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.

 4-25-01 W 9:12 AM

I’m at Wilshire Hill. The kids are working on a lesson called “Regrouping Twice.” I’ve been trying to get through to TicketMaster for Kings tickets but haven’t been able. I don’t know when I last wrote. I think I typed fifteen minutes on the laptop here at school yesterday morning. I guess I read the newspaper. I’vbe been working with the kids to get them ready for their Stanford 9 test which beings May 8^th. They’re doing well. I’m struck suddenly by how often it is frustration that inspires me to write. These journals, everything I write, give an account of me as a petty and constantly aggravated person. That may be the truth, but outwardly it is not so, and people who know me would not describe me as petty or aggravated; in fact, they would more likely remark on the opposite: patient and gregarious. In a lot of ways, the journals are the repository of all the things I’d rather not say out loud. Life’s full of contradictions and ironies, no doubt about it. Anyway. I ran around the basketball court with the kids yesterday, trying to sweat off some flab. We had an aggravating staff meeting for an hour and half after school. We have to sign up for mandatory trainings for the new math and reading programs. Apparently, after twelve years of school, four years of college, and two years of teacher credentialing classes, I still need training on my vacation to teach third grade. Whatever. I was supposed to go to a class and to CBET to install a lock on a filing cabinet at LA Elementary, but I went with Yovaughn and Florelle to Hot Wings on Melrose. Had a couple of beers, gossiped about school. Rode my bike home. Lied about where I’d been for some reason. Rochelle had been planning on spending the evening in Orange County, but she changed her mind and was here when I got home. I had been thinking I would read and write the whole night but ended up farting around on the internet, reading news from Detroit about Fick and the Redwings. Printed some stuff to send to Mac. Called Grandma. She has a cold, poor thing. Watched “A River Runs Through It.” It’s a good movie, if a bit maudlin. It reminds me of my brother and me. I’ve got to change that file cabinet lock today. I should ride my bike.

 4-22-01 Su 9:39 AM

I'm at NBC Studios in Burbank, waiting around with a bunch of other cattle to try out for a game show. I feel like kind of a jackass. The show is called "Weakest Link." I've never seen it. I'm told the host is acerbic. Senorita Villa mentioned Friday that I should go on it. Then, when we got to Carol Ann's last night, she handed me a circled paragraph in the newspaper on which she had written my name. It told of a contestant search for this same game show today. What have I got to lose other than pride? It's warm and sunny. I'm sitting on a curb in the parking lot under a big satellite dish. I feel sick. I don't know if it's from the cats at Carol Ann's last night or if I'm getting a cold. I also ate McDonald's for breakfast, and that's weighing on my gut. We went out to The Block in Orange last night to meet up with Rochelle's friends, Dave and Carrie. Dave's a computer technician and dirt bike rider. He's got one eye that doesn't work and looks disconcertingly in a different direction from his other. What's that, an astigmatism? We ate at Tu Tu Tango. I have to fart. There are about a thousand people here. Most of them are in line in front of me. When I'm done with this, I'll get started on the Sunday paper. I read some John Barleycorn last night. The tale seems a conceit to me, with little literary value. I'd like to play guitar today and order a TCU HOnred Frogs hat off the internet. I may go to Borders today with my 20%-off coupon and grab some Huxley, Wells, Dos Passos, and Miller. Maybe I'll stop by Zattan's place before I head home, as long as I'm up here in Burbank. He'll probably be watching basketball, if he's home. I want to go bowling. I'm having a slight alcohol craving. Hadn't been feeling that lately. It's not very strong, though. I was reading about the 3rd-to-6th-century BC nomad warriors, the Scythians, in a National Geographic this morning. The Kings are on at Staples tomorrow.

 4-20-01 F 8:50 AM

I'm at Wilshire Hill. I've brought my guitar. I'm practicing "Ode to Joy" on two strings. I read a Lamour short called -- I forget. It was the second story in Valley of the Sun, after "We Shaped the Land With Our Guns." It must have had some similarly garish title. I hate to be a snob, but I'm bummed that this guy's juvenile drivel is so wildly popular. What does it say about the reading population? I guess that they prefer simple things. I suppose life is complicated enough. I think this Valley of the Sun, which was published posthumously, is collection of early stories that were not publishable until Lamour had garnered fame and followers. As long as I'm lording it over, he strikes me in his memoir as a bumpkin hick trying desperately to affect erudition by carrying around in his pockets books he does not understand and traveling to places where he hides in libraries out of a sense of caution. I know I lack self-awareness, but it's not surprise that my juvenile drivel is unpopular. It's a case of acting equalling becoming.

We go to the library after recess. I've got some Ring Lardner to read and the newspaper. A third person page to write. Like to play a little chess. Brought some leftover pasta and an orange for lunch. Have to go to the Museum of Natural History n Exposition Park to check out the inset collection there. Rochelle and Ada are going to come. I've been playing Brahm's Lullaby and Handel and sol Debussy's Claire de Lune on a CD on the laptop, but now I've got Miles Davis. Yesterday we listened to Edvard Grieg's Peer Gynt Suite "In the Mountain of the Trolls" Or the "Hall of the Mountain King" or whatever. Rousing stuff. Tomorrow I have that insect class. The Kings are on at noon.      Ugh.  Happiness is a warm gun, bang bang shoot shoot. I wonder if Monday's game is sold out. Now what?

 4-18-01 W 4:09 PM

I saw this idyllic vision of a vineyard in the Diablo Mountains at sundown on a misty day.

Now, though, I’m at the Fox Sports Skybar at Staples Center downtown. The Kings take on the Redwings here tonight. I pretty much have to sit for the baby while Rochelle goes to her math class tonight, so I won’t be trying to buy a ticket off a scalper or even watch the game here at the bar. Right now, Wsh/Pit are on one tv and the Devils/Car on another and Toronto and Ottawa on a third. There are more Redwings fans than Kings fans in here. I’m about to announce that I can lick any man in the room. I ought to call that runt bitch Thing to come and babysit with me.~~~I typed fifteen minutes this morning. I rode my bike to school. Read the news. The Prince of Darkness blasted a game-winning HR into McCovey Cove for his 500^th against the Dodgers. The Giants faithful must have had one collective orgasm. I bet the stairs at Pac Bell were slippery. ~~I ate the rest of a ham and cheddar on thick slabs of toasted sourdough with mayo and onions for lunch. Rochelle and the baby came. Rochelle informed me that she is going to seek counseling for her depression when I read aloud in the paper that a study shows that St. John’s Wort does nothing. Depression is contagious. I’m depressed from being dismayed that she’s depressed. Is it me? Or is that women are never satisfied? I take care of all our financial concerns, and I take her to dinner and on vacations and try be there as a person and friend. You can’t tell from reading these journals, but that is how most of my free time is spent. ~~Maybe she’s just grappling with motherhood. She’s definitely had to make a bigger adjustment than the big adjustment I’ve had to make.

 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.