Started reading Robert A. Heinlein's The Puppet Masters. Heinlein's first person narrator describes another character as a "cross between satan and Punch of Punch and Judy." What's my point? It's interesting to note what people thought would endure the passage of years. I once wrote a sci-fi piece in which the Arsenio Hall show is playing on the T.V. Well, what the hell? There could be a come back for talk-show-Arsenio in the future.

 Went to "Beyond the Valley of the dolls with Kirsten and her friend Dorine who keeps a hair color about as long as any sane person keeps the end product of a bowel movement. Last night she was orange with yellow highlights. I'm currently researching my theory that she doesn't dye her hair and that the changing colors are related to mood along the same order of a mood ring. So far, the colors falling in the cold spectrum like blue, purple and green seem more likeable and manageable. Nothing of importance to remark upon about the showing of the film. Russ was on hand again to answer the audiences' uninteresting questions.

 After the film I met two more of Kirsten's friends. I was offered marijuana to smoke out of a former Oscar the Grouch children's shampoo container that had been converted into a water pipe. I'm not normally inclined to smoke pot, and was even less so in this case do to the manner in which the smoke was to be delivered. I couldn't bring myself to suck from a large gaping wound atop Oscar's skull like some mad muppet cannibalizer. "Eat Brains! Eat Brains! Ahhhhhhh!" yikes.

 It has been decided by Kirsten and I to take in some theater this afternoon. We're sitting outside Eagle's coffee pub, under an umbrella, looking through the L.A. Weekly. (We are looking through the L.A. Weekly, wise ass. Not the umbrella. Please note the comma.) A Los Angelean in his mid-twenties rides by on his bike. His face bares the lines and pangs of constipation as he pedals slowly and with much deliberation towards the gates of Valhalla's shitter. Our eyes meet and as his mask of pain intensifies, contorting his face into a pure expression of gastro-intestinal anguish that beseeches me to produce a toilet ex nihilo. I cannot and somehow he knows this. The wheels keep turning, carrying him on to his fecal fate.

 No more for today. The packers lost. The play was beyond hideous. Next weekend will be better.

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