8 August 2003 Friday Day 27
Seven of Nine was feeling guilty about the thousands of beings she had destroyed while being an active Borg.
That certainly must be a tough thing to live with. I don’t know if I could.
I’d probably start drinking, or something.
I listened to a Schubert piano concerto while meditating and exploring the universe with the core of my being.
Not this universe, but the one two doors down.
I learned that the ever lovely Kelly Gates, Mark and Brian’s somewhat new anchor/news person, is 36 years old. A mere child, but still a twidge too old for me.
But in her case I might make an exception.
Giselle Blondet had the impertinence to not show up for work again today. And at breakfast I learned that 20% of black people thought Kobe Bryant was guilty of rape, compared to 41% of white people.
I asked John Manzano “Where’s the Hispanic vote?” He told me that Latin Americans were 100% indifferent to the entire matter.
I left for Trimar at 8:00 and arrived near 10:00. The film “Dare Devil,” starring Jennifer Garner was playing (just what the world needed... a disabled super hero), to be followed by “Spiderman,” starring Kirsten Dunst. Director Sam Raimi has come a long way since “Evil Dead.”
My lovely Rumanian friend Aurica had the impertinence not to show up for work today as well. Linda was forced to interact with me when the flow of blood into the automatic centrifuge slowed.
This is the second week in a row I’ve experienced some difficulty of this nature. When this happens the nurses adjust the needle in my arm, moving it around, back and forth, up and down, sideways and through different dimensions. It’s all quite awkward.
Paranoid thoughts of collapsing veins coursed through my mind. Perhaps my veins don’t like, and haven’t liked being sliced open twice a week for years on end. I certainly wouldn’t if I were a vein. I’d be rightly put off!
Afterwards I picked up a whole bunch of crap I didn’t need while at the 99 cent store in Van Nuys. Instead of hopping directly on to the Red Line when I got to North Hollywood, I walked up Lankershim Boulevard., to the 5 points intersection where Lankershim Boulevard, Vineland Avenue and Camarillo Street meet, to the Odyssey Video Store, where I looked over their wares.
Back at the Weingart a barbeque lunch was underway for the veterans of the 5th floor. I’m not all that much of a chicken and rib man, and cooked some smoked sausages instead. I kicked John Manzano out of my room at 4:00, and since there was nothing at all on television this evening, I spent the night in deep meditation, and reading Arthur C Clark’s “2001, a Space Odyssey.”
When I slept I dreamt I was on the interplanetary spaceship “Discovery,” with my favorite singer and song writer for the last ten years or so, Sophie B Hawkins. Together we sang “Did We Not Choose Each Other,” as we drifted through the gulf toward Jupiter and beyond.
Listen baby, listen baby don't you do me wrong
I can make my bed, you can sing your song
Ain't nobody else gonna make you shine
If it's the truth you seek then darlin' love you'll find
I don't wanna, I don't wanna take your pain away
Isn't yours to give, isn't mine to save
Here's my heart, here's my hand, here's my soul
Take it in, take it apart, take it easy, let it go
9 August Saturday Day 28
John Manzano knocked on my door three times this morning, but when I got up to answer there was no one there. Three times.
I went back to sleep waking just in time to miss the sign in deadline.
I showered, dressed, and went looking for Manzano. He wanted to go to the movies today.
He was no where to be found. I didn’t really care. There was no new films I was interested in seeing. “S.W.A.T.,” starring LL Cool J’s abs (what’s up with all of these names? Why would a mother and father call their son LL?) was released yesterday, but I’m heterosexual, so I don’t believe I’d be very interested in seeing it.
John Manzano wants to see it.
I returned to my room and began reading “2001.” Just as I got comfortable and in to the book Manzano knocked on my door again. This time I caught him and chastised him harshly for his earlier hit and runs, then we left for the movies.
At 10:00 it was very hot and bright outside. John and I both began to sweat as we walked to 7th and Broadway, to the MoneyGram Store where John would pick up some cash that had been wired to him.
On the way we passed a large film unit that had commandeered Spring St between 7th and 6th. They’re always filming movies or TV shows downtown.
John’s money hadn’t arrived.
“That’s Okay,” he said. “You go ahead without me.”
“There’s nothing I want to see,” I told him. “You’re the one who wanted to go.”
“So, what are you going to do then?”
“Go back,” I said. “I’ve got work to do anyway.”
“What kind of work?”
“Work work. What difference does it make? I’ve got stuff to do.”
“No, I’m serious,” John insisted, “what kind of work. Can’t we watch one of your movies?”
“I’m a writer, John. That’s what work I’ve got to do. How am I gonna get anything written if I don’t write?”
“What are you going to write about?”
“I’m going to write about you asking me about what I’m going to write about.”
“Come on... really. I’m serious...”
On and on.
We watched “Best in Show,” starring Parker Posey, Jennifer Coolidge, and Jane Lynch. Writer, director, Christopher Guest does his best to keep actors out of work by hiring the same actors for all of his films, which tends to create a certain continuity between them.
The movie was good.
After lunch I was very tired and laid down from 1:00 until 3:30, dreaming I was being held hostage by Laura Prepon of “That 70s Show,” and “Slackers, and Taija Rae of “Hostage Girls,” and “Winner Takes All.” They had me tied to a bed, gaged, and totally at their mercy.
Unfortunately I woke up when John Manzano knocked on my door again. I got up and answered... no one there.
Ghosts maybe?
I made myself a cup of coffee and began reading again. Manzano came back and wanted to watch another movie. I put in “Lobster Man from Mars,”and wrote while John watched.
“Rick... what are you writing about?”
“Shut the fuck up, John.”
“Do you want me to help you?”
“Yeah. Shut the fuck up.”
This is the kind of support I’ve received from my friends all of my life. No one takes me seriously, myself most of all.
Lobster Man cut into half of the 6:00 “X-Files,” which turned out to be the classic Alex Trebek episode.
I threw John out at 7, taking about as much as I could stand.
“Oh, you don’t want me to watch TV in here anymore, is that right,” he asked.
“What makes you say that?”
“You just told me you were going to a meeting, and that I had to leave.”
“Oh, that’s right... you still here? Hey, they have a whole other TV in the Day Room dedicated to slobs just like you who are too cheap to buy their own TVs.”
“I don’t like that one,” he pointed out.
“Oh, that is just too bad... bye. See ya later. Fair thee well.”
Alone at last, I read, meditated, and was going to watch a 2000 T.V. movie, “Hunter, Return to Justice,” starring Stephanie Kramer, but the television guide lied to me, and a reality game show, “Dog Eat Dog,” was on instead. The contestants were required to perform difficult stunts to win a paltry amount of money. Nothing new there. If I didn’t know better I would say the whole show was a flimsy excuse to watch pretty girls strip on stage into two piece bathing suits (with plenty of close ups) and then get drenched.
It’s a good thing I know better.
I kind of liked it. I think I fell in love a little bit with the runner up... Natasha. I don’t know why. I hardly know her.
At 10:00 another “Dog Eat Dog” program magically came on, this time disposing with the three male contestants altogether, so six lovely ladies were featured getting undressed. They didn’t seem to mind at all.
I fell asleep while watching “Saturday Night Live,” where Ben Affleck was pining over Anna Nicole Smith, and dreamt I was swimming in a big pool with “Dog Eat Dog’s” host Brooke Burns and Jennifer Love Hewitt. They splashed and sprayed me with water as I tried to cross a balance beam. Jennifer threw a beach ball which hit me right between the eyes and I fell into the pool. We all got into a splash fight until I started to sink. For some reason they were able to float on the surface easily. My last thought before losing consciousness due to lack of oxygen was “Why aren’t they sinking too?! They’re not even paddling It’s like they have built in floatation devices of some kind. It’s not fair, it’s not fair, it’s not...”
10 August Sunday Day 29
I made sure I got up in time to sign in, then bought a Sunday Times from Jack’s Market. Jack wasn’t there.
He never is.
The lady midget who inhabits the southeast corner of 5th and San Pedro, who was at one time a roller derby star according to McCree, asked me for a quarter. I didn’t give her one. I never do.
As I entered the Weingart’s lobby a young black man asked me where I had gotten the paper. I told him, then he asked me if I would go get him one. He explained to me that he was on restriction and could not go himself. I explained to him, kindly, that even if we were best friends, even if we were relatives and best friends instead of total strangers, I wouldn’t walk all of the way back to Jack’s just to get him a paper.
He understood.
I wrote and read the paper in my room. I felt vaguely ill and melancholy. I read some interesting pieces in the Book Review section concerning James Thurber. I also read about China’s tenuous relationship with the United States, Muslim terrorists, and Christian intolerance.
158 citizens have registered for the gubernatorial recall election in October, some just to get their names and picture in the paper, to either promote themselves or the products they were peddling. Unless I’m given reason not to I’m voting for Mary “Mary Carey” Cook, an adult film actress. Although I’ve never seen her work I did see her picture in the paper, and her smile slayed me (it doesn’t take much to slay me. I’m easily slayable). She looks wise beyond her 23 years, and gifted, blessed, intelligent, economically sound, and determined to make a lasting change for the better in the world’s sixth largest economy.
I’m almost positive she could do as good of a job as anyone else, probably better.
After lunch I put the video “Blaze,” on, starring Lolita Davidovich, and got about half way through before John Manzano came knocking.
“Whatcha watching?” he asked me.
“Blaze,” I replied.
“Oh, that’s a good movie. Who’s that girl?”
“Lolita Davidovich.”
“Who?”
“Lolita Davidovich.”
“What?”
“LOLITA DAVIDOVICH!”
“Oh.”
I was not enthusiastic about sharing another day with John in my room. But he went away after the movie ended.
“I didn’t like that Pollock movie,” he let me know before leaving. “Too boring.”
“I’m sincerely sorry to hear that, John. Ed Harris will be crushed when he finds out.”
“Do you like Ed Harris?”
“I’ve never met him. But I think he’s a very good actor.”
“He sucks,” he said, just because I said that I liked him.
Don’t take offense Mr. Harris.
The film “Blaze,” had a special meaning for me. My first night ever in a Salvation Army ARC (Adult Rehabilitation Center), back in 1990, in Canoga Park, was spent at the movies and “Blaze,” was the film we saw. The ARC had received free tickets and I got to go. I thought, “Wow! This is a great place. We go to the movies. I’m going to like it here.”
That was the first and last time I ever got a free movie out of the Sally. I guess we never got anymore tickets.
I looked through my brand new shiny T.V. Guide (that came with the paper) and saw with great excitement that one of my favorite movies, “Being There,” the 1979 comedy starring Peter Sellers in his last role before his untimely death, would be on. The film was based on the book of the same name written by Jerzy Kosiński.
I was shocked and dismayed when all ready to record the film I discovered “She Devil,” starring Meryl Streep and Roseanne Barr was on instead.
The T.V. Guide people had made a fool of me yet again, and dashed my hopes of recording Peter upon the jagged rocks of ineptness.
I began to plot my heartfelt revenge.
There was only one customer service job in the paper worth sending my resume to. One!
Thanks President Bush! Thanks Mr. Greenspan! Thanks anyone but myself for this sorry state of affairs. Mary Carey will rescue us all by God!
I was hungry by the time dinner time came. Only about one forth of a turkey sandwich was served though (the cooks don’t like to work very hard on Sundays. I don’t know why). I was forced to eat some of my own food later.
John came by after dinner. We watched “Futurama,” together.
“This is so stupid,” John would say.
Actually, it’s brilliantly written and quite funny, but not doing well ratings wise I’m told. There was a notation in the T.V. Guide that tonight’s show was the series finale.
I was sorry to learn that the film critic Roger Ebert was ill. Cancer, I believe. He mentioned it briefly on his show. He said it was treatable and he plans to keep working.
What a great job he has.
I miss Giselle.
Tonight’s presentation of “Bonzai,” on Fox caught the beautiful and talented Jennifer Love Hewitt, who had just visited me in dreamland, in the Japanese Reporter Who Won’t Stop Shaking Your Hand Routine, Routine #87. Jennifer, I’m proud as punch to report, was so polite and unassuming, so nice, that she set a show record and lasted 97.5 seconds. The only reason she stopped shaking the reporters hand was because he ran out of questions to ask her!
Thank God for you Jennifer Love! Well done.
I made some microwave popcorn and began to record the 8:00 broadcast of “Diamonds are Forever,” the seventh James Bond film. I only wanted to record it because I’m a really a big fan of Jill St John and Lana Wood, Natalie’s sister. Lana gave an amazing performance that fit right in with the movies overall unbelievablity and suspension of reality.
Where would you lock up James Bond after several sincere attempts to assassinate him have failed? Number one, why lock him up? Shoot the annoying bastard several times in rapid succession and be done with it. (Scott Evil, Dr. Evil’s son in the Austin Powers films was so right!).
Where do you lock him up? Why stick him in a room with a convenient escape hatch in the middle of the floor, that’s where! If only the local police were as accommodating.
And I don’t think I’ll ever forgive James Bond (or Sean Connery for that matter) for slapping Jill St John. I’ve seen him do that in two movies now. Of course, Bond is so manly that the women still wish to risk their lives rescuing the son of a bitch.
I am ashamed to admit that I have done that myself to my sister and my first wife, Michelle, along time ago. I am so glad that in that respect I was able to change, and violence toward anybody, but especially women is abhorrent to me now. I think the fact that my second wife, Debra, and Michelle’s aunt, tended to hit back and throw heavy objects in my direction helped me mend my ways.
I am so sorry Cheryl and Michelle. Please don’t ever forgive me.
I got horrible reception from channel 13 tonight, the channel which was broadcasting “Diamonds are Forever,” so I gave up recording it. After I stopped the reception cleared right up.
I ate a Bologna and cheese sandwich at 10:00, then got so tired I decided to forego the 11:00 “X-Files,” and laid down on my rack and fell asleep.
I dreamt I was playing roulette with Jill St John and Lana Woods, but instead of the little ball that is normally used to determine the winning number, a round diamond was spun instead. I bet 3 modified brilliants and 6 American Standards on 7 red. Lana was behind me cheering me on, Jill spun the wheel.
The round diamond landed on 00 green. I lost. Jill and Lana took me upstairs and threw me out of the hotel room’s window.
Fortunately there was a pool directly below me.
I missed it by this / / much.
“I didn’t know there was a pool down there,” Jill said.
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