4-26-01 Th 9:50 AM

Wilshire Hill. There is only today, tomorrow, and maybe Saturday for Jeopardy to call about the Clue Crew. I would have thought I would have heard from them by now. I don't know how I could have--whatever.  I'm surprised, and I'm not surprised. Maybe I'll hear from them still. But I'm beginning to doubt it. The more I think about it, the more the tape sucked. Still, I guessed I'd be invited for preliminaries. Maybe they've made a roster and are calling in alphabetical order. Whatever. I typed fifteen minutes before bed last night. I fell asleep reading Barleycorn. I'm enjoying London's accounts of his life on the bay. ~~~Woke up this morning. Showered. Dressed. Drank cold coffee. Crapped. Finished the Four Corners article in a 1996 National Geographic. Wife and baby were still asleep when I left. I drove because this sense of defeat has sapped my will. The kids would not concentrate. Not more than five seconds would go by without some disruption. Their personal narratives showed no effort. I made thenm stay in and put their heads down during recess. I have to mail a birthday card to my mother. I don't think it will get there by tomorrow, though. I have to read the paper. Type a 4 1/10th person. Read Mysteries of the Bible. Go to LA Elementary to do the lock. Go to Hoover to collect flawed dictionaries. Get home and wait for the Kings game. Mariachi's going to Berendo. I'm supposed to call Sheryl Powers. What else? The Bounty. We're supposed to take Karen Richards out for a drown-your-sorrows type thing after her miscarriage. I'm going to the UCLA Book Festival for a workshop on finding an agent. I should print some copies of what I've got. Maybe I should take home a ream of paper. Figure out how to bind what I've got. I have baseball practice on Sunday. Hungry. Had no breakfast. It's been warm lately. What else? I wonder when my first drink was? I remember sipping a can of John Wesley's Budweiser in the garage in Placentia. He let me. The taste was shockingly bad. I spit it out. I don't think I tasted alcohol again until I was seventeen. With MacNeill and John Darrens. We drove in my father's station wagon to a Chinese-owned liquor store in the City of Industry because everyone knew the old man that worked there would sell without ID.