April 17, 1977

Bruce talked to a void, voicing his opinions about famous people without making mentioning names. He has obviously met stars, but being a no one I'm unimpressed with his connections, especially since his name-dropping are mostly gossip/

Man is a true asshole.

My friends female and male are futilely beating out their brains to be famous or rich or both.

"I'm gonna be...."

The choices of how to achieve their goals are phenomenal.

LATER

I'm broke.

I called my mother, who said, "Inflation has caught up to us too."

I need to find a job tomorrow or else I'll be dancing at the Gaiety Go-Go Bar and selling my blood as well as my flesh.

I only have $4.

To get up town I jump the subway turnstile.

At the Ensemble Studio outside of Times Square I sit next to a pair of nuns out of their habits.

Maybe they aren't nuns, but there are clean.

Clean like they've never sinned and having spent six years at St. Mary's of the Hills outside of Boston I can smell a nun from a distance even without their drag.

I wore a uniform of white shirt, blue tie, and midnight blue trousers from 3rd to 8th grades.

My pants were patched at the knees.

Now my jeans give out in the crotch and the cuffs are ragged.

The chances of my wardrobe improving are nil, as my workless days repeated one after the other.

The two nuns talked about God before the rise of the curtain.

They look at me, as if I might be a believer.

I say nothing, hoping to disguise my past under a flutter of facades until my life in Hingham, Falmouth Foresides, Boston, and New York vanish, as if I was a Bowery Bum.

A forgotten man with twenty-five years of bullshit behind me.

I wish I could leave the theater and head out to the Lincoln Tunnel. I'd stick out my thumb and head West, until I reach the Pacific Ocean. I would strip naked and swim into the depths with the tide.

It's supposed to be a nice way to go.