Friday, December 26, 2014

Skid Row Diary 37

27   October   2003   Monday    day 107

   “They all three dies by their own hands. Ritual victims of their own institutions. Murdered by irony. An eye for an eye. Biblical retribution. Schaefer was first, because you see, he killed God. God was admitted to this hospital last Monday, under the name of Guernsey.” -Paddy Chayefsky, “Hospital”

   I woke up screaming. I caught my breath, listening to Mark and Brian talk about ear hair, and how much money dead celebrities make. I started screaming again.
   After regaining control of myself I rushed downstairs to sign in for today and Saturday and Sunday. I then returned to my room, turning the television on to “Despierta America,” Giselle Blondet was wearing a lovely short dress which was the only birthday present I would get this year.      
   It would have been nice to go to the beach in Santa Monica, to a movie, or out to dinner, but the MTA mechanics are still striking and I have no way of getting to these places, or have the money to pay for a movie or dinner, as I can’t get to Trimar. It would have been nice. It would be nice if thousands of other people could get to their jobs, medical appointments, and other vital places they need to go to, but can’t due to this strike.
   There is no indication of the strike ending anytime soon, and what sympathy I once had for the these laborers has waned. It’s difficult to feel sorry for people who complain about not being able to get by on $18.00 an hour, when 80% of the country’s working population make less than half of that.
   Being a youthful 48 years old today, I can celebrate having made it this far, which in retrospect seemed unlikely considering all of the crap I’ve dumped into my body throughout the years, and the chances I’ve taken. So many of us humans don’t make it to 48, and believe me, I am grateful. Not so long ago being 48 would have been considered being ancient, as the life span back then is nothing like it is now. I’m relatively healthy. I enjoy a good, throughly muscled, resilient Irish body. I’m very grateful for that. It’s so easy to get sick.
   And of course I’m grateful for still looking like I was 28... and extremely virile. That’s good.
   I looked up a web site the if given certain information, like one’s date of birth, sex, and country of birth, etc., it will calculate the exact date of your death. I did this and expect to pass away when I’m 74 years old, on Thursday, the 31st of January, 2030.
   Well that is good to know. 
   Now I can feel secure while jumping off of tall buildings, and standing in front of oncoming trains without fear of dying, as long as I do it before January 31st, 2030.
   Yet, they never said I wouldn’t be in a coma when I died, or brain dead. 
   I think I’ll stay away from trains.
   And I don’t care for heights anyway.
   Wally has abandoned me. He lives and flies in the west restroom now, and I visit him occasionally.
   At 10:17 I farted briefly. A direct result of the pot of beans I ate before going to bed the previous evening no doubt. I report this fact as it happens so infrequently that it should be documented whenever it does occur.
   After this tumultuous event, I left the relative safety of my room in search of my lovely and talented case worker. Passing Frank Valdez in the hall I learned that Labren had called in sick today, and would not be in, so her chances of wishing me a happy birthday seemed virtually non-existent.
   Back in my room I listened to Venus Hum, the whole CD as I exercised strenuously, so strenuously that while doing one finger push ups I began to experience chest pains and thought I was having a heart attack.
   I soon realized that I was not scheduled for any heart attacks for another 4 years, or more, and that today I was somewhat safe.
   It still hurt though.
   I read from the Zen training book, then meditated for 400 breaths. By now it was 11:30, lunch time. I left the building. The cafeteria was too crowded for my taste, so I took my used videos with me and walked to the library. It didn’t take long to exchange them. I walked through Pershing Square on the way back.
   In my room I looked up certain passages in Dr. Carl Sagan’s “Demon Haunted World,” concerning tobacco and prayer. I listened to Sophie B. Hawkins first album, “Tongue and Tales,” and was cleansed by her beautiful voice and her magical melodies.
   I read from Chapter 3 of James Joyce’s “Ulysses.” On the surface, although quite imaginative, it doesn’t appear to make a lot of sense.
   I treated myself to one of the new videos I had borrowed from the library. Arthur Hiller’s rendition of Paddy Chayefsky’s “The Hospital,.” starring Diana Rigg and George C. Scott. Another favorite film, one of three of Paddy’s I really admire, along with “Network,” and “Marty.”
   “He was relentlessly subjected  to the benefits of modern medicine... and died at seven thirty two that evening.”
   Chayefsky must have had a bad experience once.
   NURSE: “Did you know that Dr. Schaefer was in Room 806 because he's dead?”
   “I'm just telling you that Dr. Schaefer is dead.”
   “ What do you want, Perez? - I don't know what this is about...”
   “ But Dr. Schaefer is in Room 806 with an IV running, and he's dead... I didn't even know he was sick.” 
   The girl who played the nurse in the above scene, by the way, was a 27 year old uncredited Stockard Channing, before “The Fortune,” and “Love American Style, “Grease,” and “The Stockard Channing Show,” in her second professional acting job.
   And besides a British production of “A Midsummer Night's Dream,” “The Hospital,” is the only thing I’ve ever seen Diana in other than “The Avengers.” And she looked wonderful, with her hair long and down.
   I ate birthday peanuts and Kit Kat Bars. And as I’ve mentioned, I had no gnats to keep me company.
   I watched a Charlie Rose interview with the lovely and talented Angelina Jolie, who was promoting her new film, “Beyond Boarders.” Apparently she became interested in emergency aid work in third world countries  five years ago after reading the script for the film. She became, and is to this day, a Goodwill Ambassador for the United Nations. She seems like a genuine and wholly caring person, even adopting a child from Cambodia. 
   She came off as a woman desperately attempting to make up for an early, mis-spent part of her life, possibly attempting to avoid on-going personal difficulties by absorbing herself in the very real troubles of other human beings.
   We were made for each other.
   I once sponsored a small child from Thailand, but would have adopted her if I had the means and she wanted to be adopted. Thailand is close to Cambodia, isn’t it? I use human rights, space advocacy, civil rights for third world children, literature, and neurology to escape from my problems now that I’ve denied myself drugs and alcohol. She’s beautiful and sexy, with good hips and teeth. I look 28, am handsome and exceptionally virile, and can bend both of my thumbs backwards to a 90 degree angle. What better match is there?
   Angelina... please marry me! I’m positive we’d be good for each other, and together, quite possibly, save the entire world from itself. I promise to love, honor, and obey. And cherish. I’m well groomed. I brush my teeth once a day whether they need it or not, and floss weekly. And I’m pretty good in the old sack if I do say so myself.       This offer stays open until you have a chance to respond, which means pretty much forever.
   I like your dad’s movies. “Runaway Train,” is a classic.
   Please, I know you’re busy, but try to get back to me as soon as possible. And don’t tell anybody. Odalys, well, she gets a little jealous sometimes.
   And screw those bastards who lambast “Beyond Boarders,” because it links relief organizations with the C.I.A. They don’t seem to get it. It’s only a movie, for Christ’s sake! Demons aren’t really appearing in Georgetown due to “The Exorcist,” are they? 
   And screw the C.I.A. too!
   Anyway, I’m sure we’ll come to love each other. I’m a very loveable person actually.
   I went to the Drifter’s meeting after Charlie cut Angelina off, the bastard.
   Angelina, what a pretty name.
   I had brought my writing utensils with me, but did not write as I listened to Sylvia lead the meeting under the distant stars. I tried to pay attention, but my mind kept drifting to what I might say to Frankie next Monday morning. I even made some notes.
   Upon returning to my room I recorded Stanley Kubrick’s “Barry Lyndon,” which had been adapted from the William Makepeace Thackeray novel “The Luck of Barry Lyndon,” Staring Marisa Berenson. This is probably my least favorite of his films (what saves “Eyes Wide Shut,” from that fate is Nicole Kidman’s butt), but I love them all, and this picture is not without it’s delights.
   It was well past midnight before the movie was over. I had almost gone to sleep while watching it a few times, but the duel scene at the end woke me to such a degree that I could not get back to sleep when I tried.
   So I read about copy right law, which you would think would put me right out, but didn’t. When I tired of reading I put Billy Wilder’s “Some Like It Hot,” in the old VCR, and turned out the lights. I was asleep before Marilyn, Jack, and Tony got to Florida. 
   I had an amazing dream in which I was having tea with Parker Posey on the lawn of a great mansion in Ireland. We were playing cards and admiring the view of the countryside. Parker stopped and wanted me to play another game with her. She wanted me to find a ribbon she had hidden upon her person. I just began to search when Angelina Jolie swung by, hanging from a rope attached to a hot air balloon. She snatched me up and carried me away into the mountains of Ireland, where I was never heard from again.

28   October   Tuesday   Day 108

   I over slept until 8:00AM, showered, and went down to breakfast. French toast and ham chunks.
   On Mark and Brian the beautiful and talented Kelly Gates of News Central could still not believe she had been one number away from winning 40 something million dollars. I can’t believe I didn’t get one damn number! Thanks to the ongoing bus strike, my income is severely limited and I can’t afford to play the Lotto for the time being.
   Giselle was wearing another mini skirt today. Very, very nice.
   I applaud mini skirts in general.
   The southland continues to burn however, despite Giselle’s attempts to bolster our spirits. Over 1,500 homes destroyed, 600,000 acres gone, an area the size of Rhode Island. This is what we get I guess for saying we didn’t care about the hurricanes back east.
   Now 200,00 newly homeless will swell our ranks. Fortunately for the fires’s victims they probably have insurance, and the federal disaster loans to fall back on. We here on Skid Row get the bottom of the policeman’s boot.
   I read the paper. A tourist industry has evolved in a remote are of New Zealand, where “The Lord of the Rings,” was filmed in 1999, specifically the Hobbiton set. Tours are given through the abandoned sets. Souvenir are sought after.
   As I heated some water in the microwave in the day room I noticed President Bush on the television involved in a news conference. He was talking about his latest trip to Asia.
   He looked and sounded drunk and incoherent. 
   I wrote for awhile before lunch. Breaded fish. I sat with my new friend John, and my old dormmate, Steve. John would visit me in my room later and I would show off my gigantic book collection. He wondered why so many of the books had “L.A. Public Library” stamped on them. I told him I had no idea.
   Labren was back, and I did see her. I waited the obligatory 45 minutes in the lobby before she would see me. I’m so used to this now that I automatically bring my writing utensils. 
   We didn’t talk about anything really. 
   We both agreed that the bus strike was a bitch. I told her I had applied for SSI. That’s about it. I asked her if she had been sick, and she said no. No mention was made of the note she had left for me last Friday.
   Leaving the building I walked west on 5th St and was ambushed by Ron McCree as I passed the Service Spot office. He had me come with him to his apartment so he could drop off some stuff, and he showed me how great his T.V. was working.
   He walked with me to the library and post office. The sun shined a hazy orange through the smoke from the counties fires, enough to cut it’s brightness enough so that it’s new sunspots were visible.
   Ron was recovering from a bad cold and coughed frequently.
   He didn’t want to come with me to the protest at the headquarters of the Bechtel Corp. I decided not to go, and so walked with him to the Burger King restaurant on 9th and Broadway, where he made use of a magic coupon to aquire two tacos. The Burger King people wouldn’t give him any packets of hot sauce, which upset him. He got more upset after I asked for his permission to start dating his 20 year old daughter.
   We parted at 6th and Spring, agreeing to meet again on Saturday.
   I returned to my room and read the paper, wrote, exercised, and meditated. Dinner consisted of one Swedish meatball and noodles. I would augment this meal with a ham and cheese sandwich on rye, and Top Ramen, back in my room.
   Charlie Rose was preempted by a L.A. County School Board meeting, which I watched with avid interest. You’d be surprised how popular these things are. The issue of obesity was discussed. Students were complaining of the abundance of unhealthy foods and snacks at schools. A suggestion of fruit vending machines was given by one of the supervisors. I would have suggested the use of non-fat lard if I had been there. It seems to be the best answer to this difficult and thorny problem. 
   At 8:00 I watched and taped a three hour Nova special concerning the discovery of the four forces of nature (gravitation, electromagnetism, the weak interaction, and the strong interaction)  by Newton, Maxwell, and Bohr, Einstein’s attempts to unify them, and modern string theory, which can mange the task of unification with some interesting side effects, such as parallel universes, seven more dimensions, and particles that travel faster than light.
   Teensy weensy strings of energy that because of their different vibrations make up all of the components of atoms, and bits of matter that we see in the macro universe. The only problem with this theory, even it’s proponents concede, is that it is forever untestable, and therefore unverifiable, which like the concept of a benevolent, intelligent, creator of the cosmos, is transported to the realm of philosophy, since no practical application of the theory can ever be made because of it’s inability to be proven.
   But it’s all fascinating, it’s all interesting. The show itself was well produced and directed, and fun to watch. But because the show was labeled a science program, a large percentage of the possible viewing audience will not be interested, as it’s not as fun as horoscopes let’s say, or talking dead people, or watching aliens cavort about, events and practices that have no basis in reality, but are cherished by the majority of the world’s population.
   It was 10:00 when the program ended. The last part will air next week. Instead of watching one of the movies I had borrowed from the library, I read from “Demon Haunted World,” Stephen Hawking’s sparse “The Theory of Everything (that unification thing again),” and was just barely able to crack open Mark Twain’s “Life on the Mississippi,” before sleep overtook me.
   I dreamt I was sitting in the Quantum Cafe with Kelly Gates and Tish Ambrose, the lovely and talented star of “Black Lava,” “Streetstar,” “Corporate Assets,” and many other fine films. We were drinking blue orange juice and watching the fabric of space/time oscillate, when Angelina Jolie swept by riding an electron, snatched me up, taking off with me to the singularity in the middle of a black hole, where we were never seen or heard from again for the remainder of eternity.

29  October   Wednesday   Day 109

   I decided to sleep in this morning all the until 9:00, when I switched on my radio to Mark and Brian because I was worried about Mark’s house burning down.
   He was okay. He said it seemed like everybody’s house but his went up in flames.
   The boys even left the studio, traveled in the Mark and Brian Mobile to the Staples Center here downtown, and broadcast from there during their last hour, participating in a Red Cross fund raiser for the victims of the wild fires. I could easily have walked over there to visit with my heros, but they wouldn’t have talked to me because I didn’t have any money to give away... the bastards.
   I listened to them instead. It was much easier and less embarrassing.
   The computer in the day room is working a bit faster now, so I used it to check my E-mail, deleting everything except messages from Amnesty International. On their site I signed a letter to Russian President Putin. I was in a bit of a hurry, and didn’t actually read the letter, trusting Amnesty that it was a matter of high importance, that whatever it was they were concerned about was a suitably worthy cause. I hope I didn’t say anything to get him mad enough to start firing all of those Cold War nuclear weapons at us.
   They’re still pointed this way ya know.
   I updated some files, wrote, and read the paper until it was time to go to ASAP.
   I skipped lunch and walked directly to the VA clinic, arriving about 15 minutes early.
   I showed Kathy the “Licit and Illicit Drug” book (Licit and Illicit Drugs; The Consumers Union Report on Narcotics, Stimulants, Depressants, Inhalants, Hallucinogens, and Marijuana - Including Caffeine, by Edward M. Brecher), praising it as a comprehensive, objective authority on the history of psycho active drug use, and the laws concerning said use. She was suitably unimpressed. You can’t tell a psych nurse whose been in the business 30 years anything. 
   I provided a urine test before leaving.
   Listening to Hungarian Rhapsody No. 17.6 while exercising, and later meditation. 
   Then I watched Sydney Lumet and Paddy Chayefsky’s “Network,” starring Faye Dunaway and Peter Finch.
   This film is scary in it’s applicability and foresight. Current programs like “Cops,” “Survivor,” “Joe Millionaire,” Temptation Island,” “I want to ba a Millionaire,” “The CBS Evening News,” and “Fear Factor,” are all manifestations of Chayefsky’s vision. They make “The Howard Beale Show,” look like “Romper Room.”
   After dinner I watched one of the the classic Simpson’s Halloween shows. This one had Homer as King Kong in a take off of “Night of the Living Dead.”
   This year’s Halloween show will air November 2nd. 
   Yeah, I know. I can’t figure it out either.
   I watched the season premier of “That 70s Show,” which seemed a bit strained. I did like the musical number from “Grease.” Now I can’t get “You’re the One That I Want,” out of my befuddled head.
   After “That 70s Show,” I watched the premier of “A Minute with Stan Hooper,” which I watched only because Penelope Ann Miller was in it. Penelope started out as a promising feature film actress, working with the likes of Robert De Niro, Al Pacino, and Danny Devito. Then her career fizzled away. I don’t know why.
   I wish her well in whatever she does, and tonight’s show was really good. I hope it works out for her.
   I turned on the VCR machine and watched “Rushmore,” Wes Anderson’s brilliant comedy starring Olivia Williams.
   “I think I can honestly say I haven’t met anyone like you either.”
   I read an article on J.G. Boswel’s agricultural empire in the San Joaquin Valley, the world’s largest privately owned farm.
   I hadn’t known we grew cotton in this state.
   Then I went to sleep. After a while I dreamt the “Rushmore,” girls, Olivia, Connie Nielsen, and Sara Tanaka, and Penelope Ann Miller and I were working the cotton in the hot sun on J.G. Boswel’s big old farm. After a while we spontaneously broke out into song, specifically one from the  American folk and blues musician Lead Belly. 

“When I was just a little bitty baby
My mama would rock me in the cradle,
In them old cotton fields back home;

It was down in Louisiana,
Just about a mile from Texarkana,
In them old cotton fields back home.

Oh, when them cotton bolls get rotten
You can't pick very much cotton,
In them old cotton fields back home.

It was down in Louisiana,
Just about a mile from Texarkana,
In them old cotton fields back home.”

30   October   Thursday   Day 110

   I got up rather early today, 4:30 or so, still an hour after my alarm went off.
   I quickly showered and got my laundry into the washer just at 5:00, the earliest authorized time allowed.
   I was too tired to write, so I laid down and listened to Mark and Brian torture poor unsuspecting members of the general population by having their friends call them and tell them alarming lies. This is probably the single component of this show that makes me cringe every time they do it. They purposely agitate these people, and four fifths of the time the situation just turns awkward, and I react to awkward situations the same way I do when listening to fingernails scratching a blackboard. These bits are rarely humorous and I wish they didn’t do them. 
   What exactly am I talking about?
   An example would be like if I were to call my dear sweet mother (if she were still alive) and tell her I had started drinking again just to hear her reaction. After a few painful minutes I would tell her it was all just a joke, and that she had just helped me win tickets to a Sly and the Family Stone reunion concert. I would hang up, and my mother, quite rightly, would send me a letter bomb in the mail.
   There’s nothing funny about that. 
   It reminds me of something worthy of Howard Stern quite frankly.
   Calling a cell phone that’s been placed right next to a Labrador’s food bowl as it starts eating some Alpo... now that’s funny!                
   I retrieved my laundry before going down to breakfast. Approximately one third of a normal sausage and cheese omelet.
   Back upstairs I continued listening to Mark and Brian while reading Hawking’s book about Ed Hubble discovering the expansion of the universe, which implied that the universe had a beginning in the distant past. 
   Giselle was wearing pants which lent credence to the theory. 
   Mark and Brian reported that women who perform fellatio and consume the fluid reduce their risk of breast cancer by 49%. The study, conducted by the University of North Carolina, qualified that only those ladies who participate in the act on a regular and steady basis, two to three times a week, receive this health benefit. Mark and Brian seemed fairly jubilant by the study’s results. It all seems to me to be a bit self serving, however, I’ve always been staunchly supportive of any and all efforts to eliminate this serious and constant threat to the health and wellbeing to the women of the world, and will enthusiastically pass this information on to all of those females I may come into contact with whom may reap the rewards of this simple practice.
   Straight male breast cancer victims, I’m afraid, are out of luck.
   At 10:00 I joined some of my fellow veterans at Richard’s Super Search meeting. Today we discussed what we would do in certain situations on the job, such as reporting theft, and working with others, etc. I was even called upon once to offer my opinion. I was surprised that Richard knew my name, which isn’t particularly a good thing.
   These meetings are fairly informative and worthwhile if you can get past Cairns unspoken implication that the classe’s attendees are a gaggle of unmotivated layabouts who are destined for employment in minimum wage menial service positions. 
   Pepper steak and rice for lunch, then to ASAP. Kathy spoke of the planet alignment deal, clarifying that her sources claimed that three of the planets, an asteroid, and the Sun, would form a perfect six pointed star in November, and that during this event certain supplications were bound to be auspicious. 
   I told her that by throwing in the stars, comets, asteroids, sputnik, and such into the mix one could come up with any implied structure that one wished. One could find a combination of asteroids and stars that formed an outline of George W Bush being sodomised by the Easter Bunny on a pogo stick if one looked hard enough.  
   I found another check for $42 from Voc Rehab waiting patiently for me in my P.O. Box. I rejoiced and sang a happy tune. 
   After I exchanged videos at the library I cashed it, then returned to my room to meditate.
   There was no “Frontline” show tonight. None that I could find anyway. I felt socially relevant news with biting commentary challenged.
   Much, much later, after an evening of considering MU, I saw our national security advisor Dr. Condoleezza Rice being interviewed by Charlie Rose. “Where are the weapons of mass destruction?” Charlie asked.
   “Well, we all thought they were there,” she answered, speaking for you and me as well I assume. However, I wasn’t at all sure they were there. 
   We all thought they were there. That supposition is the basis for starting a war. 
   As I’ve said many times before, even if Iraq had weapons of mass destruction, so what? Iraq couldn’t have harmed us with them, or at least no more than any other nation that could sponsor an attack on our soil with a briefcase bio or nuclear weapon.
   By the time she was finished it was Halloween, accordingly I put the 1951 classic “The Thing from Another World,” into my VCR, and laid back on my bed for the ride. 
   The film starred James Arness as an extraterrestrial, radioactive, evil, mobile carrot. They choose him because he didn’t require much make up. Three years later he would battle giant ants with James Whitmore right here in L.A. in "Them (we have so many problems in Los Angeles... Martians, giant ants, those suckers from Independence Day... don’t move here)," and one year after that he would star in the longest running western in the history of television, “Gunsmoke.”   
   My grandfather liked “Gunsmoke,” but I don’t believe I’ve seen a single episode.
   Here’s another creature that supposedly couldn’t die, and was eventually killed quite easily. That pesky devil in John Carpenter’s excellent 1982 remake was much more difficult to get rid of, and much truer to the John W. Campbell Jr. novella the films are based on, “Who Goes There?”
   About this 1951 film though. How is it possible that the ice station guys managed to blow up the entire alien spacecraft with a simple termite bomb? You wouldn’t think spaceships would be made out of flammable material.
   I went to sleep after the movie. It was late. I dreamed I was stranded in an ice station near the North Pole with Jennifer Connelly, Jennifer Pankratz, the Playboy  cheerleading class president, Hiromi Oshima, the Japanese model, and the Teles twins, Sarah and Delsy, from Brazil. We were being attacked by the sexy beast, Winona Ryder, who eventually caught and absorbed me.

31  October   Friday   Day 111   Halloween

   “Up the airy mountain
    Down the rushy glenn,
    We daren’t go-a-hunting
    For fear o’little men”    -William Allingham 

   Samhain. The Celtic new year. Summer officially ended on this day in Ireland during the 5th century B.C. My life would start again today here in 2003.
   I got up at 8:30 and watched the Halloween shows on television while listening to Mark and Brian, and their “family” make scary, scary, noises. Giselle was dressed in her Halloween jeans, and was chased by a Halloween chicken at the show’s end, and a clearly panic stricken Kelly Ripa made several costume changes during her hour long show. Dorothy Lucy wore black, and Jillian Barberie wore jeans and a blouse on Good Day LA.
   After 10:00 I meditated, then showered. I dressed in my Lobsterman from Mars outfit before heading downstairs for a fried chicken lunch, then to ASAP.
       The floor in the office was being re-tiled, so we held the meeting upstairs in room 256B. Kathy was dressed as a  sorcerous. We talked about this and that. One thing or another. The black guy sitting next to me sincerely believed everyone gave a rats ass about his life and his view point on various subjects and wouldn’t shut up. Some people just love the sound of their own voice. I told him he should write it all down and make a book out of it. 
   He won’t though. That would require effort on his part.
   I took a DASH downtown and bought a paper from Rite-Aid, and the December issue of Playboy from one the green news stands at 6th and Broadway. I had heard there were some good articles in this issue about Shannon Doherty, ur, I mean, on who killed Jam Master Jay (I didn’t even know he was dead).
   Anyway, I returned to my room and watched “Dragonfly,” a ghost story starring Susanna Thompson and Kevin Costner. It wasn’t very scary, and I wasn’t very sympathetic to Costner’s character. The ending was pretty good and surprised me, which is unusual. 
   Myrka Dellanos and Jackie Guerrido took the day off so I can’t tell you what they were wearing. Myrka left her co-host to fend for herself.
   A rerun of “That 70s Show” aired that I had never seen before, a show entirely devoted to the films of Alfred Hitchcock. “Rear Window,” “Vertigo,” “The Birds,” were all parodied, and we got to see Tanya Roberts, my favorite Charlie’s Angel, strip. 
   I was shocked and appalled, and have it on tape. 
   I also taped UPN’s broadcast of “Blade,” the vampire hunter movie starring Traci Lords. I’ll tape just about anything with Traci Lords in it, besides, I was getting good reception.
   My coffee pot shorted out, which was just great! Now I have to sneak another one up here as we’re not allowed heating mechanisms in our rooms. Security is getting particularly good about searching the bags of those entering the building these days. Now I’m forced to use the microwave in the day room to heat water.
   Well, I can buy a new one on Sunday I guess.
   Lauren Sanchez took the night off as well. What’s up with all of this absenteeism? I need these people on a daily basis, damn it!
   Before midnight I lit candles and placed them about my room, turned off the lights, and prayed to Beelzebub, the Lord of the Flies. After a few minutes I heard rain falling against my window. While I was at it, I conjured up Elvira, the Mistress of the Dark, the Hostess with the Mostess, star of Movie Macabre. She brought a broomstick, and we went tooling up and down the west coast, from Seattle to Cabo San Lucas.  After a while we returned to my room and watched “The Thing with Two Heads,” starring Rosey Grier and Ray Milland.
   I made popcorn

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