July 24, 2024:

I was on the floor before our 13-inch Sears black and white television watching the Patriots and Dolphins. It was Monday Night Football from the Orange Bowl, and I was 23.

The game was tied 13–13 late in the fourth quarter.

Cosell, in his Cosell cadence: "We've just received news of a terrible tragedy. Former Beatle John Lennon has been shot to death outside his apartment in New York City."

That's not the official transcript, but it's what I remember.

July 23, 2024:

Kindness to the fat lady. Arms jiggling, sweat running over eyelids. The not-quite-so-fat gentleman a few rows ahead helps her understand where to transfer.

Kindness to the street lady. "Is this the Green Line? The Green Line, is this it?" "Yes, that's correct," I tell her, while noting how everyone else looks away. "Going downtown?" "Yes, going downtown."

Kindness to your ancient narrator. The heat is extreme, time to get his sixty-something ass into air conditioning.

July 22, 2024:

I left my reading staggering drunk, not so much from nerves as from lifestyle choice. I left everything in those days staggering drunk. There may have been weed as well. There certainly was blow.

The reading was unmemorable. Not from lifestyle choice, but from lack of interest. Venice Beach or Hollywood or Santa Monica, all hipsters feel the same to me, and they look it. Little beards, like Beatniks, with thousand dollar jeans. I threw up in some rich kid's convertible parked in back. Yah kid, that was me.

Hank Moody. Poor man's Bukowski. God hates us all.