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1972 7 of 8


DIARY 3347

FRIDAY, OCTOBER 20. Up late, rather uncomfortable with the moist heat of the broken radiator, and get a note under the door saying that it's dripping downstairs and that the plumber will be in on Monday to fix it. Start work at 8:40 and finish up last bits by 9:40, when I leave for work and talk to Betsy, saying that the 0's should NOT be f's, since it looks so amateurish, and the convention was made for HANDWRITING, only. But it's an ego-trip for some VP at In-Text, so I can't even say anything to the author about it. Later I find that I don't even write to the author, but write the letter for Tom's signature, after HE checks it with Betsy. I feel around for more money, but Betsy says, with some asperity, that she's been spending more time WITH me than with an experienced copyeditor, and so that puts me in MY place. Talk with Margery, and have lunch at 2 with Margery and Elizabeth, who gives me a Mycological Society address, and back to work, with Tom being more helpful, since he seems now to be firmly in charge, and I look at the corrections to my editing, and he's accepted 98% of it, modified some of mine for the better (and a few for the worse, which I re-modify), and even made some improvements, so my impression of him goes up. Make about three passes through all the pages for: 1) colons or not colons ending paragraphs preceding CP or M (which shouldn't have to be made in the future, since now I KNOW how it's to be done), 2) CP vs M vs MCM vs In-Text table listings, which is also once-learned, always-learned, 3) changing all 2-head specs, and labeling all sub-legends. Also took care of italics in typed text, and have just three passes LEFT: one for 1.2.3. vs (a) (b) (c), one for V-numbers and tables, and the final for sequential numbering, which will be the fastest. Hope to finish that this weekend, so I pack it up when I leave at 6:15 and take it with me in my briefcase which carries everything, and get down to Bilbaina late because the other Margery asks a silly question she doesn't want to heed my answer to, and we have a fairly disappointing meal in the pleasant place, then he drives me up to DTW at 8:15, where I take the money and watch one of the their best performances (see next page). Home at 11:30 when John's still at the board meeting, eat and wash dishes, and am just brushing my teeth at 12:30 when he gets in, exhausted, and we both tumble into bed.

DIARY 3349

SATURDAY, OCTOBER 21. Up almost without touching, since John's concerned about his party for Marcia Siegel today, and he starts busying himself with shopping and setting things up, while I relaxedly finish reading the rather dreadful book entitled "Vonnegut" and then launch into finally reading LAST Sunday's paper and the ads from the Sunday before THAT. Get a lot of things clipped out, start on the puzzle, John serves lunch about noon, and then I get back to the puzzle to finish it, go to the store to get some regular groceries for the weekend, and get back to take a shower and wash my hair, and find out that there's only time to type one page in the diary before I have to start putting crackers into the baskets, vegetables into their bowls, clothes out of the closet for my departure, and scour the sink and shave and put everything away that might "compromise" us, like pornography, shaving stuff to be pulled off the john, and grass. He's expecting 80 people, is prepared in an emergency for 100, and I make the mistake of saying maybe he doesn't have enough food with his dozen kinds of cheese, containers of nuts, olives, grapes, figs, Lebanese bread, crackers, three kinds of dip, all of them too strong for my taste, vegetables including green onions, and about five gallons of the punch to go with a couple gallons of soda. Two girls from DTW have come to pour the punch, and I'm dressed by 4 when they and Marcia enter, and I put down the sign and get ready for the first guests at 4:40. It goes rather well (see next page), and I leave at 7:15 to subway to Hunter, reading a rather incredible Barth "Lost in the Funhouse," getting in JUST as the lights go down at 8:07, and Janet Baker sings so many songs about "My gal lover," that I think she's a proselytizing lez. She has marvelous control, warmth when she needs it, imaginative programming in that the second section has three pairs of songs to the same words but differing melody, and the audience eats her alive, and she beams through bow after bow, finally coming out after half the audience has left and the other half stand and shouts for her, and I'm back at 10:45 to find John gone, so I have eggs, since I'm so full of cheese, and read the entire Times, including doing the puzzle, then JUST finish brushing my teeth when John enters from The Eagle at 2:15, saying that earringed Vic left with Rudy, who he came with.

DIARY 3352

SUNDAY, OCTOBER 22. Wake early nonetheless, out of bed by 8:30 after only six hours sleep. In to start typing on the diary, stop for breakfast and to look through the Times want ads to find precisely nothing, and get back to typing to finish up 15 pages to catch up to date, feeling great about it, as can be seen on the preceding page. Don't have time, however, to get around to anything more, and John leaves about 1 after an early lunch of hamburger for a painting party at DTW until 4, at which time he'll make his way to Man's Country for the orgy. I do dishes from yesterday, everything that John didn't do when he was washing up from the party, and I call Arnie and talk with him too long on the telephone, so that when I get over to shave and shower and put on my contacts and brush my teeth, he's rung the bell downstairs to get me down at 3:35 before I've even dressed, so there's a mad flurry, and I get down to find him telling a miscegenated couple that he'd never heard of Pitts Street in the neighborhood. My contacts feel funny because it's been such a long time since I've worn them, and I was sorry not to be able to get to anything on Murrill in order to finish it for certain tomorrow, but I was looking forward to the orgy. To Man's Country to meet a pock-faced but nice-titted John, who starts me off, but he gets off duty at 4, turning over his duties to Jeff, and we meet Gene, who tells us that they have 7-ounce cans of beer that sell for $6.50 for a case of 48, and they'll sell soft drinks to us at 10¢ a throw, which is what their cost is, and it's $2 to them for the first 50 attendees, $1 to them and $1 to us for the next 75, and $1.50 to them, 50¢ to us for the rest, and since the 25 invitations garnered 18 positive responses saying that 92 people in all were coming, we actually started hoping for some profit from the evening. But the line was small even at 4 (though the first three got there at 2!), and I left at 4:30 to start enjoying the orgy proper (see next page), but the crowd was slow in forming, and by 8 it was at its final count: 60, so Arnie and I squared accounts by paying $19.40, so it cost each of us $6.50, which STILL wasn't bad. Home at 10:30, completely exhausted, and eat an omelet, John found Paul Stalliano and was exhausted, so we got into bed at 11:30.

DIARY 3357

MONDAY, OCTOBER 23. Wake lazily and get over at 8:10 to start on the last few passes of Murrill, and thankfully it goes fairly fast, so that I'm in for breakfast at 10:25 and into the office at 11:30. Ask some questions, and Tom says that I shouldn't write to the author for ANYTHING, and even that I should ignore a discrepancy between art and a program listing, but I take responsibility into my OWN hands and direct that the art be changed, to make it agree. This is finally all finished at 2:15 and I put everything onto Betsy's desk and wash my hands of the whole thing (except to see how I did as a copyeditor through composing, and how everyone likes it finally). So I worked for a total of 57 hours on the book, and signed a purchase order today (which Betsy said would be sent to me by mail) for $275, so I made an average of $4.82+ an hour, which isn't bad for the first job. Then get back to proofreading input sheets until almost 6, when I leave to get back for dinner at 6:30, and then sit down to type 5 pages to record Tsi-Dun for posterity, feeling good to be caught up, but wanting to relax for the evening with TWO good movies on TV: "The Appaloosa" with Marlon Brando, and "There Might Be Giants" with the combination of George C. Scott and Joan Woodward. Debate which one I want to see, and the Times says the latter is silly, and the former, though slow, is good, so I decide to watch the former. But it starts off SO slowly and SO sillily (the long-lost wanderer, Brando, returns to incur the wrath of the Mexican powers-that-be, led by a you/Jew Spanish-accented John Saxon, still pretty under his dusty-prairie makeup, and it's all so SIMPLISTIC: the Mexicans driven by pride to save face before their pistolierros, the prodigal only wanting to live in peace with the family of the old man who took him in after his parents died, etc, so with John smoking on the sofa I turn to the former at 9:30, and Scott is a schizo thinking he's Holmes, and Woodward is a frumpy psychiatrist, Dr. Watson, MILDRED Watson, who's sent to "save" him, and they battle a Pathmark store and march up and down Manhattan before being killed by a horse-clopping white-light from inside an underpass in Central Park. Flick back to the latter to see Saxon killed and the family AGAIN running out to greet "MAteo" and "MaTEo." Bed at 11, bemused.

DIARY 3358

TUESDAY, OCTOBER 24. Wake at 7 to the cat and woman clomping upstairs, and feel dreadful about lying in bed, so I'm up at 7:10, showering and washing my hair, and when I'm out, John's up already out and exercising, so I make the salads and leave at 8:20, getting to work at 8:50, and work two hours for Tom Charlton on Kreith, finally, reading one chapter in order to change his mis-edited E's to epsilons, EXCEPT when E is used as the base of the natural logarithms. Which I have to CONVINCE him is proper. Then Betsy comes in with some Fortran format questions, which delights me, and by noon I can change over to regular proofreading, getting a history of the Republican Party with rather suspenseful reading about Lincoln's winning the nomination on the third ballot. Speed up considerably to get through by 6, when I dash home to get to dinner by 6:30, since John's leaving at 7 for something, and he leaves for Fred Rzewski's concert at 7:30. I'd wanted the evening alone to masturbate in (having already decided from the fatigue of the day that I WASN'T going to the Mattachine Open House, not really caring HOW it might go over), but the plumber came in at 5:30, said he needed another valve, and would be back later in the evening, so I washed dishes and settled down to watch "Maude" for the first time, not quite as funny as "All in the Family," although even the SETS look the same (at least the STAIRWAY does, even though the front doors and kitchens are reversed), and then watch a TV-movie of "Short Walk to Daylight" about an earthquake hitting 8 people trapped in a subway car, and the special effects and the acting is really quite good, particularly James Brolin as a sexy stupid cop. Abbey Lincoln has a great crying scene, too. That's over at 10, and I turn into "Of Thee I Sing" from 9:30 to 11, and it's fast, colorful, and edited so that song follows song without respite, including "Mine" and "Love Is Sweeping the Country," and "Wintergreen for President" (VERY edited). Archie Bunker and that gal from "The Last Picture Show" sing tentatively (and probably augmentedly), and it's all in all pretty awful. John's in, I shower and we get into bed at 11:20, I craving sex, so I start smoking and playing with him, and he allows me to play to his orgasm at 12, and then falls asleep. I'm still craving, so I play with myself, smoke more, and come (see next page).

DIARY 3360

WEDNESDAY, OCTOBER 25. Wake again early, leaving John in bed, and having showered last night go right over to make salads, and leave at 8:15, getting into work at 8:40, and get an enormous stack of quick-checking of corrections, and lots of "psychological meanings from literature" from "Nigger of the Narcissus," "The Tempest" and Kafka's "The Hunger Artist." Do an index, which is great fun, and when there's nothing much more to do at 5, leave. I'd gotten a call yesterday at home from Olstens, but calling them back today only revealed that they have a job for a proof-OPERATOR, someone for a proof machine in a bank. Also, Tom finally has to check my type-marking and editing for Murrill, and he'll be through it all day tomorrow, something to look forward to. Marjorie Hirsch has an apartment for rent, and when I get home at 6, John suggests I call Art, which I do, and he calls her, and John's put in some lamb, forgetting about "Lady Day" tonight, and we go through changes and arguments before he decides he can cut off the crust and serve it done enough, and we can go to the play. Opening night again, and the initial impression is good: I tell John that the Latin root for the English words dealing with "clouds" is "necho," and the pinks and light purples and pale reds of the globular cloud-masses around the stage proscenium look like Neccho wafers, in their crisp sweetness, with the texture of being covered with finely-granulated dust. But the show itself is too raucous, too shrill, even to putting in a Lesbian scene which makes some sections of the audience laugh out loud despite the serious whispers of "Quiet," for those for whom it works. The gal (Cecelia Norfleet) is quite an actress, however, singing six different songs in six different styles: young, gospel, accomplished, desperate, drunk, dying, and the guy, Roger Robinson, does expert turns as MC, contestant, and drag that he's sure to hit some kind of fame from his job. The black segments of the audience stand up and cheer at the end, but the whites silently leave the auditorium where, along with John and Clive Barnes, they've dozed through the duller sections. Home, and jerk off alone after John's gone to sleep without me.

DIARY 3361

THURSDAY, OCTOBER 26. Up to cuddle with John, since I haven't done it in such a long time, and we come together for sex, too, great as ever, and then I get over to make some telephone calls to tell Earl Resnick and Mary Garvey that I'm now an experienced copyeditor, but can't get in touch with Judy Aspinwall. Type 4 pages to catch up, but leave the last page in the typewriter and get over to shit, and then leave about 10:30 after eating breakfast, and get to work about 11. My desk is still waiting for me, however, since no one likes to suffer through Tom's smoke. He finally gets around to reading the copyediting, and I start a list of corrections and errors, getting to about 10 for the day, most of them minor, and he ends by saying that I did a very good job on it, but it's a pity that Nancy Conboy won't be doing the compositing. Since so much happens tomorrow at work, and elsewhere, I'll put tomorrow's work-happenings in today. Reading the Watts book when Elizabeth's having lunch, and I start talking about Krishnamurti's "what is" and God and transcendental experiences, and tell her about the background for writing the book, and she says she'd love to read it, and I say there's one thing I have to tell her beforehand, and that is that I'm homosexual. She hears it without batting an eye and talks about various things, and it seems not to affect our relationship at all. Later I'm reading Kindred and Margerie asks me such stupid questions, and each time she does I see more things wrong with her manuscript, that I go to Nancy and say I don't trust her, could I check her out? She says OK, saying that they don't have enough time to do checking themselves, and I read through and find 10 errors: (1) an "a" which copyeditor didn't change to "as," (2) of of instead of all of, (3) a question about ital or underlining, (4) no period, (5) no line for a word, (6) "in" missed by copyeditor for "is," (7) C-E misses "s" on uses, (8) should be physical RECORD., (9) another period, this time that the copyeditor missed, (10) questioning a removal of a table line that was left. Score: 3 outright goofs, 2 should-be questions, 4 where she should have acted as copyeditor, and one technical thing. I leave and get to Mattachine at 6 to find Robert and Don and Mike there (see next page), and leave at 9:50 to eat before John comes in, and we go to bed together for a change.

DIARY 3363

FRIDAY, OCTOBER 27. Up promptly at 8 and without showering tried to see what time I'd get to the subway, but it was 8:45, though I was surprised to find that it wasn't very busy at all, getting a seat and then some. To work and Tom was fatigued before he started the day, and I read lots of things, among which I took down some funny boners (see next page), which I include with a marvelous idea that hit me tonight when I was reading the end of "Lost in the Funhouse": with my "friends" at Crebos, I could typeset "Acid House" myself and get a hundred copies made for ONLY a couple of hundred dollars! The idea was enormously fetching. Work through to 5:45 as described on the page for Thursday, ending up answering a question for Marjorie and then dashing up to 46th Street to meet John at the Coffee Brazil Restaurant, where we had a good meal in preparation for Kenneth Rinker's complimentary tickets to Twyla Tharp and Erick Hawkins. Walk up Broadway and get to the jammed theater with students trying to get tickets for cheap prices, and even Marcia Siegal gives me her tickets to get, and I get them to her and John just before 7:30. Twyla Tharp's "Raggedy Dances" are to rags, and they're snippets of walking, jiving, jumping, dancing, idiot-making motions, and her solo as a sort of belly-bumping number seemed the height of misguided taste. But everyone in the audience leaped to their feet and roared their appreciation when the thing was over. Intermission had us talking to the boardman from DTW's auction, and then back for a marvelously jock-strapped cast for "The Inmost Angels" or whatever, and the second piece was laughable in Japanese-inspired costumes with upside-down lambdas on the heads, but the last piece was marvelously springy and active, jumping and turning and waving arms and legs, for a beautiful finale that everyone could rightly be pleased with. Subway back and I finish the book, then smoke, write the note to myself about doing "Acid House" myself, and get all hot over the pornography book, keeping at orgasm-point for a fairly long time, but then not really interested in the whole thing, I come, and dry myself off when I think John's listening, and then crawl into a damp bed from the humidifier.

DIARY 3365

SATURDAY, OCTOBER 28. Up for great sex this morning, lasting until about 9:30, and out to a late breakfast and decide that THIS is the day that I get rid of my "Apartment Do" list. So I measure the roll for a paper towel hanger in the bathroom, for the towel hanger there, for the radiator cover, and weigh the drapes and separate out the dry cleaning and Chinese laundry stuff, and go out with the laundry to find no good prices except for the martinizing place (and later further up Montague a cheaper still place, too late) for $3 for 8 lbs, for $10.50 for the 28# load. It starts to rain as I get the holders and airmail stickers, and then go out again with my raincoat on and the drapes for a radiator cover (but A&S doesn't have the ivory one in stock, and I have to call before coming back) and for tape head-cleaner (though they don't have the lubricant anywhere). Back to start playing the tapes, put up the holders with Arnie's drill (another thing to put on the lists), then get out the paint to paint the beige strip in the bathroom, and it looks better afterward, and I even touch up a few places in the kitchen, and then get down to the hardest job of all: putting the green hall rug into the bathroom, but by the time I finish the hellish task the bathroom looks pretty good (even though, sadly, the colors don't match at the boundary). Since it's raining hard out I can't think of washing the windows (nor making a phone call, since THEY seem to be out, too). Then it's time to eat the lamb for dinner at 6:30, and John's going to Charlotte Moorman's Avant-Garde festival on the Alexander Hamilton, but I figure I don't feel like going to Eddie's party since I feel like sex, and if I want sex, I should go to the baths, but I sort out the pornography and come very unsatisfactorily when someone rings my doorbell from downstairs, and then finish the evening off washing clothes, cleaning out my chest of drawers, putting the map collection together, doing dishes, and then going out for the Times at 11:30, which is soon to be 10:30 because of the time change. Too tired for a bath, so I shower and shave and read the Times, doing both puzzles by 2:10, and then exhaustedly crawl into bed, John back, he says, at 2:30!.

DIARY 3366

SUNDAY, OCTOBER 29. Wake about 8 and lay until 9, when I get up because of the noise upstairs. Get back to reading the Times, watch a good Camera 3 about the Vicunal Theater of Brussels and their "Tramp" with mumbling, iron foot-clogs, a pail of water, and tin-funnel bust-cups. Then finish the Times and have lunch, look through the ads, and start sorting things around in the drawer, going and going and putting things away and making a UNITED list of EVERYTHING I have to do, just ONE list finally! Get absolutely nothing finished but getting "organized" by 4, and over to watch "A Haunting We Will Go," with Laurel and Hardy as funny magician's assistants, until 5, try to fix the bicycle gears, but I don't understand how they work at all, and turn on Channel 13 to find that the "Special of the Week" doesn't interest me. Vacuum the rugs and over for dinner at 7:15, and back to watch "You're Elected, Charlie Brown" (in which he ISN'T elected), and then smoke and watch "Yellow Submarine" through a great fog of grass (see next page). That's over at 9:30, and I'd brought over a Sara Lee during the first intermission, ate a thin slice before it defrosted, then ate a piece which got larger and larger until finally the half was gone, and by that time it was getting warmed up, and tasted very good indeed. So I kept on at it until there were just two little pieces left, and I was feeling rather foolish, but I kept at it until it was all gone, polishing off the bottom with my finger, and then got a taste for popcorn by the time "What Happened to Aunt Alice?" came on at 9:30 to 11. Popcorn was good, not really too much, though I had to ditch the cake cover quickly when John entered at 10:50, back from the Eagle already. I shower and we cuddle for a bit, and I tell him that I are the whole thing, and he finds it amazing, rolling his great blue eyes back into his head. Rather think there might be sex, but when I get out of the shower, he's rolled over in bed, dead to the world, and I'm so stuffed from food and sated from smoking and filled with images from "Yellow Submarine" that I have no trouble getting to sleep, feeling much less depressed than I've been feeling for the past few dreary weeks.

DIARY 3368

MONDAY, OCTOBER 30. Wake at 6:10 to the cat's tattoo on the ceiling, and when I hear her walking around at 7, I go upstairs, knock on the door, and she says "Just a minute while I put a robe on," and invites me into the tawdry, stinking apartment with at least three cats that I can see. "Oh, I've been meaning to write you a note: found this pregnant cat, brought her in until she had the kittens, now I'll be giving them to Bide-a-Wee in a few weeks." So she'll move them to the bedroom, see about getting rugs, isn't bothered by my stereo, and will try to walk more quietly. I say I think it's great. When I leave she says, "My name's Judy." "Mine's Bob." Friends already. Down to cuddle with John and out of bed at 7:30, then over to fix lunch, not having breakfast because of all the cake last night, and get to work at 9:07, though the time clock punches it as 10:07, of course. Lots of work with Kindred, though I forgot to do the assembly sheets on it, so I hope the folios are right, and start working on Burr corrections, which are done by the perfect Barry, who has a compositor at HOME, is fabulously accurate, and makes tons of money, delivering his stuff over the weekend. Finish just before 6, feeling quite tired, and home to find John cooking chicken. The painter comes in again to talk about colors and prices, and John says the extra $130 should come out of the kitty. Oh, well, I guess it's OK. He pays me back $5 and I say he borrowed TWICE from me over the weekend, but he doesn't remember, so we both agree that we'll have to take better PAPER note of who borrows what from whom, just to make sure. What with John's gas bills and such, I owe the kitty $69!! Type 2 to keep up to date, then sort out the letters and write quick "Vote for McGovern" notes to Bill, Mom, Aikens (with change of address), Seavers, and Helen and Jimmy, as well as ordering stamps from Chassy and sending another telephone missive to Roger in Conn. Finish at 10:50, over to see the end of a political program that John's watching stoned, and shower and get into bed, John's turned over and snoring already, but I'm tired enough to fall asleep without jerking off, as usual, thinking of all the things I have to DO.

DIARY 3369

TUESDAY, OCTOBER 31. John and I wake about 7, feeling cuddly, so we come together and start playing, ending in great orgasms for both, and that sort of makes the whole day. Decide to exercise, too, and do level one for the first time in ages, feeling good about that, and then John's making lunch, so I just eat breakfast and gather the things together that I have to do, like xerox my new resume, take my sandal to be sewn to the guy who obligingly put a temporary tack in it on Saturday, and take down a sack of garbage. To work at 9:30 and start in on Lanegram, running into all sorts of trouble with spacing and capitalization and French spacing, then start talking about the slashed 0 in Murrill again and type a letter to the files about my position on that, and finish at 1 with only about 20 pages done, and the xerox is "out of power," so I leave my lunch pail and resume and briefcase in my desk and get out at 1:30 to the Museum of Modern Art, meeting a prettily-dressed Joan along the way, who squeals and dissolves in my arms when I inquire "Joan?" from the doorway, and see "Sunnyside Up," the first talkie with Janet Gaynor and Charles Farrell, and she comes across very well with her squeaky clear voice, but he DOESN'T with HIS squeaky clear voice, and his acting is also pretty lousy. Sexy guy in the row in front of me, though. Out at 4, subway on a convenient E train from the MMA, and pick up my sandal for only 75¢, and my dry cleaning, and get home to find John not in yet. Write a diary page, and write letters to Rita, Ed Berger, Edgardo, and Peter Schaeffer with more stamps, while John calls from Azak's, saying he has the NEWEST stomach virus, and is given morphine capsules to take and told to get lots of rest. We have dinner fairly late, talking very nicely about John's sicknesses, DTW's problems with funding and financing, and I feel very close to him. He's over to watch TV and smoke and rest as I finish typing, not quite getting to a final letter to Bill, and call Arnie to find he's listening to Welles' "War of the Worlds" on radio, so I take his drill and $3 and folders back and talk until about 10, back to sew a button on my trousers (another item off the list!), shower, watch the awful end of "The Dunwich Horror" with a cute Dean Stockwell, and bed at 11:15 after Arthur M. calls to say he liked Bejart, will try to get us tickets for his dance program.

DIARY 3370

WEDNESDAY, NOVEMBER 1. John's drowsy with his morphine tablets this morning, sleeping through to 8:30, and I'm up for my own salad, since Azak says he shouldn't have them anymore, and get to work about 10 after a long ride on the subway. Tom's spread out all over the place, so I have to move to the smaller table, and Ed helps him with Kreith instead of me. Are they saving me for better things? Or doesn't Tom care to work with me anymore? Work on pages and corrections, and the xerox machine is working, so I do copies of my letter and my resume, and as much work as I can do before my "vacation" tomorrow. Before going to work, I exercised and typed the one page of diary, and then home early, picking up dry cleaning on the way, and dash in to wash my face and hands and save going to the john so that we can drive to Court Street and "The Queen" restaurant before the performance tonight. The place is filled with plastic people that John describes as a "typical Queens group," and we have to sit at a tiny table just outside the dirty-floored kitchen. He wants a complete dinner, but I fear we don't have enough time, so we have the hot antipasto and veal meals, and I have the cottage cheese, rather than the cream cheese, type of cheese cake which I don't like. To the fairly empty Brooklyn Academy for the Lar Lubovitch company (see next page), and get to the seats next to a very strange foursome: one older rosy-cheeked guy with a face as angular as Bill Hyde's, a young fellow with a gold earring in one ear, and two fairly lovely blonds on the other end, maybe buffered from our knees by their lovers. There's a lot of cruising between Bhaskar and other gay guys during the intermission, but they're thankfully short, so that the whole evening is over at 9:30. Back thinking to have sex, but John curls up with a book and by the time I get out of the shower, he's sleeping already from his pills, and I climb into bed and jerk off, trying again for terminal hardness, but the only thing that brings me to the brink is holding my breath, and by the time I'm ready to come, I'm so oxygen-starved that I fear my over-breathing will wake him up. But it doesn't, I dry and fall asleep about 11.

DIARY 3372

THURSDAY, NOVEMBER 2. Wake again at 8, fuss around the apartment getting ready for the speaking engagements, and phone Henry to find we are leaving at 10, and get onto a subway with John at 9:30, riding into town each reading our own things, and we're into the car and, as I'd predicted, something comes up that seems due to affect the next few months of my life. Henry tells me that Mark Williams has said that the next issue of the Mattachine Times will be his last, and he agrees that if I volunteered to be editor, there was a 100% chance that I'd be accepted. So I think about all the ways in which the Times could be improved (assuming a steady source of money, and even thinking of BUYING the paper for the next issue so that it could get out on time), and what I'd say in my leading editorial, and what changes would be made in the format of the paper, even to trying to get Charles Mountain back onto the staff, with Mark doing most of the printer-contact work and Dominick and Henry keeping on doing what they have already been doing. Stop off in North Strathmore to find a House of Pancakes to have breakfast in, and they're so slow we're out at 11:15, fearing to get to the restaurant Land's End late for the Rotary Meeting. He knows where it is, being just a few blocks from the ferry to Fire Island, and we drive through streets drenched in the rain of the night before. Get to the Rotary Club just on time (see next page), and a few members stay around until 1:30 talking to us, and then we drive to the Suffolk County Police Department at 2:15, and get the names of everyone we'd like to know, and the facts about the taping and showing of the tape, and the fact that they'd be glad to lend it to CBS for a news shot. But the class itself, from 2:30-4:30 (see following page), isn't as hot as the first one, and we talk about why on the way back into town. Since we get back to the office at 6 to deliver some papers Henry picked up at the printers, I decide to finish work on the library (see subsequent page), and there Don tells me Mark will keep on until May or June of NEXT YEAR, but that we'll have a committee meeting at 5:30 Tuesday. Home to eat, get over to find John HERE, having been "embraced" by his friend from Oregon, but superceded by Alan Rich for dinner at Larre's, and we chat about the evening and get to bed.

DIARY 3376

FRIDAY, NOVEMBER 3. John tells me that we're going to the Video Exchange for a Dance Benefit tonight at 7:30, so we'll be leaving at 6:45, and I say "So THAT'S the dance performance tonight at 7:30," and he doesn't even remember my fuss about it. Lunch together late, and after exercising, for the first time at level 2, but getting it in just over 8 minutes, get out to work at 9:10, getting in at 9:50, and getting Burr corrections to do, page after page of papers about the U.S. in Latin American relations with Cuba and Panama and the Dominican Republic, and go from about 400 to about 900. Lunch is with Margery and Elizabeth, telling them about yesterday, and Margery tells about a panel she was on with GAA, and when the guy from the audience, late, asked "Which ONE of you is gay?" they responded "All of us," so that settles it for Margery. Now only the compositing room is a subject of question: the other artist is SO obvious, and Harold, who is enough obvious as it is. We talk for about an hour, and Nancy Doctor (who couldn't get my check from Harvey's desk, so she loaned me $10) comes back to say there's a lot of proofreading that has to be finished, and we get back to work over it, people asking me questions about computer stuff, and at 5 I'm not going to finish, so Margery and Elizabeth stay late to help me get it out, and we finish at 5:30, thanking each other for helping everyone out. Nancy Conboy goes on and on about her 64-year-old father trying to get work on a wired-electronic assembly line without success. Home at 5:15 after picking up Chinese laundry and the drapes from the cleaners, and have steak before getting into the john with grass to smoke before the performance, and we get there to find a "wrecked" Larry Goldstein (or someone from the NY State Council on the Arts) who's cute when he talks to us, but has a fat ass. Kaplan is there talking with some visiting Russians, and the performance is great for the most part (see next page), though John's turned off about the $1 for champagne. Four of us leave at 11, Larry backs out of the invitation to his place, so Jeff, John and I go to "the Cave" a gay pool-dominated bar, have a beer, talk, and then come home at 12, launching into sex when John seems to want it, and he comes off, not touching me at all.

DIARY 3378

SATURDAY, NOVEMBER 4. Up about 7:30, John still asleep, and over to sort through things I have to do today. Send some bills off and write a long letter to Bill, and type eight pages to catch up to date again. John takes a nap, the phone doesn't work so we call the repairman to come by 2 pm, which he doesn't, and I try to knock on Mrs. Johnson's door and Ms. Watson's door, but no one's home. I'm disgusted at how long it takes to type everything, and have no time at all to get down to the Mattachine things that I have to do this weekend. John suggests going into town to see the sex show at the 55th, and I counter with the "Charlie Chaplin Revue," which he agrees to, and we're into the subway (and I thought we were driving, so I nip in to the bookshop and buy "Rabbit Redux" to read on the subway) and to the theater just as the features start at 3:15. Not the most effective movie (see next page), but the audience participation in reading subtitles and explaining what was happening---at the top of their voices---was very impressive and depressing. Out at 5 and subway back, and I shower and we snack a bit before going over to Arnie's, and I get nothing at all done today, it seems, much to my chagrin. To Arnie's precisely at 8, and we're not the first ones there for a change: Gladys and her husband are helping with the cooking, and Ben and Bet are sitting in the living room talking about their $300 apartment on Willow and Cranberry. Simone and Cecelia come in, and I start talking with Norma, who amazes me by telling me she earns $25,000 a year at Helena Rubenstein, and wouldn't even accept a $1000 cut to take a job she might want. Then the start of innumerable coincidences start (see following page), and the evening spirals upward through the Offits, the Glorias, Buddy Frommer (50ish and paunchy), and Pope Hill, with caviar knishes, chicken breast mousse, and black beans with strings of meat strung through with mandarin orange slices and onions on the side. I find myself playing up to everyone for what they can DO for me, and don't like that, and want to see the movie, so I leave at 11:30, not even stopping for the Times, and see a spectacularly-modeled "One Million Years B.C." until 1:30, and John's playing with me with Baby Magic, so we end up in bed for sex, I finishing myself off after he comes at 2, and we collapse into sleep.

DIARY 3381

SUNDAY, NOVEMBER 5. Up about 9, amazed at my laziness (though I went to sleep at 2), and dress to get the Times, and read through that until lunch, and John wants to do something, but can't find anything to interest him in the file of stuff I separated out for us to do in short periods of time, and I feel obliged to help entertain him, though I want nothing more than to sit around and finish the puzzles, which are extra hard this time, though the gimmick of one seems REMARKABLY simple: take out all the vowels: it seems there's words for practically EVERY combination of 5-6 consonants SOMEWHERE in the English or French languages! He finally decides he's just going for a walk, not wanting to see any exhibit at the Museum of Modern Art, and I'd sort of thought to meet Arnie there at 3, and take off for it at 2:30, forgetting that I have to transfer, and just miss a train, and it goes VERY slowly, and I get there at 3:10 for the start of "Ella Cinders," the second one, which is remarkably good, particularly a scene which MUST have been trick photography of her eyes going independently in ALL directions (though she's said to have TWO-COLORED eyes), and THEN the theater stayed dark and they went into Harold Lloyd's "High and Dizzy," so I DIDN'T miss anything, which pleases me somewhat, except that I'm feeling very put-upon during the day: wanting to work on Mattachine, work on the to-do list, wanting to try pornography to see if I can earn $5/hour on it, wanting to read, wanting to go through the Times. Back home at 5:30 and John's stoned for dinner, so he's not in the mental position to listen to my gripes, and I wash dishes and finish the Times and get to two Mattachine Times articles while he goes out to see Bill Dunas: a Dance and Dancers for Gays about the Joffrey, which I have to do research on, and I edit Arthur Warner's letter about Mattachine's history, adding a note of my own, and by that time it's 11:45 and I get over to shower, sure enough anticipating John's arrival at 12 from the trucks, and he offers me a pipe, and we both smoke, but are just getting ready for bed, and I debate jerking off, but I'm tired, too, so I just fall asleep with John, waking up with a stomach cramp and try to shit, but nothing comes, and miserably get back into bed.

DIARY 3382

MONDAY, NOVEMBER 6. [All this typed two weeks later, and it's hard as hell trying to think of what happened. I can't possibly remember when John and I had sex, except that I know I've been so busy that we've SELDOM had TIME for sex. I can't possibly remember what I was working on at Creative Books, and it's not really important anyway. I can't remember the sequence of reading books, or getting freelance work from Dutton's or Harcourt Brace (though I could reconstruct pretty much from memory), and aside from working I'm really not doing anything worth WRITING about. Even exercising goes by the boards when I get very busy. I debate STOPPING this "one page a day" demand, but it's the LEAST that I can do (the idea of two or three days per page just seems sillier than stopping completely; the idea of doing ONLY those days which are interesting seems much too arbitrary; then there's the idea that if TALKING about the days is so boring, the days THEMSELVES must be fairly boring---but that's not really true, it's just DIFFICULT to RECAPTURE what it WAS that made the days NOT boring). I guess there's just NO good reason why I can't keep MORE up to date, with both writing and exercising, in the morning BEFORE I go to work. Might start TRYING that, as soon as I get caught up---which might be NEVER, since I now have ANOTHER drawer-full of letters to write, and it seems I just GOT caught up with them. But I think the discipline of "one page a day" is GOOD for me, and it even gets me into typing OTHER things in an understandable framework. And, as can be seen clearly, this has gotten me STARTED into typing AND cleared out one whole DAY!] Up and fuss around, maybe exercising, and to work, with John back into the habit of making salads for me. Work 6.6 hours and get back to have dinner and John's already got the apartment torn apart for the painters who are supposed to come tomorrow (and who always barge in while I'm typing in the nude, so I have to dash after a towel to hide myself), and dinner's in the next apartment, and I'm back to type four diary pages and type the Mattachine articles and do a questionnaire for them, and type up an itinerary for the meeting tomorrow. Help John move stuff, and bed early.

DIARY 3383

TUESDAY, NOVEMBER 7. The painters call in the morning and say they won't be here until tomorrow, and I gather everything together, move the typewriter onto my sofa, and take off to work for 6.8 hours. Then out at 5 to get down to the Mattachine Times meeting at 5:30, and it goes very poorly, since Marc seems to KNOW that it was called for me to take over the editorship, and Don's very critical of everything I say. But I bully the newsletter committee, which grows by the addition of Robert Burdick and Mike Christian to the original roster of Don Goodwin, Marc Williams, Henry Messer (who can't be there), Dominick Marino, and Dick Smith. Finally by dint of sheer shouting I get through the agenda I'd dreamed up for the meeting, determined to finish with the whole thing by the official Board meeting at 6:30, and they, in the end, agreed that what I wanted to do was a good idea, and if I were DETERMINED to have my way, I could put in the questionnaire, try for a monthly mailing, and see what developed. A bit of Don's anger with me came out when I said I didn't KNOW the Times has OFFICIALLY gone to an every-two-month schedule, and he shouted back "Well, if you'd stay to the end of a meeting sometime, maybe you'd HEAR about it!) I asked if "Rocky at Random" was OK, and they said I would be a fool to talk to him, and I placidly replied that I HAD. To which Marc said darkly, "Then you're BOTH fools." But Don said he cuold write if he accepted the fact that he might not be printed at ALL, might be edited, and had to be a member. Others gathered around in awe to watch me run the meeting (Alan Henderson was part of it, usually coming out on my side, urging for peace between the two warring factions, and usually getting it, grudgingly, from both sides). John arrived at 8:30, I persuaded him out until 9, and he smoked and went to the trucks, then he came back at 9, after the meeting was finally over (see next page), and we ate across the street at something like Casa Mex, not really very good, but fairly cheap, then looked into the Studio bookshop, and John suggested we go home and have sex, which we did, longly and elaborately, me even coming first, and HE having to pull himself off. Bed fairly late after the long sex, about 11:30, feeling good about everything.

DIARY 3385

WEDNESDAY, NOVEMBER 8. Wake early because the painters are due in, and they DO come in about 8 am, and I still haven't gotten anything out of the other kitchen for the salads, and when I go through, the Greek younger of the two sort of smiles at me with a leer and asks a question behind my back, which I decide somewhat later, since it was in English, is directed to me, and I turn to see him smiling sardonically at me, and I say that the screws are left in the ceiling. And I take a banana for my cereal. "Ah, you like the banane?" he asks with a wide smile. I suppose I flush and say "Yes," and tell John about it, who's most amused also. Get everything together, and I've been feeling an ENORMOUS pressure from all the things I want to see this week, so much so that I've added everything to my list of things to do, making it very long indeed. But I decide that I MUST see BOTH the Harlem matinee and the Bejart in the evening, and tell John about it, and he says that's OK, that they haven't even finished painting by the evening, so there's no chance of me being thought to escape the work of getting the apartments back into shape after the painters leave. So I take my student card along, dressing in rainsuit, since it's supposed to rain strongly all day, and putting on my army boots since I can't seem to find my rubbers, and I figure I must have left them somewhere when I took them off in a theater. Later, on November 19, the day after I buy a new pair of rubbers on the 18th, John finds mine on the back seat of the car, where I'd left them sometime. Toddle off to work quite late, putting in a couple of hours in the morning at work, then having lunch and walking in the blustery VERY wet city, with water pouring off the sidewalks in the Broadway area, and my boots DON'T hold the water out any longer, so I sit in the matinee-emptiness of the theater and take off my boots while watching the Harlem Dance Theater (see next page). Back to work, picking up a pastrami sandwich, and complete my 5.4 hours by 6:45, in time to get down to Madison Square Garden's Felt (named after my old landlord, it turns out, James Felt) Forum to meet Arnie for Bejart's "Nijinsky" (see following page), chat with him on the way home at 11, finish reading "The Supreme Identity," and John gets in from somewhere, and we're in bed without sex.

DIARY 3388

THURSDAY, NOVEMBER 9. The painters are still messing around this morning, and I get off to work late, getting there about 10, and I leave at 11:30 to walk up to Donnell to see the films at noon. I'd seen the McLaren moving microphone, and the house-moving, before, but the Spires "explanation" was one of the funniest films in a long time: zipping down a linear accelerator to a CRASH as we go to a lab where two investigators hold up a pickle in triumph, and it goes sailing out of sight, with the "inventors" either starting to speak and being spoken about by the narrator, or turning on a tape recorder or a record, the scenes in the library, and fun speed-ups and slow-downs of action. Out at 1:30 before some long thing, and back to work for only 3.8 hours today, getting home early to eat early so we can get out to Wantagh. First Don said he wasn't going to be able to go, then Chris said he had some sort of family problem and had to speak to his brother, and so only John and I drove out to Wantagh at 7, getting lost in the directions, which John thought I had while I thought HE had gotten them from Gail over the phone, and we got there about 8:45, which was still not too late, and talked to her downstairs to reconstruct the letter we'd sent to Bethel which she'd liked but lost, and started talking at 9 (see next page). Went on very well until 11, and John was dead tired driving home, but he determined that we should charge Mattachine 10¢ a mile, since that was what the GOVERNMENT allowed for all reasons, and I had to remember the tolls and the phone calls (which we billed to Mattachine anyway), and the envelope of expenses that we got totaled $20, a pleasant surprise, so there was $12 left for Mattachine. Got back to throw everything into an increasing pile on my TV room floor, since I couldn't get in to my desk or my mail slots or my bookcase, so everything piled up there until I could get back into the study. John took me on a triumphant tour of the painted apartment, which reeked of fresh paint (and still does over 12 days later), and we were happy about the evening and got into bed about 1, the latest in some time, and I kept thinking about all the OTHER things that I had to do this week.

DIARY 3389

FRIDAY, NOVEMBER 10. Up without sex, quite early, which is more and more usual, though the cats finally move out sometimes during the following week, and John meets Ms. Watson on the steps twice since I've talked to her. Work 8 hours at work, and leave at 6 to dash uptown to meet John at the Chateau Tokyo, which I'd seen the ad for in the Playbill, and it sounded like a good idea, particularly since the meals were advertised as full course for only $5, and since the apartments were still drying and not eat-in-able, I figured I'd move my restaurant up to this week. John cashed a check for $50 for me at the bank this morning, and I finally had enough in both places to cash checks against and write checks against, but still it wouldn't last long. The food was fairly poor and the service was VERY slow: they seemed overloaded with Japanese water-bread-table boys, but didn't have enough French WAITERS to go around, and I paid the check in a rush and dashed up Broadway ahead of John, who walked at his normally slow "fast" pace, and I stood in line, braved the reservations man, and was standing at the doorman with the tickets when John sauntered in. To our seats and JUST get settled at 7:35 when the lights dim, and John didn't say anything, but I could SEE that he knew he wouldn't have seen the beginning if it hadn't been for me. During the intermission, when we talked with Parra's lover and another person, it was obvious John was having the same thoughts that I had during my first sight of the black classical ballet theater, but the evening was better, maybe because Paul Sanasardo was so DREADFUL (see next page). Out at 10 and John sort of thought about going to the trucks, but we drove home, and I was tired, so we just got into bed, I smoked to ease my descent into sleep, but didn't even have the energy to jerk myself off, though I sort of felt like it, since there hadn't been too much contact between John and me, and the painting seemed to mess up EVERYTHING, and we were both eager to get back into some sort of routine again. Humidifier going almost always to keep the humidity above the 50% mark that John desired for himself and for the plants, and cold air came in at ALL the cracks.

DIARY 3391

SATURDAY, NOVEMBER 11. Up and crossed off the dance things I wanted to do, got involved in typing SOMETHING (but I don't know what) and John kept asking me to help him in moving back the furniture---of COURSE, Pam Goett had phoned and said she had a job for me: Garret and Silver: Production Management Analysis, and I worked on THAT from 8:30 am to 1:13 pm, when I had lunch, then from 2:19 to 4:24, when I acceded to John's request to help him straighten out the refrigerator (it still isn't right) and clean the bathroom. So I scraped the walls and fixtures and floor and tub for about two hours, until dinner, finally finishing after dinner, and John went to see someone on the Koto while I went to Ballet Theatre Contemporain, taking so many notes that I'll start HERE: "Is the American Dance Audience, or am I really THAT jaded? Or is this what finally hits the music critic (or merely the adult?)---pretty bodies are nice to look at, arresting faces are beguiling, tights or scanty costumes are sexy, but the dance ITSELF must DO something, or the trappings aren't worth anything. The group is beautiful, but if the IDEA had been described to a cocktail party 50 years ago, it would have seemed IMPOSSIBLY DECADENT: semi-nude beautiful males showing their muscles and crotches in tight leotards. Buttocks perfectly outlined, testicles pulled up against flat bellies. Music and sounds and grunts seemingly at random come raucously from speakers with no SEMBLANCE of melody or rhythm or tonality. Just an excuse to drink in pretty bodies, but even the audience wants more than THAT and reacts coldly. Maybe because I have freelance proofreading waiting for me at home, or cleaning John's bathroom after painting, but I feel that I have better THINGS to do than to watch such a MEDIOCRE company. I keep think of what a CHILD'S REACTION to the evening would be: he'd laugh at the abrupt rolls across the floor, the over-dramatic gestures, ask, "Why do they do THAT?" Say "What's good about the music?" Say "WHY?" How awful it must be for them: they ARE trying their best, they're NOT trying to turn us off, but the perfunctory applause, the vacant gaze back. Dreadful. The whole cast can't be here, just not ENOUGH. About 30 here at most.

DIARY 3394

SUNDAY, NOVEMBER 12. If last week was very busy, THIS week seems to be filling up fast, and I'm beginning to settle into the frantic "Where does the time go, when do I do what I want to do with MY time?" sense begins to increase. But even the hope that the long Thanksgiving weekend coming up will give me the time I want begins to wane. Up and work on HBJ work 8:30-9:30 and read the Times, doing the puzzles with great difficulty, not finishing after lunch and before we leave for Kei Takei's "Light" at St. John the Divine at 4:30. I shower and my hair's still wet when we leave, ridiculously early at 3:45. Her mosaic piece with Maldwyn Pate is most effective after it gets off to a slow start: I'd feared she was going to let me down. But the self-absorbed concentration of the crew-cut gal placing the sturdy white cardboard (which nonetheless reminded me of the fragile tissue-covered dihedrals of model planes when I was young) pieces on the cathedral floor, and the increasingly repressed movements of the dancers in karate costumes, began to build with all kinds of images of cosmic rightness and godlike insight. The fifth part of the 8-part work, of which 2 were presented today, was the "resurrection" theme I'd seen earlier at Video Exchange, and again I thought Mal added to the stature of the piece. Then across to the church house for cheese and wine (which Betsy Feist, whom we met as we shopped for things for dinner this evening when we were early, said she missed), chatting with the young dance student, the fuzzy-haired sloe-eyed movie maker, Father Kirk, his assistant with buck-teeth from Germany, and the short, squat ballet dancer from the chorus of the old Met, the black gal who laughed at each crash of the triumvirate, and a few other cuties. We drive Father Kirk home, and he refuses our offer of dinner in or out, and we get home to eat, I watch some Neil Simon sketches on TV from 9-10, and we probably end up with stoned sex, which did NOT yield the notes I took (see next page), but the DATE says that we had the "coming through the other side" sex on THURSDAY, after Wantagh, which seems difficult since John's usually asleep by midnight, but I guess that's when it WAS. But when we have such GREAT foreplay, why is it that I come nicely and JOHN has to do himself, OR HE comes nicely and I have to do myself???

DIARY 3396

MONDAY, NOVEMBER 13. Wake and fix things up for the week schedule-wise, and take in the first 46 galleys of Garrett and Silver: Production Management Analysis that I'd gotten through the messenger on last Friday, so that the messenger can pick it up at work this afternoon. I get involved in work around the apartment, and don't get into the office until about noon, and then I have to leave about 3:30 because of my speaking engagement his evening at Stony Brook, for which I have to catch the train at 4 or 4:15. Talk to Marjorie Dumond about talking at these meetings, but she says she's going through a bad time, a busy time, and she won't be able to come along with me for a couple of weeks, and she finally says that she MIGHT come with me to Bronx Community College when I see them during the day on Tuesday, December 5. Miss the first train by just a minute, and wait around for the second at 4:25, getting down to a crowded platform with increasingly great numbers of people, and finally it's a real mob scene, and I get into a seat right near the door, ready to make the change at Jamaica, and sit backwards for the first 20-minute strip. People standing in the aisles unable even to read in the plush cars. At Jamaica there's a scramble for seats, and I finally sit next to a fat sleeper in the only 2-seat vacancy in a dimly-lit car, and there are even a few standees though there are seats in the middle of the few three-seaters. Train goes off into the night with lights dimming and coming back on, and I get lots of pages of "Rabbit Redux" read, enabling me to finish it that night, and I marvel at the tortures these poor people undergo EVERY WEEKDAY to work in the city and live in the "country." In to Stony Brook at 6:15, wandering down the dark street trying to find Lou Maslinoff, and finally get to him at 6:20 for his class (see next page). Out at 9:30, and he drives me to a few places until he buys my $2.25 dinner of good liver and onions at a coffee shop-type place, and we're the last car out of the lot. Train's delayed, people standing waiting in the cold, and it comes in at last at 10:46, into the city at 12:15, and I subway home by 1:15, finishing reading the book and crawling in beside sleeping John at 2.

DIARY 3398

TUESDAY, NOVEMBER 14. John had already set the table last night for the Reeds, and I exercised and had breakfast and loitered over making lunch, so that I go to work about 11 and had to leave promptly at 4:30, working only 4.9 hours the whole day---in fact, this whole week wasn't very good: only 19 hours for five days of work, with today being the LONGEST time I put in. Back at 5 and shower for their arrival at 5:30, and John's still preparing, so I have the opportunity to show them around the apartment, and start hearing his tales of his three-month freighter trip, with great Chinese cooks, from Los Angeles, to Japan and Taiwan (which he loved, the countryside, anyway), Singapore (which he also loved, which John and I couldn't understand at all) and Sumatra (Kuala Lumpur, which he said was a beautiful, clean, interesting city, and Medan, which he liked also) and Bangkok, which he also enjoyed and took many side trips around. Then the trip back took him BACK to Hong Kong for two weeks, and he went to Macau and the New Territories and many of the islands, which he said were very pleasant, with temples perched on hilltops away from the tourist crowds, and then got off somewhere in the south of Japan and took a steamer up through the Inland Sea, which he agreed was fantastically beautiful. Then to Kyoto and Tokyo, through Panama, and back home, being on the water for twenty days for the final jaunt. Through dinner (of a beef roast which wasn't quite as spectacular as John's first with the pork-rice) Gardner attacked John with the very arguments against considering John Cage great that I would have loved to muster, and Cyndy talked about her commune and the two-week fast that she was in the middle of, eating only a mouthful of the marvelously creamy cucumber soup that John made again, a few bits of beef even though it was saturated with sherry (she refused any of the many wines through the meal, since she was afraid of going completely tipsy on an empty stomach), and a few bits of dessert, John's jelly roll (which I finished at work, giving samples to appreciative Marg), and confirmed that after the first two days, there was no hunger at ALL. She subsisted on juices and LOTS of water. They leave about 10, tired from getting up at 5 am, and we had GLORIOUS sex once more.

DIARY 3399

WEDNESDAY, NOVEMBER 15. I get up and exercise and get into work to find that Elizabeth isn't there, but there's really not that much work to do. She's busy packing to move out of her apartment on Saturday, the same day Nancy Doctor, her roommate, moves into her apartment on Columbia Heights with a glorious view over the harbor and out to Staten Island (one room for somewhat under $300 a month, whew). I figure I can leave, and so I do about 1, getting home to read the mail and settle down to the second section of the Garrett and Silver from 3 to 7, and then I have a quick dinner and get out to the Whirling Dervishes of Turkey in fine time: the subway for the Brooklyn Academy comes quickly, the ride is only about three stops, and the line for tickets is so small that I get up in plenty of time to exchange one of the old tickets that Arnie gave me---no, this is the one I have myself, the one I got free from Arnie was to Ballet Theatre Contemporain---and settle down to see the show (see next page). Work is getting to be somewhat of a drag recently, though there are a few bright spots that I copy down on little sheets and bring home with me: If "tsetse flies" sound funny, how about the SPECIES name: Glossina swynnertoni? And "Geschichte des Kaisertums von Trapezunt," well, if those Germans get sick to their stomachs on trapezes, it's THEIR fault. Been reading Chandler and Fox, one of the few books that I'd like to HAVE, which describes the growth and fall of cities throughout the world, many of which (in Peru, India, Ceylon, Africa, Europe, Japan) I'd been to, and delight in the plagues, earthquakes, invasions and pillages, floods, ways of measuring people from numbers of churches and mosques, length of walls, number of hearths and houses and ingestion of bread, and a marvelous article about the "Largest City in the World through History," with some amazing entries like Agra, Patna, Pollonaruwa, Delhi, and Aurangabad. Enjoy the tables but can't take the bibliography, especially since the poor compositor set most of the periods as COMMAS. Books like that make the reading worthwhile, but my eyes have gradually become strained, and I don't feel that I want to read my OWN books much anymore. Home afterward to work, and John's back at 11 and we're in bed.

DIARY 3401

THURSDAY, NOVEMBER 16. In to work as early as I can make it, but it's not before 9:30, and I leave at 11:15 to make sure I get up to Hunter by 11:45, to meet Nerida at 11:50. Do so and talk to her class (see next page), and she talks to me afterward so that I subway back downtown at 2:30, and finish my lunch about 3, working only 4.4 hours all day. Marjorie Dumond was passing around the phone number of Ginny Croft at Appleton-Century-Crofts, saying that she was looking for freelance proofreaders until Christmas for $4.50 an hour, and I called her, and she said that I could work only 2-3 days a week if I wanted to, and that I could start whenever I wanted. I started thinking that I wanted to start the Monday after Thanksgiving, because Crebos was so busy, but then I thought about it, and they didn't LOOK so busy, and why should I be so indebted and feel so guilty about leaving a company who took my perfectly good services at $3.25 an hour, when I was just a part-time employee anyway, and didn't bother to praise me or give me a raise (and I just find out when Elizabeth talks to Harvey on Wednesday that she makes MORE than $4.50 an hour, or at least that's what she SAID), so why should I feel OBLIGATED to them, so I call them back up and say I'll be in next TUESDAY. Also, last Tuesday, I got a note from John saying that Cynthia of "Who, What, Where" show called, had been trying to get in touch with me, and I called her, said I couldn't make it on Thursday because of my speaking engagement, but that I COULD make it on Friday, so I have a VERY busy week this week, too. Then Betsy comes in and asks if I want a job, and I start laughing madly, but when she doesn't smile back I figure I've done a bit TOO good a job, and she says it's just a chapter of Murrill and Smith I to copyedit, and she figures it'll take 6 hours, so I say I'll take it, though only at $4.50 per hour. So now I have FIVE jobs: Crebos, ACC, HBJ, the chapter to copyedit, and the galleys of John's book, which I picked up some morning this week before getting into Crebos. Then, from work, down to Mattachine at 6:10 (see following page), and get out at 9:15, home to read more HBJ to 10:30, eat dinner, read from 11-12:30, finishing to galley 90, very tired, and fall into bed to sleep without either smoking or coming.

DIARY 3404

FRIDAY, NOVEMBER 17. Set the alarm at 7 am when I crept into bed at 12:30, feeling sorry for myself for allowing myself only 6½ hours sleep before the mental strain of the "Who, What, Where" show, but I had to finish the Harcourt book by today. Then I disgust myself further by waking at 6 am on the dot, and lying there listening to the noises around me, though the woman has finally gotten rid of her cats, all except for the original one. Get up at 6:45 and creep around to shut off the alarm, waking John, and over to the other apartment to shower and have breakfast, and then over to shave and brush my teeth at 7:30, waking him finally. Leave at 7:45, getting a crowd on the subway even worse than before, feeling uncomfortable in my jacket and coat for the show. Into the hallways of the sixth floor just at 8:15, and the fun begins (see next page). We're left out at noon, saying we should be back at 1:15 promptly, and I dash across town to Third Avenue and down to 47th to find Pam Goett in, and she says she noticed that I had SOME makeup on, and then I give her the stuff and dash down to the john to relieve my psychologically and physiologically full bladder, which seems to take MINUTES. Then down to the coffee shop in the basement and have one of the toughest sliced beef sandwiches on record, with overly-peppery red sauce, and a malted, all for $2, which is ridiculous, and then dash across town again, getting not very many stares for my makeup, and back in even BEFORE 1:15. Then it's over just before 3, and I'm down to Creative Books to pick up my check, tell everyone about my adventures, wash my face, and get down to work for 2.2 hours before leaving at 5:15 to get to cash my check in plenty of time, and it's $135.90, leaving me 90¢ after I put in the whole $135 to the kitty to match John's expenditure of $135 for painting his apartment. Then have dinner and get out at 7 to "The Space" which is a nice large square like Video Exchange, for Robb Pendleton in "Pilobolus," and the troupe is one of the most extraordinary I've seen (see following page). After the love-feast with them, we get back home, smoke, and have great sex thanks to the images they've left with us of the fantastic bodies and personalities.

DIARY 3415

SATURDAY, NOVEMBER 18. We're up late, at 8:30, and I start the first 14 pages of Appendix D of the Murrill and Smith "Introduction to Computer Technology" that I have to finish this weekend. John's bustling about the apartment washing windows and such, but he doesn't do the windows in MY apartment, which is a pity. I finish reading "End of the Road" because I only have a few pages left, and then I watch "One Million BC" with Carole Lombard and Victor Mature, who shows quite a bit of thigh before he gets taken in by the sea-people, or whoever they are, and he changes into something more civilized and less skin-showy. The special effects ARE quite good, particularly the gal being swept under a huge rolling mess of lava. I really couldn't tell how they did it, except that many of the scenes were superimpositions, ala cartooning, of many false sets on top of the other, as in the sequence when everyone was working on various levels in the forests. I type one page, and I don't know what takes up the rest of the time, because John's going out to a concert that I don't want to go to, and I'm thinking that I'll have time to catch up on my diary, but then just before dinner Arthur M. calls, and John and he have a long talk about the idea of his black company doing white dances, and Arthur must have been over that ground a dozen times, because he just rattles off the ideas: they don't want to take white kids because they even have to turn away black kids with talent because they don't have enough money, Balanchine and other major companies are offering to take some of his people, most of them have little ballet training, but they've done wonders in just four years of dancing; and the startling fact that his company ALSO teaches instruments and dancing for kids, and they start as small as 7 in his classes! I say he should come over, and he says he'll be over between 9:30 and 10, so I figure he'll be here about 11. So we have dinner and I do dishes and THEN I get down to the book, NOT in the morning (and, yes, we drive way out to Queens to take John's radio and my Wollensack to be repaired from 3-5), and Arthur rings downstairs at 9:48 (see next page), quite a surprise. He leaves at 12, and I'm into bed with John.

DIARY 3417

SUNDAY, NOVEMBER 19. This is one of the busiest days in a LONG time. Up late, two hours (8:30-10:30) on Appendix D, and John gets a call from Lotte Edwards saying that Tom Johnson's "Four Note Opera" is on Camera Three, so we watch that from 11-11:30, when we leave for the Mattachine breakfast, getting there at 12. Carl House is taking the $2 at the door, and there's quite a crowd already, and poor Mr. Barnes is cooking all the pancakes on a grill that he brought himself, and Bill Broburg is supervising the mixing of the orange juice with the vodka. I have some of the sausages and the pancakes, and they're really quite good, and start talking with some of the people around, and it's a very pleasant time until I see that the dishes need doing, so I end up doing them, getting talked to by various and sundry visitors to the back area, and we leave at 2, after I have a second helping of breakfast. Then over to Japan House for the Asia Society's presentation of a lecture-demonstration of Chinese shadow puppets, which really cheat by being put up AGAINST the translucent screen, so that the colors naturally show through the translucent horsehide. The Indonesian puppet remains drably gray. The transformations are effectively set off by flashes of light, and only at off times are the shadows of the sticks that are holding the figures tightly against the screen visible. We sit in the front row, so we can see exactly how everything's done, and we see what's handed around first, and we're out at 3:30 to sit a bit in front of Mary Jane's apartment before 4, when we go up to be the first ones there anyway (see next page). Leave pleasantly stoned at 6 and get up to Tsi-Dun, and it's quite crowded and I'm disgusted to see the same fellow from Jersey who was at the meeting this morning, still there. John and I smoke, and I start well into it (see following page), but end up poorly when I can't find my glass case, and with a dreadful tired sinking feeling think I've had my watch stolen. Awful depressed ride home, thinking how I can get along without my watch, and relieved to find it in my pants pocket. John did, however, have about $7 taken from his wallet. Bed at 12, utterly exhausted from drinks and smoking and sex through the day.

DIARY 3420

MONDAY, NOVEMBER 20. Up at 7:00 to shower and shave and brush my teeth for the last time before Rosey, finish Appendix D 7:30-8, and get to Rosey Sheik at 9, and it's been so busy that I've hardly had time to get uptight about it. Get there just at 9, after leaving at 8:15 on the subway, and she cleans, saying my gums are inflamed, and that I should use peroxide on them. There are holes in the upper right, and she says the filling is "fractured" and I should come back next Tuesday at 9. Subway to 42nd Street at 10, and work through until 5:30, but it's only a total of 6.75 hours, because I took the first half-hour to check out my work on appendix D (and found that most of the stuff WASN'T from the IBM manual, but I refused to re-do anything, saying that everything was at least OK, even though some of the style was pretty poor), and to find why I was undercharged 4 hours on the last check. Found the mistake to be theirs, and they said they'd pay me next time. Home at 6:30 and find John cooking chicken, which is very tasty, and I get down to 11 pages of diary, feeling very sore from the typing for the first time in a long time. Again debate not typing at all, but it just seems somehow the LEAST I can do to keep driving myself to the typewriter. Get over to find that John's staring at the TV set, and I want to have sex, so we smoke after I shower, and find that things can go along very well. He gets out the vibrator and does me off handily, though I'm almost down when I come. He comes nicely, and I figure he'd had quite a bit of action at the orgy, and this was just the after-effect. Lay down, satisfied to be next to him, and we talked a long time today about the effect of the phone call from his sister saying that his father had died. He wasn't so sad at the death, as he was at the thought that his mother would now be very lonely, do nothing, and maybe die quickly herself. He'd had two heart attacks before, fell over in the bathroom, and died on the way to the hospital from his third heart attack at 75. He was glad they were settled into the new condominium, and tomorrow, when he called, found that the memorial service was going to be this weekend, and that he had to go out. He didn't like playing the part, but knew it was what his mother would want.

DIARY 3421

TUESDAY, NOVEMBER 21. Up early and get into the BMT subway, which is jammed, though as John predicted I got a seat at the first stop in Manhattan, and walked across to Park Avenue South and up almost to 30th Street to go up to the 15th floor at Appleton-Century-Crofts to ask for Ginny Croft, and I'm told she's down on 12, which is where she directed me to go, except that I forgot to take along my directions. Sit around in her office reading my book until she gets in about 9:20, and shows me where I'm going to sit, and says that another girl is coming in "in half an hour," so I should wait and be told what to do. Delightedly, I go into the office and break out the As of John's Dictionary, find a telephone to use, and phone him about three times for lists of questions and style points that I discovered between 9:30-11:30 am. The corner office is great, views out to the East River and a grand executive desk for me. Then Ronnie's in, and the young-appearing old-faced Gloria (?) tried to tell us what to do, but even SHE can't figure out how the "Don't check answer" code works until I figure it has to come up stripes when the student writes the answer on the LEFT, so that he DOESN'T fill in the empty block on the RIGHT, which honest-stupid might do ANYWAY, and be accused of cheating. We have work to do then, for the rest of the afternoon, and it takes a couple of hours to go through the first unit, bouncing answers off Sally, bright-eyed and perky, and Susan, large of eyes but vanishingly-small of chin. People bustle in and out saying that we need more desks, but we don't even have them two weeks later. Finish at 5 and get permission to stay around till 6 working on the As, getting up to galley 7 only, VERY slow at the start. Walk to 28th and 7th for the subway, getting to the already-in-progress Mattachine Board meting (see next page), and to everyone's surprise it's OVER at 7:30!! Subway home by 8, eat dinner, and watch a good "Brian's Song" on TV from 8:45 (forget about first 15 minutes) to 10, and then vacuum my apartment and scour my bathtub and take a shower before John comes in at midnight, and he's typically noncommittal about his sex scene with someone else, and we go silently right to bed at midnight.

DIARY 3423

WEDNESDAY, NOVEMBER 22. Up and get John to answer questions about the flags and questions that I had for him on the As, and he gives me guidelines on which to work. I subway to Times Square and buy a Sunday Times from the office (there has to be SOMETHING good about working in the Times Square area: though I've wanted to shop the sex shops for weeks now, or drop into the $2 "dirty" movies, I just haven't had the TIME so far, always rushing TO work an hour late, or rushing HOME for dinner and something afterward), and get to work at 10, working pretty well through until 6, cleaning off much of the work to be done, and Nancy's harping about one person working on one book, and since everyone seems to be taking off, she wants to know for a WEEK ahead who's working what day, so since Elizabeth and Nancy don't know yet whether they're coming to our place next Wednesday for dinner, I figure I'll work there Wednesday and one other day, Monday, if they want me to work two days. "If you REALLY INSIST, I'll come in three days," but they don't, which I like. Was supposed to call ACC today about coming in on Friday, but there's so much I want to DO over the weekend, I'm not too unhappy about forgetting to call. Home and had dinner, then settle down with the Sunday Times while John works around cooking for tomorrow, filling the place yesterday and today with marvelous smells of butter and mushrooms and various sauces. He directs that I vacuum HIS apartment, which bugs me a bit, but I do it anyway, getting it done quite quickly, and continue through the Times, going through the ads and finding absolutely nothing, working the crossword puzzle, and reading everything I want to read. By the time I'm finished, he's got a pan-full of dishes to wash, which I do, moaning about how dry my hands are getting from this incessant immersion in detergent, and he says I should be wearing rubber gloves, which I agree with. Then to bed, cuddling and talking about how nice the upcoming vacation will be, and how sad it is that he has to go off to Ohio for the greater part of it, but I keep thinking of all the things from my "do" list that I CAN do, and fall asleep quite happy about the thought of the upcoming four holidays.

DIARY 3424

THURSDAY, NOVEMBER 23. Up to type three pages, but I just don't feel like doing any more, since before going to sleep last night I was thinking about coming up with a "Writing Workbook" which would keep the topics which I feel I want to ELABORATE upon at my fingertips. So I sit down and draw up three pages of plans for the workbook, getting it nicely in shape before John calls me into the kitchen to make the apple piecrust for this afternoon. He's roasting away, the kitchen's hot, and I move around fixing things up and cleaning up my desk, putting everything into the top drawer, though the list of letters to answer is really building up. And there are STILL people to whom I SENT changes of address (like the UNPA/CD mail, and the American Society of Indexers) who still send me mail at the OLD address. Then it gets around to 2 pm, and the buzzer goes and it's Jan and Helen LaRue and their teenage-appearing, but old-mentalitied daughter Charlotte, nicknamed for an ecdysiastical marquee: Shari LaRue. Jan and John sit chatting in his apartment after getting the tour there, and Helen and Shari and I go over to my apartment, where they look at the plants, the souvenirs, and when they express interest in my geodes, I get out the rocks, putting them into a tray of water (warm, to help warm their cold fingers, which the overcool apartment atmosphere isn't helping at all) to bring out their colors, and we talk about where we've gotten our various collections. Back over and have some wine and sherry, then about 4 we settle down to dinner, starting with another of John's good cold soups of vegetables, then the magnificent turkey is brought only to the sideboard and carved there, where we don't get to bask in its golden reflections, and the spinach soufflé is served somewhat later. The brandied light stuffing is a complete trip, by far the crowing crowning glory of the meal, and everyone's very pleased with that. No dessert: we hop into the car at 6 and auto across Brooklyn to the Edwards' near Prospect Park, and have desserts and finish up the evening there (see next page). The LaRues drive us back to the bridge, and we walk home where I see the last half-hour of a poorly-produced (can't see the crotches on the insects) "L'Enfant et les Sortilege," and we might have sex afterwards at 11, after I do dishes.

DIARY 3426

FRIDAY, NOVEMBER 24. Up surely without sex this morning, though we might have gone to sleep quite late last night, and I work on galleys 8-38 of John's As until 1:15 and lunch, and then afterwards spend a half hour with him asking the questions on the flags, tearing off about 1/3 of them, and writing a note to Carol Sims saying that I worked 10 hours, 50% more than the 7½ I actually worked (and I'm sure my ratio will get better as I get into the swing of it), and that the questions still unresolved after the flags are checked against the manuscript should be returned to John for final decisions. Then at 2:30 I decide that I'm not going to spend THIS long weekend without John alone, so I make up a list of the people I'd like to call and spend it with (excluding Daisy Dumas, whom I call to check about the speaker she wants when, and I refer it to Bob Milne since I don't want to take the time for TWO classes out of my working days), and come up with Larry Schecter (who says he's tied up all weekend when I get him Saturday noon, but he seems to remember me as the "guy who invited him to dinner on Hicks Street"), Louis Love, who doesn't answer, Nicholas Philolius (who says he's going to Connecticut, but "I'll call next week"), John Connolly, whom Adair (who's just gotten back from Russia) says is in Texas lighting a football game yesterday), and John Casarino, whom I also fail to get in touch with. Then I type 11 pages to make inroads into my diary, though it's rough to do it at such a removed time, and John's demanding something to do this evening, so we go through various dance and theater possibilities until we decide to go to the Elgin, which starts at 8, so we have dinner of turkey, again, and get out at 7, getting to the theater at 7:30, as usual with John when he controls the schedule. The movies are interesting (see next page), and he leaves at 12:30, saying he'll meet me at the Meat Rack, but when I get there at 1:30, he's not there, there's no show going, everyone's so old and leathery of face and jacket that they sort of look like the same person that comes in different sizes (though admittedly some are handsome: those who are most disdainful and aloof), and I leave at 2:10, disgusted with him, and subway home by 3. He SAYS he just got bored and smoke-eyed and left. Humpth!

DIARY 3428

SATURDAY, NOVEMBER 25. Want to do everything at once, but end up doing very little. John gets up at 7:30 to finish packing, and I work around the apartment while he does so. Then we leave for the airport at 9, and he gets there way before his flight at 10:10, and I leave him off at the terminal and have no trouble getting back onto the highway, since I've taken care to see how the signs were marked, and it all revolves around signs for 278. Back home at 10:15, and get the package together for sending to Duttons, and get out to the post office to stand in a long line, getting a half-sheet of Christmas stamps even though the philatelic window is closed, and took cleaning out to the cleaners, and stopped in the Bohack for groceries for the weekend. Then home about noon and am torn between nailing up the felt strips and washing the windows, but washing the windows wins, and I don't even THINK to see if we have tacks for the strips, and that ruins tomorrow. Get the two windows on the right by leaning off from the fire escape, which makes the storage room window a snap, the best of the lot. Then struggle with the center windows from the bottoms which open, and finally my arms and legs and stomach are sore from levering out from the sills to get to the tops, but finally about 3:30 I'm finished, which is just in time to watch "The Big Parade of Comedy" from 3:30-5, and it turns out to be one of the Youngson collection of old films, rather patterned on the "Show People" film of Marion Davies that I saw on September 9, taking many clips (Charlie Chaplin and John Gilbert) from that film. Eat lunch of bald tuna fish during it, since I'd forgotten to eat, and then decide to smoke and come, which I do (see pages 3408-3414), then I smoke and come AGAIN, then I smoke AGAIN and listen to music, then it's 7:30 and I fall into a cold bed because I feel cold and tired, the phone rings and asks for Jack or Jacques "like a jockstrap on men?" with a double-entendre lilt to the question, whom "George Green" has referred to this number, and John later says that Jacques was the name he put on the john wall). Then I'm up at 8:30 to watch a VERY spaced-out "Between Time and Timbuktu" and jerk off a THIRD time, then watch "The Spellbound Child" again, still poor, and fall into bed at 11, sleeping instantly, thank God.

DIARY 3429

SUNDAY, NOVEMBER 26. Up and probably jerk off again, then watch Roselyn Turick on piano, harpsichord and clavier 10-11, out for the New York Times after roaming the streets of Montague and Fulton and Flatbush looking for carpet tacks, and not even Arnie's at home. Go through the Times for hours, finishing the crossword and the double-crostic and the ads, again finding nothing, and the things I want to read, and then get into the study for typing, doing 13 pages before I can't take it anymore, having at least gotten done the impressions of the fantastic trip last night, and the change of actions when John isn't gone (see pages 3408-3414). By that time it's about 5, and I eat lunch of tuna fish while reading a magazine, and I want to do the dishes, I want to write, but I REALLY want to go to the New York City Ballet, so I leave on the dreadful clothes I'm wearing: old tattered green cotton work pants, frayed-sleeve and VERY dirty from the window washing red velour pullover, high-heeled boots which are causing me trouble by slipping on the Crebos floor, which on Tuesday will cause me to go FLAT on my back on a dirty subway turnstile entrance, hitting both elbows on the obdurate concrete, causing them to still vaguely smart on the following Saturday, and has caused me other skids on wet pavements and stairways. But I really don't CARE: I want to see the ballet, they don't want to see me. So I subway off at 6:30, fearing not to get there, but the connections are quite good and I'm there to find that $4 seats are available at the box office, after I turn down a $8.95 orchestra seat for $7, but when I get to the top balcony, I look down and see a VERY empty orchestra at 6:50, and figure they'll be EMPTY, so I talk to the usherettes who say that EVERYONE moves down and sits in the orchestra (despite the fact that they were sold out Fridays and Saturdays), so I move down to get the stony iciness of the usherette (who's over 40, usheramme?) who says "If I do it for you, you'll be telling a dozen friends of yours that it's OK" and "Everyone's on subscription, they know who's supposed to sit there," and "sit right back here," showing me to a back seat which is better than front side, and the evening is rather satisfying (see next page). Home at 10, move clothes from the other closet at LAST, and am tired enough to fall asleep in the empty bed at 11.

DIARY 3432

 MONDAY, NOVEMBER 27. Up and in to Crebos to find Elizabeth talking for a long time to Harvey, and she does get a raise, which seems to put her above the $4.50 an hour she'd get at Appleton, but she's determined to go to the meeting of the church group, so she won't be coming to dinner on Wednesday. I finish "The Music School" collection of short stories (all from the New Yorker, though I don't remember any of them, they're so slight) and we have a leisurely dinner after talking for a long time about his emotional reactions to his mother's loneliness now that his father's dead. He says that he's realized that he has to value the people he loves while they're here, because, even though I might not be as old as his father, one never can tell when some sort of accident might take me away from him, and he's found that he's been taking me for granted. I get misty-eyed as he describes how his mother went around with a choked voice and streaming eyes when she described how he'd planted the dogwood tree in the front and all the bulbs that will be coming up in the spring in the back, and John said he hadn't realized how much his father had loved plants, and that when he was going through some private papers (with everything perfectly arranged for the lawyer's purpose) he found a letter that he wrote to his father saying how much money he had to earn to live in New York, and his old Junior High School graduation picture, and some clippings about his accomplishments, as well as a program of one of his piano recitals. He found other things about his father that were his own traits, and then got angry all over when his mother said that she might favor his sister, Alice, with the bulk of HER will because she's given her three beautiful grandchildren. I knew that John hated to think about his personal interests at that time, and sympathized with him. Then he cooked dinner and I said I wanted to watch the Goeren Gentele production of "The Masked Ball," so we looked at that for a bit, but I showered and smoked, so I lay with him on the sofa, sucking on him, and finally the lights went off and we got into bed, where I slid all over the place as he did me, and we both came gloriously, celebrating our new togetherness.

DIARY 3433

TUESDAY, NOVEMBER 28. Wake at 7:15, quite a bit nervous about my dentist appointment, and don't make any lunch, only shower and brush my teeth very well, using peroxide for the last time, and leave on the dot of 8 to make perfect subway connections and get to Dr. Sheik's office at 8:50. She fusses around for five minutes then takes me, and starts drilling in the back without needling me. I groan and she gives me a shot, but it feels like she missed the back nerve and deadened every tooth in FRONT of the wisdom tooth she was working on. But she drilled away while I tossed my feet around only slightly less than the leggy horse-face in the Fields film, and she said "only a bit more" and it was so, and then she began the relief of the filling, seeming to take shovels of silver to fill the gaping hole. Out at 9:20, feeling grateful to be finished with her, and having enough time to get to Avi's. Subway down on the third train, getting a fourth express, and then a fifth across to Queens Plaza, getting to school at 10, quite early. Avi's got to go to the bank, telling me about his latest news: it's not petit mal of epilepsy he's suffering, it's "dream fits," or something, for which he should try taking only 3, rather than 4, Librium a day. Wayne comes, as does Rosalie, and we're into the shouting auditorium for Avi to take care of some last details, and we're out to the subway, in to the "Immigrants" which is a great film of colorful beauty, nicely the first of a duet, since I was disappointed about how little they showed of the U.S. Out at 2, eat in Wo Ping, each our own, to 3, when I get a fortune saying I'll be lucky in a lottery, so I buy a ticket as I get into work at 3:15, to find that there's nothing to do at ACC, so I sit around, help Ronnie fill out the puzzle, look over Marg's Linear Algebra, and work for a bit on my work, then leave at 5. John's thinking of going to some concert and I'll get some work done, but Howie calls for a foursome, so we're there about 8:15, all eagerness, smoke some of his grass just as Richard comes in the door, and the evening is marvelously pleasant, ending about midnight, and we drive back home, John silent as usual, me dying to compare notes and ask opinions (see next page).

DIARY 3435

WEDNESDAY, NOVEMBER 29. Since there wasn't ANYTHING to do at ACC yesterday, I called Crebos to try to delay my coming to Thursday, but Nancy said that unless it was a GREAT difficulty, I should come in on Wednesday as planned, so I felt I had to. Get in early, just after 9, and work 7.75 the whole day, getting some input finished, doing corrections and pages that need to be done, and at the end take off a lot of flags that Elizabeth had done, and it really seems that there isn't THAT much more to DO. Talk to Nancy about only coming in on Wednesday next week, and say I'm working at ACC AND on my own stuff, and she agrees, saying "You have to look out for yourself," and I positively agree. Then she asks about Marjorie, and I say that SHE'S working at ACC, which makes her face fall, and I fear I shouldn't have told her, and she hastens, in her way, to assure me it's all OK. But I know I shouldn't have said anything. Out at 6 and home to John, and we agree we'll go to Paul Taylor tonight, since we don't have the dinner, and get there at 7:45, but find that Arnie's orchestra seat is only good for another orchestra seat, and John wants to sit upstairs, so we both spend another of our purple tickets and sit upstairs, then during intermission see Ben Harms walking across the lobby, and John's talking to Larry Campbell, who DOESN'T get free tickets to ANYTHING, and John says he should take everything off his income tax. We talk about the dances right at the time, and I'm gratified at John's frankness and willingness, FINALLY, to talk about something. Later I say I want to talk about the sex scene, and he says we two surely got along together, he agrees that Howie DID look pretty bad, but that they were both satisfied and tired when they were sitting on the sofa enjoying watching us, so there didn't seem to be any hard feelings about it. Also, John told Ben and Lucy about the woman who called while he was away, who'll be visiting us during the Christmas season, and John hopes that their party will be when she's here, but it turns out not to be. We have five December parties lined up ALREADY, and it's not even December yet! C.W. Lennon turns out to be Chris Reed, and the Edwards call for the 10th.

DIARY 3437

THURSDAY, NOVEMBER 30. Back to Crebos at 9:30, laughing to get in at the same time as Ginny, and she doesn't know if anything's in, but Sally seems determined to keep me busy, telling me to move some folders from one file to another, to bring a list of numbers up to date, and to check some things out. Then some work comes in, and I check out some of the stuff, but it doesn't last long, and I have some time to work on the book from HBJ, and John's getting annoyed about my not working on the Bs from his dictionary, which I've had since Tuesday in my apartment, and Pam Goett seems to think that I should return his Production Management galleys to her instantly. Ronnie keeps talking to the awful guy on the other side of the wall, and people file in and out saying that there have to be more desks moved into the room. I work on the book and leave at 5:30, figuring to get down to Mattachine on time. Get in just before 6 (see next page), and leave at 8:30 saying goodbye to Don Goodwin and Robert Burdick, and get in at 8:50, in time to almost cook through a hamburger on one side, then let it sizzle while I watch a fabulous beginning to "Salome," in the original complete French of Oscar Wilde, which goes on for considerable length, with Ludmilla Tcherina as a golden goddess, with choreography by Bejart. The whole thing is the height of decadence, with nearly-nude boys dashing around the stage, a much too fleshy Jokannan inset into a silver-stone wall, a wigged, cheeked, shouldered, busted, stomached, Herodias of marvelous ugliness, a fairly undramatic, though touching Herod, and a dance on a desert-blue slab of Styrofoam against a billowing pink sheet and zingy music and some of the most pornographically obscene posturings by the nipple-and-crotch shadowing Ludmilla. Some of the boy friends, and their friends were quite striking, but the camera never seemed to dwell on anything but the leather pointed codpiece of the Thracian captain, ignoring the bare thighs of his lover. Quite a show, and I'd love to see it again stoned on Saturday, but don't, in fact. I finish "Of the Farm" and am just sitting down to read "New York" at 12 when John gets in, having had sex, but refusing to tell me any of the details.