The vibe thrums weird in here. I’ve walked into something. All the old drunks in here know each other already.  A big Armenian says to a black guy down the bar, “Kiss me, Bitch.”  “Shut up, Frankenstein,” says the black guy who sounds gay. The phone rings. “Phone call for Squeaky,” calls the bartender, and everybody laughs. The woman on the corner says, “Fuck off,” and walks to the Armenian and scratches his hand. He laughs and runs away. Meanwhile, the guy next to me is going on and on and ON about eating a raw potato to keep from getting drunk. He has a bowl of diced raw potato in front of him. He eats them and drinks shots. I don’t ask why he wants to drink and not get drunk. Squeaky returns, out of breath. I don’t see the Armenian. Maybe he’s lying in the alley with his eyes clawed out. An old multiple-chinned woman starts to complain about Dodger slugger Gary Sheffield. “He seems like such an asshole,” she says. I wouldn’t argue. I finish my sandwich. Squeaky asks if I’m “documenting all this.” “Only what I can see, hear, and smell,” I say.  She puts on her coat. “It’s like group therapy,” she says. “It ain’t nice, though.  The waiter brings the potato man a sandwich. “This is a fucking butter knife!” potato man screams. “Let me do it,” says the waiter. “No. Bring me another knife, you fucking Philippino.”  “He’s Vietnamese,” says the bartender.  A new guy walks in. “Is Sharky here?”  “Somewhere.” The Armenian walks back in. He, as it turns out, is Sharky. “Now we got trouble,” he says. I guy with a crutch gets up and leaves.

 

4-2-01 M 9:10 PM

The baby is asleep. The wife is at her math class. The Kings are beating Vancouver and could vault ahead of two teams into a tie for sixth place with San Jose, who are losing. Ugh. I still can’t the collapse of the bookshelf out of my mind. It was like God firing a warning shot across my bow. “Look how easily I can rain anguish down on your existence.” And yet, thank God that neither Rochelle nor the baby were hurt. My wife must think I’m criminally negligent to have screwed bookshelves into a wall above a couch where we sit all the time with our baby. Her little skull might have been crushed. That many books are heavy, and I only screwed them into the plaster. I sense my wife thinks any man worth his salt would never have been so stupid and incompetent. In my defense, the head of a screw was broken off, so it’s not like the anchors didn’t hold. It was a cheap screw, probably made in China with inferior steel. Worse scare I’ve ever had.~~~So, there are stacks of books all around. I had to clear a space on the table here to write. I’ll have to figure out what to do. I certainly can’t put the shelves back where they were.~~~The kids wrote in their journals. I worked through the paperwork on my desk. Called home at recess to check again that Rochelle and Ada were okay. They were. The kids did a lesson on adding money, and I typed a so-so page into Jim. Page 151. I’m two lines onto page 152. Went to La Boca for lunch with Florelle. Read the news after lunch. Rochelle and Ada came up to school. She was still feeling rattled. I was glad to see them. I had to meet with Victorio Gallardo at El Jarrito. Had some Birria. Stopped by Hoover. All’s well. Typed fifteen minutes when I got home. Read a Lardner story called “My Roomy.” A dark story. I realize now all his stories are kind of dark but this one especially. I’ll read the Louis L’Amour autobiography next. Field trip tomorrow. Vacation next week. Tax time is on my ass. I have to file for an extension. Thursday drinks? Friday drinks? Is there a class Saturday? Have to go to ap arty in Buena Park Saturday night. What’s up with Stevo? Have to go to my stepsister’s in Riverside Sunday. Lassen? Check the net.

 4-1-01 Su 9:53 AM DST

Spokane River, June '97

If still waters run deep, do turbulent rivers run shallow?

I go to make breakfast. I get out the eggs, salsa, tortillas, butter, etc. "You want me to make breakfast?" asks the wife.

 "OK," I say.

"Let me get out the stuff because you always take it out and leave it on the counter.

"I just take out whatever I might use, and I always put it away after I eat. What's the problem?"

"Could we just have one day where we don't bicker," she says.

This gets to me. I don't bicker. I'm not a bickerer. I know when I'm dealing with someone to stupid to argue with, and I stop talking. Her comment insults and surprises me. We don't bicker. We have our icy silences, but we mainly get along pretty good. Very occasionally, we have a spat, but here she is making like it's an everyday thing.

And this is the --what?--incredible thing about a woman: She's got me bickering that I don't bicker. I decide to stop talking entirely. I cook the breakfast. I burn the potatoes because I'm busy putting cheese and onions away and washing the knife as I go along. I couldn't get the block of cheese to fit in the Glad bag. Whatever. I set out two plates. She picks at hers. She leaves the table. I feed hers to the dog. 

I finished reading Cities of the Plain last night. I thought it was terrific. That finishes The Border trilogy. I'm such the lesser writer. Magdalena and John Grady and Eduardo were killed, but Billy lived to be an old man. 

“You cannot bear the world to be ordinary.”

“But what is your life? Can you see it? It vanishes at its own appearance. Moment by moment. Until vanishes to appear no more. When you look at the world, is there a point in time when the seen becomes the remembered? How are they separate?

 

“Each man is the bard of his own existence.”