THE FIFTH YEAR
more tales from the year of the snake

quietude, sort of
847-850
851-855
856-858

"Oh, you've been fine," Aurora said. "You've indulged me quite a lot. In your own way, you're exemplary."
Larry McMurtry: The Evening Star

crazy eleven
859-862

turkeys and reindeer
863-865
866-868
869-871
872-876

There was about him the air of a man who knew no home now but a razor's edge.
Clive Barker: The Great and Secret Show

out with the old, in with the new
877-880
881-886
887-891
892-895

847

I've fallen into a truly colossal BAD MOOD. Fortunately, this is not an experience which comes along very often. In the past, I'd just shut myself inside my room or apartment, unplug the telephone and refuse to see anyone until it passed. I don't have that luxury this time.

Monday was the fourth anniversary of this Homeless in Honolulu trip. The Sleeptalker appeared on campus unusually early. Since I had an appointment with the psychologist at one o'clock, the Sleeptalker and I shared a late-morning bottle of Colt in the secluded grove and then I left, agreeing I'd meet him around three o'clock. He was being amusing and affectionate, fine antidotes to my own slide into grumpiness which had then only just begun. The chat with the doc was of no great significance but pleasant, as always, and I picked up two more bottles of Colt on my way back to campus. The Sleeptalker soon appeared, said he'd seen the Cherub who a little later joined us. They wanted to do the grill-steaks-in-the-park routine. I agreed but said I'd prefer to do it in Waikiki. Parking problem there, though, since the Cherub had his car, so we went to Ala Moana as usual. Paulo was busy so the Cherub and the Sleeptalker used Paulo's portable grill and with considerable elaboration managed to get a fire going. The Cherub had found a place which sells very cheap beer and had quite a few cans in his backpack, so long before the steaks were cooked the Sleeptalker was well on his way to drunkeness. Then, inevitably these days, he revs up the horrible phoney-jive talker, the worst of his many alter-egos. Even when in the happiest of moods, I can't take much of that guy. I got up to leave a couple of times, allowed them to persuade me to stay but finally fled. As an Anniversary Party, it had been a good day and the earlier time alone with the Sleeptalker was especially sweet. I just have to renew my resolve to gracefully disappear when the Muthahfuckah Guy appears.

Aside from that time with the Sleeptalker and the Cherub, though, I'm trying to hide out for the most part. I don't feel much like writing but I did begin work on some new cards on Tuesday despite the grumpy mood and Joe Quirk's surreally capricious first novel, The Ultimate Rush, has provided a few moments of amusement.

Otherwise ... nothing to do but wait for the mood to shift.

848

"You got any money?" asked Angelo. I suppose I should appreciate his exceptional candor. No messing around with social fluff like "how are you", "what you been up to", etc., just immediately to the nitty-gritty even if we hadn't seen each other in quite some time. I gave a vague reply, though, and turned my attention to Tanioka who was using the more usual social gestures, including a handshake.

I'd had a couple of chores to do on Thursday which required bus rides and by the time I was finished, decided I'd just get myself a beer and sit at the far end of the park where I don't know so many people, forget about going to campus. As I'd done on Wednesday, I mixed reading and drinking with short naps. The flu, which I thought had about run its wretched course, returned with a vengeance and Wednesday afternoon was a blur of fever, sweats and chills, aching joints and muscles. No one will have to remind me never to have a "flu shot" again. It was again a little better on Thursday but I still felt more like sprawling on my beach towel in the park than doing anything else. As it neared time for sunset, I decided I'd have one more beer (Wednesday had been so awful I didn't even want the usual sunset one) and walked to the nearby 7-Eleven. I heard people calling me, looked over and saw Angelo, Tanioka and RedEye at a table, obvious brown bags with 40oz bottles making it clear what was actually in the paper cups they were drinking from. Sometimes I wonder if these guys actually get a kick out of thumbing their noses at the forces of law and order (and often I don't blame them at all for it).

I waved a signal that I was going across the street to the store and would return, which I did, to be greeted with that all-that-matters question from Angelo. Silly boy. His charm skill is out of practice. He tried several more times, though. The second time he asked, I again made a vague reply and asked Tanioka, "What about you? You got money?" "I always have money," he said, and laughed. True, very true, and I suspect he'd paid for all the beer and fish on the table. Heaven knows RedEye hadn't paid for any of it. I have yet to see that man spend one penny.

They had obviously been puffing on the glass pipe and the main discussion (aside from how much money I had in my pocket) was about getting more. I guess they thought I'd be eager enough to join them that I'd put up some of the needed cash. No joy. Sorry to disappoint you, boys, but the old Panther just doesn't care that much whether he has the batu or not. They decided to look for The Man, to borrow his pipe (I assume Tanioka had a little plastic bag already), so I walked down to that end of the park with them. The Man wasn't there, though, so they were going to use an improvised tinfoil pipe and went to the shower house. Three guys going into the handicapped booth at once was a bit flambouyant and I declined the invitation to join in, went for a walk along the beach and took an early bus to IHS.

I saw Mondo there, lining up with the downstairs crowd to get a mat. Curious that he doesn't sleep upstairs, but I guess he just doesn't want to bother with registering and getting the ID card updated each month. So there had been the Cherub and the Sleeptalker on Monday, Angelo and Tanioka and Mondo on Thursday ... only Rocky was missing from the time-honoured all-star cast. Actually, I'd seen the Cherub briefly on Wednesday, too, when he woke me from a nap in the secluded grove. He was on his way to class, so only stopped to tell me he'd taken the Sleeptalker home with him on Monday, said the Sleeptalker was very drunk and was yelling about what a mess the place was in, then fell asleep on a plastic bag on the floor which made so much noise when he shifted position that it kept waking up the Cherub. The odd couple, indeed.

And along came the Sleeptalker on Friday morning as I was finishing my refill cup of senior coffee at the mall. He was in a post-batu hangover, so easy to diagnose with him, and said little, didn't answer at all when I asked if he was going to campus. When he's in that deep a funk, nothing to be done about it, so I said I was going to brush my teeth, stroked his brushy hair and went on my way.

Aside from the always fascinating, if sometimes irksome, times with the Bad Boys, the main treasure of this week has been Servant of the Bones by Ann Rice, a "standalone" work outside of her two major series, and an excellent example of how delightful her imagination is and how well she can translate that into such engrossing novels. I enjoyed it so much I am tempted to part with the money to get her newly published Merrick. Apparently she merges the Mayfair witches and the vampires in this one, a monumental task, although one I've long expected her to tackle.

And, of course, now and then some more time with Love and Theft. "Sugar Baby" is without question one of the most depressing songs I've ever heard in my long life.

849

Then she says, "you don't read women authors, do you?"
Least that's what I think I hear her say,
"Well", I say, "how would you know and what would it matter anyway?"
"Well", she says, "you just don't seem like you do!"
I said, "you're way wrong."
She says, "which ones have you read then?" I say, "I read Erica Jong!"


Maybe that's what Dylan thought he heard her say in the first line, but it surely isn't what I thought I heard him say in the original version of Highlands. And it was one of the lines which were subject to considerable debate on the Usenet group devoted to Dylan. Now, of course, we have the handsome website provided by Columbia Records with lyrics to all of his songs. I assume those versions are the way he actually wrote it. They certainly aren't always the way he recorded them, even the first time. And maybe he wants to preserve the fun of devotees trying to figure out just what he is saying ... the lyrics to songs from the newest album are missing, so far, although the titles are listed.

But in any case, his answer to the Highlands waitress came immediately to mind on Friday when I spotted Erica Jong's Fanny in the freebie collection at the State Library and promptly grabbed it. So far as I can remember, I've not read her before although it's possible I read Fear of Flying years ago and remember nothing of it. I only vaguely remember the original Fanny Hill but have little doubt Ms. Jong's bawdy romp is the better read of the two and was thoroughly enjoyable.

I walked over to the State Library after my monthly half-hour with the chemist. I mean, psychiatrist. He unintentionally (I presume, although perhaps incorrectly) lifted my mood considerably. One of those bus trips I'd made the day before was to pick up an application for a disability bus pass since my current one ends at midnight on Halloween. He made the necessary marks to authorize the new one and when I looked at it once downstairs, I was surprised to see he did it for a YEAR this time.

That little ray of sunlight was more than overwhelmed, though, when I spent some time in the evening listening to the radio. It's difficult not to get angry at some of the ludicrous propaganda which that soundbox can spew forth these days, even from the usually more "detached" National Public Radio. And the noble BBC World Service, too, is resorting to propaganda-style window-dressing although, happily, the actual content of its programming seems to be balanced and informative. And scary as hell. The mind, though, loves hiding behind diversions (and who can blame it?). An image which occurred to me was that of an little Afghani kid running into the family hut shouting, "Mommy, Mommy, a big box of food fell from the sky and squashed Grandma!" More seriously, I wondered just what "food" we did drop on the Afghanis ... after we'd dropped bombs. Canned goods from surplus USDA stocks, the kind churches give us poor folks? Poor buggers might not even have a can-opener, so I hope the packers remembered to include one. It seems unlikely much of the food will be eaten, except perhaps by animals. Surely most people would suspect those gifts from the Great Satan are poisoned?

And I wondered what the propaganda leaflets we supposedly also bombed them with said, would like to see one (honestly) translated back into English. Such things will no doubt appear on the Web eventually if they haven't already.

It was a surprise we admitted that one bomb went astray (not that one did, that was no surprise at all). I suppose since the thing fell in a residential area of Kabul it was likely to be noticed. Sigh. Father Greeley says most of what I feel like saying in his columns for Chicago's Daily Southtown, so read those and I'll shut up about it.

I told the doc that Remeron was working fine as a sleeping pill but I didn't think much of its anti-depressant qualities. Funny that the only benefit I get from one of these chemist's concoctions is from its side-effects. I also mentioned that dream life is far more enjoyable than real life these days (and nights) and such is certainly the case. All star dreams, indeed, although I have forgotten who the (famous) young woman was on Friday night, the one I was trying to tell why Katherine Hepburn is so wonderful (a difficult task when faced with someone who doesn't even know the name). Serves her right that I've forgotten hers, she wasn't that young.

Saturday came and went without anything exceptional happening, but on Sunday the Cherub found me and we spent the late afternoon and evening together, drinking and talking in the secluded grove. The conversation was so engrossing it was after nine o'clock when I finally checked the time and he kindly drove me to IHS. It was too late to get a mat so for the first time in weeks I had to make do with my beach towel on the floor. It was also the first time in awhile that I followed the order to refrain from taking the little Remeron pill when "drunk". I was close enough. Much of the conversation had been about philosophers, starting with Aristotle, and as usual I was appalled by my ludicrously ineffective memory. I think I've had Altzheimer's all my life.

850

When I looked in on the game Monday morning, the Sleeptalker was playing and later he joined me in the secluded grove. I bought beer and sandwiches for our lunch and we spent the rest of the day together. He is sleeping at the beach park because he got mad at someone who works at IHS (no details given), so I left him and got the bus to IHS. The Sleeptalker and the other boys all complain because people at IHS like to play stupid "mind games" now and then, and I understand more now what they mean and how legitimate their complaints are.

The night before, I had arrived there shortly after eight o'clock. The door to the upstairs area was still locked although it's usually open by eight at the latest. An Alcoholics Anonymous type meeting was going on in one section of the downstairs area, so I stood and listened to what the people were saying. I didn't feel participating in such a session would do me the least bit of good, but to each their own. Then the gruff woman who fortunately isn't often involved with the upstairs finally unlocked the door, said only "volunteers" could go up (volunteers being people who perform various services, like dishing out food, etc.) and the rest of us would have to go outside and join the (long) line already formed there. Some reward for attending the meeting! The few of us who had been listening to the meeting ignored her order and stood at the front of line, just outside the door, and since no one complained she, amazingly, let us go in.

On Monday, I was a bit later arriving. All the mats were gone, but the young man in the "guard office" gave me one of the roll-up foam mats they sometimes have as back-up. (Why they can't work out the number of mats that are really needed upstairs, I don't know.) I settled into a spot, fell asleep, woke a bit later to him nudging my leg. He said I had to have a shower and change clothes! Now if I really had been stinking dirty, why hadn't he said something when I went into the office to get the mat from him, I wondered. I said I'd already had one shower that day, had no intention of taking another and that my clothes were certainly not dirty by the usual standards of IHS regulars. "Well, you have to wash your feet," he said. Just plain harrassment, no other thing to call it. Shrug ... I washed my feet and went back to sleep.

As I was walking away from McD's with my refill cup of coffee on Tuesday morning, I heard the Sleeptalker call me. He was up unusually early for him and I walked over to his bench, shared the coffee. Then he spotted Chinatown B (yes, he's back on the scene, although an appearance at the mall is atypical). The Sleeptalker hurried after him, but soon returned grumbling. I guess CB had no glass pipe filling to share. Then the Sleeptalker went off to the toilet, but returned before I'd finished my coffee, asked if I'd seen CB pass again. No, I hadn't and the Sleeptalker left to look for him. I was reminded of the line in the I Ching: "Take not a maiden who, when she sees a man of bronze, loses possession of herself." Not that poor Chinatown B can remotely be described as a "man of bronze", but uh-huh, same idea. The Sleeptalker sees Chinatown B as my rival and, of course, I did too at one time, and I suspect CB still sees me as one. I don't anymore, it's irrelevant. I'd had my fill of the Sleeptalker's company on Monday, truth be told, and would have been just as happy to enjoy my coffee on my own, didn't mind in the least when he left.

I did tell him I wouldn't be on campus until later because I had to go the pharmacy (for a Remeron re-fill), and I left to go there, then went to the discount clothing store. What the heck, show that idiot at IHS by arriving in all new clothes. I got a pair of tan trousers, a "Hawaiian Style" tee shirt in a just-slightly darker shade of tan, and a "chocolate-dyed" tee shirt, all for $7.50, thanks to the twenty percent Senior Discount on Tuesdays. Cool.

You will have no doubt surmised that October's budgetary efforts have been more successful than usual, reaching mid-month still having money available for beer-and-sandwich luncheon parties and clothes shopping (however cheap). There's still going to be the usual dismal last week of the month with empty pockets, but at least some progress has been made.

After getting the new clothes, I returned to the beach park for a shower before exchanging the old for the new and then got a bus to the State Library for something to read. The Sleeptalker was on the bus! (Dame Fortune does overdo it some times, she really does.) He was going downtown to get lunch from River of Life, a Christian-based place where the food is much better than IHS. He said he had killed off all his characters in Seventh Circle. Sigh. A long-time veteran player had done that on Sunday and I guess the Sleeptalker just couldn't resist grabbing some of the spotlight by doing the same. Of course the Sleeptalker almost immediately changed his mind and started his characters from scratch. Don't ask me ... I just don't understand what the hell he's doing or why. In any case, he said he didn't plan to return to campus.

But when I eventually did go there myself, the Sleeptalker was sitting in Hamilton Library busily playing his re-created characters, all now, of course, very low level. I checked mail, looked around at some stuff on the web, and then played the game for awhile, was very irked by an arrogant bulletin board post from the Boss Lady and quit, left campus and returned to the mall without saying anything to the Sleeptalker.

I'd planned to just enjoy a sunset brew and one of the books I'd found at the State Library, all by myself, but Joe Guam found me even though I'd gone to a different area than usual. On Monday, the Sleeptalker had sighed about "getting off this rock". Yeh, I can sympathize with that.

851

One book I found in the State Library was Glenn Kleier's The Last Day, a thoroughly fascinating and engrossing novel. I was so entranced by it that interruptions from the Cherub and the Sleeptalker were not as welcome as they might otherwise have been, but then books are always with us, friends aren't. The novel and the continuing turmoil in Seventh Circle dominated Wednesday until late afternoon when the Sleeptalker took the reins until after sunset.

As I wrote, I'd already been thoroughly irked by the game on Tuesday, was sufficiently further annoyed on Wednesday to resign leadership of the Ranger's Guild, stopping short of emulating recent protests by outright suicide. The Boss Lady continually creates problems and controversy where no real problems exist, all, I think, symptoms of her discontent with her limited power. I also suspect she simply doesn't know the coding language well enough to fix some things that have been broken for months, things which made the game much more fun to play and were far more important than these self-created "problems". The latest bee in her bonnet is merging the guilds into four groups rather than the present system of having a guild for each class, a proposal which has been almost unanimously opposed by veteran players. She posted a rather arrogant notice saying that since there was such opposition, the plan was dead, the subject closed ... and then spent hours on Wednesday morning discussing it yet again. Thus my resignation. I shall become Reting the Ranger Emeritus.

I left that silly tempest after the resignation and had lunch in the secluded grove with rolls and cheese and a bottle of Colt, returning to my reading. The Cherub stopped by briefly, said he'd just watched "The Bicycle Thief" and was off to the library to do some research for a paper on it. His daddy is coming to town, will be staying at a posh hotel out in the country and asked the Cherub to join him there for two nights. The Cherub had replied that he didn't know if he'd be able to afford the gasoline! Subtle ... not. When I told the Sleeptalker about it later, we agreed ... take a bus. Daddy should have told him that.

Since one of the most vocal opponents of the merger scheme in the game was banned for the day, I went back to play my thief for awhile. The banned player constantly comes after my thief, attacks him when he's in the midst of another fight. Fair, but not very noble. Without him around, though, my thief was able to advance two levels with no difficulty.

I was then walking across campus on my way to the bus stop when I crossed paths with the Sleeptalker. So much for my plan to head to a remote area of the beach park with a sunset brew. Instead I bought one for each of us and another round later, playing further havoc with my well-intentioned but doomed budget scheme. No matter ... it's only money.

A reader supplied information about those food packets we've been dropping on the Afghanis: "A high-calorie meal - peanut butter & jelly, carbs, dried fruit, etc., enough for one day." Peanut butter and jelly! The poor buggers have probably never seen peanut butter before. I don't recall ever having seen it in northern India. But it did provide some amusing conversation, both with the Cherub and the Sleeptalker. And at one point as we were sitting in the park drinking, a helicopter flew over and we said, "drop some peanut butter and jelly!" Sure, why not? The packets would probably be much more popular in the beach park than they are in Afghanistan, although the reader did add that the report on ABC also included the news that people there were gathering up the packets and selling them in local markets. Whoever would have thought that mana from heaven might be peanut butter and jelly ...

The Sleeptalker, meanwhile, is still having difficulty adjusting to the fact that I'm just not as entranced with his body as I once was and he did one of his best seduction routines, quite delightful and amusing. But no, sorry, my boy, I was not interested in trading my CD player for his body. Still, it was an interesting and entertaining time with him, as have been all our recent encounters. I'm happy, though, to have "outgrown", if that's the right term, the lust.

He arrived at Hamilton Library early on Thursday morning while I was being bombarded by the Boss Lady trying to drag me into the continuing controversy. I told her there is more than enough fuss and fuming in this country right now, that some of us would just like to escape for awhile by simply playing a game.

Ain't it the truth.

852

As I was walking across campus on Friday morning, a notice on a bulletin board caught my eye. It was from the campus "chapter" of the NAACP. Hmmmm. Political correctness, as I understand it, no longer allows for those of the Negroid race (and even that may not be politically correct) to be called "colored people". So shouldn't it be NAAB? Or is "blacks" no longer correct either?

For only the second time since I've been staying at IHS, I woke when the lights went on and the voice on the loudspeakers said "good morning, gentlemen" (reminding me of Robin Williams and his Vietnam greeting). As had happened the only previous time I've heard that announcement, the fellow had the day right, but not the date. Yes, it was Friday, but it was not the 18th. Not that it matters to most of the people still asleep at IHS nor did it much matter to me, except that I didn't want the calendar turned back to add one more day to the waiting time for empty pockets to no longer be empty. Okay, okay, I know, that doesn't really matter either, but it seems to sometimes.

I think I'd slept such a long, undisturbed sleep because I'd been feeling really down and exhausted by the time I'd gotten to IHS on Thursday night ... and maybe having taken a double dose of Remeron had assisted, too. The doc had suggested taking one and one-half tablets. I told him the pills were too tiny to cut in half, so he left it at one-a-day. But I thought, why not two one day and one the next? I'd just take two every day except that the prescription would run out so far ahead of time the pharmacy might question the re-fill. (Not that all this really matters, either.)

The Sleeptalker was at Hamilton Library on Thursday. I left after a brief time in the game, went downhill and got myself a beer and bread+ham for sandwiches. As I was walking from the returning bus to the secluded grove, the Sleeptalker came strolling down the path. "You got beer?" he asked. "Yes," I said, "for me, myself, and I." I told him the day before that would probably be his last brew from me this month unless unexpected money appeared from somewhere. "You'll just have to go back to your richer friends," I said. He sat with me for awhile in the secluded grove, saw I wasn't going to weaken and then went on his way to get lunch from one of the downtown soup kitchens.

I returned to the library, played the game briefly, then went to the Korean Center building for an announced showing of an upcoming BBC television program. I don't know anything about the "magicians" Penn and Teller, although I've heard of them, but evidently they have done a series for the BBC on "magic" in various countries of the world, and the episode being shown was in India. A UH professor was consultant and participant in this episode and he spoke briefly before showing the tape. Cringe. Penn and Teller couldn't possibly have been more patronizing toward India and Indians ... hasn't anyone told them the Raj is long-gone? And they concentrated entirely upon "street magicians" (i.e., con men, albeit with something of a cultural heritage) and within that, the most grotesque. It was fun, the brief glimpses of Delhi street life, but otherwise an embarrassment. I didn't stay for the Professor's concluding remarks. And I definitely don't recommend viewing the program when it appears eventually on PBS, as I assume it will.

Maybe as a kind of penance, I went back to the library and worked some more on revisions to my venerable (or at least, aged) Journey to the East page. I'd already checked most existing links earlier in the day and added a section for Afghanistan, then decided on a major re-arrangement and finished that. When the original version of Panther's Cave began on the web, the collection of links was almost encyclopedic, especially with the Hawaii and Hawaiian Music pages. Now it is much more a collection of sites I find useful and/or attractive since any attempt to be comprehensive is no longer possible. Only the Hawaiian music page has all the relevant links I'm able to find or hear about. And, admittedly, the only page I use every day, aside from the Tales, is the Toolbox.

After that long sleep on Thursday night and before going to campus, I went to check the mailbox for the first time this week. It seems always to happen that when I get discouraged and lose momentum, think of ending the Tales or, in this case, closing the Exhibition, something comes along to restore confidence or at least interest. This time it was a supply of blank cards, not only more of the posh Arches ones but also a packet of "panoramic" ones. I'd say CinemaScope but I probably have readers who are too young to even know what that means. The first idea that came to mind was dividing each card into three blocks, making a comic strip. Later I saw the Cherub and told him about it, said I'd then considered doing a primitive stick-figure collection and getting the Sleeptalker to add captions. Perhaps if I made them "dirty pictures" he'd at last be forced to contribute to cards leaving Jesus out of it? No, I wasn't serious, just amusing myself with mental doodles.

But I had been seriously considering declaring the Exhibition closed, especially after the current nine-card work in progress is finished (if it ever is). After all, it is the most unsuccessful "exhibition" I've ever taken part in, with not a single work having been sold. I know, that shouldn't matter, any more than glowing reviews in art magazines should have mattered back in the days when those were an important part of the process, a more important part to most working artists than they ever should be. Working in a vacuum, with little feedback positive or negative, isn't encouraging though, as I discovered in those early years in London. Perhaps it is easier for writers to do so than for visual artists?

The Cherub asked, during our brief chat on Friday, where the Sleeptalker was. I said that perhaps he was mad at me since I'd refused to buy him beer the day before. But I think the more accurate answer is that his usual impeccable sense of when it's time to disappear came into play and that his return will have more to do with when he thinks his company is again being missed than with finances.

This time, though, it actually has little to do with him or with finances, at least from my side. I'm just feeling uncertain and somewhat lost and when in such a state of mind have little patience with other people, all the limited energy devoted to wallowing in self-indulgence. Ridiculous, but so it goes as Libra 2001 comes to an end. And good riddance to it.

853

The Cherub's tactic may not have been subtle but it worked, and Daddy gave up some cash upon his arrival in town. So there was beer and tobacco on Saturday, compliments of Daddy, and again on Sunday. The Cherub couldn't stay and drink with me on Saturday since he had to meet Daddy at some posh buffet affair in the evening, but he bought me two bottles of Colt before heading to suburbia. The Crazy Money came to its end when I bought another bottle later. I was totally caught up in Janet Fitch's White Oleander, an impressive first novel, albeit a little heavy on the metaphor pedal, and also thoroughly depressing, the kind of book which needed an ample supply of some drug to get through the experience of reading it.

I finished it with my Sunday morning coffee and headed to campus, to the stand-up computer lab and its fancy iMac machines. The Sleeptalker arrived quite early, much to my surprise, and when I left just before noon and walked over to the library I saw the Cherub. He suggested having a beer and going to see David Lynch's new film which opened on Friday. I asked if we should include the Sleeptalker and he said yes, so we went to get him. Three rounds of beer later I backed out of the film since the plan was to get more beer and drink it there. Not only did the Sleeptalker need no more (he'd already had too much), that theatre is too small, the aroma would have been evident everywhere. So they went off together. I learned on Monday, when I saw the Cherub briefly, that they'd managed to sneak into the theatre through a side-door but had only stayed about half an hour, the Sleeptalker being too restless to sit still. Then he'd persuaded the Cherub to go with him and buy some batu, surprise, surprise. I was even happier I hadn't been along.

It was an amusing afternoon, though. The Cherub is a wonderful buffer zone between me and the Sleeptalker, especially after a second beer. And he said some cheering, interesting (and surprising) things about the cards. He assured the Sleeptalker that if the right dealer happened along, the cards would be a commercial success. And he's probably quite right: simply but elegantly framed, they'd no doubt be just the right small object to provide a curious conversation piece for a savvy collector, even one not necessarily versed in that particular niche of contemporary "art".

We disagreed completely, though, on the subject of Oprah Winfrey. I greatly admire her, the Cherub does not.

And I stepped out of the discussion once it turned, as it inevitably does with the Sleeptalker and beer, to religion.

By the time I finally got onto a bus headed for IHS, I fell into one of those reveries or-whatever-they-are and was well beyond where I should have switched to a different bus, had to get one back toward downtown. Since the official reason I get the special bus pass is because I get disoriented and have trouble using the bus, I think that may be one of the few things about this weird Crazy Money dance which is truly justified.

Monday was one of those days when almost everything goes wrong, but at least I did find Father Greeley's Happy are the Merciful at the State Library, so spent most of the day at the beach park with it. I had a shower and washed tee shirts, then read while they dried in the sun. I'd vowed not to get involved with the Quarter Hunt game this month, to look only for the two quarters I needed for the next morning's coffee. Those quickly arrived when I found an abandoned baby stroller during a snipes hunt. And then I had a craving for milk and cookies, so that was dinner, reducing remaining foodstamps to under twenty dollars. An alcohol-free day. The sense of time is so different when not drinking.

Even with Remeron, getting to sleep is not as easy after an alcohol-free day.

And sitting in the library on campus Tuesday morning, I looked up and saw the Sleeptalker and Mondo arrive. Mondo walked over after a few minutes and asked if I had my pipe. "I don't smoke that stuff anymore," I said, and wondered if maybe I shouldn't just get out of town.

854

Wed Oct 24
Im getting sick of this clan/guild
so you can have someone rewrite it
I got my family members names used as the mobs in clan
so Im just asking that they rewrite it
well anyway I thought your clan was more rad
and tell everyone Im sorry but they dont care
and Id like to say thanks for letting me have one of my own
even if I did steal Stokers once
Im going to quit mud for good beacuse it always seem to lead me
in the wrong direction
I enjoyed playing with you all even if it was
13 on 1 heh heh


The Sleeptalker was making such an ass of himself in the game on Tuesday. I didn't get out of town, but I did get out of the game and fled the campus, didn't check the game again until Thursday when I saw the above whine. Of course, he knows and I know it isn't MUD that leads him "in the wrong direction", it's that damned crystal meth pipe. But I hope he means it this time and stays out of the game. I probably won't play it nearly as much if he does, but at least when I do I'll be spared witnessing his dumb act.

The last full week of October ... not an especially happy one. Three whole days without a drop of beer. It bothered me more than it should have and even though I knew it shouldn't there wasn't much I could do to stop it. Finally I hocked some of next month's income and got toasted on Thursday. I even tried to consume four bottles but gave up and couldn't finish the last one, gave the leftovers to Joe Guam.

IHS is such a nightmare. It's bad enough in the beach park, the same deadbeats day after day, but even worse at IHS where there isn't a single person I ever want to see again, much less know. I keep it to an absolute minimum, of course. I get there, find a spot (more often than not with nothing but my beach towel as a "mattress"), stick earplugs in my head and the sleeve of my flannel shirt over my eyes and sleep. It's a little surprising how soundly I sleep there, with or without Remeron. Sometimes I don't awaken at all during the night, just escape into dreams which continue to be more interesting than anything in waking reality. In the morning I quickly put away the beachtowel and get out of the place. Then there's ten or fifteen minutes of excruciatingly banal company at the bus stop, waiting for the "Bums Express" to the mall. I could, and probably should, walk some distance to another stop, as I did in the early days there. Starting each day with those boors isn't a good idea at all.

Reading material during the early part of the week was Anton Myrer's Green Desire, one of those almost-designed-for-miniseries epics which I would have abandoned had I not been too lazy to make the trip to the State Library for something better. At the same time I headed to the store for beer on Thursday, I checked the fifty-cent cart at the used bookshop and found The Bones of Time by Kathleen Ann Goonan, a real oddity: a science fiction novel set mostly in Hawaii. Just to add to the oddity, one chapter is in Kathmandu. She only made a few goofs about the local scene ... but it is a good yarn nonetheless. On then to Peachtree Road, a melancholic Southern ramble by Anne Rivers Siddons. What would I do without the escape of fiction?

Radio certainly isn't much help. One afternoon I was jumping from station to station, came upon one of those idiotic call-in talk shows. The host was in raptures about the greatness of George W. Bush. [cough, splutter, change stations ... ]

And pondering how to set about writing a new script for this weird life of mine. Just drifting along doesn't seem to be working very well at this point.

Of course, Dame Fortune will no doubt tear up any script and replace it with her own, so why ponder. I didn't know until this week that another name for the Three Fates is the Weird Sisters. Now that is weird.

855

It rained. And it rained. And then it rained some more. I was sitting in a relatively sheltered spot on campus, reading, grateful I hadn't finished the bottle of beer from the night before so I could enjoy the leftovers while the rain poured. It transported me back to that monsoon summer of 1973, sitting on the bed in that tiny room at the Mussoorie YWCA while rain fell in torrents outside the small window, escaping then, as now, into fiction. Wet, wet Saturday, the most continuous heavy rain we've had here in quite some time.

I had been in the library earlier, checked email and wrote 854. After finishing the beer, I went back to the library. The Cherub was at a terminal, "Waikiki" on the screen. I think I'd feel faint if I walked in like that and saw a stranger with my images on the screen. I looked in at the game, not much was happening. When I got up to leave, the Cherub was reading a Tale. "From great art to great literature," I joked, gave him a pat on the shoulder and went on my way. Luckily the rain took a break and I managed to wade through the puddles, get on a bus and to the mall before it started raining again.

I spotted Rocky, first time I've seen him in weeks, but he didn't see me and I turned around, went in the opposite direction. Later, when I got to IHS I was reminded that there is one exception to what I said about that place: Mondo. He was standing outside smoking, despite the light rain, had his shirt unbuttoned. I just waved and went on inside. Too great an object of desire, that one, far too much so for my present mood.

The rain departed during the night but in its place came fiercely gusting wind on Sunday. I spent an hour or so in the little computer lab, then returned to Peachtree Street. I'd looked at the website devoted to her and found a quote from Siddons about the book: "I'm getting a lot of comparisons between Peachtree Road and Gone With the Wind, which just drives me wild! I guess that's inevitable when any woman from Atlanta writes a big book. But as much as I respect Margaret Mitchell and love that book, it was not the truth about Atlanta, and it perpetuated some pretty dangerous myths." The comparisons are "inevitable", I think, not because she's a woman from Atlanta who wrote a big book, but because Peachtree Street does for Atlanta in the 1940s, 50s and 60s what GWTW did for it in those days just before, during and after the War Between the States, and does it with the same sweeping grandeur. One thing about the book which is certainly different, though, is its first-person narrator ... and a male one, at that. It's one of the most convincing attempts by a female writer to speak, and think, as a man that I've encountered. And it's almost as good as GWTW.

As I was walking toward the library I met the Cherub who had already been inside and was out for a smoke break. Then we spent the rest of the day drinking, smoking and talking. He corrected me, said it had not been the Sleeptalker who directly asked for the batu (although he thought the signals were being sent clearly enough indirectly). And he said he was surprised I so rarely use direct quotes rather than paraphrasing what others have said. That's a memory thing, of course. I'm rarely certain enough that I remember exactly what someone said to risk attempting a direct quote. I told him of the temptation to buy a mini-cassette recorder so I could capture and transcribe conversations but I haven't yielded to it because I spent so many hours of my life transcribing tapes that it seems too much like work. Admittedly, I'm sorry I don't have tapes of some conversations with the Sleeptalker although I'm not sure if the transcriptions would be as interesting for most readers as they'd be for me.

I remember some of the things I said in that long rambling conversation with the Cherub, though. When I talk about my direct experience, I seem to hit the right notes, as in saying Motherwell was a sweet man and a true scholar. When I pontificate from opinion, who knows? Maybe I'm right in saying Dali will be a footnote in the history of 20th century art; it's probably too soon to know if my presumption is correct, that Picasso, Pollock and Rauschenberg will be seen as the Big Three.

When I got to the library on Monday morning, I checked some sites for Bunuel, one subject under discussion. I'd been unable to remember which of his films I've seen. Considering how often I borrow "obscure object of desire", it's a little bizarre I'd forgotten that one. For me, though, the favorites (once my memory had been refreshed) were Belle du Jour and Simon of the Desert, which I'd like to see again.

And I was delighted to find Mencken's The American Language in a searchable version, surprised to also discover the Mencken translation of Nietzsche's The Antichrist. I was reading that when the Sleeptalker walked into the library, settled at a computer across the table and some distance down. I left.

I'd had very little to eat on the weekend, was feeling truly hungry, a most unusual condition for me. With only a little more than four dollars of foodstamps largesse remaining, I was reluctant to buy something. I was just about to give up and head to IHS for free lunch when I spotted a large bowl of ramen probably left by some Japanese person unsure whether to throw all that liquid into the trash receptacle in the food court. Those used to turn up with some regularity, although it has always been a matter of luck, finding one before the diligent cleaning ladies dump them. Fortified a little by that, I was sure I could manage until the afternoon Krishna handout, and went to check the mailbox. I didn't really expect the Fabled Pension Check to be there and it wasn't, but there was a little melon from heaven. What perfect timing. It was a conditional one, the edict being "SPEND IT ON YOURSELF". Hmmm, a bit rude, considering the Cherub's generosity the day before but, okay, I always follow any condition attached to heavenly melons and started by returning to the mall, buying a bottle of Mickey's and hiding out in a less-frequented part of the park. With the sunset follow-up bottle, after the usual unappetizing but filling Krishna plate, I went even further out on the peninsula they call Magic Island and enjoyed the simultaneous sunset/moonrise with Mozart's first flute concerto, adding a few marks to the still-untitled set of cards in progress.

The original of Ray #8 had also been in the mailbox. It's much more vivid and dramatic than the scanned version.

When I got to IHS, the Sleeptalker was standing in the courtyard talking to some people. I just walked on by and upstairs. And for the first time at IHS, I dreamed of being at IHS. Yeukh. It was, though, even more strange. They only allowed people to go upstairs one at a time, said security measures were tightened because Osama bin Laden was in the area. I must be going crazier in dream life than I am in the waking one ...

856

The combination of Hallowe'en and the All Saints Day Full Moon didn't produce as much luna-cy as expected, partly I think because the weather was very unsettled with frequent squalls of windy light rain. During my (futile) trip to the mailbox in quest of the Fabled Pension Check, I had to take shelter several times and wait for the next break in the often almost-horizontal drizzle. A few hardy souls were wandering around in costumes, none of them especially interesting. The usual costume contest at the mall was cancelled this year. I suppose there was the parade of costumed folk strolling through Waikiki but I gave up going to that years ago and wasn't at all tempted this year either. And there had been more craziness at IHS the night before, mostly inspired by yet another fit of power play. It has been the custom for people who arrive early to drop their backpacks or belongings in a space on the floor to reserve it while waiting in line for a mat. They called a halt to that, yet another case of not having the sense to let the community be "self-policing", interfering with a system which had worked without complaints or problems. There was almost one fight when someone's friend "saved" a spot next to his mat and another man, already annoyed because he'd been made to retrieve his own backpack, was angered by the attempt to ignore the new rules. Stuff and nonsense.

A similar fit of power play took place in Seventh Circle when that weird Boss Lady got so annoyed with uncomplimentary notices being posted on the public bulletin board, she removed the entire board instead of her usual habit of wiping out any notices she doesn't like (which inevitably include almost all of the few I bother to post). She also managed to get rid of yet another long-time veteran player, not one I particularly liked although I often agreed with his criticisms. By the time the real Boss wakes up to the damage she is doing to the game, it will probably be too late. Once people wander off and begin spending time on another option, they generally don't return. I may resume my own searches for attractive alternatives.

I was poking around on the web Wednesday morning and came across this item:

Johns, Jasper. Letter to the editor. Portable Gallery Bulletin (New York, N.Y.), no. 3 December 1962, n.p. Reply to Albert Vanderburg November 1962 issue regarding a photograph of Robert Rauschenberg's combine painting Short Circuit. Reprinted in Kirk Varnedoe, ed., and Christel Hollevoet, comp., Jasper Johns: Writings, Sketchbook Notes, Interviews (New York, N.Y.: The Museum of Modern Art, 1996)

How very odd. I certainly remember my original article, have written about it in these Tales, and I well remember the telephone call from an outraged Leo Castelli. But I just don't remember us getting a letter from Jasper, or printing it (although, of course, we would have), and I'm amazed by that significant gap in memory. Very odd, indeed. Alas, no copy of that book in the university libraries. I'd like to read the letter.

What I have been reading, and finished on Hallowe'en, is Shirley MacLaine's It's All in the Playing. I grumbled at it more than I did her other book which I recently read, but still greatly admired it. Her website is admirable, too. I'll be making one of my rare purchases of a new paperback when her latest book, The Camino, makes the transition from hardcover. Some of the grumbling at this one was over her chirpy, repetitive insistence that we create our own lifes. I grumbled again when the FPC wasn't in the mailbox. Yeh, sure, Shirley, it's all my fault it didn't arrive a day or two early like it usually does. (Maybe she's right and it really is my doing, in which case pardon me while I kick myself.)

The trip to the mailbox wasn't totally futile, though, since a copy of the printed edition of the Tales had arrived from Paris, this one containing Nos. 760-846. Once again I am much surprised by the difference between reading them on paper and via computer, and by the way it seems almost like reading someone else's writing.

So ... another October has come and gone, another Fool Moon survived. Any Celtic New Year's resolutions?

857

Cainer says about the first weekend of November: Here comes a challenging weekend. Will you enjoy it? Yes if you rise to the challenge. No if you sink beneath its weight.

Unless the third mail call of the month is better than the first two, the main challenge will be patiently waiting for Crazy Money Monday. The Fabled Pension Check has still not arrived. I suppose the Anthrax Panic and the reduced number of flights to Hawaii are to blame, never mind Shirley and her ideas about us creating our own lives.

Even though she mentions karma now and then, that notion that we create our own lives is very bound to the concept of karma. So while she may be right, it doesn't mean we create the circumstances of our lives within this one, and she somehow avoids looking at that aspect of it.

The most recent visit to the State Library was about as dreary as the ones to the mailbox and I'm making do with Alvin Toffler's Powershift until something better comes along. The trouble with this kind of book it that much of it is history only ten years after it was written, things have moved even faster than he envisioned.

Meanwhile, I've almost finished the latest printed volume of the Tales and I must say this year sounds much more interesting than life seems at the moment, so not only does it feel in a peculiar way like reading someone else, it also seems like someone else's life.

Despite empty pockets, Dame Fortune made Friday a decent enough day. I needed one quarter for a sunset brew and she put an abandoned stroller in my path. The supermarket is apparently giving up on the quarter system, alas (poor Mongoose!), so those baby strollers are the only hunt in the mall these days. There was also a splendid plate-lunch box abandoned, grilled fish, corn and the inevitable macaroni salad. If only local people had become as addicted to mashed potatos and gravy as they are to mac salad (especially since the local version of that stuff is so bland). The fish was rather dry, probably accounting for it having been discarded, but drenched in the fake tartar sauce, not too bad. And most importantly, it saved me from resorting to that awful stuff the Krishna people dish out.

I saw Rocky a couple of times on Thursday, but only in passing, otherwise my social life consisted only of the usual sunset chats with Joe Guam. He has a black friend who gives him a few dollars whenever their paths cross and he'd seen the fellow earlier, then had found two dollars in the park, so he was feeling very pleased. He apparently doesn't get any kind of public assistance nor is he interested in trying to. All he wants is two 40-ounce bottles a day and a little food and, with few exceptions including me, just wants to be left alone.

In some cases, literally overnight, the decor in the mall switched from Hallowe'en to Christmas. Only a few shops have the style, and good taste, to create an interim Fall Harvest/Thanksgiving theme, Tiffany and Ethel M Chocolates the best examples. But then the first Christmas trees appeared in September at the new "Holiday Magnifique" shop which I suspect won't last much past the Yule season. I'm really not looking forward to all the fuss and nonsense.

Or to this weekend if that envelope isn't in the mailbox ...

858

The Fabled Pension Check didn't arrive but the penniless weekend wasn't as bad as the anticipation of it, just rather boring. And, of course, on Crazy Money Monday it no longer mattered. Those Crazy Money paydays got extended again after a visit to the Qualifying Doc early Tuesday morning. I'm not quite sure whether he extended it for three months or six. All he said was "they'll send you back to me in March", which suggests six months since it would run until May. If that does turn out to be the case, I won't be seeing him again.

I saw the Cherub briefly on Sunday. He's broke until mid-month, so I told him I'd buy beer on Monday, and did. We ended up in the beach park with beer, chicken, mashed potatos and macaroni+cheese, a splendid sunset picnic.

There was an appointment with the psychologist on Tuesday as well, so I didn't make the trip to campus, left his office, had lunch at Jack in the Box and checked the mail. The FPC was there having oddly been sent to the old address despite the previous month going to the new one. Somebody must have picked up an old back-up or something. Who needs these irritating glitches?

As I was going to the supermarket for my second bottle of brew, I saw Mondo, offered to buy him one as well. And when I got outside he was with Angelo. That silly fellow missed last month's appointment with the Doc so his Crazy Money is suspended until next month, thus no November Follies. A new lad was with them, a 22-year-old local boy of Filipino descent, quite cute and amusing. I've seen him occasionally at IHS, one of the few young men in the place but of course there I diligently ignore anything remotely close to being an obscure object of desire. Angelo was in fine form, the best I've seen him in a long time, and it was another most enjoyable sunset in the park. I bought a second round of beer for us all and was consequently close to smashed when I finally left to catch a bus. They are staying at the old Park Place but with just a beach towel for cover, I wasn't keen on joining them there. I would have been just as well off if I had, though, because I got to IHS too late, ended up sleeping in some nearby bushes, grateful it remained dry all night.

The Cherub gave me Anne Rice's Merrick. It's splendid.

859

The November Ice Follies.

Dramatis personae: Panther, Angelo, Chico and Mondo, although to our mutual mystification, Mondo wandered off very early after some beer and food, didn't stay for the white powder.

Chico is the new Bad Boy, first mentioned in the last Tale. I was mistaken, he is 21, won't be 22 until next July. "Chico" is not my choice. It was a nickname he was given in the past and likes. He was born in the Philippines, raised on the mainland USA, in Florida, Georgia and Texas. He is, as I said, very cute. And he is the FIRST of these lads to openly admit to being "bisexual". He is also currently at the top of my wish list, and I have an idea that wish will be granted in the very near future.

However, for these Follies, it was Angelo who was the star. I understated things when I said he is in "fine form". He is in topnotch form, surpassing even the Sleeptalker. But as has been the case in the past, he made me promise to keep the details of our dance together a "secret". That's easier to do this time because I'd be very embarrassed to admit to some of those details.

But it was sheer madness and totally delightful, again surpassing that last wild ice fling with the Sleeptalker.

It is now 9:40 on Thursday morning. I last slept about five on Wednesday morning, and there is as yet no desire at all for somnolence. There was unanimous agreement that the little bags of white powder were exceptionally good, stronger, I think, than any I've experienced thus far, even allowing for the difference to be expected after a four month abstinence.

I was sitting in the Philodendron Walk, since the weather was uncertain, reading and drinking my first bottle of brew when the three arrived. I bought a beer for each of us and we went to the park. Mondo was listening to the radio, didn't remove his headphones or participate in the conversation throughout the first beer. Someone had given Chico a tiny, adorable kitten. If I had a space of my own, I would have become its new owner. Chico took off his teeshirt and wrapped it around the kitten who promptly went to sleep and looked just like the kitten on a pack of playing cards I remember from childhood. A total sweetheart.

We had walked over to the cheap tobacco store for packs of $2.50 Filipino cigarettes and then to the nearby 7-Eleven for the beer and a little container of milk for the kitten. I made Chico wait until the milk had warmed a bit before offering it the kitten, but it wasn't interested, just wanted to sleep. Most fortunately, on a later trip to the mall, some man seemed to instantly fall in love with the kitten and bought it for five dollars. Lucky kitten.

For some reason I don't remember, Chico wandered off to the mall and came back with a young woman. He's very female crazy and it was fun watching him try to arrange a liaison. Whether it actually happened or not (was supposed to be a meeting at midnight), I don't know yet, but after drinking a little beer, she left. Then we all returned to the mall for another round of beer and some food. That was when Mondo vanished.

To the park again, and then Angelo started longing for his beloved batu. He had obviously sold his foodstamps, so offered to go half on the first bag. I insisted I had vowed to wait until Christmas before indulging (I'm dreaming of a white Christmas), but like I said, Angelo is in great form and when he's like that he can persuade me to do almost anything. He did fail later when he wanted to do the hotel room trip, but despite that, overall he succeeded admirably and was a most delightful partner in our dance together when Chico again wandered off and left us alone.

I can't believe it happened ... I was all zonked and everything.

A second bag of the white stuff, then, and I really was spaced out. I haven't been that far out since the last time I took LSD, have never experienced that high with the Ice before.

It was close to midnight. Angelo said he was feeling "bored" [?!] and wanted to go to Waikiki. I waited with them until a bus arrived, but said I didn't really want to go there, would just stay in the park.

A night on Magic Island, moving around from bench to bench as the sprinkler system went through its routine. And being about as outrageous as I've ever been but only for a brief time with a witness, a young man who was also spending the night wandering around. I thought he, as Mae West so memorably said, "could be had", but he didn't make the jump so I didn't either. After the earlier events of the evening, I really didn't need it.

There was light drizzle now and then which finally became heavier around four in the morning. I went to the 7-Eleven for coffee and cigarettes, ran into Lord and Lady Moana on my way back. They had been up all night with the glass pipe, too.

I finished Anne Rice's Merrick with my second round of coffee from McD's. My condition, mentally and physically, was absolutely perfect for the finale of that delicious book. And three cheers, indeed. Lestat finally woke from his very lengthy sleep, and the ending of this one strongly suggests we'll be reading more about that seductivly powerful character.

And then I bought a bottle of Colt for breakfast.

The November Ice Follies.

860

Monday was a holiday, the one known in my childhood as Armistice Day, created to commemorate the end of the first World War. Later it became the more generic holiday set aside to remember all veterans, and Veterans Day 2001 was probably the first since the Vietnam debacle when it was once again an honorable thing to have connections, past or present, with the military. For me, it was a quiet, solitary day spent mostly in Waikiki's Kapiolani Park, eating sandwiches of turkey and cheese, drinking beer, and reading John Updike's collection of autobiographical essays, Self-Consciousness.

It is the third in a row of memorable books, beginning with Anne Rice's Violin. It's somewhat unlike her other books, no vampires or witches, with a strange ghost, but not quite ghost, as the star. Perhaps a variation on purgatory, roaming the earth for centuries after the first death, visible to few. The writing is lush and exotic, generally fulfilling the intention expressed by the female narrator to use words like music. A thoroughly enjoyable read. That was followed by John Grisham's The Testament, my favorite by far of his always engrossing but sometimes irritating novels.

The reading was an anchor of sorts during a somewhat hectic week. Life had, indeed, been far too ordinary in recent weeks, or so it seemed to me, and a spell of hyper-activity was not unwelcome even if I did several times during it wish a little that things would slow down. As I told the Cherub, it is almost as interesting an experience, observing and examining the aftermath of a dance with Ice, as the drug experience itself. It seems inevitable, and this I have observed in everyone I know who uses the drug, to feel a deep need to refrain not only from that substance but from all such elements in one's life. No more ice, no more alcohol, no more tobacco (or the prescribed poisons), as if the experience with ice demands a period of purification and abstinence. But the hangover is so brutal the demand for relief overpowers that yearning. Most people I know deal with that by smoking more ice and continuing to do so until their money runs out. I would have done that myself, at least the first day, but was spared by the absence of suppliers.

That wasn't my idea, but the Sleeptalker's. My own solution, as it has been in the past, was to stay slightly drunk all day on Thursday, the day after the Ice Follies. Stay slightly, continuously drunk, lost in a fictional reality, and that method prevailed from breakfast until late afternoon when the Sleeptalker arrived in the park. He was in a very strange mood, twitchy, hyperactive, unable to sit still for long but jumping up to pace back and forth on the lawn around the picnic table. He was, in a weirdly belated twist, very upset by the events of September 11th but, no, reduced to "practical reality" had no intention of rushing off to join the Army. Later conversation, after a round of beer, and further talk the next day suggests his real problem is the addition of yet another sugar daddy, a "friend" who lets him stay overnight but wants him to look after two large dogs. This is unacceptable to the Sleeptalker and I can't blame him much. Giving up his body should be more than enough "rent" for a place to sleep. Of course, he also apparently gets the bonus of some quite decent weed to smoke, as was evident when he arrived again on Friday afternoon. He had the remains of two joints already smoked plus one as yet unlit and although still very hyper had been sufficiently mellowed by the smoke to remain seated most of the time.

He offered to let me have his body in exchange for a bag of ice, an offer I would have accepted as much for the drug as the sex, but neither our usual supplier or Paulo's was in the park and I was too weary (and drunk) to join him in a wider hunt for the treat. But we had two rounds of beer and when I got up to leave for IHS, he said he was returning to his "friend". I fell asleep on the bus, deeply enough to sleep right through the bright lights and stop-starts of the swing through the airport, only luckily awoke a little distance beyond, near an airplane maintenance facility. On a side road, there was a long, covered bus stop. A man was curled up asleep at one end, so I did likewise at the other.

The Sleeptalker and I were joined during Friday's late afternoon drinking session by Angelo and Mondo. Mondo was listening to music via headphones, had little to say, but during a break when the Sleeptalker went off to buy another round of beer, Angelo was very sweet and amusingly teasing about our ice games together. "You aren't supposed to remember that!" I protested when he teased about one episode, but I was grateful he plays with such grace and generosity, even more grateful there is none of the Sleeptalker's guilt and angst afterwards. We had yet another round of beer and then the Sleeptalker and Mondo left for IHS. Angelo was vague about his plans but wandered off soon afterwards and I fell asleep on the picnic table bench, later moved to the nearby bus-stop when the irrigation sprinklers woke me, the first time I have slept at that place, the habitual bedroom of the Duchess and Wobbly. I was too drunk to consider any more distant options.

Although I did make the trip to campus each morning, I had no desire to write, postponed answering email and only very briefly looked in on the game, as was the case again on Saturday. The companions for that late afternoon and evening drinking session arrived, Chico and a rather chubby Waianae girlfriend. It's proof of my fascination with Chico that I bought them a round of beer; my usual reaction in a case like that would be to make some excuse and leave. She got quite smashed on one bottle and after an amusingly lively conversation went over and collapsed on the grass. When Chico joined her, I quietly departed with the remaining half-bottle of beer and went out to Magic Island. Michael Lasser's hour of theatre music was on the radio, an hour oddly devoted to "jungle songs". I was sufficiently engrossed in that I didn't notice the police had arrived in droves. When a pair of them stopped at my bench with a large flashlight it unfortunately illuminated my open backpack and the bottle of beer inside it, so I had to pour the remaining brew out (no great loss since by then it certainly wasn't needed). The young and quite handsome policeman explained they were doing a "sweep" of the park to give warnings. They would be returning the next night and anyone drinking or "camping" (aka "sleeping") in the park would be given citations. So much, once again, for the claims of the politicians that their anti-camping laws are not aimed at the homeless.

Those isolated morons really should be forced to spend a night at the shelter, experience for themselves just how crowded it is, how near to being so full there will simply not be enough floor space. Anyone hardy enough to brave the winter nights sleeping in the parks should be encouraged, not discouraged.

After the police left, I listened to the radio for awhile longer, then settled on the bench to sleep with my beachtowel, rather inadequate protection. Someone woke me. I was still sufficiently drunk and half-asleep, thought my waker was the Sleeptalker. Well, there was a definite similarity but I quickly realized it was a stranger when he asked "can I suck your dick?" I don't know what drug he was on, but it seemed clear he was on something. I said sure, but only if I could do the same to him. He immediately pulled down his shorts, was already standing tall. But he didn't want to take it to conclusion and didn't want me to, either, when he got his wish. He wanted more and lay facedown on the grass beside the bench to offer it. I said there were too many people around, a more gentle way I hope than being honest and telling the poor fellow I just didn't want it. He said okay, pulled up his shorts and went looking for a more cooperative playmate. I hope he found one.

On Sunday I bought rolls, cheese and beer even before heading to campus, was sitting in the secluded grove with that and the Grisham book when the Cherub arrived. We spent the rest of the afternoon together drinking and talking. He had been given tickets to the basketball game that evening but I declined the invitation to join him, that activity being my least favorite of America's team sports, and he didn't seem all that keen on it himself, was quite late in finally leaving for it.

A full and thoroughly enjoyable week, even if with too much beer and too little food, even if with that wicked drug ice (yes, I seriously do think it's a "wicked" one), even if with what is sometimes too hectic a social life for this old man and his hermit leanings. No complaints, though, no complaints whatever.

861

I'm always premature, jump the gun, and never moreso than with the seasons. Here I am, already in the winter of our discontent mode and there are still five more weeks of autumnal discontent to get through. Why, one may well ask, after such a relatively dazzling beginning to the eleventh month of 2001, do I reach the midpoint of it and feel discontented? Well, of course, I don't really know, which is pretty much what discontentment is all about, in my experience. I just don't feel happy with my life but haven't got a clue what to do about it and so just feel discontented.

Larry McMurtry's touchingly amusing The Evening Star is helping while at the same time discouraging. Such a delightful cast of old folks (or, as the heroine prefers, "late middle age" folks). But they, like I, now and then sigh because "late middle age" just ain't the calm, peaceful, non-lust-infected time we thought it would be.

And I've been feeling again that mood I mentioned not long ago, the one where I want to get a tee shirt that says I HAVE NOTHING FOR YOU, LEAVE ME ALONE. I get so weary of people asking for things ... spare change (why would a man in my position have any spare change, for God's sake), tobacco, beer, food, sex ... Well, okay, that last one doesn't happen often enough to mind, but the others are daily intrusions and I get fed up with them. I heard the Sleeptalker calling me early on Wednesday morning. He was at the bus stop, presumably to catch a campus-bound one. I just waved and indicated I was headed to the men's room for my morning wash and toothbrushing. I'd been grumbling through my morning coffee about just wanting to be left alone, even though I knew I'd soon grumble even louder if I were. The grumbles intensified when old Joe Guam stumbled along and asked for a smoke. So it wasn't a good time for the Sleeptalker to appear, and instead of going directly to the bus stop later, I wandered around upstairs in the mall looking for snipes, the thing Joe Guam should have done instead of pestering me.

When I got back to the bus stop, no sign of the Sleeptalker, nor was he in the library when I got to campus. But as I was boarding a bus to pick up my lunchtime sandwich, chips and brew, I saw him getting off a bus and go walking across the lawn. I wasn't sure if he'd seen me or not, although he told me later he had. I sat in the secluded grove with my lunch and the book, expecting the Sleeptalker to arrive at any minute. Instead, he waited until later, came walking over to my table in the park as I was having my sunset brew. He did ask for smokes but at least didn't ask for beer and I didn't offer any.

He'd been with Angelo since our last time together in the park but Angelo had gone somewhere, was supposed to have met the Sleeptalker in the mall or the park but didn't show up, so the Sleeptalker had spent all day by himself, the one thing he hates most. I asked what progress he was making with the welfare dance and it seems on track thus far. He has an interview with the qualifying doc next week and is determined not to miss it. He also has an interview lined-up, once again, for one of the government sponsored education grants which would allow him to attend school of some kind (where he wants to "study computers"). He went through that before without success but maybe he'll get luckier this time ... if he keeps the interview appointment.

He left to get the bus to IHS, was still there when I walked over to do the same. He was chatting away with a man I've never seen before, so I stayed some distance away and discreetly glanced their way now and then. They sat on opposite sides of the aisle on the bus and it was most amusing to watch the Sleeptalker do his flirtatious act. Although the stranger seemed friendly enough, I guess he wasn't taking the bait, because the Sleeptalker suddenly got up and left the bus in Chinatown rather than continuing on to IHS. What a slut, I was thinking, but with affection.

Then I dreamed I had just arrived in San Francisco, had a small stack of hundred dollar bills but knew they'd eventually run out. Some people were trying to get me to work for them. A woman showed me her messy weekly calendar, wanted me to maintain a nice, tidy computerized version for her, but I knew I just couldn't cope with that kind of work and was worrying about how to make the contacts to find out how best to live the homeless life in a new city. Meanwhile, in this so-called real life, I'm hanging onto my last twenty dollar bill as if it was a life preserver and I'm on a sinking ship. Only problem with that is, I know the damned piece of paper will sink right along with me. Still, considering the temptations of early November, I guess I've done better than could be expected to have even that one bit of greenery left.

862

After a visit to campus on Friday morning, I stayed offline through the weekend. The early Friday visit was necessarily brief since it was time for another half-hour with the Psychiatrist, a very very unsatisfactory one which left me grumbling all day. I suppose I should appreciate his candor, just quietly smile my way through his temperance lectures and take or not take his prescribed dope as the mood strikes me. He said he would not ordinarily give any medication to a patient who drinks alcohol, was only doing it for me because the Qualifying Doc thinks I should have it. Since surely the majority of people who see him with problems of depression indulge in the one legal, cheap drug they can get, his attitude is peculiar, as I see it. In any case, I think he is just reconciled to seeing me since insurance covers it and he's doing nothing much but ensure I continue to get the Crazy Money. And of course, I am grateful for that even while I grumble about a "psychiatrist" who doesn't want to talk about anything but chemicals. He wants me to taper off the Neurontin, eventually stopping it altogether, while doubling the nightly Remeron dose. Shrug.

Rather than return to campus, I just stayed in the park for the rest of the day after visiting the State Library and getting some inconsequential lawyer yarns to pass the time.

When I got to campus on Saturday morning I sat in the secluded grove rather than heading to a computer, and was finishing my early lunch and first bottle of beer ("you are self-medicating yourself", the Doc had said) when the Cherub arrived. We went to get more beer and talked for awhile in the secluded grove, then went to the beach park. We hadn't been there long when I said, "ah, here comes the hot tamale". Angelo.

I ended up spending the night with him, sleeping on sheets of cardboard in a tennis court, grateful it didn't rain. I hadn't realized we were in a meteor shower and was dazzled in the pre-dawn hour by seeing more "falling stars" in a few minutes than I've ever seen before. The hour before sleeping was equally dazzling in its way. Angelo is a real sweetheart and, yes, "hot tamale" is affectionately accurate. I never expected to find it out and didn't expect it to be a repeating pleasure, one which becomes increasingly so with the more relaxed dance that familiarity always brings. I am a lucky old man.

We had breakfast together on Sunday morning, then separated as I went to have a shower and then to the laundromat. End of the November Crazy Money, as my accumulated quarters were reluctantly fed into the washer and drier. I must force myself this time to get darker trousers. It's just impossible, wearing light tan pants with the life I lead, especially with often-grubby park benches and the almost-as-grubby floor of the shelter where more often than not I end up with nothing but my beach towel to sleep on.

That place has been surprisingly less crowded recently so there has at least not been the problem of finding floor space, but they continue to keep too small a stock of mats on hand (or put too many of them downstairs for the "walk-ins").

Helen R is going home to Kauai for Thanksgiving so we will not have our usual pig-out at the Sizzler in Waikiki. (This is sensible, since I just can't eat enough to justify the all-you-can-eat-buffet tariff.) So she kindly invited me to an early dinner on Sunday and I once again wallowed in the delight of the hot roast beef sandwich at the venerable Likelike Drive-In. Never mind all-you-can-eat, that plate of bread, beef, mashed potatoes and yummy gravy always leaves me feeling stuffed.

Earlier in the afternoon I had been keenly interested in a lengthy program of new American music played on NPR and was delighted to finally hear a worthy composer who is carrying forward the tradition set by Copland and Thomson. Mark O'Connor. His "American Seasons" is a fine piece of music and his "Appalachia Waltz" is so good I am eager to hear it again.

After the feast with Helen, I sat in the park watching the sunset. Paulo came over, seeking a beer. Sorry, my friend, try again in ten or eleven days. Joe Guam stopped to say goodnight, didn't ask for anything (much to my surprise), but was moaning because he had no money for Monday's beer.

I have enough for Monday. Then we begin the usual end-of-the-month poverty act. Je regrette rien.

863

Meanwhile, I survived the Mars-Saturn square, was more or less tricked into indulging in a traditional Thanksgiving dinner, heard some most excellent music on several occasions, saw two amusing films (Mars Attacks and Star Trek: First Contact) and always had plenty to drink: that was the holiday that was.

The first Thanksgiving of these homeless years. On the second one, I fell in love again on Thanksgiving Day, this time in the old-fashioned All American way, with an image on the Silver Screen. Brad Pitt in "Meet Joe Black" is the Cat's Meow, the Top, the smile on the Mona Lisa, etc. etc. Scratch everything I've said about good-looking men. He wipes the slate clean, eliminates all competition. That was with Helen R, at the Kahala Mall, followed by the all-you-can-eat buffet at Sizzler's in Waikiki.

The third was spent in the Castle Medical Center and I recall absolutely nothing about it, although I'm quite sure it didn't include the traditional turkey dinner, unless the stuff had been ground into the mush I had to eat for such a long time.

It was back to Sizzlers in Waikiki for the fourth Thanksgiving: I saw Mondo at the mall early on Thanksgiving morning, but just waved to him, kept on walking. He looked thoroughly stoned and equally thoroughly happy. And while I was waiting for Helen R outside Sizzler's in Waikiki, Rocky came along with a fellow I've never seen before. He wanted to borrow five dollars. I told him I just couldn't do it, still had another week to get through. He took it well and bounced on his way, after pulling up his shirt and giving me a glimpse of his brown belly and fancy boxer shorts which I complimented him on.

And the fifth? Well, we shall see, since this is being written on the eve of the holiday.

I do not have a single memory of Thanksgiving in childhood although it's fairly certain the earliest ones were spent with my maternal grandmother. Unlike a few things my mother cooked (including her cornbread stuffing), I also don't remember anything at all which my grandmother served us through the years. Odd. I'm sure my memory of the two songs I most associate with the holiday originated in childhood ... "over the river and through the woods to grandmother's house we go" and "we gather together to ask the Lord's blessing" (the latter, as I recall, sung to the tune of the Dutch national anthem). Although we might have crossed the San Antonio River on the way to grandmother's house, there surely weren't any woods and no question of a horse-drawn sleigh.

Memory doesn't serve any better in later years, at least not until 1973 and the Thanksgiving feast offered by the wonderful Bahai lady at Unity Restaurant in Kathmandu. Then there is again a blank until the early years in Waikiki, preparing the usual fare for my nephew even if the holiday was a new tradition for him. We had no oven in the Waikiki apartment, so I braised boneless turkey breasts lightly, then filled a huge cooking pot with stovetop stuffing (fresh celery added) and the turkey, let it sit on very low heat until it was all "baked". Mashed potatoes (the real kind, not the instant crap I sometimes resorted to after a day in the office), cranberry sauce, wine. Those were the best Thanksgiving celebrations I remember.

Meanwhile, in the days leading up to this one, Dame Fortune has been kind. Much to my surprise, I managed to acquire nine quarters in the mall on Tuesday after having already found enough for a daily brew. Discipline called forth, I did NOT (also somewhat to my surprise) yield to the temptation to have two, saved it for Thanksgiving Eve. Despite Remeron, I had a very difficult time getting to sleep Tuesday night, not helped much by seeing the Sleeptalker making a wild dash out of IHS just as I arrived and Chico trying to grab me for conversation or whatever as I went up the stairs. "I'm just going to sleep," I said. "This early?!" Uh-huh.

Earlier I had gone to the State Library to make sure I had enough mindless reading to get me through the unpromising holiday. Angelo was there, had just come in from Waianae where he'd gone after our night together. Later I saw him again when I walked over to the River of Life soup kitchen where he was standing outside talking with RedEye. I thought they served lunch at one o'clock but discovered it was at 1:30, didn't want to hang around so said goodbye to the lads and returned to the mall and the bountiful Quarter Hunt. The food supply was more than bountiful, so there had been no need to wait for that lunch anyway.

The holiday reading is a David Baldacci double-feature, his 1998 The Simple Truth (he tackled the Supreme Court before Grisham?) and his following novel, Saving Faith. I do envy slightly the way these people can turn out one best-seller after another.

Meanwhile, what do I have to be thankful for on this Thanksgiving? Well, it's all in the Tales, isn't it?

864

The Thanksgiving party took place on the Eve. I walked over to the park, sat down to enjoy my sunset brew after giving up on the Quarter Hunt even though I was still two quarters short. Tanioka came over, said they were sitting at a table further down and asked me to join them. Angelo and RedEye. The party continued until it was too late to get to IHS and I was too drunk to go there anyway. Vodka and orange juice, a little roast chicken and several varieties of Angelo's beloved raw fish, a major dent in the $31 I'd been pleased to still have on my foodstamps balance, and an extra dollar in pocket for that holiday brew.

The major gossip item of the evening was the news that Rocky's sugar-daddy, the UH Professor, had finally gotten his new apartment and both Rocky and the Sleeptalker are staying there. The poor man and/or the lucky man? One thing's for sure, it's an arrangement that can't last long. Rocky apparently has a job with long hours and a very early start, so I guess the Sleeptalker must have the place to himself for most of the day. Odd he hasn't taken advantage of the computer, but maybe he's not permitted to use it when Daddy's not home. Odd, too, the Sleeptalker had been at IHS the night before, although I don't know if he'd actually stayed there overnight. It's too dark when I leave in the mornings to identify the bodies on the floor.

Since I couldn't get to that hellhole, I spent the early hours of Thanksgiving Day sitting alone on my favorite bench at Magic Island. I didn't sleep until after three in the morning. Fortunately the night was not disturbed by rain, the sprinkler system, or the police.

Most of the day itself was a quiet time, alone in the secluded grove, reading Baldacci's Saving Faith. I went to get that bottle of Colt in the early afternoon, enjoyed that with the suspenseful finale of the book and then worked on some cards, continuing the first work using the panoramic cards and deciding to call it "Faith".

And Michelangelo finally came down
After four years on the ceiling
He said he'd lost his funding
And the paint had started peeling
And he told us that his patron
His Holiness, the Pope
Was demanding productivity
With which our friend just couldn't cope
And he rode off on his skateboard
With his brushes and his blade
Muttering something 'bout some food
And the Thanksgiving Day Parade
... from Dan Bern's "The New American Language"

I decided not to take advantage of any of the free food opportunities but when I finally went to the beach park at sunset there was, as usual, a lot of food deliberately left on tables by early picnickers, including one large roasting pan filled with large chunks of turkey, corn and yams. I noticed in the distance that the table near Lord and Lady Moana's usual territory was loaded with foil-covered pans and dishes, guess they must have gone around gathering up all the offerings they wanted. The one day of the year when folks feel obliged to share with the less fortunate. I heard on the radio that the Salvation Army's annual holiday meal served more than 2500 people. I'm glad I decided against attending that one, for sure.

IHS was less crowded than usual and after my brief sleep the night before, I was very quickly off in dreamland, happy to have gotten a mat for the first time in many nights.

When I got to the mall, used the now almost-extinct foodstamps for two cans of chilled coffee, I had to sigh over the long line of people standing outside the toy store and the people who had already managed to get inside the place, were lugging away huge shopping bags of stuff. At six-thirty in the morning!

The madness begins.

865

Thanksgiving Day may have been a quiet, mostly solitary day, but it certainly was sandwiched between two extravagant parties. I had three Thanksgivings this year.

After a few hours on the mostly deserted campus Friday morning, I went to the State Library, picked up a couple of novels, checked the (empty) mailbox, and returned to the mall. It was densely packed. Food was abundant, tobacco even moreso. It looked like people arrived, parked their cars and then took a few puffs off a cigarette before the urge to shop overwhelmed them and they stubbed out the smoke. But not many people were visiting the supermarket and by late afternoon I'd only found one quarter, reconciled myself to its being a no-beer day.

I was searching for a discarded cigarette box since the one I had was stuffed with lengthy snipes. And I detoured past the Ethel M Chocolates shop to have another look at that handsome Micronesian fellow who works there. A crumpled ten dollar bill was on the sidewalk in front of the shop! The little melon that fell not from heaven but no doubt from someone's pocket or purse. Oh lucky man.

So I bought a bottle of Colt and went to the beach park, started reading We'll Meet Again by Mary Higgins Clark, a somewhat irksome multiple-murder yarn so littered with red herrings that it's hard to keep track of them, much less guess which are important. The Sleeptalker walked by at a little distance from my table, made no sign he'd seen me. He headed down to where Paulo usually sets up his "kitchen", but soon returned, paper cup in hand. Whiskey, from the smell of it, and he was already fairly buzzed. I'd seen Paulo earlier in the mall and he was not just fairly but totally zonked. He has been getting regular work on a fishing boat lately and I suspect all the profits are going into food, booze, weed and, of course, the glass pipe. The Sleeptalker said Paulo had been taking care of him for the past three days.

I told him about the Thanksgiving Eve party. He said Rocky was mad at him. Well, I wonder why, my son? It's not the Sleeptalker's fault, naturally. He doesn't want the Professor, the Professor wants him. Left unsaid is the obvious; he may not want the Professor, but he wants all the luxuries the poor man provides. He had talked to the Professor about me, said the man told him I was "taking advantage" of the Sleeptalker! Cough, splutter. My friends tell me the Sleeptalker is taking advantage of me, his friend says I am the one taking advantage. Well, I reminded the Sleeptalker that I'd told him just that myself.

Having emptied the cup, he walked back toward Paulo's table and, much to my surprise, the Cherub came walking over the little bridge. I'd expected him to stay on Kauai for the weekend. The Sleeptalker returned and the two of them went to the mall for a round of beer, which was followed by two more such trips during the course of the evening. The Cherub had spent the holiday with his Mother and brought along some turkey and a little jelly glass full of truly excellent cranberry sauce. I haven't seen one of those little glasses in a long time. Instant childhood memory, since it was just such one-time containers of jelly which provided our drinking glasses, the "good stuff" only brought out for company.

Later some black man I've never seen before joined us. One would think that having a bona fide black man at the table would have squelched the Sleeptalker's horrendous "jive talk" act, but no such luck, and after the Cherub had given him money to buy some weed and we'd smoked it, the Sleeptalker got even worse. I got up and walked off, the Cherub following me. "He is just a bore," I grumbled, surprised at how deeply I meant it ... and how true it is.

So another night on a Magic Island bench, having to switch sides of the island when the sprinklers erupted in the wee hours. It's really getting too cold for nights under just a beach towel. I either have to get a tarp and lug it around or give up on these late, drunken nights. But at least it didn't rain, except from the sprinklers.

Saturday was another day alone in the secluded grove. I finished the Clark book. She did manage to weave most of the red herrings into a sensible conclusion but it became far too obvious who was the real culprit long before the ending. I'm spoiled, I guess, by Agatha Christie, prefer my murder mysteries to remain a mystery until the final pages. Next up was Danielle Steel's The Long Road Home in which she puts the heroine through just about every horror that could happen to a human being.

I went downhill for a brew in mid-afternoon and then as sunset time approached went to the mall for another one. The Sleeptalker was in the supermarket. He looked awful. I've never seen him looking more derelict. Life with Paulo must be continually burning the candle at both ends.

I passed near Rocky twice. The second time he surely must have seen me but acted as if he hadn't. If he's as mad at the Sleeptalker as reported, he's probably looking upon me as the enemy, too. Unlike the Sleeptalker, Rocky was looking good, very good.

The Sleeptalker didn't come over to my table later although Joe Guam stopped for the usual post-sunset chat. And then it was off to IHS where once again I was lucky enough to get a mat and there was a vacant space right by one of the large floor fans, my favorite. It's hard to discern any pattern to that place, why it's sometimes so totally full.

This is certainly the time of the year when I would most like to unplug the internal jukebox. All it needs is to hear a few bars of a seasonal tune and it plays it for hours and seems, perversely, to get stuck on the silliest ones. At least this year the mall has broken the usual pattern and instead of continually playing a loop of holiday songs performed by local musicians, have instead put together a more classic collection ... Crosby, Fitzgerald, Sinatra, etc. But I still think a whole month of the stuff is just too much, wish they'd wait until two weeks before Christmas. And I wish the internal jukebox would shut up.

I was sitting in the Philo Walk with my Sunday morning coffee when the Sleeptalker walked by, sat on the next bench without saying anything. He looked even worse, must be really on a downhill slide. The overhead lights went off so I put my book away, picked up my coffee and said "too dark" and went to sit somewhere else.

Jonathan Cainer is taking some time off to work on the next annual messages and has brought in a substitute who writes in much the same style. His message for the last week of November begins "You've finally run out of patience."

He may be right.

866

... in that cool lockup look of six inches of pastel undershorts showing. The fashion statement got started in jail when inmates had their belts confiscated so they couldn't hang themselves or someone else. The trend had crossed over every racial and socioeconomic line until half the city's pants were falling off. Patricia Cornwell's explanation in Hornet's Nest. I didn't know the style was a Mainland one, never saw it until I came to Hawaii. It sounds like a plausible theory for its origin, too.

That I find rather charming in its way, but I do not find anything the least bit charming about white boys imitating what I, in my old-fashioned way, see as black "jive talk". Three local lads passed me in the mall on Monday afternoon, all loudly in this trashy mode. So it's not just the Sleeptalker, alas. Ugh. My first thought was, how quickly can I manage to get out of this country?

It wasn't the first time I've thought that in recent months.

Although the Cherub stopped by the secluded grove and we talked for awhile, Sunday was again mostly a solitary day. When I returned to the mall in late afternoon I quickly found enough quarters for a sunset brew, then lingered over it longer than I should have at this time of the month since IHS was almost out of floor space when I finally got there. The same thing happened on Monday night. I went to campus for my usual early morning on-line time, including awhile in a new MUD I've been playing for a few days, Elysian Fields. It's similar to Seventh Circle but unfortunately doesn't seem to have as many players (the "Immortals" usually outnumber the "Mortals" three-to-one when I've been on). Still, it's fun to play where I'm a complete stranger ... and don't have to worry about the Sleeptalker suddenly appearing.

Then to the State Library for more reading material. I wish they'd enlarge the space for their "honor collection". The mailbox was empty, except for a reminder that the rent is due in December. Back at the mall, snipes were again plentiful but quarters were not. I finally gave up, was taking a break in Philo Walk when Tanioka and Angelo walked by. Tanioka was all wound up and excited about an idea he has ... he wants to start a non-profit business "to help the homeless". I'm afraid he is thinking much more of the salary he could pay himself (and Angelo) than in actually assisting the homeless, although I suppose he'd at least be helping two homeless people. Make that three with his scheme to hire me as a consultant. I told him it was fairly easy to set up a not-for-profit business, isn't at all easy to get non-profit status which allows people to make tax-deductible contributions, and also mentioned he'd have to come up with some decent ideas to match or better the competition (including IHS). He doesn't seem to have a single one at this point, but what the hell, if it gives him and Angelo some amusing moments of fantasy, no complaints from me.

I told them I was still searching, needed four more quarters, and was going to resume the hunt, as much to escape the "business meeting" as from any expectation of actually finding the money. They were going to bag some vodka, asked if I had foodstamps to buy juice. I lied and said the stamp money was all gone, and it was, except for the few dollars needed to ensure morning coffee until, I hope, the Fabled Pension Check arrives. I know, I could have spent my quarters on juice and joined in the vodka party but I really wanted beer. I am not an alcoholic, I'm a beeraholic. Weird thing was, I found those four missing quarters almost immediately, despite the Mongoose prowling the area. (He must have discovered that the Quarter Hunt has improved a little, albeit not much.)

So I got my sunset brew, looked over to see if Tanioka and Angelo were in the park but didn't see them. I hope they didn't get busted.

A reader wrote: Running out of patience ? I don't know. You sound more worried than out of patience. Perhaps so. But I really should know by now what wasted energy it is to worry about the Sleeptalker. He always finds someone to take care of him, even if most of the comfortable situations he lands in are short-lived. True, he is looking much worse than I've ever seen him before and that is a little worrying, especially since he should be getting Crazy Money in a few days. How he'll cope with the glass pipe when he's already so wrecked, I don't know. But there's not anything I can do about it. I suppose more importantly from my own side at this point is that I'm not sure I'd try to do anything even if I could, and that perhaps is the relevance of "running out of patience".

I'm more inclined right now, moreso than I've ever been, to find a different path for myself. Premature, as always, since any genuine new path is far more likely to happen on its own when April arrives. I researched the situation with Social Security, discovered I can apply in late January and that payments will begin with April, not May as I'd been supposing. And there's a nice little increase in benefits starting with January, too. Since I'm planning to start early, I'll get 20 percent less than I would if I waited three more years, but there's not a chance in hell of doing that. So that largesse, added to the Fabled Pension Check, should bring in a little more than $750 a month. No great luxury in this costly corner of "paradise" but certainly enough to make a significant difference in my present lifestyle, especially if I managed to rid myself of some of the company I've been keeping. The question is, of course, whether I really want to do that ... or is this just one of those times when patience is, indeed, at low ebb.

867

It was raining lightly when I left IHS on Tuesday morning but even before I saw news reports it was clear the night had been a stormy one since the bus had to detour through downtown because fallen trees or branches had the usual road closed. Even on the detour route, one lane was closed because of fallen branches. The sky was solid gray, utterly devoid of any distinguishing feature, and it stayed that way all day. Rain almost never stopped and was very heavy at times.

I hocked ten dollars of December's income, bought a lunchtime beer and was trying to find a sheltered spot at the mall (Philo Walk was full all day). I ran into Mondo. "You just bought beer?" he asked. I admitted I had but did not offer to share it, went on my way looking for shelter. Ah, I hadn't before considered some benches at the far west end of the mall which are indeed under shelter. When the sky is less clouded, those benches are in full sunshine all afternoon, one reason I've never taken advantage of them. Another reason is the crazy woman who hangs out there all day, busily lecturing some invisible friend, complete with aggressive waving of her left arm. Whoever she scolds must be extremely bored with her. Me, too. But she stays on the benches near a store entrance and there are two others at some distance from those and I took up residence there for the rest of the day, adding a sunset brew as the time approached, although there was certainly no visible sign of the sun dipping below the horizon.

As expected, IHS was very, very crowded and all mats were gone by the time I got there. Mondo was there, asked if I had a cigarette. No, I didn't, nor did I offer a snipe.

The dreary weather was predicted to last three days but by early afternoon on Wednesday it had begun to clear. I made the usual morning trip to campus, had found an almost full plate-lunch box abandoned on a planter ledge at the mall so warmed it in one of the microwave ovens and had a splendid early lunch before returning to the mall for a bottle of Colt. Then to check the mailbox, a daily chore at this time of the month. The last volume of printed Tales I'd received had been prepared in a different binding machine than usual, the other machine having been under repair, and it had almost fallen apart just from its trip through the postal systems of France and the USA. So a better-bound replacement was waiting along with an elegant little catalogue of an exhibition in France of some variations on the Mona Lisa. It was tempting to start cutting it up for collage but I decided to hold off on that for awhile and dropped the whole package off for safekeeping, along with two works for scanning. Once those go up, the "Honolulu Exhibition" will be completed for 2001.

No Fabled Pension Check, alas.

Then I returned to the sheltered benches even though there seemed no danger of rain. The advantage of that new spot is that it's off the beaten track and I'm not likely to encounter any of the Bad Boys, at least until they discover I've taken refuge there. Then Cainer lectured on Thursday morning: All good things in life have their side effects, their drawbacks and their downsides. The sky suggests you are currently so conscious of a certain disadvantage that you can hardly see, any more, the positive purpose of a person, a situation or an item. You simply need to alter your vantage point. And you should.

Hmmmm ....

868

The Fabled Pension Check came and went, or almost. The December Follies, without the ice but with enough beer to fill a small swimming pool.

After finding the check in the postbox, going to cash it, making a stop at the State Library (futile gesture at being "responsible" rather than buying books), getting beer and cigarettes, I was sitting in the beach park when I saw the Cherub in the distance. As I told him, he, the Sleeptalker and Rocky are three guys I can recognize from their walk long before I can make out their faces. He had sold his car and had a pocketful of money which I suspect will probably vanish with record speed, even by my standards.

After another round of beer in the park, he suggested moving the party to the mall's Mai Tai Bar. On the way we stopped in the about-to-go-out-of-business "House of Music" where he contributed to the purchase of George Harrison's "All Things Must Pass", the 'thirtieth anniversary' two-CD boxed edition with eight extra tracks including a new version of "My Sweet Lord" recorded last year. That's at least the third time I've bought that set, the LP-version getting more play than any of the Beatles albums.

The old fellow who runs the cheap tobacco store had Harrison playing on the radio when I was there. I said I never expected him to die so young, although back in the Sixties we would all have thought 58 absolutely ancient. Now it does, indeed, seem he died too young.

There was a group of very local fellows at the bar who the Cherub somehow knew (although I haven't yet heard any details). I enjoyed listening to the conversation and especially liked the young man who was sitting on the barstool beside me, a truly sexy man. But eventually I got up and left without saying anything, too far gone to trust myself in such enticing company. Incredibly enough, one of the shops at the mall sold me a bottle of Colt. The way I was staggering had me seriously doubting they would (and it's a cinch the supermarket clerks would have turned me down). Heaven knows I didn't need it, but out to my favorite Magic Island bench I went, beer and George Harrison and the full moon. Luckily the night wasn't disturbed by policemen, rain or sprinklers, a minor miracle which was repeated on Saturday night when I was once again too sloshed to consider getting to IHS.

I saw Angelo, Tanioka and the Sleeptalker in the mall while I was looking for a place to enjoy my re-fill cup of Saturday morning coffee. The Sleeptalker looked a little better but was being very sullen, so I ignored him and talked with Angelo instead. Tanioka and the Sleeptalker headed off to the supermarket, I went to brush my teeth. When I returned, none of them were around, so I too went to the supermarket, bought beer, a sandwich and some potato chips and got that look the salesclerks always give when you buy beer at nine in the morning.

A little later Tanioka and the Sleeptalker joined me the park, none of us knowing what had happened to Angelo. Tanioka sent the Sleeptalker over to buy beer for them and after that, the Sleeptalker loosened up a bit. He's mad at Paulo already, still feuding with Rocky, and did something to have a new CD player and a twenty (or more) in his pocket. He said that black man who had joined us in the park the last time had traded a Walkman in exchange for "sucking my dick". Sheez, what a whore. Silly one, too, since he'd then thrown away the Walkman because of feeling guilty over how he'd gotten it. He made a trip to the mall, returning with a round of beer for us. I followed up with a food run, surprising Tanioka with a pound of raw fish. "I'd never pay cash for it," he said, when I answered his question about still having foodstamps in the negative.

We were joined for awhile by a young local couple, the first people I've met from Kahalu'u, a town on the other side of the mountains. The young man and the Sleeptalker made a beer run to the mall, returning with a large pizza as well. Then the Sleeptalker scored some weed, only enough for one smoke but ten dollars even so. It was very good stuff but that's more money than I'd be willing to pay. The couple went on their way and shortly afterwards Angelo arrived. Eventually the Sleeptalker wandered off without saying anything, didn't return.

Tanioka had declined sharing the smoke earlier, said he was in a "drug free" state except for alcohol and tobacco, but he more than made up for it with the brew. I've never seen him so drunk, and he's a very amusing drunk, too. He and Angelo had a lively debate about what makes a person "gay", Tanioka holding with the idea that having sex with another man, even if it's just getting a blow job, means you're gay. Angelo and I disagreed, Angelo adding the proviso that doing it for money was the key factor. They are both firmly convinced the Sleeptalker is gay. At this point, I think the Cherub and the Sleeptalker himself are the only people I know who would disagree.

They were going to GovSanc for the night so we parted and I returned to my Magic Island bench, had a very restless night since the gusty wind made it difficult to keep the beach towel tucked in, but at least it stayed dry. The wind continued to blow on Sunday and after almost being hit by a falling branch in the secluded grove, I decided it was time to sit in a safer place, finally left the campus and returned to the beach park for a sunset brew, listening again to the second disc of the Harrison set.

A sunrise doesn't last all morning, a cloudburst doesn't last all day ...

All things must pass.

869

The December Follies didn't stop, maybe still haven't stopped even though it's the eighth of the month and I'm having a little of that candle-at-both-ends feeling. It was more than a little on Friday morning when I felt worse than I have since those days and nights at Castle Medical Center. Alcohol poisoning, exaggerated by having failed to eat more than half a sandwich the day before.

Crazy Money Eve was the calm before the deluge, one of those rare times when it was just me and Tanioka, drinking sunset brew in the park. Angelo had been at the State Library earlier, had lost his Crazy Money card so had to spend the day getting that sorted out ... and he hasn't been seen since.

I had chores of my own to do on Crazy Money morning, including a trip to the discount clothing store and stopping by the postbox place to pay rent for three months. I decided not to go to campus afterwards, went instead to the beach park, had a shower and bought the first beer of the day. I felt something tickle my ear, thought it was a fly and reached up to brush it away.

Chico.

When I walked over to the mall to get another round of beer for us, I saw the Sleeptalker who joined us a little later. He's not taking his displacement with much grace but correctly sensed that it has happened. Chico is the man. And such a sweetheart. If Angelo is a "hot tamale", Chico is jalapeno hot as I discovered, much to my pleasure, later in the evening and again the next day. The Sleeptalker bought some weed, then got aggressive as he often does when stoned and drunk, but Chico shrugged it off. When we had the same combination going on Thursday, along with Mondo, the Sleeptalker and Mondo almost went at it, but the Sleeptalker backed off. He's itching for a fight but wants an easy target. Silly fellow.

After another round of beer Chico left to sleep at IHS, the Sleeptalker wandered off, and I staggered out to Magic Island to the bench, later had to move inside a shower house when it started drizzling. There was only one man in there, already asleep, and except for the bright light that stays on all night, it's actually quite a pleasant place to sleep.

I started on the beer far too early on Thursday, largely accounting for the misery of the next morning. Chico had a job interview so I wasn't expecting him until mid-afternoon, but the Sleeptalker came along around noon, sat there with his headphones on and had little to say except for making a few wisecracks about my "new boy". When Chico arrived I walked over to the mall with him to get more beer where we saw Mondo. After another round of beer, we had the near-fight scene, Mondo left and I moved with Chico to another table, leaving the Sleeptalker to sulk on his own. And yes, why not yet one more round of beer, after a repeat of Wednesday's delightful drink from the Fountain of Youth. Chico is by far the most natural and affectionate of the lads.

The Sleeptalker rejoined us but was still in his looking-for-a-fight mode so I wasn't at all unhappy when he again wandered off. Chico left for IHS and I was so sloshed I just walked over to the covered bus stop and slept there.

I felt on the edge of being sick throughout Friday morning, helped only a little by having cereal and yoghurt for breakfast. Then back to the beer and the book. I've been reading M.M. Kaye's Shadow of the Moon, a grand historical epic set in Victorian India, a strange work to have interwoven with all the real-life events of the week and made even more strange by its echoes of things that are happening in that area of the world now.

The Cherub arrived. As expected, he has gone through the car-sale money already. We went to Manoa Garden for a beer, the first time I've been there in months. Bartender Bryant greeted me warmly but pointedly ignored the Cherub, obviously still out of favor there. Then it was to the beach park for roast chicken and more beer. Surprisingly, none of the other Bad Boys appeared. I wouldn't have minded at all a third round with young Chico, not at all.

When it came time to make a move, I decided I'd go to IHS (for a change), so the Cherub went to get a bus home and I waited among a bunch of old veterans in town for the 60th Anniversary of Pearl Harbor, finally got to IHS and collapsed on a mat, didn't surface until almost six on Saturday morning. One thing that place really does have in its favor is providing the security to totally disappear into dreamland, and by then I was more than ready for just such a disappearance.

"Have you disappeared?" asked a reader about my absence from on-line life. "Like the Cheshire Cat, nothing left but a grin," I replied.

870

Poor little Chico. I'm afraid I just cannot be the Sugar Daddy of his dreams. Certainly there is a part of me which would love that role, but I can't afford it. Financially or in terms of energy, especially that mysterious energy called sexual desire. I know, sitting in the park on Friday evening, drinking beer with the Cherub, I had thoughts about how much fun it would be to have round three with Chico. But when the opportunity actually presented itself on Saturday evening, I declined. Sometimes I really am an idiot.

I enjoyed a quiet, solitary day on campus, spent a couple of hours catching up with on-line life, then sat in the secluded grove with a beer and a sandwich, finishing that excellent M.M. Kaye epic. I think it's one of the most accomplished novels about India, equal to her earlier Far Pavilions, even with its improbable but satisfying happy ending. Considering how many British perished in that uprising, it seems unlikely her hero and heroine would have made it. But the biggest shortcoming of the book was how little it touched on the people of India themselves, concentrating almost entirely on the (often, in those days, very stupid) British. Or so I see it.

On my second trip down the hill for another beer, I stopped in the used bookshop which was offering 25% on all used books. With that extra incentive, I abandoned the fifty-cent cart and splurged a little on Andrew Greeley's White Smoke. Father Greeley is, to use one of his favorite words, arguably, the only writer who could have tackled the idea of writing a novel around a conclave of the Catholic Church, an election of a new Pope. He's also probably the only priest who would dare to write about the present Pope in the way he does. As always with his books, it's also just a very entertaining read, aside from its controversial and thought-provoking aspects.

When I finally returned to the mall for my sunset brew, it was raining lightly so I stayed in Philo Walk and thus missed seeing Chico earlier since he had been in the park looking for me. I resisted the temptation to have a fourth beer, was waiting somewhat impatiently at the bus stop when he walked up, asked where I'd been and told me he'd been hoping to see me. A friend had cut his hair and it's now one of those slightly comic affairs with shaved sides and a thatch roof on top, the thatch left longer than most young men have when adopting this fashion. Chico is young enough and cute enough to get away with it, but I think he'd be much more attractive with something less severe. I didn't say so.

He was ready to go, willing to give it up just for a beer. Sexy Chico. I declined as gently as possible, blaming it on feeling tired and just wanting to get to IHS and go to sleep. I gave him the money for a beer anyway, thinking he'd go off to buy it. Instead he put it in his pocket and waited for the bus, too.

Fortunately, we arrived when there were still a few mats left and, equally fortunately, I grabbed a spot with no nearby vacancies. I really did just want to go to sleep and didn't want the distraction of having him too nearby.

No, I'm just no longer up to the role of perfect Sugar Daddy.

871

A reader wrote: I had also wondered, lately, if you weren't falling out of love and being depressed as someone who finds his world suddenly becoming empty.

I replied: Well, there is certainly that aspect of life just now. It's not easy adjusting to the fact that the long, long "love affair" with the Sleeptalker is over, and I suspect poor little Chico is just a way to temporarily ease the discomfort. I'm sure the infatuation has little chance of developing into the kind of dance I had with the Sleeptalker.

And it is not, of course, absolutely certain that dance is over. It won't be the first time I thought so and was forced to dance some more.


"Forced to" is the wrong phrase. "Charmed into". And the Sleeptalker turned it on full force Sunday evening when he joined me in the park. It was, indeed, charming even when he went into amusingly obvious overkill that would once upon a time have been irresistable. He was sitting on the table beside me, his feet on the bench, and twice lay back, pulled up his shirt and rubbed his flat brown belly. Cute, sweet ... and contrived. He even went to the extreme of leaving aside his precious CD player rather than his usual routine recently of keeping the headphones on constantly.

I saw him briefly earlier when he walked through the secluded grove, asked how long I'd been on campus. "Since early morning," I told him. "The bus is running?" he asked, and I told him it was. He continued on his way. Questions about the bus had been part of the day from the start since it was Honolulu Marathon day and although buses were running, they took extensive detours to avoid the race route. Shortly before the Sleeptalker passed by, the Ferret had stopped to chat for awhile. He has found a room in a building which sounds similar to the one Mondo lived in, single rooms with a washbasin but sharing a toilet and shower with three other rooms. The Ferret is paying three hundred a month for it which seems very high for such an arrangement but so things go in this costly "paradise" and it's a possible option for next year.

Aside from those two encounters it had again been a day of quiet solitude, a brief time on-line and then sitting in the grove continuing Greeley's fascinating book. I went downhill once to get lunch which I was still eating when the Sleeptalker walked by. I may be one of the few people who enjoy Campbell's "Chunky Chicken Noodle" soup eaten cold from the can, crushed saltine crackers added. I could no doubt find a container and warm the stuff in the campus microwaves, but I like it cold, even if it does seem a little too "hobo" to be sitting, eating directly from a can.

Late afternoon, I returned to the mall, got beer and cigarettes and went to the park. I didn't expect to see the Sleeptalker and was surprised when he did arrive, even more surprised by his friendly, chatty manner, but maybe not so surprised when he turned on the seductive charm. Eventually I told him I will always love him but I'm no longer "in love" with him and added that he really should be relieved by that. I don't think he believes it. And there is no question that he's still very desirable physically, proven by the barechested episodes which probably would have turned me on had it not been so comical.

Someone had left a shopping cart, complete with its quarter, very near our table. So when Joe Guam walked over and begged for the dollar he needed to get beer, I gave him three quarters and told him to take the cart away. I was tired of sitting there thinking I should be doing just that and considering the amount of effort I sometimes put in to get my own beer money from those carts, I thought it wouldn't do Joe any harm to do the same, at least once. He didn't want to, though, continued to plead for that one more quarter. The Sleeptalker didn't have it, said he'd left his money in his storage bin (?!). Finally I told the Sleeptalker if he wheeled the cart back and gave the quarter to Joe, I'd buy him a beer. Once again, a little to my surprise he did.

So when he returned, we walked back to the mall together for more beer and a tub of raw fish since he said he was hungry. The beer, of course, didn't help at all with his earlier charmingly seductive routine. He just can't drink without the anger and aggressiveness surfacing or least showing through cracks in the shell of charm. I didn't mind, find it easier to deal with him as he really is than with the act, no matter how delightful it is. I responded to his grumbles about Chico, "You're the one who told me there are plenty of fish in the sea. So I hooked one." And I said once more, "You should feel relieved." Probably again incorrect phrasing there. "Was hooked by".

The early part of Monday was again a quiet time on campus, finishing the Greeley book and so making a trip to the State Library in mid-afternoon. Back at the beach park, Joe Guam made several stops by my table but fortunately had beer already and was only hinting for tobacco. I had a box of meagre snipes ready, a neat ploy when there are two packs of cheap smokes in the backpack. Then the Sleeptalker arrived. "Aren't you hungry? Don't you want a burger?" which translated to "buy me a burger". I declined, said if I was hungry I'd walk over to the Krishna truck. So he asked for a cigarette. I declined again. If the rascal is keeping his own money on ice in his locker, he would have been smarter to have kept quiet about it.

He got up to make the walk to the Krishna truck, said he'd be back to "nag" me some more. But a short distance from the table he stopped to talk to an old, probably local Japanese, man and the two of them headed to the mall instead. I guess the Sleeptalker had found his burger. Further proof that I should stop subsidizing him in any way at all since he not only gets more money than I do, he also has what seems an inexhaustible supply of part-time sugar daddies.

One more chance to say no during a day of saying it over and over since Chico was sitting outside at IHS, loudly called "give me a cigarette!" when I walked in. I just shook my head.

No fool like an old fool, but even we have our limits.

872

I begin to feel about the Sleeptalker and his daddies as I do about the Quarter Hunt. I don't really care how many are scored but I'd be happier not to actually see it. Dame Fortune, though, seems to be working overtime on arranging unexpected encounters and the first on Tuesday was when I got on a bus headed back to campus after a trip downhill for lunch. The Sleeptalker was on the bus. He stayed in the secluded grove for a short time, complained of being hungry. Foodstamps all gone already? Yes, and he blamed Angelo for persuading him to sell the foodstamps to fill the glass pipe. I suspect Angelo hadn't had to work too hard on that persuasion. And the Sleeptalker had blown the rest of his Crazy Money as well after leaving me on Monday afternoon.

He hadn't met the man he left with before, he said. The fellow works on a ship which goes back and forth between here and California, so is only in town about every two weeks. He had taken the Sleeptalker home (a hotel maybe, details were sparse) and fed him spaghetti. "Maybe he's gay," said the Sleeptalker. Uh-huh. Whether the man had actually scored or not wasn't revealed but I suspect that was the case. In any event, afterwards the Sleeptalker had bought lots of beer and got very drunk. I'm glad I was spared that.

I didn't volunteer to buy lunch for him on Tuesday, so he left for IHS. Later I was sitting in Philo Walk since it was drizzling yet again (and had at frequent intervals throughout the windy day). The Sleeptalker walked by with yet another daddy, obviously enough gay there was no maybe about it. How does he find them all? I doubt he could grab them any faster if he hung out in the town's gay bars. And I won't be much surprised if he eventually starts to do just that. If only he could just relax and admit to himself that he actually wants and enjoys sex with men. Anyway, as I said, I do wish the Good Dame would spare me the encounters.

The Sleeptalker arrived in the secluded grove again on Wednesday morning. Since he doesn't rush off to play MUD as he used to, I suspect his main purpose is the hope of getting free lunch and/or beer and he got lucky because the Cherub joined us. We talked for awhile, the Cherub asking the Sleeptalker if he had any ideas about how to make money aside from selling his body. Good one. No tips from the Sleeptalker on that score. Eventually I got up to leave, make a trip downhill for beer and lunch. "Aren't you taking him with you?" asked the Cherub. No, I said, if he's crazy enough to have spent all his money and foodstamps already, let him suffer awhile. When I returned to the grove they weren't there, but I guess they'd made a visit to Sinclair Library since I saw them walk past a little later. Then they returned with beer, indirectly supplied by the Cherub's mother who had sent him money for Christmas. She was clever, since most of the gift was in the form of gift certificates (now done with plastic cards) from Border's and Macy's. The Sleeptalker didn't have a backpack with him so was going to sit there with the forty-ounce bottle clearly visible in the thin 7-Eleven bag. I said I wasn't taking a chance on getting busted, left to sit somewhere else. No matter how enjoyable the company, getting banned from campus for a year is too high a price to pay for it. I know, it's a risk to do it anytime, but I do try to be as discreet about it as possible.

I returned to the mall and beach park once I finished my beer. I was reading Frederick Forsythe's Icon and was inclined to take it back to the State Library and find some alternatives. The spy novel is not a form I've ever much liked, no matter how w