Tuesday 3 March 1998

I’m at the Sandy Hut for breakfast—is this the date?—March 3 already—boy, half of March could slip by if I’m not careful. It’s cold and rainy out, so it feels like winter still, which is kind of comforting. It’s taken me over a month to move all my stuff to my new house—this is a record for ridiculous slowness for me. But I guess most of the month was dominated by the film festival—which turned out to be disappointing compared to the past three—but still we saw some really good movies. The best of all, probably, was the Wong Kar-wai movie—Fallen Angels—and lately it has felt like Wong Kar-wai is the real hope for the cinema.

I moved the last of my stuff out of our old apartment this morning—now my new room is so completely full I can’t walk into it. It will be the ultimate challenge making it into a functional room. It’s the kind of challenge I like—as long as I can keep from being depressed. I’m going to be late for work, but I had to get some coffee and something to eat before work—so I stopped at the Sandy Hut—just the same as the last time I was here. And it’s been a while. Got a big steak and eggs and potatoes for $4.75. CNN Headline News on the TV—on the several TV’s—you can’t avoid it—so I watch it. I guarantee that anyone who sits around and watches CNN Headline News all day will go completely insane. Without all the TVs in here, and the Oregon Lottery bullshit all around, this would be the most pleasant place in the world. It’s a little disturbing, people drinking while I’m eating breakfast—but that’s kind of comforting, too. The guy at the counter next to me is getting breakfast but no coffee—the hard liquor has caught his eye. He was probably working all night—now off work, breakfast—a drink sounds perfectly appropriate.

Friday 27 February 1998

Boy, what an example why this journal stuff never works and writing about the movies never works and working doesn’t work and nothing works. I’m really tired and kind of stressed out from being near the day of moving. How many trips have I made to my new house in the car already, and how many more to go? What movies have we seen and were any really that good? I’m just burnt out on everything, and sick of everything. Oh—I talked to Mark Keffer on the phone the other night—he lives in NYC—Brooklyn—talked about painting. He’s going to take a year and just paint. Go into debt, etc., it’s inspiring. I have to think about that, and not all these little things that depress me. Big things—painting, don’t worry about money. Think about that.

Tuesday 17 February 1998

Well, the film festival started, and we’re already completely immersed in it, with no time left over for anything else. You wouldn’t think that going to a couple of movies a day would be that time-consuming, but it is. I guess partly it’s just having to be somewhere at a certain time—and the film festival is massively popular as usual, so you have to be there early.

Sometimes it seems like it makes more sense for a couple (as in husband and wife) to not have similar interests—so like when the husband is out going to all these movies the wife can be washing dishes and cleaning. Just because that sounds so bad, I might add, and when the wife is out at painting class, yoga, tinkering with the 1966 Mustang in the garage, at band practice, etc., the husband can be taking care of the kids and knitting. Many families are like this. But to me it sounds no fun. So what if the dishes don’t get done for a week.

Okay—the movies defy easy and concise reviews in this particular context, so instead I’ll just run a continuous montage of observations, details, and feelings. Thursday night was the opening party, to which we were lucky enough to get tickets for (Heather and Elissa, for working on film notes—Heather as well for working on the film festival trailer). Aside from the gross smelling cheese table and the cheesy organic local microbrew and the lame-o Tazo tea table, the party offered little except for a crowded room in a pseudo art museum with—it offered nothing. I smoked a cigarette outside. The movie that evening was Almodovar’s new movie, Live Flesh. As with all Almodovar movies, I liked it, but I didn’t like it as much as most of his other movies—I didn’t like the story that much. Also, I felt like I was watching it with one eye, for some reason. I had to pee at one point, which always bugs me. But I don’t know if I was experiencing a lack of Almodovar or a lack of me, but something didn’t connect.

Friday night I saw Wake Up Love, from Argentina (I’m not going to put directors’ names in here for the most part—too much spelling involved)—surprisingly good—I expected it to be bad, or at least “Canadian.” (For an explanation of “Canadian Film Theory” see... well, we’ll wait until later, or someday.) Then a Bosnian movie, Perfect Circle—maybe the best movie about war I’ve ever seen. One doesn’t really need to say “anti-war movie” I don't think. Probably will be the best movie of the festival by the time it’s over.

Saturday, we got ready early and headed downtown for a noon show of Little Dieter Needs to Fly—Herzog’s new movie, a documentary about a German guy who was a POW in Vietnam and escaped. There were rumors that Herzog would be there, but he wasn’t. I met John Campbell, then, who Heather knows—he is a cinematographer who worked with Gus Van Sant on several movies. Then we stayed downtown, Heather, Elissa, and I—finally ate at Cafe Sol, and then went to Jour de Fete, an old Jacques Tati movie—his first movie, actually. It was about Tati as a postman in a small village—it was excellent. Just inspiring. Then the second show of the postman double feature, Junk Mail, from Norway, which was okay, but also lacking some major thing to make me like it.

Sunday was the Czech double-feature—Forgotten Light, a movie about a priest in a small village—and An Ambiguous Report About the End of the World—about a really far off outpost of civilization—with just crazy editing and one sordid event after another—an endless succession of births and death. Then last night was Wong Kar-wai’s Fallen Angels—really a couple of years old, but never played in Portland, I don't think. It was really great and inspiring—and really, if I had to pick a favorite director making movies it would probably be Wong Kar-wai.

Tonight? I don’t know yet. So far there have been several themes pop up—and coincidences—trivial, really, but still somehow shocking in the way things connect and resonate with each other. There were crossing-gate jokes both in Wake Up Love and Jour de Fete. Not a big thing, but how long do you think it’ll be before I see another crossing-gate joke? Both Perfect Circle and Forgotten Light had appearances by a German Shepherd—and in both movies it was shot and killed. That would’t be nearly so extraordinary except that also both movies had a brief appearance by a mackerel tabby kitten. I’m sure it means nothing.

Now that I think of it, the circle thing in Perfect Circle was interesting—the main character would draw flawless circles, he said, when his hand cramped up. I guess these circles were symbolic. How did it go now—I already forgot, I’ll ask someone—it was interesting—anyway, in a movie we saw a couple of years ago from Macedonia—by a Macedonian American guy—who?—called Before the Rain—there was also a circle theme, I recall—maybe just a circular structure. Really, an interesting structure.

Thursday 12 February 1998

I’ve gone all day thinking today is Wednesday, but it’s Thursday. I’m so tired and tired of being at my job, I can’t say I mind too much.

Anyway, the biggest events, to say the least, lately, have been breaking up with Heather and moving to a new place. I found a room in a house to move into about the beginning of this month. I paid rent but haven’t moved yet, and it’s already the 12th. But I’m taking my time, and also am reluctant to leave our apartment on Glisan Street, which I love. I want to do a few projects there first, before leaving—such as videotaping myself reading the first part of my novel, Middlebury, and also, finishing the first part of the video movie I’m working on called Seafood.

Now, the next biggest thing has come up—the annual Portland International Film Festival. This is the major event of the year, and it completely disrupts everything for the next 18 days or so. The past three we’ve attended have been excellent, overall, and I usually see a couple of the best films I see all year within the festival, and usually have some type of transcendent, great experience—finding out about a new director or something. I hope this year is the same.

In the past I’ve tried to write about the films, as I’ve seen them, like on 3X5 or 4X6 or whatever index cards. This has always been pretty much of a failure, but I still like the idea. I like using index cards, but maybe for writing about films, it’s not the greatest thing. After all, I’m not out to be a reference library or encyclopedia, so it doesn’t matter if I can alphabetize and remember everything and have facts, dates, etc. at my fingertips.

My idea this year is to try to write about the films here as I see them, since films are a part of life, and this is my life. Some will remain a big part of my life, and some will be forgotten. But at least it might be something I read later, and it would add clarity to my memory. We’ll see if it happens!

I still want to use index cards for some things—like my restaurant index—I’m going to try to start/continue that soon after moving.

Wednesday 11 February 1998

Tony was visiting for the last couple of days, so our evenings were full—it was nice to see him—hadn’t since moving out here, four years ago. Okay—the next big question about this project is: Do I use real names or fake ones? Is it fiction or non? Well, I’ve thought about it and I’ve decided to not change the names. That simplifies things, for one thing, plus I don’t want to call it fiction. I don’t want to call it non-fiction, either—or memoir, or autobiography or diary or journal. I don’t know what to call it—I suppose anything that would sell. It seems like no one’s interested in reading fiction anymore—or maybe there’s just already enough—anyway, it’s next to impossible to get fiction published, and then distributed, and then read. Tony said he knows a National Book Award winner who can’t get her novel published. So, I’m thinking, in this current blight, where people want to read dirt on the celebrities, but no novels, I’ll just write dirt and then become a celebrity somehow. I still feel that it’s all a load of shit, but I’m just writing—and it’s going to be so much true and so much fiction, etc. etc. no matter how much I try to do either one or the other—so I may as well just declare the form that I think will sell easiest—because the writing is going to be more or less the same either way. It’s style, it’s lies, it’s the truth.

Also, I’m really interested in filmmaking with the line between documentary and fiction narrative blurred. So this is an experiment along those lines, as well—and I also think it will be the future of the art form. So there!

The early versions of this project were in fictional form—so I don’t know how that’s going to fit all together—if it is. But anyway, what a mess. Some is written, rewritten (though not published)—and then there’s scrawled notes for years after that, and then there’s blank spaces. Maybe I should just succinctly outline the past several years—since the start of this project—and then we can just use that for reference, and get on with the present. Here it goes:

Fall 1988—moved to Cleveland.

January 1989 to December 1989—wrote project called Everyday—includes trip out West and then return to Cleveland.

January 1990—started “The Mauve Decade”—ideally a continuation of Everyday that would continue throughout the decade, century, and millennium. (Not sure when writing for The Mauve Decade was abandoned—will figure that out later.)

August 1990—moved to Iowa City with Elissa. Job at Zacson Corporation.

March 1992—quit eating wheat. Opened store: “The Secret Goldfish.”

Summer 1993—break up with Elissa.

Fall 1993—start going out with Heather. Quit drinking.

Fall 1993—work on American Job movie with Chris Smith.

Winter 1993—move to Seattle with Heather.

Summer 1994—move to Portland with Heather.

Fall 1994—move to Glisan Street apartment.

Summer 1995—work at Check Central.

Fall 1995—to NYC, American Job premier at MOMA.

January 1996—go to Sundance Film Festival with American Job.

March 1996—visit Chris in San Francisco to attempt new projects.

April 1996—visit Los Angeles, stay with Peter Rashkin—American Job at LAIFF.

Summer 1996—hired at SSBLS (on July 4th).

October 1997—Fuel Tour.

January 1998—break up with Heather.

February 1998—move to Beech Street house, basement room.

February 1998—start this project.

Monday 9 February 1998

EVERYDAY (Mauve Decade)

Today I suddenly feel like getting this monumental project off the ground, or digging it up, so to speak—starting over, starting a-new—or continuing—I don’t know. It’s the kind of day that makes me feel like beginning something, though it’s hard to tell why. It’s not the kind of day that usually brings up these feelings. It’s kind of wintery, but well above freezing, but overcast, and kind of depressing. But still, it feels like the beginning—and it never seems to at the right times. Like, January 1st—terrible time to start anything, except maybe abstinence. Today is like one month and one week and one day or two into the new year—and thinking back, it always seems like right about now, this relative time, is the new year for me, so here it goes, though it may be one another of a thousand false starts, who knows? If I was to worry about that too much, I just wouldn’t start at all. Looking back, I think why couldn’t I just keep writing a page or so a day—all through these past years with all the ups and downs? Just continue on as I did in 1989, and 1990—and how long? But I didn’t and I can’t get back now, and now I have to try to piece the pieces together and figure out what approach to take to—not make it all make sense—but to make something out if it. The question, I guess, is: Is there a book in this, and is it called The Mauve Decade? We shall see, I guess, or maybe not. Anyway, let’s get on with it.

A little earlier today I had the strong sensations that I often have that seem to be related to or triggered by a smell—more than likely a smell than anything else—and then evoke some kind of memory. It’s almost nostalgia, and almost sentimental, and pretty ephemeral, and damn near of no substance at all, yet I’d have to say it’s the single most powerful thing I can think of—this ability to enhance and alter moods, conjure something huge up out of nothing. I can’t control it—not at all, and often I think that it must mark the descent into insanity. But at this point it all feels pretty good and I’m not going to worry about it. I’m only thankful for these times and days that are enhanced by this fleeting rush of feelings, or glimpses of something at the edge of consciousness. I’m at its mercy, but not a slave to it.

If I am to continue on with this project, I must soon tackle the big question—how to fill in all the spaces since we last touched down. And there’s a lot of spaces there, filled with a lot of events and people. The project, if I decide to attack it, is to simply write each day about everyday things. There is no big ambition except for consistency and longevity. Originally the idea was to type a page a day, and at the end of a year I'd have 365 typed pages. Soon I found that that was not going to happen, and the best I could hope for was to write in a notebook each day, or on scraps of folded paper I keep in my back pocket. Type it up later. And then I found that, really, every day is not going to happen. And some days there would be a lot, some a little. So I certainly wasn't going to cut myself off at one page on a day when the words come pouring out—particularly if I feel at all inspired. There would be plenty of flat and impossible days to make up for later.

24 January 1998 – from Dream Notebook No. 1

I’m at a theater with many movies playing—in the lobby, deciding which to see. There are two submarine movies apparently playing next to each other—in the same theater, like split-screen! Anyway, each movie is represented by a different vat of popcorn, all in the lobby, and what you do is buy the popcorn for the movie you want to see. I realize sometime later that the movies are encoded in the popcorn, not even projected at all. I wonder what would happen if you mixed up the popcorn, what kind of experience you would have!

Thursday, 25 December 1997 – Portland, OR

Sunday Project – for Seafood – “The Christmas Story”

Christmas Day in the Multnomah Hotel, the lower-level reception room where there is breakfast for the guests. I’m a guest, I guess… at least it’s not Sunday, but then it is Christmas Day, which only comes one a week. Once upon a time it was the most special day of them all, Sunday. Everything was closed, yet everyone had to work anyway, the busses weren’t running, and our cars wouldn’t start. We had to walk, in the cold, unplowed streets, miles and miles and miles to the factory, and glue together those soccer balls.

You’re either a guest, or you’re a host. Typically, there’s a reciprocal thing going on. But in this unique situation, I’ve managed to become both the guest and the host, thanks to Mr. Ray Wheat, who left his credit card in the room that I rented, so easy to find. In fact, he must have wanted me to find it, or he would have at least put it under a loose floorboard or something. So there you are. Wheat, on Christmas Day, for being my host, and also allowing me to be the host—no, wait—I’m not a host. I’m only a guest. A host is—fuck that—you don’t want to be a host. You might get a couple dollars, but no, don’t be a host!

Sunday, 30 November 1997 – Holman’s, Portland, OR

Sunday Project

Special drinks: Peaches and Cream—undrinkable—Absolute or Stoli Martini—stupid. There were classic drinks, like the Martini, and Manhattan, and Jack Rose, and Side Car. Those are good, enduring names. Turning point in drink names: Bloody Mary, which has achieved a genuineness that makes it okay. Harvey Wallbanger—a real turning point, that in itself is dated enough to be interesting and amusing. But newer ones like Kamikaze—bad, but not as bad as these new (to me) ones on the “Specials” wall—the “Dirty Mother,” which, I don’t know, considering it’s short for “Dirty Motherfucker,” kind of warms my heart. But then, the “Panty Dropper”—no way you look at that as a good drink name.

I order the “Special Steak” again—which at $4.95 is the same price as sausage, cheaper than pork chops, and half as much as T-bone, filet, or NY steak. $2 cheaper than chicken fried streak. It’s not that this is the cheapest place in town—it’s average—but this special steak is a real bargain. How can it be so cheap? Why is it so special? One wonders if the meat involved is of dubious origin. But we won’t consider that, OK? In fact, it’s very good. And if it does happen to turn out to be a human cut or something, it’s a very good cut, and I couldn’t exactly say I’m resorting to cannibalism—I would have to consider it a choice. Once again, I hold on to my membership of the CPC (Clean Plate Club).

The Chocolate Martini is the stupidest idea for a drink I’ve ever heard—hopefully they don’t serve them here. No matter how idiotic any prepared formulation of liquor and sugar and flavor—I mean, factory made and bottled, just so it’s 42 proof and up, I could enjoy it. Most of the choices in front of me, here at the bar, look delightful. Were I to be drinking, and owned any of these bottles at home, I would finish it off in no time—and it wouldn’t be an ordeal. It would be better if I sat somewhere else, not at the bar, so I might think about people more than liquor. The guys next to me have drinks—one of them looks like cranberry juice and vodka—a healthy choice for 10 AM. The other guy has a little snifter of what is likely some brandy-like thing, plus his coffee. Also, reasonable. Down the bar a guy is drinking Wild Turkey and ice, along with Coke and ice—decidedly unhealthy. I didn’t go home and read my Bible last time I was here. I probably won’t today. But now I’m thinking about becoming a Buddhist, anyway, because I know, seriously, I’ll never be able to resolve the elements of Jehovah’s Witnesses or all Christianity that I don’t agree with. I’d like to study all religions, but not just the elements that have oppressed people forever, which is interesting, but too depressing and obvious. I want to find out about things I’ve never heard about before.

17 November 1997 – from Dream Notebook No. 1

I’m going up towards the Terwilliger Hot Springs at Cougar Reservoir, and it looks very different—all very open—I’m walking through the dry lakebed of the lake below. I walk straight up to it and all the trees are cut down and there’s a paved, cemented over area—I think it’s cemented over, but there’s still hot springs, close up. The rest is presented like a news story: Some people started bringing snakes in the hot springs, some of which thrived and reproduced. Many of the snakes were poisonous and bit people. Three people died. But many of the regulars became immune to the snake poison and were bit regularly. The government tried to get rid of the snakes, but they were protected under the Freedom of Religion Act, as the regulars had made it into a religion. Looks like I wasn't going in the hot springs anymore!

Saturday, 15 November 1997 – Portland, OR

Then it was the Emeryville train station for several hours, waiting for the late Coast Starlight. The last game of the World Series was on—Indians and Marlins—and I had to listen to it there in that very nice train station—on my little transistor radio that thankfully Mom had given me before I left Sandusky. It went into extra innings—a great game, but then the Indians lost, and all the redneck Marlins fans were all happy, but not really happy, because they didn’t give a fuck about baseball, and just were happy because the Marlins are from the South and so are they, and no stock car racing was occurring at the moment.

Then the train was the most annoying train ride ever—it started out OK, but—the romance of train travel is starting to wear off—and Heather and I were unfortunate enough to get the dreaded “snoring coach.”

Friday 14 November 1997 – Portland, OR

So we were enjoying our stay in San Francisco—the next AM we had our continental breakfast by the pool, and Heather and I also swam before we checked out. We tried to get a room for the next night, to no avail. Full. But that turned out well, since we were able to then stay in the Triton Hotel the next night which I liked a little better—fancier, but I liked the old building it was in, and that it was on the edge of Chinatown, nice lobby and stairways. Real nice bathtub.

I don’t remember the logistics of all this activity. Some talk at the Film Arts Foundation that night, plus American Job screening—at another personality-less cineplex—Chris was at the talk, with Hannah and Suzanne, so I did a Q&A after the screening. Tom was there, and also Denise. Diana came, with Jerry Miller.

Later we’re hanging out in front of the theater—and I take migraine pills and start to feel better. Then we see Greg Lynziki, and he goes with us back to the hotel, and we all walked to a bar in Chinatown. This is a constantly shifting group, actually. Then we sleep and next day Chris and Sarah leave for the airport, but we get to stay in the hotel in the morning and store our stuff there. Stephanie, Heather, and I walk around all day, go to North Beach, etc. Meet up with Rachel and friend for Chinese restaurant. Later, back to the hotel. Stephanie takes a cab to the airport, and Heather and I take a cab to the train station.

Sunday, 9 November 1997 – Holman’s, Portland, OR

Sunday Project

The coffee is helping with my current headache; it’s about 10:30 on Sunday morning, the second Sunday in November, and it’s been about 16 hours since I drank any caffeine, which is too long. I took a couple migraine pills before I went to bed, and I slept very well; woke up in the middle of the night, high. Very happy.

Smooth jazz, non-music. I want to play music that when you ask someone about it later, they don’t remember that any music was playing. There is an excellent bar here at Holman’s. I’m sitting at the bar. If this was a diner, it would be the counter. It’s technically a counter, but since we’re in a bar, and there is a bar behind the counter, this counter is also a bar. (Look this up in the dictionary.) Being here makes me mourn the loss of drinking liquor. I never could afford it, and still can’t, but that’s little consolation. Right now my choice would be a small glass of Maker’s Mark Whisky. I like how they call it whisky—it’s bourbon, but in their mind, bourbon is the only whisky, and it’s spelled Whisky, not whiskey. I will sit and meditate for hours, repeating the word “Whisky” over and over until I can taste the taste of bourbon, and smell the smell. The smell of the remains inside my Dad’s Beam’s Choice bottles, the fancy ones I saved.

Neat. All I need is a small glass—the only way to drink liquor is in a glass, neat. One would think that a person could drink a small glass of liquor on occasion and have only beneficial, medicinal effects. Or like dessert, on occasion. But I know it’s not true, and that’s so sad. It has nothing to do with quantity, unfortunately. There are those, perhaps, in a chaste way, who limit themselves to one glass, maybe one glass a day, or week, or whatever. This seems just as sad, in a way—enforced self-discipline, and why? It is because of fear, maybe not of one’s own alcoholism, but of what they have seen in others, in the alcoholics. They don’t believe it’s the alcohol; they believe it’s Satan; though they know, instinctively, or in their own heart, that it’s alcohol. They say it’s a tool of Satan, but I know there is no Satan, and there is only alcohol, and man. Back to the small, neat glass—I want the small, heavy shot glass. It’s all I need. I can rule the world from a small heavy shot glass, one at a time. It’s the color of the liquid in the glass, and its clarity; the glycerin climbing the sides. The smell is the most important, the most important thing of all. The sight of the glass, the color of the liquid, and the smell in the air. The complex relationship of the smell, then, mixing with taste, and then the burning sensation, especially on the tongue. It’s all down-hill from there. I can do without the rest.

“What’s the dishwasher’s name?”—from the waitress, one of many—a bad sound coming from a waitress’s mouth. I can guarantee she’s not asking him for a date. Scotch is next in line of things I miss. After bourbon. Especially Pinch, in the crazy, three-sided bottle. And then Drambuie, the king of all liqueurs. There’s gin, not my favorite, but think of the complex flavors in that Bombay Gin, and the cool persona of Tanqueray. The weird effects of ouzo, and the mythology of tequila, and whatever it is about cognac. I’ve got to get out of here—home, and read my Bible.

Thursday, 6 November 1997 – Portland, OR

I was really happy to see Heather at the Phoenix Hotel—it turned out to be a nice place with an outdoor pool in the courtyard and a bar that was quite popular. The rooms were painted very well, and the walls were wood slats painted yellow. Nice art on the walls—good ceilings. Kind of old and thriftstore-ish. We ate at a Vietnamese place a block away. Then waited for Stephanie.

Monday, 3 November 1997 – Portland, OR

Listened to two baseball games on the radio on the train—first, in Cleveland, then in Miami—Cleveland lost the first, won the second. Most annoying train ride I ever had, but still have a good feeling about the train, overall—really beautiful scenery, especially in Colorado in the daytime, and then Nevada and California the next day. Train arrived in San Francisco an hour late, in the evening, and I walked to the hotel. Actually, the train arrived in Emeryville and people going to SF take a bus to SF, Ferry Terminal. People were calling cabs, but cabs coming said it would be an hour! Saturday night, I guess. So, I walked instead. It turned out not to be so hard, walking up Market Street—my stuff was heavy, but not unbearable. Then I turned on Eddy Street, where the hotel is—and that street turned into kind of a scary urban environment, kind of poor and run down, people hanging out everywhere, and I felt kind of vulnerable carrying such big bags. Some guy asked me if I wanted to buy some Ensure. Finally, I got there, to the hotel, a welcome sight.

Thursday, 23 October 1997

Long drive to Philadelphia—stayed in a Holiday Inn. Pretty nice, but no pool. First morning there I walked around for about two hours, which was fun, and later we walked around putting up flyers, which was fun.

I called Sue Harvey—she had already seen the American Job movie. I had her pick me up and visited at her house. She’s married now and owns a house—huge row house, with a nice back yard and garden. She has a big dog and about five cats.

Later, second day there, we did a talk at Temple University. Then Suzanne and Margot left on a train for NYC. Oh, also, the party after the first show was at The Balcony—pretty nice place—and the bands were good! Sue and Scott (I think her husband’s name is) came to the bar, talked some more. Sue knows that guy T.J., who I met in Athens once and had breakfast with.

We left early on the drive for Columbus from Philly. It was an easy drive, really. Checked into the Ramada in Columbus, and it had a pool! Pretty nice big pool with a really hot hot tub and a really hot sauna. Drove downtown to campus late and ate at Garcia’s, which was weird. Next day we picked up Hannah at the airport and went to the theater. They put on a big show/block party, with IFC execs there, including Mark Lipsky. I met Jeff Frank, owner of the theater (Drexel). Here I experienced stress. Who should I call? Mom and Dad came down. It seemed hectic, but it all worked out. Ate with Mom and Dad and Aunt Mary Alice at the Kahiki, and then went to the movie. Had to talk a bit before the show with Steve and Hannah and Jeff Frank and Mark Lipsky. Then answered questions after the show. Then saw Gilmore—talked awhile, also Misun, and Loren Lazarony, and Ron House and Trina, and talked to Brian on the phone. Scrawl played. Called Beth and left a message. Took parents back to hotel, returned for the end of the big party, then back to the Ramada, the picked up my stuff, then drove to parents’ Radison, slept, up early, tried to swim in cold pool, but also hot tub and sauna were cold. It sucked. Drove back to Sandusky, ate at Millie’s Diner in Galion, and then came back to Columbus with the Buick, for the end of the American Job show, answered questions. Aunt Mary Alice and Gilmore were at that show. Relaxed the rest of the day—talked to Gilmore for a while—missed rest of the World Series game, then swam some more as Hannah videotaped us, and some young girls, and interviewed them. Got up early and swam. Sarah called the hotel in Cleveland, and they had no reservations or rooms. So we changed plans and drove to Sandusky, they followed me, and found a hotel room at the new Comfort Inn on Milan Road with a pool and good hot tub and sauna. Next day I drove with them (Steve and Sarah) to Cleveland and to WCPN for an interview (me and Steve). Then we went to the Ramada to check in, and meanwhile the Omni called, found reservations and gave them free rooms and dinner. So we checked out of the Ramada, picked Chris up at the airport and drove to the Omni. It’s a really fancy place, in a lot of fake ways, but some nice, like phones in the toilet. Then we went to our free dinner and then we went down to the Cedar Lee Theater where IFC exec was again (a nice woman from Milwaukee) and American Job showed at 7pm. Jeff and Robin came for it, and also Karen and Chris Nottage, and Tim and Carolyn, and Bill and Craig and Mike Baker. So that was fun. During the movie I called Heather, and Jeff Curtis. Also went to the restaurant for a ginger ale which was free—“On the house.” Went to the party briefly at the Grog Shop. Talked to Mike Baker. Left before bands played. Said bye to Steve, then, as he won’t be going to the West Coast. Hopefully Chris and Sarah will.

Had a good day in Sandusky on Tuesday, watched baseball Tuesday night. Left Wednesday morning, 7am. Chicago around noon, then big train for the West. It’s now Thursday, in Colorado.

Saturday, 18 October 1997

In Columbus for the second day—oh—what did I miss? In Philadelphia—called Sue Harvey, and went to visit her at her house—she owns it, is married to a guy named Scott (?), has a big dog and many, many cats. Later she and her husband came to the club—the Balcony, where some OK bands played.

The other high point was going to Temple U. to give a talk to film students.

Wait, to continue Boston—on the night of the show I called Nancy, met with her on a street corner, drove around, met her friend and 3½ year old daughter, Veronica! She said she was going through a bad divorce. And her mother died last summer. And Pete died last summer.

Later I had dinner with Revolution John and talked. Then the movie—met with John’s wife Roz, and then just before the movie, Claire and Karen and their friends. Talked to them all after the movie. Skipped the party.

Now in Columbus,

Now on the train—

Wednesday, 15 October 1997

Philadelphia

As expected, I’m getting more and more lax about writing everything down. But perhaps it can be salvaged. What are the high points?

We stayed, instead of at the shithole Susse Chalet in Boston, at the home of Esther’s grandmother, Ms. Nadia Williams, in Rockport, Mass, or more specifically, Pigeon Cove, Mass, which is a cape or something, jutting out into the Atlantic on the north coast of the state, near New Hampshire. Her house is an aging old house in the woods—the main part was built in 1660, and then additions were built a hundred years later, and then eventually more additions were added. We couldn’t remember exactly how many rooms there were, or how many total beds there were in the house—attics and back stairways, etc.

The next night we stayed by the ocean in “The Studio”—an A-frame, kinda, by the ocean, and at night and in the morning we walked by the Ocean, the Atlantic.

Sunday, 12 October 1997

Pigeon Cove, Mass

I’ve been falling asleep writing lately, quite a bit, really tired, drinking way too much coffee, too. Yesterday was a weird day, checked into the hotel south of Boston, then went to the theater, Kendall Square in Cambridge—kind of a weird, modern, mall complex type of place. We set up there, then met up with Suzanne, Christie, and Esther. I tried calling people, only talked to Revolution John. Then we started making plans. Plans, plans, plans, plans, plans, more plans than I can keep straight in my mind at once, more plans than can exist together at one time together with or without the help of experts who collaborate to plan to make plans together and with each other and among and with.

Friday, 10 October 1997

Providence, RI

Spending more time in the Motel 6 lobby. I am feeling rather relaxed and comfortable here, like a ______. [illegible] I’m just about as tired as I can be after a good night’s sleep. Yesterday, after the barber shop, drug store, walking around, we waited at the theater for the New York contingent from about 2pm until 6pm or so, when, oh, stayed there—ate dinner at the theater. Then we went down to the RISD auditorium, met with John Terry, the head of the film department. We set up in the RISD auditorium, which was quite nice—and big, and had a pretty good video projection system. Steve and I noticed a squirrel in the auditorium, a squirrel that would otherwise have gone unnoticed. They put a table and chairs on stage and Margot, Suzanne, Steve and I sat there and one by one showed respective clips and talked about them and the movies. I don’t really remember what I said—just rambled on a little bit about its origins and the script and lack of a script. It all went pretty well, answered questions, and then we went back to the theater (Cable Car Cinema) and to a club (AS220) and here and there. In between I introduced American Job screening, then talked to like three people afterwards, who were very nice. Went to the club, it was a drag by then, but downtown Providence was excellent.

At least three people interviewed me yesterday—two from local school newspapers, and one guy on the phone from Ohio—Cleveland, or Lorain. I went to check out Carberry House, as Heather asked—it’s abandoned now. Today I called Jonathan, and me and Steve and Sarah drove out there and visited—his wife, Cindy, wasn't around but their new baby, Emma, was, and their cat and two new dogs. It was really nice to see him—high point of the trip so far. Now we’re at the theater on a Friday night. I’m really quite tired.