South Florida Winters: 1981-1984

SOUTH FLORIDA WINTERS
1981-1984
SOUTH FLORIDA WINTERS

1981-1984
RICHARD GRAYSON
Superstition Mountain Press Phoenix 2010
Copyright 2011 by Richard Grayson. All rights reserved. Printed in the United States of America. Superstition Mountain Press 4303 Cactus Road Phoenix, AZ 85032
First Edition
ISBN #: 978-0-557-87651-8
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
For Judith Ortiz Cofer
South Florida Winters

1981-1984
Wednesday, January 14, 1981

Midnight in Florida. Im 1300 miles away from my old life now. Here the world seems so new smells so new. Im exhausted and I plan to come down with the flu for a week or so, so I can relax. Only kidding! I slept well in the hotel last night; this morning Dad and I went out for breakfast. Living in Manhattan might be wonderful if I could afford to live in midtown. But as Dad said, if Im going to be poor, Im better off being poor in Florida, where its warm. We checked out of the hotel and drove into Brooklyn. At Brooklyn College I tried to track down my final grade rosters; everyone elses seemed to be in, but mine were lost. After an hour of running from office to office, I finally decided the hell with it if they want me to
hand in final grades, let them find me. I know this might be considered irresponsible, but it was the last straw for me. Josh said Ill end up teaching down here, but I dont want to be stuck in academia with its low pay and bullshit politics. So Dad and I went to Deutsch Pharmacy, where we got Mom some drugs, and then I left Brooklyn. In Rockaway Dad and I had lunch, took $400 out of my bank account, went back to my apartment where we packed up everything. I never disconnected my phone or electric, but I dont care. I left my keys with Mrs. Calman and said goodbye to Beach 118th Street. Dad called my apartment a shithole, but by New York standards, it was really rather nice. At Grandpa Herbs, we called car service and waited for them until 4:30 PM. I called Avis and Alice, both of whom asked me if I felt sad; I felt anything but sad. I feel that my friendship with them will now be on a different level. Alice is a provincial Manhattanite and Avis is a bit weird these days. Dad and I got into a station wagon with five yeshiva kids who assumed I was Dads father because I had the beard. They told me I looked like the hostage who got away, Richard Queen, who was sent home because of illness. Before the flight, Dad told me not to rush into anything; if I take the first opportunity that comes my way, Dad said, Ill regret it. He
expects me to look into the job situation slowly and carefully. Our plane was supposed to take off at 6:20 PM, but we stood on the runway for nearly an hour. I was jumpy at takeoff, but I soon settled down and enjoyed the ride. No matter how scared I was, I could never imagine a better way to travel. I sat by the window and watched our descent off the coast of West Palm Beach and our landing at Fort Lauderdale; the land was a string of glittering lights. At lunch at the Rams Horn Id played two songs on the jukebox: Lennons Starting Over and Sinatras New York, New York with its first lines: Start spreading the news / Im leaving today . . . And we landed. Mom and Jonny said I look completely different with my beard. I got my luggage and we went to the car. It was 65 and I felt like I was home. The palm trees, the wide-open spaces, the ride up State Road 84, the turn into University Village, the sky, the new smell of the house: it all came back to me. I havent been here in nine months, but Im sure Ill get used to Florida again. Already I feel the pace of life has slowed down. It aint gonna be easy, but Ive got a hunch its gonna be interesting here.
Saturday, January 15, 1983

8 PM. My weekends are havens. Of course mostly I read and I sleep. But thats heaven, too. Last night Josh and I talked for an hour. His detective story, growing to 100 pages, is becoming a novel. He says that after writing on a word processor, you dont want to go back to a typewriter: Its like working on a manual typewriter after youve gotten used to an electric. Still unhappy at work, Josh is up to $24K now (unlike his computer, which has 128K) and spends all his time alone, writing and moping. Simons sister tells Josh that Simon is as happy as a pig in shit as a computer programmer. Simons in-laws in Canada got him money for a car. Though hes stopped writing, Simon is floating on air with his wife and his job and San Francisco. It can be done. Boy, am I sounding fey tonight; it must be the tofu I just gobbled up. Dad is flying into New York right now and will probably land at LaGuardia in the midst of the seasons heaviest snowstorm. I brought over a heavy jacket for him this afternoon. When I called Grandma Ethel, she said it was merely misty and drizzly. Down here were bracing for a new cold wave: it may get as low as 35 by morning.
I slept till 1 PM, that very heavy sleep I always get when my sinuses are clogged and my body is manufacturing lots of mucus. Still, I enjoy being a layabout and thinking or just sleeping. In the mail were: $9 in orders for Eating at Arbys; a delightful New Wave story by Susan Mernit, whos finishing one novel and working on the next, all while adjuncting, therapying, and getting ready to divorce Spencer (though she doesnt know that yet); The Village Voice; a BC Alumni Association Board of Directors notice; and a xerox of a review of Georges Modern Times. Mom said she read that the Key West Literary Seminar was so booked, they had to rent larger quarters. For Rosemarys sake, Im really glad. I wonder if Ill be mentioned with the Heralds Robertson and the Orlando Sentinels Hayes. It would have been fun to go to Key West and hobnob with the literati, but sleeping in my bed has its pleasures, too. Funny how people around here are coming to me as if I were a successful writer. I know that Im Mr. Nobody from nowhere and the New York Times Book Review piece is really small potatoes. Hell, I may never become a celebrity, which it seems to me, is the one exalted status in this age: a kind of immortality granted to the early Roman emperors, but they had to die first.
I do want it, that escape from real life into headlines in the tabloids and ten minutes on the tube. Sure, Im a publicity hound, but no more so than many successful artists (Woody Allen, Zsa Zsa Gabor). Can I live without publicity? Ah, well have to see. I bought Kate Fericano a little sleeper and mailed it off to California; I was touched that Paul and Kathy were good enough to send me a photo of her. Are my happy dreams of babies a desire for fatherhood? Next year Florida Atlantic University will begin offering freshman and sophomore classes, as well as expanded Broward courses. Id love to teach there. Patrick told me Mimi told him that Casey told her that the search committee may not consider any of the full-temporaries for one of the permanent positions. Yesterday I went to the Martin Luther King Day celebration at school. Hearing We Shall Overcome anew, I felt nostalgic and sad.
Monday, January 16, 1984

4 PM. I have chest congestion and a cough, so an hour ago I went to sit out by the pool without my contacts so that I could get at the vitamin D of the sun. My theory based on something I once read is that staring at fullspectrum sunlight makes one healthy.
However, I didnt want to look like an idiot in the eyes of the old men out there, so I took along a book: the thinnest hardcover I could find on the bookshelf. It was The Great Gatsby, and instead of using it as a prop as Id intended, I instead finished the first three chapters. Fitzgeralds prose is gorgeous, his instincts about characters and narrative always shrewd. My margin notes from when I taught the book in English 12 at LIU (eight years ago? seven? six?) were by and large cribbed, but they gave more meaning to the book. I had forgotten the simple joy of reading for pleasure, not something useful like a newspaper but a great novel. I wish I had more time. Well, at MacDowell, I will. Last night I fell asleep early and I had a rich and satisfying rest. Theres no ecstasy like that of thinking its morning and realizing the clock says its only 11:35 PM. At BCC everyone, of course, commented on the Saturday news story. A student reported the Art Department was abuzz, talking about me this morning; Steve Eliot had been dying to know what crisis had caused Glen Rose, pale and shaken, to suddenly cancel their big meeting on Thursday. Since then Ive learned that President Adams never phones Central Campus, so I caused a real trauma.
Everything Ive learned from this just points up the shallowness and hypocrisy of the system. People dont talk except in the chain of command as if we were an army at war. No wonder the school, and so many other institutions, are so fucked up. Imbecile drones like Pat Swift nodded gravely in my direction, and they obviously couldnt understand why I took the whole thing so lightly. They really are more scared than I had thought they were. Some students said my name and the love quiz were mentioned on various radio stations and that one early morning disk jockey did a skit about it. I taught my classes and left campus early. At the Democratic party headquarters, I filled out a form to run as a delegate to the convention. I listed myself as uncommitted, a sure way to get on the ballot because I dont have to be approved by any candidate. Hopefully, this means that one way or the other, Ill be on the March 13 presidential primary ballot; I even had Mom file as an alternate delegate. Maybe with my name recognition, Ill even get some votes. At 1:45 PM, I had a delightful interview about my presidential campaign on CKO in Toronto, in a Canada-wide broadcast. I felt too tired and too sore to do much exercising.
I think I could get used to this terms Monday/ Wednesday/Friday schedule: I have two delightful classes, and Im finished by 11 AM. The days are beginning to get perceptibly longer, and Im living in the best place in the U.S. to be in mid-January. I do have to see that I dont get carried away with my publicity; this last time I came very close to going too far. Luckily, everything came out all right in the end because I managed to be in control all the while. I guess I suffer from hubris, and if this was a classic tragedy, I should be getting my comeuppance soon. However, I plan to lay low for a couple of weeks if I can. Still, Ive already made 1984 an interesting year.

6 PM. In an hour or so, our guests will begin to arrive for tonights party. It should be a classic, according to Mom, with a large concentration of eccentrics, including of course, three of my own grandparents. Im finding life in Florida to be pretty exciting. Ive decided to totally immerse myself into the issues of Broward County. Im reading everything I can on the county and its problems. I want to be conversant on the situation here.
This total immersion approach has worked for me before: as a student government person at Brooklyn College, as an adjunct, as a short story writer trying to make it in the little magazine world, and as a publicity seeker. As Woody Allen says, eighty percent of life is just showing up; if you take the time to know more than anyone else, you eventually become a winner. Besides, the challenge of it is fun. I dont know what my eventual goal is, but I think I want to get involved in local politics as well as the arts and culture (not that theres much of either in Broward). Its really exciting, and I havent felt this enthusiastic about anything in years. I feel I have a purpose now. Maybe I should just stick to my writing, but thats not enough for me. Remember the old Oliver Wendell Holmes quote about taking part in the actions and passions of your time? Eventually I will find my niche here. There are few people my age in Broward, so I dont really have the problem of competition with other baby-boom comrades. And of course there arent many writers. I mean to become a leader here if only to give me something to do. At least now I feel I have something to go on living for, something besides my literary career, which isnt much of a career.
I have had a bad sinus headache since last night; thats one of the disadvantages of humid South Florida. I have been sleeping well, however, and enjoying meals more (although Im attempting to lose weight). Hilary Foster, my stroke-victim hitchhiker friend, called this morning; Air Florida lost all of her luggage. I said Id phone her tomorrow and wed try to get together. None of my mail has been forwarded here yet, but I did get a copy of John Kordoshs delightful deadpan avant-garde book, Pleasant Days with Joe and Sam. And I have enough reading material to keep me happy for days. Jonny took me to the Sunrise public library branch this afternoon and I got a card and took out some books, asked them to order Hitler, and came away with pamphlets on adult education and grants in the arts: all material to go into my Broward file. On my own, I went to the Broward Mall for lunch and people-watching Im horny because its so warm here, even though today was only about 62 and then I stopped at Davie Town Hall. Browards system of all these little cities and towns seems totally outdated, impractical and unwieldy. Davie is having elections for Town Council on March 10, and Im sorry I didnt register to run (the deadline was noon yesterday); the spots are barely being contested.
I want to write for the local papers. Unfortunately, theres no commercial TV station in Broward. Hey, Im really getting involved in something larger than myself, and thats a joy the same kind of joy Jonathan feels about college (a healthier obsession than weight-lifting). Well, Ive got to get ready for the party. It might turn out to be a bit of fun after all.
Tuesday, January 18, 1983

8 PM. I didnt go into BCC until noon today. This morning I had what seemed like a good workout on Nautilus. Perhaps Ill lower the number of exercises Ive been doing. Anyway, I spent the rest of the morning reading and relaxing. There was no mail and no story on me in the Miami News, so I didnt have much to keep me busy. Going up to see Lisa, I decided I would read her the College English letter and see if she thought I should read it at the meeting. She encouraged me to do so because shes completely disgusted with BCC. Yesterday Lisa overheard Dr. Grasso telling Rosemary Lanshe the same old story about how she cant find qualified people to fill the openings, which have grown to eight. I think
the answer is in George Staleys letter: good people dont want to become drudges. Lisa also heard Dr. Grasso pointedly remark, And no more creative writers! Fuck her. It turned out she couldnt be at the meeting today, so Smiling Jack Pawlowski presided. Lisa also told me that Bob and Mimi too are very upset with their jobs and future prospects at BCC; Mimi went for an interview at Boca Academy, and Bob is convinced he wont be rehired since Dr. Grasso doesnt like him. The meeting was the usual hogwash, but I did read parts of the letter, albeit somewhat haltingly. A few minutes later, Chip Biays was handing out the brochures his committee designed, and he didnt give me one. It wasnt conscious, Im sure, but I bet I scared straightarrow Chip figured I had become a bit of a pariah and he didnt want to get himself associated with me. Luke Grande later brought up the question of FAUs expansion to a four-year school and said that their faculty, who teach nine hours a term at about double our salary will eventually take our best students, leaving us mostly the remedial bottom of the barrel. Hes right, of course. Jacqui Hall came to visit, and while she bitched about the incredibly heavy workload and long hours at Southern Bell, she didnt appear to want her old job back. She told me that every
time she thinks of quitting Southern Bell, she gets a raise and has now doubled her salary from last year. I gathered, though, that it was mostly the pressures of raising a young child that made Jacquis work life difficult; for a single person, she said, it would be much easier. Ive taken out some books on intrapreneurship the new 80s buzzword. Everyone says that in a troubled economy its easier to make money by starting up a new business. Actually, what I would love to do, if I had the capital, is start a small press and turn it into a decent publisher. I never had more fun on a job than I did when I worked for the Fiction Collective. Maybe I could even be a literary agent. Obviously, I have talents aside from those as a fiction writer and teacher. As I said yesterday, theres still lots of money to be made in Miami and this area. If I worked as hard and as smart in business as I did in marketing my stories and advancing my career as a writer, I think I could do reasonably well. Ive never been an ivory tower sort of guy.
6:30 PM. The sun has just gone down. Im sitting in front of my sliding glass door, which Ive opened to let into the mild night air. One of my neighbors is barbecuing and the smell is wafting over here, mixing with the slight aroma of dog shit, which smells almost pleasant. The crickets are chirping, and the dog across the way is barking in the backyard. Theres an orange tree there, with real ready-to-eat oranges (forgive my New York amazement). When I complain about the banality of life here, the problems at work, the lack of friends, I neglect to mention that there can be no more beautiful place in the winter than South Florida. Dusk is my favorite time here. Now the days are getting longer (theyre longer than in New York, anyway) and it feels like spring. Not the same kind of spring up North, of course, but theres a lazy, self-satisfied feeling in the air here. At 5 PM I went to the Broward Mall. In the bookstore I thought the two girls at the counter were staring at me and giggling, but then I decided that was just paranoia. However, when I plunked down my copy of Brideshead Revisited at the counter (I liked the TV show, especially Sebastian carrying around a teddy bear at Oxford), they asked: What book did you write? How do you know that Im a writer?
More giggles. Were in your class. Which one? The 9:30 lit class this morning we did that Doris Lessing story. I apologized for not recognizing them (Im oblivious to students after school) and then told them the title of my book. We looked you up in the library and there were so many Richard Graysons, one said. I studied their nametags and said, Gayle, Terri [I think] Ill remember you next time. I bought todays New York Times and sat down at the counter of Dannys for dinner. If all of life here could be so leisurely, Id be in paradise . . . or dying of boredom. Last night, when I spoke to Ronna, she said the temperature had gone below zero for the second day. Ronna said she xeroxed the Florida radio and TV stations from her PR list and would send them; I said Id send her my new book. After watching the Waugh teleplay, I slept fitfully, again dreaming of New York (Alice and I were buying out-of-town papers at Columbus Circle). The discussion on Lessings feminist-oriented story was pretty good, though only a few
students dominate: an older woman who looks at things with a different perspective; a bright black girl (I also dreamed of Sharon last night); a clever kid named Dana Mahoney, very earnest; some cute kid whos probably gay; and a heavyset girl who reminds me of Shelli. Back at the office, we all learned that Alan Merickel had quit. He took a job at a college in Springfield, Massachusetts and bought a house in Hadley and will leave in two weeks. We all congratulated him but he wont be the last to leave. Dr. Grasso now has seven vacancies. She told me she had read the Gargoyle interview, which Maureen had xeroxed. A rising young fiction writer, she said. Well, I managed to rise up to teach my 12:302 PM class on paragraphing, and then I came home to answer my mail, mark papers and pump iron.

10 PM. Mom and Dad just left my room. We were all watching the 52 American hostages get off their plane in Algiers. Today was one of those rare days when public drama overshadows private concerns. For days weve been waiting for the imminent release of the hostages, but snags kept developing in Tehran. Carter so wanted to
announce their release and fly to West Germany to greet them, but he was cheated out of that; their plane did not take off until after noon, when Reagan was sworn in. The inaugural was overshadowed by the resolution of the Iraq crisis, but Reagan must be glad he can start fresh. His address was brief and simple and unmemorable; he spoke about our severe economic crisis and the need for less government. Now hes got to provide leadership. I wish him luck, but I dont think he can change much. He said he didnt plan to preside over the collapse of the American economy, but I feel thats precisely what may happen soon. Of course, as Josh once told me, Im one person who has little to lose in the event of another Great Depression: I have nothing to begin with. Right now I have no home of my own, no job or job prospects, no car and less than $2,000 to my name. So why dont I feel depressed? Its not just that Im in sunny Florida. See, with my lack of money and position and prospects comes a very real sense of freedom. Basically, I can do anything I want to without worrying about risking a career or savings. As Me and Bobby McGee says, Freedoms just another word for nothing left to lose. The past couple of days have been a period of adjustment. Last night Dad and I went to look
at a used car: a 73 Montego which isnt as good as Grandpa Herbs, but which nevertheless runs well. We plan to look at other used cars this week; Dads mechanic has a 70 Buick LeSabre. This morning I opened a checking account at the Florida National Bank, depositing a Citibank check for $950 and $250 cash. My checks and the card so I can use their cash machine wont arrive for a couple of weeks, but I got some starter checks. This afternoon Jonny drove me into Fort Lauderdale so I could get to the Employment Service; naturally, there were no jobs for college teachers, so they checked my form and told me I wouldnt have to come back for ten weeks. I do hope I can collect Unemployment, but I dont expect to, not with all the hassles Ive had in the past. Yesterday the AWP Job List arrived, and despite my bitter feelings toward academia, I sent out half a dozen rsums (earlier I had recovered them from storage). There was an opening for an NEA grant fiction writing position at Juniata College in Pennsylvania that begins on March 4 and ends on May 20, and since they said theres a very short deadline, I phoned the chairman of English there. He told me had my dossier from AWP; the writer who was supposed to take the job canceled at the last minute and the department was fairly desperate. I thought
maybe I could walk into the job, but he named several writers who are also interested all for a measly $4000 plus room and board. He wanted me to send him out some stories, so I did; I should hear from him in a couple of weeks. Even though Im sure I would be the best person for the job, I probably wont get it. Thats academia for you. Anyway, Im letting myself take some deep breaths and getting my bearings; meanwhile, Im relaxing, reading (I finished Norman Cousins Anatomy of an Illness and also Broward in the 80s) and getting accustomed to my new life.
Thursday, January 21, 1982

9 PM. I have a premonition that the next few weeks will be very stressful. (they now have stress management courses which says something about something). Part of the premonition is neurotic: things have been too good for the past three weeks. This evening, as if on cue, my car started acting up. To avoid getting stuck (or getting stuck more than necessary), Im taking it over to my parents early tomorrow morning so Dad can drive it to Freddys.
Crads impending visit has me feeling mixed: I want to see him, but Ill lose privacy; my routine will be upset; and Im afraid hell be bored and impatient because I have so much schoolwork to do. Hopefully Crad will understand that Ive got a full-time job and I have to be semi-responsible. I hope Gary decides to go to L.A. rather than come here this weekend again, not because I dont want to see Gary but because I need time to mark over a hundred papers and prepare my lessons for next week. Luckily three classes my 101s at the end of next week will all be held in Bailey Hall as part of the library lecture. I guess I didnt have time to savor my new book; I havent really read it yet. But I dont know if thats necessary. Lincolns Doctors Dog is a book. It exists. Yet in a way, it doesnt. I brought it in to school but I showed it to only a few people, and I didnt let anyone read it. In todays Sun-Tattler, Renee Krause wrote that Im asking for disappointment by running for Town Council and also filing for U.S. Senator and for President in 1984. She quoted me as saying Ill run a screened-in terrace campaign, similar to McKinleys 1896 front porch campaign. My parents feel I am embarrassing them. Dad says, If youre going to run, run . . . Dont make yourself a laughing stock. Dad doesnt understand that Im trying to poke fun at the
system, from the silliness of the Davie Town Council to the absurdity of a movie actor as President. My parents are proud of my book, but Im sure theyre embarrassed by it, too, and would rather not have people read about my homosexual feelings. Im a little embarrassed myself. But really, I know nothing I write is so terrible, and a lot of it is honest. I had a couple of nice classes today and I did feel good about myself as a teacher. Alan started clearing out his office, and we all helped ourselves to books he doesnt want. Its Another Beautiful Day in Broward County, Florida got rejected by one little magazine but accepted by another, The Vanderbilt Review. Alice sent the new Weight Watchers which features Peters before-and-after story: the photo of him jumping for joy under a Broadway marquee with his name on it was priceless. Marc was supposed to leave yesterday, but hes staying on, and tomorrow his girlfriend Alison, who went to high school with Jonathan (whos not crazy about her visit) will be coming to stay in Davie. Before Mom said I could use the Buick tomorrow, she had to ask Marc if he needed to go to the beach as if that was equivalent to my needing it for work. I did sit in the sun for an hour today, but it will be the last time Im able to do that for a while.
Ive had a lot of free time this week and I havent worked enough. My papers and files relating to my writing and my classes are an unholy mess, and I feel Ill never get organized. I hurt my back lifting weights. I feel fat and not attractive and I wish I had more time to read Brideshead Revisited.
Sunday, January 22, 1984

3 PM. In Davie but Ill be heading back to North Miami Beach soon. Mikey and Amy will be back at my apartment by 4:15 PM so Mikey can watch the Super Bowl, an event I care nothing about. I believe in the laws of compensation that Emerson puts forth in his essay: about every defeat being a blessing, every loss creating a gain. I know its Pollyanna stuff, but I have to believe in something. Recent studies show that victims of accidents, rapes and other violent crimes who blame themselves in part for what happened seem to recover faster than those who feel no responsibility and chalk everything up to the random absurdity of life. Seeing Mikey and Amy, I also see what Ive lost. Living alone, away from trendy Manhattan and most of my old friends, Ive
forgotten how normal people socialize and I cant seem to enjoy what normal people do. Last night we went to Raffles, a bar and fun food (chicken wings, fried cheese, potato skins) place at the 163rd Street Mall; Marc and Daniela hang out there a lot. It wasnt that I felt out of place. But I felt annoyed at Mikey and Amy for taking so long to decide what to eat. Im used to ordering for myself, and Ive forgotten those negotiations necessary between two or more people to decide where to go, what to see, what each one likes the other one to wear, etc. Have I become a monster? Mayor Koch, a lifelong bachelor, has written a book in which he describes with relish how he humiliates and bullies other people and toadies to the more powerful. He is always right; the others, always wrong. Thats what comes from living alone, I think, even though Koch is an especially arrogant, cowardly and unpleasant man. Could I become that kind of person? I guess Im lucky I lived with my family for as long as I did. Seeing Making Love on CBS after dinner reminded me of Sean. Maybe Sean will be a better person for having lived with someone and learned what thats like. I make fun of the Me Generation, but is anyone out there more Me than I?
Mikey had a bad cough last night, and all I could think about was whether Id catch it. As if other peoples illnesses were nothing, mine everything. Shit. I feel like such a creep. I dont envy what Mikey and Amy share because I dont want that with anyone. What bothers me is that I dont envy them. If I felt jealousy or admiration or envy about their relationship, at least Id be normal. Hey, Im not normal. Id like to think it has a lot to do with being a writer, but I dont know. I love solitude and Ive forgotten how to relate to my friends. Most of the time Id prefer being alone to being with others. Ive become impatient and intolerant. But not unhappy, though. Today I drove Jonathan to work (his car is being fixed), slept late, worked out, read, listened to music, dreamed of levitating and of the name Belisario (where does that come from?), and Im as happy as a pig in you-know-what. Now I feel sleepy again, so I want to sleep. What a creep, huh? Ive got 25 papers to grade, and I dread that but at least Ive already them through once. Id rather stay here alone than go back to my apartment and spend time with Mikey and Amy, and I feel so guilty for that. They are wonderful people, yet Id rather be by myself. I dont want to exaggerate this. Right
now I do wish I could stop time or fastforward it, like videotape, to a week from now, with the New Orleans trip behind me, and me alone in North Miami Beach. I think Ill sleep a little and hope Mom and Dad and Marc uh oh, too late; theyre home now. Goodbye.

8 PM. Ive been terribly lazy this weekend. I never got around to marking those papers for Tuesday night. So now, instead of doing them at my leisure, Ill have to work hard the next two days. Crazy, isnt it? Human, too. Again today, I had no human contact except for a brief phone call to Mikey. I think this deprivation is getting a little out of hand. While I dislike being capable of boredom, Ive been more than a little bored this weekend. Again today, I stayed in bed until 1 PM, reading the papers. Of course, a very heavy rainstorm made it easier to stay in. And I did attempt to see the film Sophies Choice, but I got to the theater too late. One advantage to all this homebody stuff: Ive been saving money. But what have I been losing? I have no sexual life outside of masturbation and very little social life, either. I
find Im retreating into myself these days, that I cant wait to return to my safe little condo, my secure king-sized bed without Sean or anyone else next to me. Ive got to make an effort to get out more, to find people that I enjoy being with. Perhaps it would be different if I were writing a lot, but Im not. I suppose a lot of this comes from my job and the negative feelings I have about it. I do feel Im in kind of a rut. Anyway, I wont be in this rut for much longer. In three months, the term will be over and I can relax and go to New York. Now that I know that Teresa will be in Manhattan, I can shuttle between her place, Rockaway, and some other friends homes. Barbara Grizzuti Harrison had an article on the MacDowell Colony in this weeks Times Book Review. She captured the peculiar magic of the place, its social life (and tensions), the dreamy atmosphere that is conducive to creativity and to, well, weirdness. I worked well at MacDowell. The lead piece of the new book got written there, as did the story that won the Berkeley Poets Co-op prize, a story I dreamed one Sunday as I slept past noon. I remember passing Lucille Rhodes, the filmmaker, just after I got up. Since I probably looked ill, she asked, Is anything wrong? No, everythings right, I said and it was.
My planned novel would begin at MacDowell on the night before I left. The first line: He was so happy, he wanted to die. (For some reason, I see the book in the third person.) That is how I felt there; it was so idyllic, I couldnt bear to go on to the real world, knowing what problems faced me there. The novel will be a mishmash of events of that summer, though I plan to fictionalize a lot. I want to write about Rockaway, my grandparents, Marc and Nikki, Fire Island, Aviss wedding, Janices death, and my decision to leave New York. Also, I want to write about my relationship with Sean. In the book Ill make him a 17-year-old kid from Rockaway, who, like Sean, is affectionate, quiet to the point of mystery, very bright and both courageous and immature. Will I ever write this book? Im scared to, but I have to. It will be easier if I also work on something else at the same time, the way Susan Mernit is doing. Why havent I started yet? What perfect conditions am I waiting for? How many other novels have been planned and then abandoned? These accusatory questions, I hope, will prod me on. You must change your life. Well, once I Brake for Delmore Schwartz is out, Ill feel liberated, maybe. Ive had a pretty easy time of it as a writer; I havent had to work as hard as I should have. Otherwise I might be at the
point where John Sayles, Ted Mooney or Scott Sommer is today. Of course, Ive had lots to keep me occupied. But they probably have, too. Oh well. Feeling no excitement is better than getting bad news. Interesting days can be tragic as well as joyful. Thank you, Mr. Philosopher.

Midnight. I have rarely been as happy as I have been this past week. Frankly, I didnt think I would be this happy in Florida. I now feel more optimistic than ever before. On Thursday night I kept dreaming of New York, only to be startled each time I awoke in Florida. I began going through The International Directory of Little Magazines and decided Im going to try to get as much published as I can . . . just for the heck of it. Why not? It would give me a goal I want to get the remaining fifteen or so stories I have left published just to get rid of them. And Id also like to try to market poetry, essays, humor and even graphics. If nothing else, it will keep me busy as it did this afternoon when I spent an hour submitting to new magazines listed in the new issue of Small Press Review.
Jonny gave me the Camaro when he got home from school on Friday at 1 PM and I drove to the Unemployment office in Fort Lauderdale. I still cant believe Im in such a pleasant place in the middle of winter and I love driving here. I cant explain how relaxed I feel: the warmth of the sun on my face, the palm trees, the whiteness of everything. At Unemployment, we saw a film on interstate claims and then I handed in last weeks form stating the jobs I looked for and that I was able and willing to work. I have to report next Thursday at 1:30 PM. New York State will probably disqualify me on the basis that its still the academic year, but I intend to appeal, and I do think Ill win. I xeroxed my Sylvia Ginsberg Fan Club press release and then bought the new (week-old in New York) Village Voice and read it over a Tab at McDonalds: a real treat. But there was a treat waiting for me when I got home to an empty house: a note from Mom saying that Dr. Grasso from Broward Community College had called to say that an English comp course had just come up. She wants me to come to school at 9 AM on Monday. I hadnt expected a course when I sent the chairman, Dr. Adkins, my rsum, but what a wonderful feeling it was to hear that news not so much the course itself (I could do better on
Unemployment), but what it represents: a sense of possibilities and options open to me. And I got a big match of mail: Kingsborough sent me a personnel form saying they owe me $57 for the adult ed courses I subbed for; Citibank sent my monthly statement and I reconciled my account; I got notices from the Authors Guild and Associated Writing Programs; and Beyond Baroque sent a letter from a Ruth Cohen who saw my story in their magazine and wanted a review copy of my book to use for a textbook anthology (I sent her not off to Taplinger). I couldnt have been higher when my parents returned with my new car. I was 107th heaven taking the family out for a drive; the old Buick rides nicely. Dad was happy because he got his first big check from Sasson $1,800 covering goods shipped through November. Before this, he was getting only a $300-a-week draw. We ate out in a nice Jewishy deli in Tamarac (it could have been Mill Basin or Great Neck) and then I came home to send out Grandma Sylvia fan club press releases to local media. No one called about the Burt Reynolds for Senator press release, but I expect somebody will pick it up. I noticed theres a reporter for the Fort Lauderdale papers West Broward section named Aileen Stern; could she be the same one from Brooklyn College?
Late at night is the only time I feel lonely; I was also very horny last night, but I slept well. Today, Saturday, was the first rainy day Ive had since Ive been down here. Mom and Dad left at noon to set up the show at the Miami Merchandise Mart, and I took a drive to the Sunrise library. When I got back, I had mail: John Jay College sent my paycheck and Tom Whalen took There Are Eight Million Stories in New York for his Lowlands Review #10. I would really like to see him and his classes in New Orleans, but I dont know if I can spare the money. I called Josh and spoke to him and Simon. Just about everything is the same in New York, they said. After cleaning up, I borrowed Jonnys weights and worked out for the first time in three weeks. It felt good, but I lost ground and will probably get very charley horse tomorrow. Marc called from Joey Fishmans house in New York to give me the information on his car, which hes reporting stolen. He and Nikki decided to come to New York on Super Bowl weekend, when their ex-friend Rocco, now tight with Fredo, would probably not be watching the house. (Nikki called Rocco and said that he will be implicated if anything happens to her or Marc.) Marc said that Nicoles father is more powerful than we think he owns the second-largest trucking firm in the U.S. and is merely waiting
for an appropriate time to speak to Fredo. Mr. Jackson wants to give Fredo enough time and rope to hang himself. I had a long talk with Jonny, who says he realizes hes neurotic. Hes reading Eric Bernes Laymans Guide to Psychiatry and Psychoanalysis, a book I read during my psychological difficulties in high school; I told him it was very outdated. Jonny says he cries a great deal, nearly every day. He takes vitamins excessively because hes a hypochondriac, and his psychosomatic symptoms include tremors and hyperventilation, he said. We all went out to dinner at a Chinese restaurant in Sunrise (there was a half-hour wait for a table, courtesy of all the snowbirds), and then we went over to Aunt Claire and Uncle Sidneys condo, where Grandpa Herb wasnt feeling well; he had bad stomach pains. As usual, Grandma Ethel both chastised him about smoking and his poor appetite. She would like to stay here in Florida and run around like Claire and Sid (who were out playing poker), but Grandpa Herb cant wait to get back to Rockaway. They showed me a hilarious letter from their neighbor Max Goldstein, who used to work for Grandma Ethels father in the furrier business. Mr. Goldstein writes in dialect, just the way he speaks: Dear Ettel and Hirb, The day you left
was 5 inches of snow. I hope you are healtty. A week in New York its been 9 deggry . . . I wrote my nice, who says its berry cold in Florida . . . Your nighbor, Max. Dad told us that Cousin Scott flew up from Washington and that he and Aunt Sydelle went to the police to report Robin as a missing person, but the detectives said that she was a runaway. When Aunt Sydelle took Michael to his old school, the teacher broke down and cried when she heard how Robin had abandoned Michael. He found needles in the apartment and a note from Robin, who said hed be better off without his mother. (Michael read the letter to Sydelle, but she thinks he censored parts.) I had to decide which parent to live with, Michael said, and my mother made my decision for me. Poor kid. Hes such a bright 11-year-old, too. Aunt Sydelle has been hysterical since Robin left; she says shed just like to know that Robins alive. On the other side of the family, Grandma Ethel reported that Aunt Arlynes mother Hannah Weiss came down for a visit with her Haitian companion-nurse and talked about Arlyne as a baby, my Benny, my Sol, (as if they were still alive and were married to her at the same time) and discussed her real and imagined aches and pains.
Actually, Grandma Ethels comic imitation of Hannah was almost an imitation of herself though, of course, she couldnt see it.

10 PM in New Orleans. I slept fitfully but fairly well at the motel. In the middle of the night I awoke with a feeling of extreme sadness, but it passed. The morning was bright and warm, and I went to my parents house for breakfast, which I brought with me. My parents were obviously feeling guilty about last night and both offered to drive me to the airport. I went to Bodyworks at 10 AM and came home tired after a brief but intense negative workout. At noon, I drove to the airport with Mom, who took my car back to her house; she said theyll pick me up on Saturday night. My flight on Northeastern was the first time I had flown since last June, so I was pretty nervous. But breaking the flight up with the stop in St. Petersburg seemed to help, as it made me more accustomed to taking off and landing. For most of the three hours on the plane, I was fairly relaxed. Indeed, the worst apart of the trip was in New Orleans, when we sat on the
ground for nearly an hour until we were able to get in at a gate. Tom was at the airport to meet me. He looks the same. Its hard to believe that its been two years since I was last here in New Orleans. On the ride back to town, we passed sights that are now familiar on I-10, Carrollton, and St. Charles. At NOCCA Tom introduced me to his prize student, Susan Bernofsky, with whom hes been translating Walser. We also sent in to say hello to Dr. Tews, and to see Ellis Marsalis, who was playing the piano along with the other musicians in his group. Tom took about 18 copies of Elliss new album (for which he wrote the liner notes) for Toms brother Ralph. Tom had been offered a job at Loyola, but it would have meant a substantial pay cut and having to teach mostly freshman comp. He also decided not accept the invitation to apply as headmaster for a local private school. This year Tom has nine students in the morning and six students in the afternoon. The New Orleans Teacher of the Year award has gotten him a lot of publicity. In the January issue of New Orleans, hes listed as one of 84 People to Watch in 84. But lately he hasnt been able to write. A lot of it is because his two SF novels, his two collections of stories and prose poems, and his book of Walser translations all remain
unpublished. He has been getting stories out in little magazines, though. We talked for hours about teaching and writing and books and literary gossip, though of course Tom is far more knowledgeable than I am about books. I dont think Ive read one-tenth of what he has. I do like the familiar apartment, the books everywhere. And now he has videotapes, as he bought a VCR when his Loyola film course ended a couple of weeks ago. Its very good to be away from BCC and to be able to see what chickenshit place that is; perspective is a wonderful thing. Here in New Orleans, its chilly in the 40s but so far I havent really felt that cold. I did speak to Mikey and Amy before I left Florida. They were enjoying the warm and sunny days, and they thanked me for my hospitality. It really wasnt that big a deal, but Im glad I gave them a chance for privacy and enjoyment of Florida. Im sure their trip would have been awful had they stayed at her grandmothers. Alice called, saying she will be at a spa in Tarpon Springs this weekend and in Orlando next weekend but understands why I cant visit her that far away. Peter is going to stay in Boston to write until April, and Alice is planning her annual party at Andreass studio. Im really tired.

1 AM and I cant sleep. Maybe its the caffeine in the colas I drank today. Probably part of it is just stress and unhappiness. I really was a mess tonight. I didnt have dinner and I almost got into a couple of accidents driving to school. I hate the sight of BCC now and cant stand being on campus. Luckily, my students are wonderful. Theyre people like me, struggling under the burdens of family and work. I guess Im lenient with them on purpose. When I told them I decided to forget about the Gordon Rule let them put me in jail nobody complained. We went over a terrible piece by Brautigan and Singers Gimpel the Fool, and I let them go at 9 PM. Back home, I put the phone back on the hook and immediately Ed Hogan called. He needed some information for the book jacket. They are just finishing typesetting. There have been lots of delays, but Ed says the book will be improved because of the extra time spent on it. Zephyr Press, Ed said, has changed printers, and the pages will be sent off next week as will the galleys. Ed would like to schedule a publication party in mid-March, but I doubt if a printer could do it that fast; I told him I couldnt
come to New York at Eastertime and that Id prefer a May publication date. Who cares? This book isnt going to take me out of the mess Im in. If it does anything, it will help my career only incrementally. Will I ever break through? I usually doubt it. What do I expect from this book? No money, thats for sure. A couple more reviews hopefully Publishers Weekly and a few little magazines. And thats about it. The lead story, of course, deals with a guy in a situation akin to mine. His solution, unhappily, is computer programming. And mine? I feel I want to get out of South Florida now, as well as to get out of BCC. I feel choky here (thats a line Galsworthy has Jon Forsyte say about England). No longer do I associate this place with a safe, secure haven. Life here isnt as harsh as it was in Rockaway, but I feel so burned out that all I want to do is either sleep or go away. Tonight I spoke to Mom for the first time in a week; it was a mistake. All she does is feed my guilt when I complain, making me feel Ive made my choices and should live with them, and that so many other people are worse off. She cant say, You sound terribly upset and frustrated. Thats all I need to hear, a validation of my feelings. My parents can go fuck themselves. One student wrote an essay
saying shed lost her father because in an argument, she told him to go fuck himself and he no longer has anything to do with her. Im not really angry at my parents, however. Im angry at the situation and am just turning on everyone, including them, but mostly on myself. Part of me does feel I did make the wrong choices. My stomach is killing me. I dont know how Ill get through tomorrow. I cant even take a day off because I have to take Marc to school every day. Right now, if there were a button that I could press which would kill me painlessly, Id press it. Of course what I really want is a button that, when pressed, will change my life. I always knew this spring would be like 1980 rather than the past two years. Ive had good times, renewing myself, getting comfortable a little. Now its time for the pain of growing. I dread the remaining 22 hours of today.

5 PM. I did sleep very well last night, thanks to the two Triavils I took. I had exotic dreams, with both heterosexual and homosexual
encounters, and I awoke with aching balls the first time in my life that ever happened. I felt very chipper and energetic and had two great grammar lessons in English 100; I covered what normally would take a week in one day. Apparently theres now a hiring freeze at BCC, even though there are five or six vacancies in the English Department and there are twice as many adjuncts as full-time faculty. After seeing my 101 class to Bailey Hall and their library lecture, I went over to Moms. Betty Wright of Rainbow Books, the Moore Haven printing firm, said she thinks she could do a good job with Eating at Arbys; Id like to do it if its not too expensive, for she seems to know what shes doing. Jonny said that Morley Safer and a 60 Minutes camera crew came into his FAU Spanish class yesterday; the filmed the lesson or part of it but Jonathan did not know why they were there. Coda arrived, and they printed my letter praising their new format which actually had been a personal note I sent to Debby Mayer. I wish it werent there, because it makes me sound like an asslicker. But then again, it cant hurt to have people see my name. There was also an announcement of our Florida grants (they put Judy Cofers picture in the notice), along with the NEA fellowships and other prizes.
The Hollywood/South Broward Board of Realtors sent me a questionnaire, which I answered in such as way as to make sure they wont give me an endorsement, and I turned down their invitation for an interview. However, I am going to see the Fort Lauderdale Board of Realtors next Monday at 2:30 PM. Crad gave me the $200 for the airfare to New Orleans, which I deposited in the bank along with my $400 paycheck, then I came back here to answer my mail. Crad was having breakfast when I arrived. We took a drive out to Fort Lauderdale beach, but he seemed less impressed by it than I was although Ive seen it so often. That green-blue ocean still gets to me. It was a cool, windy day and no one was on the beach, but I saw some really cute young guys heading to the daily tea dance at the Marlin Beach Hotel. One guy was definitely cruising me, which flattered me no end. Crad also made me feel good when he told me that no matter what my students say, I look like Keith Carradine, not Richard Dreyfuss. This evening were going to take his planefriend Linda to dinner. She lives in West Hollywood and I figure we can go to the Sizzler on 441. I feel a bit tense now, but last night I did get to relax and lift weights and read Crads new book which is as good as he ever was. I hope this evening isnt a disaster. Tomorrow Marc and
Alison are leaving, and I feel badly that I didnt get a chance to spend more time with them. There isnt much pressure the rest of the week. Tomorrow Ive got my 9:30 AM class, but the afternoon one will be going to library orientation, and on Friday Ill have the classes write. Next week will be more hectic, but I will have the weekend to relax. Im sure Ill have no trouble sleeping late while Crad is here. Im a bit anxious about our trip to New Orleans next week; its probably not going to be as successful as my previous trips there.

4 PM. Im not feeling very well or very happy today. Although I managed to sleep through the night, I had cramps and diarrhea when I woke up. I ate no dinner last night and no lunch today, as I just have no appetite. More than that, I feel lost here in Florida. Today it hit me: What the hell am I doing here? I have no friends here, and no more future than I had in New York. All night I dreamed about New York: the subway trains, getting mugged on Flatbush Avenue, visiting Mikey at Liz Holtzmans campaign headquarters.
In the last dream I was supposed to catch a 6 PM flight to Florida. I was in Rockaway, at my old apartment, where Mrs. Epstein was showing me around; the place had been redecorated beautifully. Tom Powers and the Hosenballs came in, and then I met the new tenant, a tall good-looking guy about my age. I felt sad; then I realized I had to get to Grandpa Herbs to pack my things. I was driving my new white Buick, and like the day earlier this month on the Upper West Side when I went to John Jay, the car wouldnt move it just kept spinning on the ice, sometimes at ninety-degree angles. I awoke with a jolt. My stomach began hurting almost immediately and I kept running to the bathroom. My bowel movements are a crazy yellow color. Even now, I have terrible cramps. I suppose being ill colors my outlook, but I wonder if Im allowed anything good in life. This past weekend I was so happy, and it all seems to have turned out to be a mirage. I had my students write today, but now Im really sorry I took the job. Teaching at Broward Community College depresses me. I dont know. Maybe its that everythings been thrown at me at once: a new home (but not a permanent one), a new car, a new job. I cant quite cope with it, and my circuits are overloading.
Today I had such nostalgia for New York. After class, I drove up to Sunrise, to Aunt Claires. We all sat around talking for a while; then I said goodbye to Grandpa Herb and Grandma Ethel. I dont know if or when Ill see them again. My last glimpse of Grandpa Herb was that of a frail, drying old man in my rear-view mirror. I wish I had a shrink to talk to about these changes. In an hour, Im going to see a Dr. Elias Goldstein, a chiropractic physician I made an appointment with. I dont know if he can help me, but sometimes all you have to do is see a doctor when you have confidence. I remember Dr. Stein from my childhood and Dr. Freund from my adolescence. I used to feel better when they simply entered the room and touched me. * 8 PM. I do feel a bit better now. I still have stomach cramps, but I had an appetite this evening. I was examined by the chiropractor who will give me the results on Friday. Dr. Goldstein, a New Yorker younger than I, wanted to take x-rays of my neck, but I balked at that because of the cost and the dangers of radiation. He did say that he found nothing wrong with me physiologically or neurologically, and he ran a gamut of little tests. My blood pressure was 106/70, and I think thats pretty good. Dr.
Goldstein did say I should have tests for hypoglycemia, cholesterol and triglycerides. But basically the only thing he noticed was a problem with my upper spine. When he went to touch it, he knew right where it was sore. Anyway, I think my stomach distress if the result of a virus or just the stress of all these changes in my life. Its been a lot to adjust to in so short a period of time. Two weeks ago I was still on my way here.

7 PM. Tonight President Reagan announces his candidacy for reelection. At least he knows what hell be doing for the next four years. To my mind, his reelection is a forgone, if depressing, conclusion. The only hope I have is for the future; if Reagan really screws up his second term, his policies will be discredited and the 86 and 88 elections will be a lot different. As for me well, everyone thinks I should be worried about my future. Is it self-delusion or self-confidence that Im not? For the next three months Im secure. Ive got my job at BCC and I dont intend to work any harder than I have to and my graduate computer class and a few speeches, my usual
publicity schticks, some visits from friends, a warm winter, and enough money to pay my bills. Im set for May at MacDowell, and after that is a blank. But something will turn up. And it seems silly to worry. What if I die before I have to look for a new job or a new place to live? Then Ill only have wasted time worrying. No, the thing is to live each day to the fullest. A new press release was printed verbatim in this weeks Show Business newspaper in New York. Its a pun-filled exercise about my Devil Broadcasting Company, an alternative to religious programming aimed at sinners and featuring such shows as Satan Place, I Love Lucifer, Surfside 666, and The Vice is Right. I havent lost my old touch, and I can even operate in places other than politics or education. My other mail included the usual bills, notes from Robin Hemley and George Myers, and a letter from President A. Hugh Adams of BCC wishing me well in my new position. I wrote a response to Dr. Kays letter criticizing me in the Sun-Sentinel and spoke to Patrick and Lisa, both of whom still seem bruised by their experience at BCC-Central nearly a year after leaving. Lisas interview at MDCC-North was enjoyable . . . theyre so loose, but shes sure they really wanted a working journalist. Patrick will probably be back at BCC-South as a temporary, though hes looking to apply for
jobs at Catholic schools in West Broward, where hell be moving soon. I slept late, read the papers, exercised and went shopping today. Deliberately I felt all my school stuff at BCC; I dont want to face that until tomorrow. This should be a fairly easy week: although I have work, it will be routine. New Orleans really did clear my head. I know I cant be Tom, and I dont want to be, but I would like to lead a life that is more literary and less trendy. Both Tom and I lead fairly monkish lives; were basically asocial, asexual, early-to-bed, non-drinking workaholics, but he spends his time with more nourishing material his books of fiction, his films, his creative writing students at NOCCA than I do. Theres a big difference between reading USA Today and reading Robert Walser. Of course, together Tom and I complement each other, and I can never hope to touch Toms expertise in, say, foreign fiction any more than I can touch Pete Cherches on the East Village art scene. But I would like to be thought of as something more than a publicityhungry zany humorist. If I were writing seriously and that means writing funny stuff, too I probably wouldnt need all my diversions. Tom does manage to read the newspaper, after all, even if he doesnt know who Boy George is. You cant know everything,
naturally, there being only a limited amount of time. I wonder how Ronnas feeling right now, since tomorrow is her surgery. Probably theyve given her a sleeping pill. If I was in New York, Id be with her this week, but theres not much I can do from here. Shit, I hope all goes well tomorrow. Last night I spoke with Teresa, who told me that Mac on Another World was in a plane crash on Friday. Odd how close we are to fictional characters. I wonder if any traumas await me at BCC tomorrow. Ill find out in twelve hours, I guess.
Friday, January 30, 1981

10 PM. Im inclined to be less harsh with myself tonight than I was yesterday. Ive got to give myself time. Mom, Dad, Jonny all tell me how long it took them to adjust when they first moved here. My previous stays were visits, vacations. Now I am living here, working here, doing errands here and trying to make a life for myself here. Ive just got to give myself at least till the summer to feel settled. Remember how hard it was to get used to living in Rockaway? And look at all the stressful changes Ive gone through in the last four weeks. Its no wonder
Ive got stomach problems; theyre to be expected. Yesterday I got a call from Judy Sutton, a reporter on the Miami News, about the Sylvia Ginsberg Fan Club. I think I was pretty funny and she took down some good quotes. She wanted a photo of Grandma Sylvia, but of course Grandma wouldnt want one taken, so I said that Sylvia is tired of the paparazzi always snapping their cameras and told her Id bring over a glossy myself. Unfortunately, I couldnt find any photos of Grandma Sylvia around the house. But I did find a twenty-year-old snapshot of Grandma Ethel with Marc. Good enough, I figured: one old lady is just as good as another. I started towards Miami, taking Floridas Turnpike for the first time; it was a fast ride at twilight. I got a little nervous on I-95, but I basically remembered how to get to Biscayne Boulevard and from there to Herald Plaza. The sight of Miamis skyline filled me with nostalgia for New York, and I feel at home on the streets of a real city. Like New York, Miami vibrates with excitement. I realized I have to live closer to the city. Broward County is like New Jersey; its the suburbs. Fort Lauderdale isnt a real city with a teeming downtown. Where my parents live isnt even very Floridian; its just Middle American Sun Belt Condo.
I parked in the Herald/News lot and went up to the News offices on the sixth floor. In that city room I felt like the entranced kid I was when we went up to the New York Times on a sixthgrade class trip: There were reporters hunched over video terminals, papers scattered everywhere, some editor barking out instructions. That place felt so alive, and I wished I could be a part of it. How can one not be impressed with historical front pages (War Ends! and Snow in Miami!) and Pulitzer Prize plaques? I left the photo in an envelope for some editor, who wasnt due to come in until 3 AM. Then I drove over to the Omni, which Id always wanted to see. I walked around the mall, which was fairly elegant yet not that unusual. I had panatella and Tab at some Italian caf and bought Godel, Escher, Bach in Waldenbooks. In Jordan Marsh I watched part of a bridal fashion show (Isnt jersey a wonderful material for a bridal gown?) and overheard admiring comments in Spanish. A gay-looking Cuban smiled at me nicely. I got into one of those clear-glass elevators with two German couples and drove out of the parking lot. Because I wanted to drive home slowly, I headed up Biscayne, past the honkytonk motels and signs in Spanish, all the way to North Miami Beach, near Grandma Sylvias house, and I passed the restaurant where Gary and I went last year.
Then I drove up to Hallandale and through Hollywood, passing Gulfstream and the dog track, and then I went across Hollywood Boulevard, where there was a show at the bandshell, all the way to University Drive. The trip made me feel much better. Late into the night I read Godel, Escher, Bach; very difficult but intellectually rewarding, the book makes me want to write. I again dreamed of New York: this time my parents had bought a Florida-style condo on West 84th Street in Manhattan, around the corner from Teresas. As usual, the sun streamed into my little room at 7 AM today, and I picked up the Fort Lauderdale Sun-Sentinel early.
Monday, January 31, 1983

8 PM. I marked papers for four hours last evening as Washington beat Miami in the Super Bowl. Then I had my first decent sleep in nights; a dream about Jonathan as an infant gave me that warm feeling that dreams of babies always do. Today was a bright, warm day, and I had lots of energy although Im tired now. My new English 1000 classes went okay, though I dread reading more of their semi-literate paragraphs.
The thing is, these students are by no means dumb. What Im starting to believe is that we may have to redefine literacy. Is the printed word so sacred that video is junk by comparison? If these students see the world differently, in a TV way, maybe we grammarians and those, like Dr. Grasso, who insist on the logical development within a strait-jacket fiveparagraph essay are fighting a losing battle. Patrick told me that he got a form letter from Dr. Grasso stating that hes one of 24 people being interviewed for the vacancies in the department. He asked me to find out if any of the other full-time temporaries got letters. Patrick didnt want to embarrass them by asking himself, and since I didnt apply, he said it would be easier for me to ask. Both Lisa and Bob told me they hadnt gotten such a letter. Lisa just phoned about an hour ago, and she was very upset at being rejected while mediocrities (not Patrick) were getting interviews. I told her to take her rejection as a compliment, but thats easier said than done. Lisa doesnt want to make BCC her career, of course, but now she feels that they all think that shes a poor teacher. What they think, I told her, is that youre not a drudge. And that Patrick and of course, Chip Biays fit in to the middle-class,
middlebrow mold; both are married and on the way to middle age. Lisa is too sharp, too hip, too New York/Jewish just like I am (I hope). I did some marking after I got out of class this morning, and I read my mail. To pay my Visa bill, Ive had to take out most of the money I had in the bank. Even with a job I hate, because it takes up too much of my life, I still dont get out of debt. Miriam Sagan leads such a different life in New Mexico. Shes free to spend a day at the zen center, to protest at Vandenberg Air Force Base, to enjoy life with Robert and with her father, whos teaching at Berkeley this semester. I also heard from my fan in South Carolina, Brian Johnson, whos very clever and maybe a little too clever for me; its as though hes trying too hard to impress me. Old Dominion University in Norfolk wants my dossier, so I wrote AWP, which is right there to send it over to the English Department. I never did hear from Pitt again, and I dont expect to make it to the interview stage on any of the creative writing jobs Ive applied for. After dropping Marc off at home, I returned some books to the library and went to Bodyworks, where I had a low-intensity workout that will probably do me no good. Im coming to the realization that my basic endomorph body type will always be with me.
Perhaps I can lose weight, but Im almost sure that my shape has been predetermined by my genes. At 4 PM I took the care in for engine servicing at Greased Lightning in Fort Lauderdale. They didnt live up to their name, and so I didnt get out of there until 5:30 PM and then had to face Sunrise Boulevard at rush hour. After I came home, showered, and ate a meal fit for a food stamps recipient, I spoke with Lisa. I feel bad for her, but it helps to know Im not alone. She misses the ethnic and artistic vitality of New York Brooklyn in particular and feels she wont say in Florida if shes not at BCC next year. I myself no longer see many advantages in teaching at BCC. Some of the advantages: (1) a free xerox machine; (2) cute boys wearing very little clothing; (3) Im still thinking . . . There must be something else I like about my job. Get back to me in February.
Monday, February 1, 1982

8 PM. Just a minute ago while putting my contacts in their disinfecting machine, I had this awfully embarrassing thought: Today was a gift from God.
It was a pleasant day; nothing extraordinarily good happened, but a lot of little delights added up to make the day a pure delight. I didnt sleep well but did have a nice narcissistic erotic dream of making love to my double. I had two decent English 100 classes and a fairly good 101 class. I cant understand why, but all of a sudden Im beginning to love my job. I feel fondness for the teachers I work with, and Im awfully fond of many of my students. (I think about that kid Sean too much.) As Crad said, maybe the reason I dont mind getting up in the morning is because I enjoy my work. During my break, I went to the banks at 11 AM and juggled funds so I had the money for Kevin when his $500 check is cashed. At Moms house, the mail was only good news. First I got accepted at Ragdale, the writers colony in Lake Forest, outside of Chicago, for July 1-July 20. I think I may go there because Ive never been to the Midwest before; anyway, Ive sent them my $25 deposit. I also got accepted for the whole summer at the Rhode Island Creative Arts Center at Roger Williams College. Dan Meltzer told me its the pits. Continental Drift, the new literary magazine at the University of Colorado at Boulder, accepted for their first issue My Life as an Old Comic, probably my favorite muchrejected story.
Lola Szladits write me a brief but wonderful note, thanking me to the dedication in Lincolns Doctors Dog. I love her so. And the Brooklyn College Alumni Association Bulletin arrived, bringing me good memories of old days. My meeting with the political committee of the Fort Lauderdale Board of Realtors began when I entered their board room and found myself seated at the foot of a huge mahogany table surrounded by gray-haired WASPy businessmen. I disarmed them right away by telling them about myself: Im thirty, a writer and college teacher whos lived in Davie for two years and I dont have a criminal record not yet, anyway. When I said I was for less government and then advocated a building moratorium on University Drive, one man asked if this was a contradiction. No, I replied, I live on University Drive and feel its too crowded already, but Im a hypocrite, like all politicians. When my principles conflict with my own interests, guess which wins out? I asked them. But what about the people who own land on University Drive? one board member asked. Thats their tough luck.
Dont you think its unfair to the property owners to deprive them of the use of their land? Not at all, I said. It happens in socialist countries all the time. Jaws dropped. Youre a socialist, then? I guess so I belong the Marxist wing of the Republican party. Much laughter. I ended up advocating everything the realtors were against but charming them with my good humor and honesty. I was witty and never lost my cool; it was a performance worthy of Dudley Moore. The last question, about campaign contributions, I answered this way: I will not seek or accept funds. So you may all put away your checkbooks, gentlemen. The chairman, Mr. Kett, said I was a breath of fresh air and their most enjoyable interview of the day.

9 PM. Today I want to live. If my grandparents can hang on to live, why cant I? I cant let life defeat me; Ive got to give it another shot. Hell, Im young and strong and very talented talented enough to get myself and Grandma Sylvia on the front page of todays Miami News.
And tonight a reporter for the Neighbors section of the Miami Herald wants to interview her. Mom and Dad were a little upset, but Grandma Sylvia isnt as stupid as they think. Tomorrow morning Herald photographers are coming over to Grandmas condo to take our pictures. I actually think Grandma Sylvia could get used to all this publicity. I slept very well last night and felt chipper this morning. My class at BCC went well; I kept them on their toes. Jonny came to say hi after I dismissed my students, and I walked him to his next class. Later, Mom sent me out to the Pembroke Pines post office to mail a package to Marc (the address was to Mary Lou Jackson Nikki in Warwick, Rhode Island). At the post office I bought the News and was startled to see the article on the bottom of page one. Grandson Fans the Flames of Stardom for Sylvia, the headline read and it was a warm, funny piece with a photo, in the shape of a star of Sylvia Ginsberg and her No. 1 fan, grandson Richard Grayson, in 1958. So what if it was really Grandma Ethel and Marc it was still a grandma and grandson, right? I laughed myself silly on line at the post office, so much so that the other people there must have thought I was loony.
Back home, I picked up my mail: a letter from Crad, my new checks from Florida National Bank, a rejection, and a postcard from Steve Kowit of Gorilla Extract, a new chapbook-sized magazine I just subscribed to. I had asked Steve if he was interested in my fiction and he said hed be privileged if I would send him some pieces. Hes been using my stories (Meet My Father and Only Time Will Tell from Beyond Baroque, Diarrhea of a Writer from First Person Intense) in his classes for years. I sent him a batch of uncollected stories for him to choose from, a bibliography, and a black-and-white photo. He said he pays $10 and thirty copies but just having the thing published would be enough for me. Hey, this is going to be my year I know Im going to finish the diary book and then Im going to move on to another project. I sent Brandon Stoddard of ABC a proposal for a TV movie and now I think that a better one would be a story about the Sylvia Ginsberg International Fan Club: a grandson tries to cheer up his dying grandmother while his parents are skeptical. I can just see it on TV already with Sylvia Sidney as Sylvia Ginsberg (although Grandma says shes too old to play her).
Mom and I took the car to North Miami Beach to be inspected. We had to wait on line for an hour, but it passed! Then we went to get the insurance policy. We got home at 5:30 PM to find that Jonny had taken messages from the Herald and United Press International. I spoke to the Herald reporter this evening, and he also went over to interview Grandma Sylvia. Its obviously a great human interest story, and if UPI picks it up, maybe it will go international! Alice phoned to tell me that shes made reservations for the last weekend in March. I was up when she called, so she must think Im floating on air. Right now I am. Maybe this is just another illusion, but I feel pretty good at this moment. Again there seem to be a large number of possibilities for the future.
Friday, February, 3, 1984

10 PM. Im in Davie, and Marc and Daniela are spending the night in my apartment in North Miami Beach. I had to do my computer class homework; tonight the FAU/FIU lab was open, and since I also intended to go to the gym tomorrow, I was more than agreeable to letting Marc stay at my place. Besides, Ive spent the last six nights there, and I should get used to sleeping in different
places. Adaptability Im going to have to get used to moving around, I think. Ive just shut off the TV after watching a fine film, The Year of Living Dangerously. Last night I dreamed about Shelli and about me and Teresa going on a plane to Europe. This morning in my classes I taught Singers Gimpel the Fool with those beautiful lines: Whatever isnt real is dreamed at night and No doubt we live in a totally imaginary world, but it is only once removed from the real world. The editorial in the school paper condemned me: Graysons Antics: Abuse or Amuse? [sic] I didnt pay much attention to it, nor should I. It begins: Unbelievable . . . Thats him . . . It had a photo of me and a caption saying I was obviously not very good at public relations. That shows how much they know. Also today, I learned that a kid hated me because I failed him last term. Only I didnt fail him; I gave him a C, and it was just a clerical foul-up. The stupid kid didnt bother to come in and say, Hey, I didnt deserve an F, what gives? He just took the grade and felt resentful. I changed it today, of course, as soon as I found out. I got new glasses, finally, and I went to First Nationwide to take out a loan on my CD. The woman at the bank couldnt figure out how to process the loan at all. I would have been
shocked at their incompetence had I not been made more secure by the realization that the business world is full of incompetents too, and that even I a nobody college teacher could compete in that world because I have brains. Whos gonna let me compete? In New York, someone will. Im sick of teaching. The Chronicle of Higher Ed had their annual freshman survey which showed the kids are wising up: only 0.2% plan on becoming college teachers. Of course, they are little fascists. I got half a dozen essays praising Ronald Reagan, who is about as popular with 18-year-olds as Michael Jackson, another most admired person essay topic favorite. Shit. According to the Chronicle survey, only 11% of freshmen think that doing original writing is a worthwhile goal the very lowest of about 25 different goals in the survey. Therell be very few writers from the post-baby boom generation. I spent an hour in the computer lab tonight and finally did get my program done, but its such a frustrating process because the computer is so literal and therefore so dumb. I predict therell be a backlash against computers not from the idiot neo-Luddites but from computer-literate people who realize the machines are overrated, particularly in education.
Madelyn Zalman, one of the adjuncts, told me shes reading my stories and finds them very perceptive. Embarrassed, I said, I just plagiarize. Later she saw me again and said, Youre right. You plagiarize from life. A nice phrase. Its been a full week. Funny, being here in Davie in February reminds me of three years ago when I came to Florida to stay: the huge sky and all the stars, the country smell, the crickets. Have I accomplished anything worthwhile in the three years Ive been here? Id like to believe so, but Im not sure.
Thursday, February 4, 1982

8 PM. Its been a very stressful day, and all I can think about is how, exactly two years ago, I let myself get over-stressed and it resulted in an illness that incapacitated me. Crad and I left for the Miami airport at 4 PM and got there an hour later. We boarded our Pan Am 727 to New Orleans at 6 PM and took off half an hour after that. Crad insisted upon sitting in the back because he wanted to smoke and because in the case of a crash like the Air Florida disaster in D.C., only those in the rear usually survive.
I was very nervous during takeoff but felt better because I wasnt alone; I think that my fright made Crad feel calmer than usual and he tried to jolly me out of my trembling. We landed in New Orleans (landings are not scary to me) half an hour ahead of time, and we had our luggage in no time before Tom arrived, in fact. Tom drove us here in the old van. I was surprised at how chilly it was; apparently its been a very cold winter here and one week it got so cold that most of the pipes in town, including Toms, burst. This house has no heat except for the now-illegal gas space heaters, and I couldnt warm up all night. To give Crad his privacy, I slept on a cot in Toms room. Or I should say, I tried to sleep, but I dont think I got more than an hour. Tom heard me mumbling all night, but the only word he could make out was trouble. This morning I felt like shit while Crad, who had worried about how he would manage at that ungodly hour, looked and sounded chipper. All of a sudden I realized how Crad must have felt for the first few days at my place. I was exhausted and disoriented, and I didnt know how I would make it through the morning class. Somehow I did it. I read four stories and talked with the students about writing. Valerie Martin was there, and I found her very sweet and
intelligent. She also teaches at UNO but gets paid even less than I do at BCC. Tom said I was very good and brought out a mostly silent class, so I felt I did okay. I didnt enjoy our midday break because I felt so cold, tired and headachy. Mike Presti, a local poet who just got his MSW and who works with Tom on The Art of Film class, came along to watch Crad do his thing with the afternoon crew: Rachel, Alex, Grete, Celeste, Sean, Tonya and Liz. Crad was absolutely terrific. There is no doubt that Crad is a one-of-a-kind genius; his work is hysterically funny, satirical, and also wise. He was exhausted after the two-hour and fortyminute class and so was I, even though I did no work. Back at Toms, I collapsed on my mattress but felt no better after two hours rest. A vile dinner at Steak n Egg Kitchen didnt improve my mood, and I didnt enjoy the visit to Ralph and Emerys house. One thing: Im glad I didnt take the job at NOCCA last year. Dr. Tews asked me how things were going in Florida, and I honestly told him that everything could not have worked out any better. David Vancil is in the doghouse with Tom, and its obvious he knows hell be fired at the end of the year.
I feel I wouldnt have wanted to work as hard here as Tom would have expected. Maybe I shouldnt leave South Florida for the sake of leaving. I am happy there, and it would be stupid to make myself miserable elsewhere. For now I plan to stay.
Sunday, February 5, 1984

6 PM. I called Ronna last night to see how she was going; shed just gotten out of her first shower in a week and said it had been tricky with her incision. They were letting her out of the hospital today to go to Brooklyn to stay with her mother and grandmother. Ronna said her incision still hurt, her stomach was distended, but she experienced relief from pain with Percodan. Hordes of visitors had come to see her so many, in fact, that she was made exhausted by them. (How can you tell your friends that youre too tired to talk?)
She finally had enough patience to read and watch TV, and I left her go after about ten minutes. Ronna did say she loved getting my calls; I hoped they helped a little. Last night I slept heavily and had a dream in which Sean and his lover Curtis came to visit me at my familys home (either in Brooklyn or
Davie). It was all very civilized, but I was upset because Sean was acting so aloof and in a hurry to get away. I had another dream about making love to a guy whom, I dont know. In todays Fort Lauderdale paper, I noticed this heading on a letter on the editorial page: Grayson Top Teacher at Community College. The praise was so fulsome, I couldnt finish reading the letter, written by Ben Shapiro, one of the elderly students in my creative writing class. Ben really seemed upset and willing to spring to my defense. This whole Legislators in Love thing is turning into a regular Lovegate scandal. But I am pleased to be called a topnotch teacher by a student. I didnt do much today: wrote a few letters, called Grandma Ethel (she said my postcard from New Orleans was beautiful), sat out by the pool for an hour. I didnt get to the 8 AM Tuesday classs paragraphs, which look truly dreadful; theyre probably as bad as they seem to be. Ill leave them for tomorrow. Its now 6 PM and its just dusk; its getting a bit chilly out but the sky is crystal-clear and Im glad to be in Florida. (I sound like my characters Manny and Zelda from Arbys.) Another week begins tomorrow: rush, rush, rush. Ill be up at 6 AM, but I dont intend to hang around school late tomorrow, not even
for extra subbing money. I need to go to Bodyworks and then come home and grade papers. Ill be getting three batches this week. Ugh, I can hardly look at them by now. I still havent read anything about my making the Super Tuesday primary ballot as a delegate candidate. The only reason I want that is because it will give me some legitimacy for any TV reporters who want to follow me campaigning. The past week has been wonderful. Count your blessings, kiddo: youre a lucky guy.

8 PM. Gary is in the next room, watching the start of the TV epic The Winds of War. Ive got about twenty papers to grade for Tuesday night and I still havent caught up on my magazines. But Im feeling better about my life, for some reason. Gary can be a pain in the ass like any other guest, but hes really no problem. He arrived at this time last night, looking tanned, shaggyhaired, mustachioed and a little spaced out; the drive from Miami was crazy he said, after a weird week at Club Med in Guadeloupe. He loved it there once he got accustomed to it, and he said the $1,000-plus was well-spent. It
sounds like an awful place to me, but I guess the idea is to revert back to childhood for a week and forget all ones high-pressure career responsibilities. There are marathon drinking sessions and every kind of drug; lots of sun and water sports and casual sex. (Gary said he had just one one-night stand.) I was surprised to learn that a number of older couples go to Club Med. Gary described the places director, Jerome, as a kind of Gallic Ricardo Montalban from Fantasy Island. I heard endless stories (and from Gary, there are no other kind) about friendships made, romantic chases, and details of daily life there from breakfast to bedtime. Gary was very tanned, but he also appeared to be exhausted. We had dinner at Hurdy Gurdys, where we talked (naturally) about Garys life. Hes been seeing Summer for two months; shes a fellow market research exec at a small consulting firm, about 26 or so, lives in Gramercy Park, and is vulnerable following a broken engagement after which she became promiscuous. Gary said Summer goes out to get drunk many nights a week and apparently shes got Gary into getting drunk a lot, too. Ive become less anal, he told me. Hes considering what looks like a firm offer from J.C. Penney, which is trying to position itself in financial services the way Sears has done with Shearson/ American Express.
Gary has become more sophisticated, more confident and sharper but he still bumbles a little and can still make stupid remarks the way he did in high school and college. Back at the condo, we watched TV, and I settled Gary into the couch in the living room while I read the PW Spring Announcements issue. I got an idea for a book called The Snowbirds Guide to Florida. It would be easy to do; I could compile (and rip off) some details from newspapers and magazines. Within the next couple of weeks, Id like to send outlines and proposal letters to various New York editors. Maybe I could get a couple of thousand dollars for an advance. This morning Gary went to Miami Beach to his uncles while I read the papers. While I was at our Pan Ku meeting, Gary made tracks to Fort Lauderdale beach but later professed a marked preference for the warmer weather of Guadeloupe. The Pan Ku meeting went okay; Betty did show up, as did a couple of the South Campus editors from last year. I got Glenn, Monica, Karen, Pete and the obnoxious Alan from Central Campus. Betty explained that we have only $6400 in the budget, which is less than last years printing bill. I think it will go all right; our next meeting is in two weeks, again on a Sunday afternoon. If Im
going to work weekends, Im going to stop coming in on Tuesdays and Thursdays until the evening classes begin. Gary was on the phone with Summer for an hour when I arrived home at 5 PM; it must be serious if theyre talking so much longdistance. He repaid what he ran up on my ITT bill by taking me out to the Phoenix Palace for moo goo gai pan. We didnt get to go to Lisas dinner for Pete, but I spoke to both of them during the day.
Saturday, February 7, 1981

10 PM. Im feeling pretty good, but I have to admit that my family is really getting on my nerves. Im just as certain that Im rubbing them the wrong way, too. So far weve been extremely tolerant and no one has exploded, but lets face it: a thirty-year-old man was not meant to live with his parents. I had forgotten what they were like. Dad is very nervous and has an incredibly thin skin. His capacity to avoid the unpleasant is as large as ever. Mom is still obsessed with the house, but she has nothing else in her life. Shes now so fat that shes ashamed to go out of the house, and she never did have any friends.
Jonny has no friends, either. He says the kids at BCC are all jerks which I know from working with my own students isnt true. Life is a cruel joke, he keeps repeating with the determination of one taking his first philosophy course. Now hes certain he wants to be a philosopher and chides me for not being spiritual enough. Jonny tells me his life back in Brooklyn was a crime of which hes ashamed. Talk about harsh superegos! (That reminds me; yesterday I wrote to Dr. Pasquale.) Anyway, theyre very lovable people, but they are a little nuts. Last night we went out to the very Jewishy Deli Masters in Sunrise, but afterwards they went out to the movies and I had the house to myself. I need to be alone and I also need to be with people my own age: friends, and yes, lovers. I cannot believe how horny I have been in the past week. If I dont have a sexual outlet soon, Im afraid Im going to rape some poor cute boy. I cant stop looking at guys and I feel like I did when I was seventeen. It feels as if Ive never had such strong sexual urges before. If I have been feeling suicidal lately, then its certainly is doing something to raise my sperm count. This morning I woke up early and drove into Miami. My car has been riding like a dream, thank God. Its so exciting to me when I get to the point on I-95 when I first see the skyline of
downtown Miami. Broward County is so bland, but Miami is exciting. Driving through downtown and then along the ritzy Bayshore Road makes me feel like Im in a real city. I parked in Coconut Grove and walked around for an hour. I love the area; its like the Village, only cleaner, prettier and less schlocky. And it was good to see gay people out in force. Tonight Dad joked about us going over to watch the fags at the Marlin Beach Hotel on Fort Lauderdale beach, and he gave me the idea of going there myself. I need to meet people and that might be a good place to start. I miss my friends very badly. Today I called Teresa and spoke to her and Diana. Teresa said it was a shitty week at work because everyone was gossiping about her and Frank. Teresa said she and Frank were hanging out a lot together but that his Irish Catholic guilt got the better of him and he talked it over with someone who spread the news all over the Borough Presidents office. Teresa has achieved real power on Andrew Steins staff and everyone thinks its because she sleeps with Frank. Things got so bad, Frank had to tell everyone to stop gossiping and Teresa threatened to quit. She said shes considering coming down to Florida in March to stay at a friends in Key Biscayne but might go to Cynthias in California
instead. Teresa asked if it was still cold here, and I told her today was 80 and sunny, that it was great weather.
Wednesday, February 8, 1984

7 PM. I goofed off most of the afternoon; the sad part is that I felt a trifle guilty about it. Teresa called during Another World she was home sick with the flu and we discussed the goings-on on our favorite soap and other stuff of no importance. I phoned Ronna in Brooklyn later, and she said she was feeling much better, hadnt had any Percodans since she left the hospital, and was even Tylenol-free today but her incision was still draining. Thats what happens to fat people, Ronna said, although with her weight loss, she told me she looks better than she has in five years. I advised her to pamper herself and take all the sympathy she could get while it was coming, for there arent many times in peoples lives when theyre entitled to kvetch freely. When the Miami News arrived, I saw the expected story on the presidential primary ballot on page one. I knew the Dade Elections Commissioner was releasing the ballot today, so I called their office and discovered that, yes,
I am one of eight uncommitted delegate candidates in the 16th Congressional District. The gist of the News story was that people will be very confused because this year, for the first time, the delegate selection will not be tied to the preference vote (or beauty contest); voters will have to vote for several candidates for delegate (four, in our district) in addition to a presidential candidate. Mondale, Askew, Glenn, Jackson and Cranston all have full slates, and the other candidates dont have delegate candidates or have partial slates. Anyway, while I obviously wont win, maybe I can do fairly well based on name recognition. I didnt check, but presumably Mom is on the ballot as an alternate delegate candidate. What this does, of course, is give me a kind of legal legitimacy and gives me an excuse to seriously campaign. And that gives the media, particularly TV, an excuse to cove me. Ive already written C-SPAN, which will be covering the primary out of Storer Cable and the Miami Herald newsroom, and I should contact CBS Morning News, Today and Good Morning, America. I did get one letter today concerning my campaign, from a seventh-grader in Castleton, New York, asking very politely for some campaign material. Of course I sent him off some clippings, which are all I have.
My horoscope for today said not that I believe it, you understand that a prominent person is working behind the scenes to help me. It would be pleasant to believe that was true. In the ten weeks left to the semester, I have a number of things to look forward to. One is the primary and any attendant hoopla surrounding it. Id better take all the media exposure I can get, even if it wearies me because if I dont catch it now, Ill never get it. On a different scale, theres the Sunshine article which, being in the Fort Lauderdale Sunday paper, will be much noticed by everyone in Broward. And in a couple of months, theres Jaimy Gordons review of my books in American Book Review, which may or may not be favorable but which will at least add to my credibility as a writer the way the New York Times Book Review review did. (For one thing, Eating at Arbys and Disjointed Fictions will get listed in Book Review Index, making them seem more legitimate.) And though I shouldnt even think about it, I cant help hoping that Ill beat the enormous odds and snatch a Guggenheim though intellectually, I understand that Im an unlikely candidate to get that. Teresa will be coming in March, and there may be other surprises. Some of them could be bad news, of course: death or illness or accident.
My whole world could go crazy in a second, making all this speculation pretty stupid. Kinnahora, I need to keep the evil eye away from me.
Tuesday, February 9, 1982

10 PM. I feel 100% better than I did yesterday. My dizziness faded in the evening, and I felt well enough to take Crad out for some delicious (and cheap) tacos. I managed to mark one classs papers and then do a light set of stomach exercises. After sleeping fairly well, I woke up feeling fine this morning. The lit class went well and I told them I would not have their papers until next Tuesday. During my break, I was pleased to discover that Id gotten no mail at Moms, so I managed to work on marking another classs papers. The afternoon 101 also went fairly well. Im getting lots of sympathy because of the bandaids on my arms where they took blood. When I came home, I managed to get through four sets of exercises with the barbells. After that, Crad and I sat outside and he helped me grade the 100 classes paragraphs; we went through them so quickly, it was almost a pleasure. Following a dinner of fried chicken (brought in), I managed to bring my correspondence up to date by writing Stacy (whos nervous about her
new job in the Controllers office), Susan Mernit, Miriam (shes happy with zen, Robert, massage school and life), Lola (the new Saturday Review called her a suave, ironic woman in an article on the Virginia Woolf cult), and various other people. Then I went over to my parents house, where I gave Jonny his birthday present (its a book by Bruno Schulz) for the big 21 tomorrow, admired the new kitchen wallpaper, and spoke to Grandpa Herb, who got his copy of my new book. I stopped off at the bank cash machine and at J.C. Penney, where I used my credit card. (Yesterday in the mail I got one from Bloomingdales wow.) Crad and I played Jotto until a few minutes ago. He leaves for Toronto on Thursday afternoon, and I suspect hes not looking forward to the cold and snow. Florida may be boring and bland a good place to kill time while youre waiting to die, as Crad said but in the winter weve got the best weather in the nation. Especially this winter, when weve been so warm while the rest of the country is in a deep freeze. Im seriously considering Rainbow Books price for doing the Arbys book. As Crad pointed out, they are not just manufacturing it, but theyre typesetting it, designing the cover and the format, taking care of listing it with Bowker and H.W. Wilson, and giving me $100 worth of postage for mailings.
Id be buying a complete package for which the price is not out of line. Now, the question becomes: Is it worth it to me? Id have to take out a $1500 loan from my credit union, I suppose, if I had to pay for the book. Right now I have little cash on hand. Kevin owes me $500, but all Ive got left from my state grant money is $100 or so. Ive got $450 in a savings and loan, $250 in my credit union, and about $400 in my Florida National account. That makes, with tomorrows paycheck, about $2100, or $1600 cash on hand. Well see. Anyway, look what Ive done lately. I went to New Orleans and back, making my own travel arrangements, paying my own fare, driving myself and Crad to and from Miami airport, and all the time I was in New Orleans, I didnt call my parents. A year ago I couldnt have handled any of those things by myself. Ive grown so much, and I shouldnt take that for granted. I can be proud of myself.

8 PM. Crad and I have just come back from the Broward Mall. I treated him to dinner at Dannys, where we were served by my lit student Lisa Levovic.
I felt incredibly fat as walked around the mall; Ive definitely neglected my health. When I said the other day that I felt fat, old, ugly and sick, I didnt mean to compare myself with the superannuated diners at Dannys. At this point I cant wait for Crad to leave, not so much because of his peculiarities but because I very much need to be alone. For the past fifteen days Ive rarely had time for myself except in my car or in my bedroom at night. I definitely need to think about things, about me and who I am and where Im heading and all my adolescent problems. Perhaps Ive become the shallow, vain, pompous, name-dropping braggart that Jacqui and Patrick believe me to be. O Bobby Burns, you were so right! When I compare myself to Tom with his amazing range of literary knowledge and his commitment to his students or to Crad with his stubborn independence and refusal to submit to convention, I feel like an ass. The point is, do I want to change? Or is this the equivalent of me a decade ago wishing I was as handsome and rich and charming as Ivan? I need to be alone now, but it seems as though the world is pressing in on all sides. Ive got students to teach, papers to grade, doctors appointments (on Monday must have another blood test after fasting because my triglyceride count hit the ceiling after the last
one, which I did after eating a burger and fries; on Thursday I have to see the otolaryngologist). I have newspaper interviews (on Monday, the Herald editorial board; on Tuesday, The Western News; next Monday, the Fort Lauderdale papers editorial board) and pressures of all kinds. I was relieved when Teresa and Gary each called today and said that neither of them could make it to South Florida this weekend. Teresa will be here for Easter week (Ill pick her up at West Palm Beach, where shes coming in on People Express to save money), along with her family and Cynthia, wholl be in Boca Raton. Teresa also mentioned that she spoke with Alice for an hour yesterday after she RSVPed for Alices annual party. Gary was wiped out by his Boston/Dallas/San Francisco/Los Angeles trip, both financially and physically; hes sending out rsums but is resigned to staying at AmEx for the winter and spring Last night I wrote Betty Wright of Rainbow Books with some questions I have, but Im inclined to think I should go ahead with the project. I can scrape up the money somehow, maybe without even resorting to a loan from the credit union. I have $1700 in the bank now and I dont expect to have any bills due for the next week or so. Mom wants me to stay here in my condo an extra couple of months, and though it will
be an added expense, it will probably be better all around. At the very worst, Ill still have $2,000 left to get me through the summer. I just wish life was less hectic. I remember how last spring, Id often feel bored. Ive spent too much time on my career and not enough on me, on improving my health, and on trying to find a lover. But as fat and unattractive as I feel, the thought of anyone loving me sexually seems like a joke. Thats why I dont want to see Brad, for hell chastise me for not being thinner, beardless, for living in Florida and for not being eighteen still the way I was in the summer of 1969. Jonny is 21 today, Gold bless him. I wonder how hell find it is during the next decade of his life.
Friday, February 11, 1983

6 PM. In an hour Im going over to Lisas, and then well head over to the party at Monicas house. I hope that its not all BCC shop talk. Patrick and Mimi had their interviews today, and Lisa told me that Bob was very upset by their conversation about questions asked, etc.
Lisa herself had a laughing fit when she came to her 11 AM class and made the students face the back of the room while she taught. I think Im having a nervous breakdown, she told me. I saw no reason to hang around the department after my classes were over, so I took my papers and ran. Last night I left just as the terrible storm was ending. To the east, embedded in dark clouds, was a double rainbow; it was exciting to see the jagged lightning join the sides of the center arch. The sky took on a sickly yellow-purple cast, though out west, the sun was setting under fair skies. Before that, we spent our creative writing workshop on two very long pieces: one, a remarkable Bergmanesque conversation between two women, written by Christine, the one student Ive got with real raw talent; the other, a rambling narrative about a mental hospital by Ben, a garrulous senior who argues with all the critiques he gets. Still, it was a lively class that went over three hours, lasting until 10:10 PM. One student John, of course felt he had to leave during the break to watch The Winds of War. Yesterday Kevyn, who must have a crush on him, commented on Johns good looks and asked me if he was a good writer. Actually, its funny how someone so handsome can be so stupid, but all the guy is, is a dumb hunk.
Driving home, I felt exhilarated and told myself I was a great creative writing teacher and a decent writer and that somehow I would struggle on. Going to grad school at the University of Miami next year wont be cushy; Ill be in poverty and I am a little too old and too comfortable to be in that position. Also, I wonder if the other grad students will be friendly. I hope theyre not that young, for I dont really want Ph.D. program peers that I could have taught as undergrads myself. Theoretically, my first class of freshman comp students eight years ago could already have their doctorates or be out of medical school or law school. Weird. I was too hyped up to sleep very much, but when I did, I dreamed Id won two Obie awards and that one of my female students (Kevyn?) announced she was in love with me. Todays classes went relatively smoothly as I had the last of my conferences and collected a new batch of paragraphs. Crad wrote that things are pretty rough in Toronto. The weather has been mild, but people here are shriveled up emotionally. They dont smile the way they did before Xmas. And down in the financial district, they look really sick, mean and pathetic. Ive been peddling Hot Financial Stories with little success . . .
Spent a bleak hour or so downtown in the rain. Didnt sell a single book. Felt extremely tired and emotionally drained . . . During all of January I made about $129. Sometimes I feel like giving up. What gets me down is the impression that Ive built absolutely nothing after four years on the street . . . Had a better day today. Sex Slaves of the Astro-Mutants has finally begun to show a profit. Hooray! Crad mentions a Toronto Globe who blocked yet another review in the paper of Crads work: You know, Ill bet that editor prays to God at night that Ill disappear and give up, because I ever become somebody, I can make him look bad . . . I saw Martin Sheen on the street. He smiled at my sign (Abnormal Bedtime Stories) but didnt stop to speak. Ive gotten over yesterdays depression. Im looking forward to Human Secrets: Book Three. I have an instinctive feeling that some good things will happen this year. Yr indomitable corresp.
4 PM. Ive finished all my grading for tomorrow. My students dont write all that badly, but ooh, they cant think! Of course there are always a brilliant few. Todays News/Sun-Sentinel published my photo along with my letter, Survey of Love a Work of Art, on their editorial page. I come off slightly pompous because I said Id written five books which have gotten reviews in the New York Times and Los Angeles Times, but I wanted to get across that Im not completely a flake. I quoted Walser on Cezanne (they somehow changed the Swiss writer Robert Walser to the wise writer Robert Walser, apparently assuming Id made an error, as there are no Swiss writers), gave the results of my one survey response from a state senator, and said it was all a triumph as a work of art because I succeeded in drawing the wrath of highminded individuals. I guess Ive milked this for all it was worth, with no bad repercussions and I did get my paper in the newspaper three times (four, if you count the BCC paper). I also was in the Political Scene column of the Broward edition of the Herald, as the writers said, If South Broward voters look hard, they can find a homegrown candidate for President, Richard Grayson, in the primary. They called my campaign absurdist, a label I like.
This morning I was up at 9:30 AM and read the newspapers till noon, going out only to have lunch at Pumpernicks. About an hour ago, I started trimming my beard, and I guess I just went overboard a little. Then I had to keep cutting to make it look even, and the end result is that I dont have much facial hair anymore. It may look stupid, but I dont want to cut off my beard, because I know it hides my double chin (if there actually is a chin there). Anyway, it will grow back. But if I am going to be more and more in the public eye, Ive got to improve my appearance. I hate looking like a fat schlump, and Im a bit worried about the color photos that will be taken for the Sunshine article. Ive definitely got to concentrate on losing twenty pounds. I just hope Scott Eyman doesnt describe me in the article as pudgy or chubby or a real porker. I have time to grade Tuesdays papers, but I probably wont. To say the least, Im not looking at them very carefully, as Im basically grading this batch holistically (and overgenerously). Who cares?
5 PM. Today was a pleasant Friday the 13th. I slept very well last night, and when I woke up this morning, my stomach was feeling fine. Im certain that yesterdays problems were all caused by nerves. Today was a mild and humid day in which it rained on and off. In the English Department this morning, I heard two professors discussing a fiction writing course one of them was giving at night. As they passed me, they nodded patronizingly. Damn it! It drives me crazy that Im probably the most prolific young writer of serious fiction in the whole of South Florida, but I cant get a class teaching creative writing something I know better than any lunkhead at BCC. Everyone there is pleasant, but BCC is really the bush leagues. If I showed them all the literary magazines Ive been published in, they probably wouldnt understand the whole scene. Not that most of the English professors at Harvard would be able to make heads or tails out of Dennis Coopers Little Caesar or Rick Peabodys Gargoyle. No, here they know only Hemingway (still the object of worship here by most male would-be writers), Faulkner, Fitzgerald and maybe a couple of others like Bellow, Updike and Cheever. To them, Philip Roth is the hot new young writer.
I had a good class again, and some of my students seem to be fine writers. Theres a woman who has teenage kids and this one guy Joe Gemetz, who can write a beautiful paragraph; theyll probably both get As especially Joe, if he continues to wear shorts to class. After school (and Monday is a holiday), I went to the cleaners, had lunch and bought some posterboard to make a Burt Reynolds for Senator poster. The photographer for the Sun-Tattler came at 3 PM and was very quick; he took three or four shots. The mail brought a W-2 form from Touro College, some miscellaneous notices, and a letter from Bert Stratton, who didnt know about the Library Journal rave until I told him. Later, I went to the print shop and gave them my Florida Literary Fellowship grant application; earlier I phoned Tallahassee to find out if I could use a xerox of my book as a manuscript, and they said I could. The printers said theyll have it ready for me on Monday; the deadline is March 2. I asked for $3,000, and I dont expect to get it. Still, its worth a try. I have $1600 now and I expect to get about $350 from CUNY in the retroactive pay raise in early March. Im trying to delay getting my BCC pay, which is easy since they require official transcripts and three letters of recommendation. Ill be
surprised if I get unemployment benefits, but it would be the answer to my prayers because it could keep me afloat financially until next fall. Alice called just now with exciting news. When she got on the line, she said breathlessly: Whats the best thing that could have happened to me? You got a job! I said. Right! Alice cried. Managing editor of Weight Watchers magazine! I felt overjoyed for Alice. It all happened so fast. Phyllis Schneider quit last week to take over Junior Miss, and Alice applied for her position. With Phyllis and June putting in the good words, Alice was informed just an hour ago that she got the job. She gave Ray two weeks notice at Seventeen and no doubt she will have an ecstatic weekend since its Valentines Day, her birthday and a Monday holiday off. Clicking on the line announced that someone else was calling, so I got off with Alice, and the next caller was Gary, who said hed be over here at 8 PM tonight.
6 PM. Life suddenly seems to have taken on a sense of urgency. I feel like a dozen subplots are intertwining as they draw to a climax. Last nights call to Grandma Ethel remained on my mind as it kept me awake all night. Grandpa Herb says hes just waiting for D-E-AT-H. Mom told me she feels hes gotten worse since the visit to the doctor, who said that Grandpas problems are because of his age and theres nothing more they can do for him. Mom thinks Grandpa Herb took that to mean that hes dying and so has stopped eating and is so depressed, all he does is sleep. It could be that he is about to die. I just have this premonition of doom hovering over the first part of 1983. Ive felt it since late December. Ed Hogan called an hour ago, saying hed spoken to the manager at B. Dalton in the Village and it looks good for a party the week of March 21-28. Mom had told me earlier that she and Dad would be flying to New York that week, Dad to go to the menswear show, Mom to see Grandpa Herb. But the airfares are now up to $400 round-trip, double what they were last week. Im not looking forward to spending all that money. I suppose the publication party in New York is something that should make me happy, but I have lots of negative feelings about the trip. The money and Grandpa Herb and even the fact that Mom and Dad will be there that week:
it all spells disaster to me. I dread going. Is that just the old agoraphobic immediate response? I dont think so; usually I dont get that feeling until a trip is drawing close. My last visits to New York havent been happy, and Id just rather stay put here in Florida. I called both Teresa and Ronna last night, and talking to them also seemed to draw me back to New York. Ronna has to go into NYU Hospital next week for some outpatient surgery to remove a cyst or something near her rectum. God. Shes got a bad cold, is still unemployed, and is working as a volunteer for Lilith magazine and the American Jewish Committee. Teresa is bored at work because theres no job, really, but she needs the $30,000 salary. Shed just sent a weekend in the Berkshires, where the clutch on her car died; they had to leave it at a mechanic up there. Teresa misses the excitement of politics and feels restless; she said she expects me to stay with her in May. Thats good. Shell probably meet Cynthia in California rather than come down here at Easter. This morning I got rejections for jobs at Pittsburgh (they never even called to cancel the interview), Williams, and Florida State, where a lousy $12,000 lectureship never materialized because of budget cuts. Fuck academia! I was shouting that all morning.
I taught two classes on fragments and left, sure that the bigwigs were too busy interviewing to keep tabs on whether small potatoes like me is keeping my office hours. Before I went, Bob showed me a letter he sent Jim Ledford, chair of the search committee. The letter was a strong piece of work the kind of thing you should really sit on for a week before sending, Patrick said but Im glad Bob expressed his rage. There are moments when I become so enraged by the unfairness of it all that I want to strike out at someone. I just think about it and my blood pressure skyrockets. Right now I have about a hundred papers to grade, and I cant stand to look at the things. If I take a sick day on Wednesday, I could easily catch up, but Im afraid of taking a sick day. Hell, why shouldnt I take a sick day? I havent been out once in the six weeks of this term. As of tomorrow, Ive got eight or nine accumulated sick days. Yes, I will take off Wednesday. I need to relax. If I end up taking more sick days that I have accrued, Ill be docked, but so what? I have no money anyway. Do I sound like Im having a breakdown?
Monday, March 15, 1982
1 PM. Yesterday was that do nothing day I had been waiting for; I stayed in bed and read the papers and watched TV. I didnt even make any phone calls. It was a dark, cloudy day, a perfect day to hide out. This morning I fasted and retook my blood test. With my referral for the specialist, I got the results of the first blood test. The triglycerides were high, but everything else was normal: cholesterol count of 212, no sugar in the urine, all else within normal limits except for a slightly higher CO2 . I hope it was due to my meal of a hamburger and coke just before the blood test. We shall see. I went to the Miami Herald Broward editorial board office, but only one man interviewed me and he had no sense of humor, so it was kind of a drag. I met Art Lazear, my opponent for the Town Council, an earnest, likable, civicminded and dull man. The other politicians there you could spot a mile away. Even though some were my age, they looked old enough to be my father and oh so serious in their suits and with their bald hair, tortoise-shell glasses and briefcases. The editor tried to make me feel as if I had no right to run. Why should people vote for you? he asked. They shouldnt, I said. I dont presume to tell people whom to vote for.
I talked about the idiocy of having 29 cities in Broward and he seemed to agree with me but said it wasnt a popular issue to run on. As if I cared! The old cant see the forest for the trees clich came to mind. Damn it. I guess I still have that fierce pride that Brad talked about the other day, the same one he said I had as an 18-year-old. Yeah, I demand that I be treated like everyone else. I have a perfect legal right to run for Davie Town Council, and if I get nobodys vote but my own, it doesnt matter. I guess Im making a fool of myself while trying to make a point. Why are you running? the Miami Herald editor asked me. Raw naked ambition, I replied, and he did not crack a smile but instead admonished me: Be serious. As if no one else is running because hes ambitious! Well, after that, I sent back my answers to the Fort Lauderdale News/SunSentinels West editorial board and said I didnt want to waste their time at an interview. Perhaps I made a mistake in running but Ill never believe that I dont have a right to run. There are people all over the place who want to deny me my manhood because Im Jewish or gay or just because they dont agree with my views.
I guess I sound pretty humorless now, but Im never going to let anyone deny me my rights, whatever they may think of me. I still have those papers to grade; its about three hours work, and I have to get to it today. On Saturday night I called Kevin, who seemed upset by the PW interview with George Braziller, who said he does only an 850-print run of literary books. Kevin is beginning to realize that White Ewe Press better start doing some commercial books. I think Kevins hopes for my book are greater than mine and that hes going to be more disappointed than I will when the book doesnt sell. John Ellsbergs book hasnt been reviewed yet, Kevin said.

8 PM. Last night I left a message for Alice, wishing her a happy birthday today. She phoned late last night, thanking me but saying that her birthday probably wouldnt be a very good day. Something wrong? I asked. Everythings wrong, she said. After six years, she and Peter and breaking up. He doesnt
know it yet, but Alice has come to a firm decision. Last October, Alice began therapy she swears she told me, but I dont remember in order to work on a number of issues in her life: her depression, about work, about the apartment, about her weight. The irony is, Alice said, that I began therapy convinced that the one perfect thing in my life was my relationship with Peter. Instead, therapy made her see that she resented Peters not contributing to her household and his not working. I guess for years, Alices friends myself included wondered why she let Peter live off her, but I never inquired after her financial arrangements and always assumed that Peters being there for her was worth any money she shelled out for their life together. Of course, in the beginning, in 1978 remember when Alice first moved to Manhattan and I stayed at her mothers house briefly? Peter was the aspiring playwright who was going to make them rich and famous with his Bambi Tascarella musical. Now, I guess, with Peter having given up on the theater and working on his novels for young adults (on which he never made more than $10,000 and the household never saw any of it), its different.
Alice urged him to get a job not a $50,000-ayear job, even if he just became a substitute teacher but Peter refused, and he blamed therapy (naturally) for Alices new attitude. Alice said things got so bad that Peter decided to go to his mothers house in Boston for two months while Mrs. D is in Florida to show Alice how much she needed him. But finally, this week, Alice decided that unless he changes and she thinks thats unlikely shes going to ask him to move out and get back to his apartment, which hes sublet all these years. Its going to be very hard. The apartment renovations are going very slowly Alice feels shes living in a construction site and last night, when she looked at Peters Playbills, she started crying. This weekend shes going to Boston but is not going to tell him because I want to enjoy one last weekend together. Hes going to very hurt and very angry when she tells him, and I know Alice is going to go through a hard time, too. Six years of living together is a long time, and so much of her life has been wrapped up in his. Alice is strong and will bounce back, I know. She now has the support of therapy, which she finds a great help.
Remember how Alice used to be so antitherapy? People change . . . thank God. Today was okay: I had decent classes and everything went smoothly. For a long day at BCC, it wasnt bad. Rich Rosenbaums been devastated by a robbery in his house, and then, the next day, his wifes purse was stolen. The thieves got so much of their stuff, the Rosenbaums feel violated. Such good people dont deserve that treatment. From 4 PM to 5 PM, I read by the pool. It was a gorgeous afternoon.
Tuesday, February 17, 1981

9 PM. Driving home from Fort Lauderdale a little while ago, I realized that whatever happens, I will never regret my decision to move to Florida. I feel at home here now; South Florida is a part of me in the same way that New York is. Its good to live for some time in a different place. Maybe it wont show up in my writing for years, but living here has given me a
broader perspective. I have more respect for the land and more respect for the South and for people who live outside the Big Apple. In many ways the South Florida lifestyle makes a lot more sense than does the Manhattan lifestyle with its endless rushing to nowhere. I spoke to Grandpa Herb last evening. He sounded a little better but said that having the tube in his penis was very painful. Grandma Ethel had not come to the hospital that day because she was feeling ill, but Marty and Arlyne were there. Marc and Nikki are living in the Brooklyn apartment for now. Mom spoke to Nikki this afternoon, and I listened in on the extension. Nikki said that Grandpa Herb looked better to her and that his urine is now free of blood. I just hope thats the one truthful statement Nikki made in her catalogue of lies and fantasies. Nikki said she called Fredo and told him that he had a lot of nerve harassing Marcs parents and turning others on them. Fredo demanded the title to Marcs car, but Nikki said he wasnt going to get it: hes already in possession of the car, Marcs gold jewelry and his coin collection. Nikki said it all came about because Fredo wanted her back and thought I would leave Marc if he was poor, but Im sticking by my man. She tried to impress Mom by telling her how hard shes been working to clean up the
apartment and how little Taras grades have improved since she and Marc got to Rhode Island. But they cant stay in Warwick because she doesnt get along with her mother although she assured Mom that Marc was the apple of my parents eyes. She told Fredo that her father wants to meet him face to face, man to man but who knows what that means? Anyway, Nikki said, Fredo thinks she and Marc are living in Connecticut so for now theyre safe in Sheepshead Bay. Gary came over at 5 PM yesterday. His Uncle Izzy didnt want to go to Coconut Grove, so we picked him up and ate in Miami Beach. Gary is such a snob about Miami Beach being such a tacky place for old people like his uncle, but I love the atmosphere there: all the bright lights and glamorously seedy old hotels on Collins Avenue, the old Jewish people kibitzing on their porches. Isaac Bashevis Singer (whos got a street in Surfside named after him) said that Miami Beach reminds him of Poland, and I treasure the place because it will be different soon. Uncle Izzys ever-present cigar smelled like the ones Grandpa Nat used to smoke, and as we drove downtown, I was awash in memories. Ill never forget the wonder of seeing Collins Avenue for the first time in December 1969
and that magic has never worn off, for I dreamed all night of the hotels and the beach. We ate in Picciolo, a restaurant on First Street in a very bad black and Cuban neighborhood just by South Beach. The place reminded me of 1940s Florida: it was very Old World Italian. Next to us, an old Italian woman requested that the accordionist play, Ah, Marie! and he complied, continuing on with a medley of Italian songs. I had the chicken parmigiana, which was delicious, and I felt so peaceful; outside, palm trees were swaying in the rain and somehow it seemed out of a dream or an old Technicolor movie. The conversation was okay, too. Garys uncle is an irascible old bachelor, but hes a good man. He told us his cousin Doris, the old lady I drove to Garys wedding, also lives in Miami Beach and is now blind. Garys uncle noticed a three-dollar mistake in the bill in our favor but he insisted on telling the waiter because obviously Izzy wouldnt dream of cheating the restaurant. Izzy also insisted on paying for all of us. We drove Izzy back to 67th Street (right by the Carillon, where I stayed in 1969), and deciding it was too late to go to Coconut Grove, we took a ride up A1A to Fort Lauderdale, stopping off to pick up Garys ticket for tonights Air Florida flight.
We got back to my parents house at 11 PM and I took the bed near the door because it doesnt pull out all the way and Gary is so much taller than I. I slept well and this morning Gary took me to the mall for breakfast at Dannys. Then we went to the post office, where I mailed my Florida grant application, and to the printers, where I picked up my new rsum. Gary wanted to sit out by the pool and get as deep a tan as possible before returning to winter in New York. I joined him as soon as I picked up the mail. CUNY sent me another W-2 form this one for $24.01 from New York City Community College, the check I never picked up. I got my first response to my blurb queries. Eric Roberts agent said that Eric wants to see my book. Paul Fericano sent a great postcard. Hes been busy because Kathy has been pregnant and having complications. Paul said we should keep in touch, and hes using my quote as a blurb for his chapbook. Paul also wrote: Caught your Sylvia Ginsberg Fan Club mag via UPI. Thats the spirit, man! Were gonna do it, pal, so keep me Kellogged (I hate Post). Jack Saunders, Delray Beachs Poet-Pretender, thanked me for the dough I sent him and said he can review Hitler for the local paper, and
Jack mentioned that John Bennett of Washington States Vagabond, whos publishing Jacks book, will be down here in April. Maybe we can all get together. Great! Gary stayed out by the pool all afternoon; I joined him to read the Village Voice and the Times Book Review and get a little sun myself. But your attitude is different when you actually live here in Florida, and I feel guilty about sunbathing on a weekday. I took Gary to the airport at 5 PM, and he said I could stay with him when I come to New York. He is terribly mercenary and really into possessions, but hes all right. After catching dinner at Wolfies on Sunrise Boulevard, I went to the Fort Lauderdale library. Tonight Josh called to tell me hed sold a porno story to some skin mag for $100. It sure beats rejections from little mags, Josh said. Very true. Joshs good fortune makes me glad because if anyone deserves a little success, its Josh. No Burt Reynolds for Senator has yet appeared in the paper; maybe tomorrow.

6 PM. No, theres no need to complain today, for Im feeling lousy. I didnt get to sleep until
after 5 AM, and Im not very good on two hours sleep. I managed to get through my classes today, but I had made a 1 PM appointment for a haircut and so I had to wait around. The mail brought a letter from Dr. Erlich at Ithaca College; it seems that for the interview, they want me to make a half-hour presentation on some aspect of composition to members of the faculty. Shit! What a pain! I have to call him on Monday to make an appointment, but who wants to get off a plane and give a lecture? An interview is difficult enough. Im beginning to think this job is not for me. Dont ask me what job is, though. Right now all I want to do is sleep. Pam yakked all through my hair styling when all I wanted to do then was close my eyes and rest. Traffic going home was bad, and I had errands to run, and the cars temperature light went on and then the car began overheating. I managed to get to the credit union, the cleaners and the supermarket, but I cant deal with the car right now. Im totally exhausted and need sleep badly. My biceps, calves, triceps and pectorals ache terribly from the workout yesterday. My head is throbbing. I arranged for Sundays Pan Ku meeting, which is the only thing I have to do for the next three days. Tomorrow I could happily sleep through the entire day, and as of now, thats what I
intend to do. My mind is so foggy that I cant concentrate.

5 PM. I feel uneasy today. Its just that nothing much is happening and I feel as though Im in limbo. Maybe I spoke too soon. Jeffrey Knapp, head of the South Florida Poets-in-the-Schools program, just called and said hed received my materials. He loved Hitler and remembered the Coda piece and said I was too self-deprecating in my cover letter. Jeffrey said that things in Broward are very fucked up and that budget cuts have made things uncertain. But he did say I could have a weeklong $400 residency in Dade between now and the end of the term. I told him I would call back when I returned from New Orleans. Tom will be a gracious host, and Im sure his students will treat me with respect something Im unused to. And Ill be there for the weekend before Mardi Gras, so Tom said Ill get to see New Orleans at its craziest. I have a flight next Wednesday at 5:50 PM out of Miami; it will arrive at 6:50 PM Central Time,
two hours later. On Thursday I will give readings and answer questions, and on Friday Tom and I will do workshops. Im a little nervous, of course, but I have to learn to start traveling and finally get over my agoraphobia. The Plantation public library called to say that they have decided to order my book, and I answered a dozen ads for creative writing jobs listed in the AWP Job List that I got today. So I cannot honestly say that nothing is happening. Ive given up on the Burt Reynolds for Senate story every appearing, but you have to lose sometime. Ive slowed the pace on the book Im doing of my diaries; my interest has begun to wane, but I dont intend to quit on something so important to me. Last night I went to Sunrise, had dinner at Always, and then went to the Jewish Community Center for the poetry reading. I recognized some of the people Id met on Sunday: Elayne Marshel, a 45-ish woman recovering from a stroke; Magi Schwartz, a large poet from Hollywood; Lenny DellaRocca, 27, laid back and funny; Kirt Dressler, whom I think dislikes me. First there was an open reading. If I had known, I would have brought some poems. Of course, most of the readers were not very good, but then again, almost all the poems had some competent and even magical lines.
Then Judith Ortiz Cofer, the featured poet, read. I could tell immediately that shes a true professional, and afterwards I bought a copy of her book, saying Id try to review it for some small press publication. Kirt judged the open reading and gave out four prizes; that was nice. The first prize winner, Lana, has only been in Florida a month and had to go back to New York today for the closing on her house at Beach 125th Street and the boardwalk in Rockaway. Its so odd here: you ask someone how long theyve been down here, and they say, Three months or A year. Broward County is like a huge, well-off displaced persons camp. A little while ago I heard Jonny crying to Mom that he was miserable because he had no friends. Jonny should join some organization or club to meet people. If I hadnt joined Student Government, I might have missed meeting the dearest friends Ive ever had. My big worry is Grandpa Herbs health. Yesterday Grandma Ethel told me, I need you. They had to put the tube back into his penis, and Grandpa sounded terrible. Arlyne said he wont eat because he wants to die. I feel helpless, yet Im glad Im not there.

Still Saturday, 3 PM. Everythings going wrong, Dad sighed a few minutes ago. I had called him about an hour ago to see if he could take Elayne and me to school tomorrow. He just phoned, saying he might not be able to, for Mom may have to go to New York. It looks as though Grandpa Herb is dying. Yesterday he was very weak, and Grandma Ethel took him to Peninsula Hospital for help. They said they would feed him intravenously. Today, when Grandma arrived at the hospital, she learned that he became very ill during the night and they put a pacemaker in. It looks very bad, naturally. I knew it. This would be the week Marty and Arlyne picked to vacation in Mexico, so Mom may try to fly out. Of course, its a holiday weekend, one of the busiest of the year. * Still Saturday, 9 PM. Its a matter of hours, maybe days. Thats what Dr. Schwartz told Dad and me over the phone. Moms got a 9:30 AM flight tomorrow. Im driving her to the airport in Dads car. The doctor said Grandpa Herb is in the terminal stage of a malignancy. His heart stopped last night; his liver isnt functioning and hes as yellow as a canary. Dr. Schwartz
told Grandma Ethel, though not as brutally as I just told you, and shes home alone, hysterical, saying shes going to commit suicide. Bernie, Uncle Martys partner, will pick up Mom at the airport; Marty and Arlyne will be coming home tomorrow night. Right now I dont know whether I will or can get to the funeral. Grandpa Herb was a terrific person, the one man whom Ive always felt loved me unconditionally. God, I was crazy about him; Ill miss him so much. I cant count the number of times he helped me out of jams. He was a great storyteller, too. The last thing he said to me on the phone weeks ago was about he how he was going o get around to writing that novel someday. Oh shit. Grandpa, I love you. I want you to die only because I know you want to die. I wish I was joining you now; I wish we could be together; I wish I were dead too. I hate life but it had you in it, so it couldnt be that bad. Fuck this sentimental crap. I cant write. * Sunday, 11:30 AM. Grandpa Herb died at about 1 AM in Peninsula Hospital. I learned that from Marc when I went to take Mom to the airport earlier this morning. She was very upset, and I waited with her at the terminal.
Dad called Aunt Claire and Aunt Tillie. I dont know if Ill go up to New York. Id like to be there, but its so expensive, especially if I have to fly up there again next month for my book party. Maybe thats when Grandma Ethel will need me more. Well see. Dad and Marc are at the flea market and I have to go to that stupid Pan Ku meeting. I tried to call Wendy in Philadelphia, but her roommate at Wharton told me she was out. * 7 PM. Im totally exhausted. Dad could get out of South Florida only on a single flight, and hes going to take it. I just dont want to go up to New York for the horror of Grandpa Herbs funeral. Am I a terrible person? Mom said that Grandpa Herb wanted me to give the eulogy, and if circumstances were difficult, I would have like to. I wonder. Am I trying to deny Grandpas death? Perhaps. I just feel its very hard for me to deal with. And its true that it doesnt quite seem real here. I went to BCC for a headache-making Pan Ku meeting; only my Central Campus students and Betty Owen showed up. I was naturally preoccupied. After four hours at BCC, I got to Dads. Mom had arrived at Kennedy at noon, and Bernie drove her straight to Rockaway, where she
broke the news of Grandpa Herbs death to Grandma Ethel. Can you imagine that she didnt call the hospital? Dad mused. Yes, I can because she wasnt ready to deal with the news. Hysterical in the best of circumstances, Grandma Ethel broke down completely. When I called, she got on the phone and wailed, Richard, we lost Grandpa. And she said, He hoped he would see you again. Oh, I feel awful. It was selfish of me not to go to see him then and its awful of me not to go to his funeral. But I cant, and Im not going to feel guilty about it. Ill be sad, yes, but not guilty. I was close with Grandpa Herb, and Ill do my grieving in private over the next few days and weeks. The funeral will be on Tuesday morning. Dad is flying out on Monday and will be back Tuesday night. In the meantime Ill have his car; Marc will drive him to the airport and Jonathan will pick him up. Grandpa Herb lived 79 years and two months. Like Grandma Sylvia, he died on a holiday weekend. Now I have lost two of my four grandparents. Its odd; I always wondered how it would be. Still, we were close, Grandpa and I we got to know each other as adult friends as well as grandchild and grandparent.
Rushes of memory come to me now: little scenes of Grandpa Herb run through my minds eye. I hope Grandma Ethel will be all right. Uncle Sidney tried to get a flight out but he couldnt, and Aunt Sydelle, who wasnt even related to Grandpa Herb, got hysterical when Dad called her with the news. There was some confusion over the cemetery, but Im certain its Beth David in Elmont: the Louis Lerner Society, I think. This year, 1983, will always be back year in my memory, if only for Grandpa Herbs death. I dont want to live anymore myself, really. The worst is yet to come, I feel.

6 PM. I feel uneasy tonight, as though Im on the verge of a minor disaster. The Heralds Broward editor, Carol Weber, today had a column about candidate interviews in which she mentioned a Davie mystery candidate who, surprisingly, did show up for an interview and said that he was running because I wanna get some of that graft and corruption, and because of ego-gratification. Weber obviously has no sense of humor, nor does she have a large mind. Very few people do. So why am I letting myself in for all of this abuse? Granted, its good to get bad reviews
and bad publicity because it toughens you and teaches you that nobody can expect a free ride. Im nervous, however, about the Chamber of Commerces candidate forum next week. I feel Im going to be made to feel that I didnt have the right to run. Intellectually, I know that certainly I have a legal and a moral right to be a candidate . . . but then there are the feelings that go back to what Dr. Pasquale and I used to discuss: calling attention to myself, showing off. Perhaps I did make a big mistaking in running. Anyway, lets see what I can learn from this experience. One thing: it has definitely begun to estrange me from my parents. Its as though Im not playing the role of good little boy anymore, so theyre withholding their approval. Again, intellectually, I feel theyre certainly entitled to do that. But deep down, I am hurt and angry. Of course, I can learn from that too: theyll never really accept my gayness and I may have to go away from them if Im to be comfortable in a gay role (if there is such an animal). As for my writing career I just dont know. Im inclined to agree with Tom, who says Ill never get famous because Im too difficult for the general public and too unserious for the literary critics. I keep telling myself that if New
York publishers dont need me, I dont need them, either. But can I go on for years and years like this? It seems that no matter how good I am, Ill never get a job teaching creative writing. More academias loss than mine, I wrote in a letter to Stacy but that aint the whole truth. Yes, Im a little scared. Im almost 31 years old and I dont seem to have a future. All Ive got are my wits. Actually, I almost welcome the resounding thud Im about to make, because I can have the luxury of starting all over again. Im tough and I keep getting tougher. I probably shouldnt get too comfortable. Ye I cant help feeling more than a little frightened.

8 PM. I decided to put off grading the papers; I dont think I should be expected to give back papers that were handed in only two days before. Most were late papers, anyway; if Id had them on schedule last Thursday, I would have had five days to grade them. If the students complain, so be it. I cannot and will not give them any more effort than they themselves put in to the course.
Well, my depression of last evening was shortlived; I lay in bed for about an hour, that was all, before my high energy level came back and I realized that I was merely feeling sorry for myself. Sandra Thompson called, and that cheered me up. She had been quite upset about the bad review some bimbo at the New York Times Book Review gave her book. That review arrived only two days after she got her first copies of the book, so I didnt have much time to enjoy it. The University of Georgia Press did sell the paperback rights to NAL/Plume, which is a good thing, and she got good reviews elsewhere (though Library Journals was dumb). Sandra taught a workshop at the Suncoast Writers Conference in order to try to sell her books. She said it was worth it, for she encouraged one boy from USF who liked to write in fragments but who had been forced to write short stories from outlines in his classes. Sandra said she thought there was a fiction writing job open at USF, but she wanted to stay at the St. Petersburg Times even though the full-time work keeps her from writing. I apologized for not having read her book yet, and I did feel very embarrassed. Then she told me the reason for the call was actually official St. Pete Times business. Theyre starting a column of essays like those
in the New York Times (Hers, About Men) about family relationships, home and she thought Id like to try my hand at it, on spec. Theyd be 1,000 words and pay $100-$250. Ill definitely try to work up a couple of essays. Maybe I could write about my parents or grandparents, long-distance friendships, or living in furnished apartments. For dinner I bought tofu and a salad at Unicorn Village, and then I wrote to Crad, telling him how much I liked Pork College; to Justin, whom I really miss hes another one who deserves more success with his writing; to Rick; and to Stacy. Im very lucky in my friends. Last night Josh called to tell me that the Devil Broadcasting Company schtick in Show Business was the funniest thing Ive read in a long time. He spoke with John Fahey, who seems to be going through a nervous breakdown. Fahey, in therapy, recalled repressed childhood memories of being molested by his father, and lately these memories have been haunting him so much so that he told Josh that he hadnt slept in weeks. Although of course Fahey is a famous musician, Josh seems to be the only one interested in his writings and Josh wondered if he himself should publish Faheys autobiographical book. I told him to consider it but to find out all he could about what it entailed.
I also offered all the help I could in promoting Grinning Idiot, which is very important to Josh. The magazine keeps him from being just another computer programmer, the same way my presidential campaign and media stunts keep me from being just another community college teacher. The air in this part of North Miami Beach is heavy with a jasmine-like scent now, and I feel relaxed and calm. Despite everything, I managed to accomplish a good deal today. Most chores get done on time. Look, kiddo, the world may not be perfect, but youve had a pretty good deal. I hope Dad is all right though; I cant help worrying about him. My parents do mean a lot to me.

4 PM. I feel very depressed. I got turned down for Unemployment because they said I quit John Jay without good cause and relocated to Florida when there was work available this term. Shit! I would like to kill S.E. Lovely, the claims examiner. Its like they dont give a person a break. I feel rage and despair. I really needed that money to finally get my head above water.
Now Im going to be back in the same position I was, which is nowhere. I can appeal, but whats the use? Once again I feel exploited and shat-upon and that my life is completely out of control. So, stupid, is it worth it to you to be an artist? Not today, its not. Maybe Ill hang on a little longer, as always, and see if I get tossed a few crumbs. Yesterday I went through my diaries from 1976 to the present and selected one entry for each month, ending with yesterday. Now all I have to do is edit the entries and type them up, and Ill have my manuscript. Not that its very good, but that almost doesnt matter. Its my life, as best as I can tell it in book form at this time. Ive got the dates written down, so that even if I did, someone can piece the book together. Ive had a terrible headache behind my left eye for two days. Today when I taught my class at BCC, I was boring. I feel lonely. Its been ages since someone has told me I was loved. I havent kissed anyone not passionately in years. Oh, I feel Ive just fucked up my life terribly. Maybe New Orleans will help; I called Tom yesterday and he said that when he announced to his afternoon class that I was coming, they cheered. I cant imagine anyone cheering for me. I suppose it would make me feel better if I could just believe it.
I spoke to Grandpa Herb yesterday and he sounded awful. They took the IV out but had to put it back in again because he became very weak. Its possible he could die during or following the surgery. In my mind, I see the worst possible scenarios. It seems that every time Im scheduled to go away, it had to be when someone was very ill. In 1977, I went to Bread Loaf when Grandpa Nat was sick, and last June, I left for MacDowell I was in a terrible frame of mind because of Grandpa Herb. Well, Ill hang on, as I said because I dont know what else to do. Somehow we survive. Just as Mom and Dad were down to $200 in their bank account, they got a check for $8,338.88 from Sasson today, Dads paycheck for December. But thats not really security. How long can that sum last? Im to the point where I actually hope for some great international disaster. I regret that tensions in Poland are easing because a Soviet invasion would have created worldwide chaos, and I need something to escape my stupid little problems. Dr. Pasquale answered my letter with a brief but friendly note; I wish I could see him. Right now I feel I have nothing to show for my life except my writing and I dont know that my writing amounts to anything.
Im at the stage where all I want to do is sleep. I was complaining last week when I had nothing to complain about, so you can imagine how I feel today. I know its only a matter of perception and that there is a way out, that there are dozens of ways out but I dont know how to change my perceptions except to wait for tomorrow. Maybe everything will look different then; its happened before.

8 PM. Im tired. Last night, as I have every night this week, I took the phone off the hook. (Its off the hook now.) I slept from 10 PM until 7 AM, but my sleep was very light and frequently interrupted. However, I did dream, and most dreams were of fame. I had my photo in todays Miami Herald and Fort Lauderdale News along with articles about my runs for, respectively, the Davie Town Council and the U.S. Senate. In the Herald, I got a box, as did Art Lazear and the other candidates. The photo of me was so flattering, I can hardly believe its I, as I look like a movie star.
By his own admission, Richard Grayson is not a serious contender . . . He explains candidly that he decided to run only because he didnt want his opponent to run unopposed . . . Ill get the vote of every thinking person in Davie, about 10% of the people, Grayson said . . . He supports the University Drive moratorium and controlled growth. He thinks gun sales should be banned in Davie. Well, they didnt treat me like an idiot, as I thought they would. The News article, Senate Hopeful Defers Promises, offered these lines: Grayson said he offers the voters a choice a choice to vote for machismo and charisma. The other two guys are wimps, he said . . . Although he has raised no money and plans no campaign appearances, he evoked the memory of Jimmy Carter by saying, Ill whip their asses. Graysons campaign strategy is simple: Markham and Poole will split the conservative vote, particularly the criminal element. He plans to promote his New Deferralism, a program of delaying everything and shutting down the federal government . . . His platform: Draft registration: Draft senior citizens. They have nothing to do anyway. Social services: We need more big giveaway programs for the poor. We should also give
cable TV stamps, because if you dont have cable, youre deprived. The environment: Take James Watt and stuff him as an example of what happens when you screw up the environment. Grayson said he expects help later in the campaign from the White House. Im pretty tight with the Reagan family. My cousin is hairdresser to Jane Wyman, who was Reagans first wife. Poking fun at politics and the system comes from a frustration with politics today, Grayson said in a serious note. It all seems to be show business today. It isnt a coincidence that we have a show business president, he said. He blamed the media . . . and thinks young people have been turned off by politics. Not bad. The photo was a horror, though. I had a hard time with my classes today; they were fine, but the lessons were complicated to teach. Sean is doing his research paper on gay power. My heart beat fast when we had our conference, and I tried to act as if I didnt care about him any more than I care about anyone else. Hes probably ten times more sophisticated than I am about gay life; he makes me feel tongue-tied and awkward even if hes practically half my age. Nothing will ever happen, of course.
I got home early after depositing my paycheck and a check David McKinnon sent me for Lincolns Doctors Dog (four dollars, which doesnt even cover my costs). The car conked out again. I keep wondering whether I should let Rainbow Books do Eating at Arbys, but I think not. I can always do it with them at a later date. Right now Im not cash-rich and too much else is going on. I cant wait until life settles down after the election and my trip to Cocoa Beach for the Book and Author Luncheon. I need to relax, write, diet, exercise, and try to have some sort of social life. Exhaustion.

4 PM. Yesterday I lay in bed till late afternoon. M stomach hurt and I felt pretty awful. Finally I walked over to the Chevron station I do miss walking around a neighborhood and looking and people and houses and plants and picked up my car. The damage came to $270, which I put on my Visa card. God knows when Ill be able to catch up on all my debts. It seems like its always one thing or another.
I went over to Dads house and read the paper and the little mail Id received. At 6 PM I drove over to BCC, where apparently no one had missed me during the whole day I was out. I began to feel sickish during the reading of a long story in my creative writing workshop; I was nauseated and chilled and nervous. Perhaps it was the start of an anxiety attack. I was tempted to dismiss the class early, but I began to feel better during the break, and I really got into the poems we discussed later. Apparently Mom came home late last night; Ill go over there later today. I havent spoken to her yet, though. This morning, as I drove to school, I did see Dad running on University Drive. Last night I slept fitfully but I had some pleasant dreams. In one, I delivered Teresas baby and that made me happy. In another dream, I managed to get a clear picture from a Hartford TV station in the middle of the night here in Florida; Josh came over, and we watched it together. Last summer at Grandpa Herbs in Rockaway, I discovered so many different stations I could pick up on his TV station during the night: channels from Philadelphia, Atlantic City and Salisbury, Maryland. Since then Ive dreamed several times about getting faraway TV stations.
This morning I had my English 1000 classes write while I wrestled with the very complicated forms the University of Miami sent over; they were all applications for financial aid. Perhaps with an assistantship of $5000 and a guaranteed student loan of an equal amount, I can make it next year as a Ph.D. student. An order for Arbys trickled in today; Ill still have enough copies for my talk at the Fort Pierce library in ten days. Soon Ill have to start thinking about that. March begins next week, and I hope its an improvement over January and February, which were sucky but I expect problems will only get worse. I met with Amandas son Michael, a read nerd. For Amandas sake, I tried to be helpful but the guy really needs to get both a job and a therapist. Michael has been writing for years and has never gotten a single thing published anyplace. Hes written two novels and several nonfiction books, all of which sound dreadful. At least I can take slight satisfaction that Im not a schleppy asshole like him but if I were, I wouldnt realize it, would I? What I am is a fat slob. I weighed myself at Bodyworks and was shocked that Id zoomed up to 166 pounds, five pounds more than I weighed just two months ago. While I had a good negative workout today Id never seen my biceps so pumped up I believe I should concentrate now on slimming down my
waist rather than building up the rest of me. If I could continue to exercise lightly and lose ten to twenty pounds, Id probably have a really nice physique and maybe my pants would fit me again. All day at BCC Im surrounded by muscular 18year-olds. Sometimes I love just walking through the halls looking at them. Well, I suppose that being horny is a sign that Im starting to feel less depressed. And I can pride myself in getting through the last few months, which have been difficult. All I want to do this weekend is endure it.

9 PM. Im in Marcs room in Davie. I just settled in after a very pleasant dinner at Fridays with Larry and his girlfriend Judy. Its been one of the blessings of living in South Florida that so many people from New York pass through here in the winter and all of them seem happy to give me their good company, not to mention a free meal. I slept well last night and this morning I got all my things together to bring my stuff from North Miami Beach here to stay for a few days. Ill miss my mail and my newspapers will pile up, but I have no real problems.
Here in Davie, I can sleep until 7 AM rather than until 6 AM, so I dont have to go to bed so early. My negative workout at the health club was good. Yesterdays stomach exercises already had me charley-horse in that area, and now I feel my hamstrings, triceps and biceps beginning to ache. (In case nobody realizes it, I like the feeling of muscle soreness; it gives me an awareness of my body along with the realization that all my exercise has tangible effects.) I spent most of the day alone in the house here, reading the papers and watching movies on TV, and yes, grading papers. I must have gotten through thirty or thirty-five papers and Im almost all caught up except for about five from the 2 PM class, and Ill have lots of time to do them on Tuesday during my office hours. Larry said that the friends he and Judy were staying with were taking them out to lunch and then to the airport so they could rent a car. They arrived at about 4:30 PM, just five minutes after Mom and Dad returned from a good day of sales at the flea market and five minutes before Jonathan got home from the army/navy store. Larry looks the same as he always did back in Rockaway, and Judy was a nice surprise; shes a pretty, very personable woman who lives in Lynbrook and who works for Sterns department stores.
We talked for a couple of hours in the living room and then went out for dinner. Im really glad Larry phoned me because Id forgotten how much I enjoy his company and he and Judy are a fine couple, more down-to-earth than most of my friends yet quite bright and a pleasure to be with. Larrys still with Milton Paper, and everything seems the same in Rockaway; the streets are still broken up from sewer repairs, for instance. Tomorrow Larry and Judy are staying in town and going to the jai-lai matches in Dania (remember how lucky Larry and I were there when I last saw him when he and Mikey came to visit?), and then theyre off to Epcot, Disney World and Busch Gardens. Larry said theyll call next weekend before they fly out of Fort Lauderdale. I had a great zucchini-mushroom-and-broccoli quiche at Fridays, but the noise there was deafening; both Larry and I ended up with headaches because of it. Earlier in the day I spoke with Grandma Ethel, who sounded hoarse but said that the weather in New York had been beautiful lately. Well, Ill be there myself in eight weeks for a long stay. Thats pretty soon from now, huh? This week shouldnt be too stressful. Im going to try not to worry about the midterm in my FIU computer course. Wednesday Ill meet my 8
AM class and send them to the library so I only get docked for missing my 10 AM class. I hope the trip to Palm Beach and the radio show go well. Tomorrow I expect a call from Blair, and although Ive had fantasies about him, I have no expectations other than to satisfy my curiosity. Probably hell turn out to be an unbearable little creep. I wonder if any of the press releases I sent out yesterday will result in media phone calls and more publicity. Arent I a hog? But its fun and fairly harmless at that. I do wish BCC had a real spring break, though. My hand really hurts now. Im going to watch Star Wars.

7 PM. Another rainy weekend spent in bed. This is the year South Florida had a winter. The past two winters here, it seemed that every day was sunny and dry. But since the start of 1983, its been Noahville all the time; weve had more than ten times the normal amount of rainfall, and last years drought has turned into this years flooding. Still, I will be looking forward to the warm, sunny weather when it gets here. College students begin their spring break invasion of
Fort Lauderdale this week, and I hope, for their sake, that the weather improves. For me, compensation would be lower electric bills, since I havent used my air conditioner in weeks. Oil prices worldwide seem to be coming down as OPEC stumbles in disarray. Leaded gasoline is now going for 98 a gallon here, and it could go down another dime. That may be good news for the economy and spur on a recovery. The decade-long shock over oil prices really did affect our lives in many ways. Its hard to believe that when I was in college, I paid less than 40 a gallon for gasoline. How I loved to drive aimlessly on weekends all over Long Island, up to Westchester and Connecticut, out to New Jersey. Sometimes I think my weekends in bed arent just sloth but that Im developing ideas for my writing and other projects. I hope so. Typing up Pac-Man Ate My Cat in my old familiar manuscript format last night, I felt that same sense of satisfaction I used to get upon finishing a story. It seems as if life is a series of alternating advances and retreats, though maybe consolidation is a better word than retreat. I stay in my room, and then I go out in the world; I think and I do; I master something, get bored with it, flounder, and eventually go on to something new.
Grandpa Herb would say to make the best of what comes my way, and Ive tried to do that. In a strange way, his death has renewed, and not diminished, my determination. Yesterday Mom said that her cousin Chuck picked up one of my books and was amazed that I knew what Guillaine-Barre syndrome was. Obviously, all my all reading has made me pretty knowledgeable about some things. Thats why I have trouble relating to the simpletons among my students or the literary magazine editors whose comments on stories range from Loose [sic] it . . . to This is to [sic] long. Surely, in a world of incompetents and dullards, someone like me has to at least break even. Some journalists said that Tennessee Williams was too sensitive for such a harsh, cold world, but theyre wrong: artists like Williams (and, I hope, myself) are the real tough people in society. I feel I can go on struggling for another ten years if I have to. Why all of a sudden am I so enthusiastic about the struggle? Im realizing what Ive got, and as the rabbi said of Grandpa Herb, Im trying to minimize what I dont have. Things will fall into place; I feel it now. Ive got to get through the next couple of months of schoolwork and the literary magazine, and then Ill have May and half of June to spend in New York. During the second summer session
here in Florida, Ill teach in a more relaxed atmosphere and spend lots of time planning my way for the fall. At worst, Ill enter the University of Miamis Ph.D. program and bide my time while I look for a way out. Well, I didnt mark any of the eighty papers I took home this weekend, but I already told my classes that I wouldnt have their papers until Wednesday. Lisa said we need to spend weekends free to clear our heads. Next week, Ill take off Monday, the day I go to Fort Pierce. My chest and shoulders are still sore from Fridays workout. Theres no doubt Im much more muscular than I was six months ago. My problem is my genetic predisposition toward getting love handles that and my greater appetite.
Saturday, February 28, 1981

10 PM. The last day has been one that Ill always treasure. I now really think I have the feeling of life here in the Big Easy, the City That Care Forgot. Its a great town and I hope to come back someday. Toms party got started at 8 PM last night when his friends Eustace and Mary, both English teachers, arrived with this woman Dixie. Eustace looks and sounds like a typical redneck: baseball cap, pot belly, country
accent and old clothes. Eustace began by saying he read my Hitler story and thought it made a good point about the Jewish problem. I liked him immediately and soon we were both drinking Pepsi (Grayson, I never saw a Jew drink a Pepsi before) and talking about modern fiction (hes the most well-read person Ive met, except for Tom), TV (including Another World), junk food and cheap cigars. Eustace is a real good old boy or as I told Tom later, a real mensch. His wife Mary and I talked about Faulkner, and she said I was wrong to see his work in mythical terms. For her, growing up in the poor rural South, his characters were the people she knew every day. She said the old woman in Flannery OConnors Everything That Rises Must Converge was her own mother. Toms ex-wife Joan showed up with her turkey boyfriend Sloan. Joan is beautiful and a remarkable painter, intelligent and hopelessly neurotic. Toms co-editor Nancy was dressed bizarrely and soon got very drunk; her friend Red, a musician who didnt quite make sense and looked much older than 27, told me that he had been an alcoholic for the past fifteen years, so he made a good partner for Nancy. There was a lot of smoke and cans of Dixie beer everywhere, and I learned quite a bit
about New Orleans. Tom and Eustace said that Mardi Gras is a horrible time, but the others advised me to enjoy it by taking LSD, painting my face, and trying to catch the doubloons thrown from the parade floats. I didnt sleep much and felt shitty this morning. My contact lens sterilizer broke, so Im wearing my glasses. Tom and I drove into the French Quarter at 9 AM, and I got a glimpse of one side of the Superdome on the way. Vieux Carr looked the way I expected it to: those narrow streets and sidewalks (banquettes), trellised balconies, shuttered windows, and weird people. Obviously there were hordes of tourists, but there were also lots of locals getting thoroughly drunk by 10 AM. Also there were numerous gays, transvestites, rednecks, blacks, Hells Angels, and people of every nationality united in their love for alcohol. Tom introduced me to his favorite bookstore owner, a suspendered old guy who has a great used book shop. He told Tom, No wonder young people dont want to read when teachers send students here to get books by authors like Salinger and Golding. We walked up St. Chartres Street, past the gay bars and chic boutiques, and went up Bourbon, which seemed worse than Times Square with its prostitutes, tacky souvenir shops (I did buy postcards), strip joints and boy bars. The
whole area has the aroma of decay, and when I saw buses to Desire and Elysian Fields, I understood Tennessee Williams better. Then we walked to Jackson Square, where Tom pointed out St. Louis Cathedral and on either side, the Presbytere (the old home for the clergy) and the Cabildo (the old seat of Spanish government). People were having their faces painted, and there were portraitists and street performers and hundreds of tourists. Down by the river, we listened to the steamboat Natchezs calliope play songs like Mammy and Bye Bye, Blackbird. I felt like I was in an old movie or something. Then Tom took me to visit Joan and Sloane, who have a magnificent apartment (three huge rooms, stained glass windows and skylight, large patio courtyard outside) in the Quarter. We had lunch at Jonahs, an almost-New York type deli where some guy played the guitar and sang, and then we walked around some more and took in the Pharmacy Museum (leeches in a bottle), some street mimes and jugglers, and the French Market from the Caf du Monde, where you can get caf au lait and beignets, to the fruit and vegetable stands and flea market. And all around us were a sea of people. It was a little too much to take in at once, so I was relieved when we started home at 4 PM. I
decided to change my flight to Sunday afternoon, so I didnt mind the huge traffic jams because of the various Mardi Gras parades. Back in the Garden District at Toms house, he took a nap while I read, and then Eustace came over to bullshit for a while. We went out to eat at McDonalds and took the trolley to Louisiana Street and back; that was fun for me because I hadnt been on a trolley since 1955 or so. What a rewarding experience this trip has been.

6 PM. If I was tired last evening, Im totally exhausted now. I slept less than two hours last night and had to make it through a very busy day. Its turned amazingly cold, and forecasters predict lows in the 30s for tonight. Hey, its March already, and it should start to be hot. Today was Leap Year Day, and I did some leaping around. Last night was horrible. I watched the primary results Hart scored a stunning upset by taking 40% of the New Hampshire vote to Mondales 28% but I couldnt fall asleep for anything.
Granted, the couch in Davie isnt very comfortable because its narrow and hard, but I slept on it for several months three years ago, and Marc has slept on it for years. My mind was racing. I also felt a bit nauseated this morning and began to wonder if I wasnt coming down with the virus thats been going around. After meeting my 8 AM class and sending them to the library, I guiltily sneaked off campus and rode up the Turnpike and I-95 to Lake Worth, to A1A by the beach. Its stunningly beautiful there; the water looks like a surfers paradise and it also seems so much calmer on shore than here, and also less vulgar. Radio station WPBR is obviously a congenial place. While waiting outside, I got the strong impression that everyone who worked there enjoyed doing so, and I remember what Ted had told me about the Aspinwalts, the station owners. Im pretty certain Ted realized I was the guy who answered his ad last fall, but he didnt let on and neither did I. He seemed like a very nice guy, but not my type: pale, paunchy, with wispy blond hair and glasses. However, Im sure if Id gotten to know him, we might have hit it off. I remember how much he said he had missed the guy in his life who had gone off to Denver, and I hope he hasnt gone back to his former
workaholic celibacy as I have. (But I know its temporary!) Valerie Aspinwalt was as kind as she could be; she introduced me to previous guest, a woman editor at Newsweek. who seemed to be familiar with my work. (You get a lot out of your outrageous narcissism, she said.) And when Valerie kept saying what a successful and talented writer I was, I felt so embarrassed, I had to demur. We talked about my presidential campaign, and I made her laugh; of course, I did enjoy the challenge of trying to be funny on live radio. We finished at 11 AM and I drove home, stopping off to have lunch in Boca Raton. As I entered my office at BCC, I found a note from Sandy saying that the photographer from Sunshine Magazine would be there at 1 PM to take a wild picture of me. And then I turned around for it was 1 PM and he was there. Explaining that the story had been pushed up to a week from Sunday, he said that his editors didnt like the serious portraits of me and wanted something more in keeping with my crazy stunts. So he brought one of those arrows which go around ones head, the kind Steve Martin made famous. Perhaps foolishly, I didnt object and we took an hours worth of photos with my head being pierced by a narrow. Real dignified author, huh?
Other photos included me sitting in my office reading a book upside down; jumping up and down like a maniac; sitting on my car; standing next to the Welcome to Davie sign; and hitchhiking along University Drive. Ill probably look pretty ridiculous, but at least I didnt have to dress like Michael Jackson or Boy George. All in a days work for a budding celebrity. I decided to stay in Davie tonight, but I went to North Miami Beach to check out my place no mail, thank goodness and then I took a muchneeded haircut.

8 PM. March already. Amazingly, I managed to do all the chores on my list yesterday. I woke up early (I barely slept) and read the papers, then typed up some mimeoed sheets for my classes and began marking papers. Kevin called while I was in the shower. With my hair full of shampoo and my body soaking wet, I learned that we made Book Week in the Washington Post. Kevin had been reading the book news column and was stunned to see a little piece on Lincolns Doctors Dog about the books title, of course.
He read it to me, and while didnt comment on the contents of the book, of course the publicity is worth a great deal. Kevin, being based in Washington himself, was even more impressed than I was especially since he says the Post, like most papers, usually avoids local small presses like poison. Since I havent seen either the Post piece or Kirkus Reviews, they arent quite real to me yet, but I do have hopes of getting more publicity and reviews. Whether or not they translate into sales matters more to Kevin than to me, since I wont get any more money even if Kevin sells out the whole first printing. Buoyed by good news, I spent the afternoon in the sun, reading Tolstoys The Death of Ivan Ilych, a dear old friend of a book. Then I exercised, graded more papers, and went t bed at 9 PM. I slept very well; when I sleep well like that, I awaken to find its hours earlier than I expected. Oh yes, I almost forgot. Yesterday I was treated kindly in a Davie campaign wrap-up article in the West section of the Fort Lauderdale News/Sun-Sentinel. In all three classes today, I taught grammar and had energetic, stimulating lessons. I enjoyed myself at school today. The mail brought a postcard from Susan Mernit, whos as happy as a clam on the second day of her movies shooting. She says the actors old vaudevillians like Sally DeMay, who I met when
we were trying out for the David Susskind show on short people a few years ago are amazing. On Saturday Rick Peabody asked if Id be interested in doing an interview with Tom McHale for Gargoyle, and he also sent along Gretchens Journal, which George published as a special issue of Cumberland Journal. After shopping at Publix, I came home this afternoon to exercise up a storm while watching soap operas. Tomorrow night is the big candidates night at Davie Town Hall, and Im starting to get anxious about it. Im worried about hostile questions and looking stupid. I think I know enough about the issues, but I dont know whether I should stress the fact that Im running only to give Art Lazear token opposition. Maybe I should just avoid that until Im asked. Anyway, the candidate forum is the last thing I have to do in this campaign. All the papers have interviewed me, Ive been to the editorial boards (although their endorsements of Lazear except for the Western News have not yet appeared), and I cant think of anything left to do. Poor Art Lazear: hell be busy as hell, but thats what he wants. Anyway, Im a little scared, especially if theres a large crowd and were covered by cable TV.
Gale Arnoux of AWP called to say theyd received the seconds to my nomination for the board of directors from Tom and Kevin, and I sent off a statement for the ballot. I called Mikey, who says hes been working on some very trying cases (pun). Larry got tickets for them for Thursday morning, March 18, so theyll be here in a couple of weeks.
Wednesday, March 2, 1983

8 PM. Im in bed, with the phone off the hook, ready to escape the world. My sinusitis became so intense, I could barely sleep because of the pain. This morning I started taking the penicillin prescribed when I was ill last August. I expected to be get sick, and I became sicker. Right now this hasnt stopped me from functioning, though I am quite tired much of the time. I was tired yesterday when I got to BCC. Patrick told me the English Department meeting had been a gloom and doom session. Dr. Grasso explained the reorganization plan and the increasing rigidity of the administration, who want us all to use the same text in a particular course and who have canceled courses left and right for upcoming terms. I felt glad I hadnt attended.
Before going to class, I called Grandma Ethel, who hadnt been home earlier. She explained that shed gone to see the doctor because of her swollen ankles. Im sorry shes ill, but Im glad her heart and pressure checked out okay and Im also glad shes interested in her own health. She told me her friends visit her often, and she thanked me for the note Id sent her. Grandma cried a little and said how hard it was to adjust to living without Grandpa Herb. I had a nice class theyre a fine bunch, very intelligent and varied and came home at 10 PM. My head hurt, and I couldnt sleep very much. I want to call in sick on Monday, I didnt want to be absent today. On the way to school, I wondered if Publishers Weekly would be in my post office box and if it would contain a review of I Brake for Delmore Schwartz. It was and it did. Under the paperbacks section, PW noted: Most of these 15 stories fall into three broad categories. Grayson is at his best in his most straightforward narratives, among them Thats Saul, Folks and Slightly Higher in Canada. Also pleasant are the authors obviously autobiographical stories, which are built of fragments of memories; he recalls his greatgrandmother in Reluctance, an uncle dying of cancer in Hold Me.
Less successful are Graysons more experimental pieces . . . Y/Me is a short diatribe on the letter y. Only Time Will Tell presents an inconsequential self-interview. And in Is This Useful? Is This Boring? the author repeats these queries (asserting that it doesnt matter anyway), until the reader, alas, must answer both questions truthfully. Not a good review, but not a totally bad one, either. Its fair. Useful/Boring is a selfindulgent piece that doesnt work for me, either. Only Time is obviously not a selfinterview, as the age of the boy is clearly given (16 in 1977). But at least I got into PW for the third time. How do I feel? Okay. Im tough enough by now to roll with the punches. Its curious how many reviewers have said that my straightforward narratives are my best work. In any case, except for the title story, which I wrote at MacDowell three years ago, all of the other pieces were written a long time ago, before I became an adult. Theyre juvenilia, and as such, theyre pretty good when compared to the work of most MFA students. Most of the stories date from 1976-78, when I was still living a very sheltered life, going to grad school and working part-time, still living with my parents. Ive grown up so much in the past five years and especially since Ive been on my own, starting three and a half years ago that I can be objective about my early work.
I think Ive laid the groundwork for a decent writing career. Ive established myself somewhat, and Ive tried out lots of different styles and voices. Surely being eclectic must help balance out my lack of sheer writing talent. I dont fool myself; I know that Im not first-rate and that Ill never be first-rate. But Im not tenth-rate, either. Ed Hogan sent me a letter about distributors and the party and flyers and review copies, and in the package he enclosed two I Brake for Delmore Schwartz bumper stickers. They look great, and Ed said theyve sold about thirty of them in the Boston area; in small part, they advertise the book. I got through my two grammar lessons quickly and painlessly today: dangling and misplaced modifiers are usually funny. After talking with Monica and with Marc, who came by the office to bring me some old jeans of his, I came home. Yesterday Id called Mom in an SOS because none of my 33-inch-waist jeans fit me anymore. Its so disgusting not to be able to wear clothes that fit perfectly just a few months ago. Unless my unhappiness caused me to eat a lot more than I thought I was doing, I dont understand my weight gain.
Apart from my pants not fitting, I dont appear heavier than I was. Perhaps the intensive Nautilus training has added inches everywhere, and Im just getting larger all around. I had hoped to trim down, but the only way I can do that is by dieting. Mike Maynard brought an appraiser here to photograph the condo; his divorce settlement is in the works. I told him I would be leaving when my lease expires August 1. (I said I was moving either to Miami or to Gainesville.) I did go to Bodyworks today; though the headache plus the antibiotics made me weaker than usual, I did finish my workout without becoming faint. And I spoke to Mom for an hour; she was pleased with the PW review, which Id given Marc to take home. After meeting his counselor, Marc discovered he has thirty credits to go to get his A.A. (or maybe its A.S.) degree. This past weekend Marc went to a concert with Laurie (she likes him more than as a friend, he fears) and got terribly drunk on Sunday night with J.J. and his friends. Marc said hed never had a hangover before, and he still felt bad today. I spent the rest of the day in bed except I went out once to Publix for groceries. Where the hell am I? Three years ago, this was just about the nadir of that terrible winter. This one is not as bad, but Ive been hard-pressed to feel happy or even satisfied.
Nothings gone right, really, since Christmas, when I saw Sean for the last time. Im very lonely, but I feel that no together guy would find me attractive now. I havent called Sean because well, partially because he always wants me to keep smiling and I dont want him to hear me this depressed. I think Sean looked up to me as someone who was capable. I could tell he never liked it when I confided my fears and insecurities to him; it was always the other way around, with me being the listener. All day Ive been flashing on the past. I just now had an image of a camera store around Times Square where I used to deliver packages when I was a messenger for the Village Voice. Maybe Im feverish. Physically, emotionally, financially Im a wreck. I can barely drag myself out of bed, but then again, I can barely sleep.
Tuesday, March 3, 1981

8 PM. Weve just come back from dinner at a Chinese restaurant. Today is Moms fiftieth birthday so it was kind of a celebration. Jonny got Mom an expensive porcelain doll while I got her a cheaper but nice pillbox.
Over dinner we had a pleasant conversation. Dads boss, Owen Lay of Osay, the Sasson jacket licensee, died last Friday and theyre trying to keep his death a secret from Sasson. Yesterday I overheard Dad talking to the secretary, who told him his check would be late because Owen was out of town. Apparently Bob Lee, the son who runs the business from the New York showroom, doesnt want the word to get around. Dad learned only because the shipping manager couldnt lie to him, but Dads supposed to keep the news secret. Mr. Lee was a real tyrant, always needling Dad, so Dad doesnt feel all that bad but the whole thing is so absurd. At dinner we talked about the Oscars and mentioned Roman Polanski. Dad and I argued that his committing statutory rape was a crime in name only, while Jonny said it was disgusting. Jonny also said something similar when Dad matter-of-factly mentioned going to the store of the Marlin Beach Hotel and seeing all the gays in the bar. My brother is a real prude. When I was his age, practically all I could think about was sex and Shelli and I were sleeping together every day. But sometimes I think Im more sexual now. All last night I ached with erections that just wouldnt quit. I know Im really going to have
some fun soon; after a decade, Im finally comfortable with myself as a sexual being. Yesterday I was driving up University when I found myself stopped for a light next to a car with three teenage girls. Hi, I said, smiling, and they responded in kind. Later, up the road, they passed me and one yelled out, Are you married? I nodded, as sexily as I could, I heard another one giggling and saying Shucks. Its about time I stopped being a eunuch. Last night I stayed up until 3 AM, reading and listening to China Valless jazz show on WTMI. I love the mild winter nights here, with the terrace just a few steps away in my room. The nights make me feel so free and alone. I wrote Stacy, Jack Saunders, Kevin Urick (he sent me a rather confusing publicity-stunt press release), and George Myers (he sent the new issue of his magazine that featured an interview with my old Rockaway neighbors Ascher/Straus. I read the new Authors Guild Bulletin and have finally decided to stop worrying about commercial publishing. Just as they dont need me, I dont need them. I truly believe the future is in the small presses. Somehow I can make a life for myself as a writer without the twin dead-ends of academia and New York publishing. Maybe Im still riding
the high of my trip to New Orleans, but Ive decided to take a leaf from Toms book and go on with my work no matter what literary politics is going on at the moment. I can live on my little successes; I had another acceptance today, for example. The Asheville, North Carolina Arts Journal took The Most Unforgettable Fictional Characters I Ever Met and asked me for a photo and a contributors note. Also today, seeing my story The Governor of the State of Depression in the Pikestaff Forum also helped. Robert Peters, the poet/critic, thanked me for the letter I sent him; it really made him feel good, he said. I wrote him back and told him a little about myself.
Thursday, March 4, 1982

4 PM. Today, for the first time in months, I had a day of doing nothing, and instead of feeling relief, I feel bored, headachy and overtired. I realize now that I never want to be out of work. Two years ago my depression in Rockaway was caused by too much free time as well as by career problems and illness. Im beginning to wonder if I want to be a writer after all. Certainly I could never bring myself to write full-time, the way Scott Sommer does. (His
new novel, The Last Resort, was praised wildly in PW and LJ although Josh told me hed read a review which criticized Scott for presenting such a depressed view of things.) Like Pete Cherches, I think Im moving more into the world of entertainment. My experience with the media can only serve to help me if I decide to make a new career. Oh, hell. I slept soundly and had great vivid dreams; in one, Avis had given up Sikhism, dyed her hair platinum blonde, and become a punk rocker. I spent most of today in bed, reading, watching TV, and listening to the radio. Alice called to say that shes going on a press junket to Costa Rica and will have a six-hour layover at Miami next Thursday. Ill drive down so we can spend a few hours together. Great! Last night I told Mom that she was beginning to remind me of her grandmother, Bubbe Ita. Were all getting older (very profound, eh?) and I like the way were changing; life is a real soap opera. Dad is very worried about the IRS. Now that all his W-2 forms are in, he discovered that he earned well over $100,000 last year and doesnt have a penny to show for it. If he hadnt gotten the Sasson job when he did, he could afford to pay the mortgage only one more month.
Right now, Im pretty sure, were on the edge of worldwide depression. Unemployment is high, interest rates are still up there, and inflation has slowed considerably; gasoline prices are plunging because of the worlds oil glut and OPEC is running scared. Some sections of America the blacks, much of Michigan are already in an economic depression. Reagan still intends to stick to his tax cuts and defense buildup, but no one is buying it. Theyre trying to give us Vietnam II in El Salvador, yet they wont succeed, for people wont stand for American military involvement there. Every year of my life seems to bring that much more uncertainty and instability to the world. My whole generation of baby boomers has grown up in a very different place than our parents did. For Mom and Dad in their twenties and thirties, every year seemed to be more prosperous and stable than the previous one. When Im Moms age, in twenty years, the world will probably be unrecognizable. Even now its hard to believe that I used to register at Brooklyn College without computers, that I paid 33 a gallon of gas, 15 for a New York City bus ride, and 10 for a slice of pizza, and that Harry S. Truman was president when I was born.
See what these days of nothing do to me? Josh sounded so depressed last night. He hates the computer field, and his only outlet seems to be the Nautilus machine at the gym. As for myself, I still dont have the slightest idea whats going to happen after this summer. (Thats a passive way of putting it, aint it? See, I must be at least mildly depressed.) No word from Saul Cohen in weeks. No doubt every publisher in sight is rejecting my manuscripts when he sends them out.
Saturday, March 5, 1983

Midnight. At this time yesterday, while I was in the midst of feeling sorry for myself, the phone rang. It was Ed Hogan, telling me that the publication party is on for B. Dalton in the Village on Tuesday, March 22. Ed had though they were putting him off, but he got the word on Friday and will make definite arrangements on Monday. This means a trip to New York for me, and probably it will help to make this spring bearable if thats how the season will begin. I dont want to get too excited yet, but I spent last night thinking and today making plans. Ive got a flight on Delta, leaving a week from
Friday after my morning classes and returning the following Thursday afternoon, coming back in time for my evening class. That way Ill miss only two days of school. It will be good to get away from BCC, and Ill feel better afterwards; Ill no longer be just a drudge but the guest of honor at a party in New York. In a way its the hometown boy makes good syndrome except the hometown Im returning to is New York City. Just yesterday I was complaining that I miss my friends, and now Ill have a chance to see them, and I can also spend time with Grandma Ethel. (When I called her today, she still carried on and said she wouldnt consider going to the party.) Dad has the menswear show at the Coliseum that week, and if Sasson doesnt pay his fare, hed prefer to drive up with Mom and me but that would mean taking another three days off at BCC, and I dont want to do that. I spoke to Teresa, who said that of course Id stay with her, although she might have to go to Albany on the night of the party. I also left messages with the machines of Alice and Josh. Its coming up so fast in less than two weeks! Im scared scared of the trip and also scared of the success that this means. I really feel my little book isnt worth all this fuss. What if someone realizes the emperor has no clothes?
This fear of success, I now see, has made failure comfortable for me. Being in the limelight is risky; its so much safer to complain in the corridors of BCC. Well, that place is full of sick motherfuckers, as Lisa said tonight. (She was supposed to have dinner with Monica and her sons. Blake, the FSU student, phoned and asked me to get in touch with Lisa, who had completely forgotten the engagement.) This week all the state universities are off, and I wondered if Sean will call. I tend to doubt it, but I will certainly be pleased if he does. I also wonder if Ill get to meet Blake, who sounded nice on the phone. David McKinnon wrote that he won the Miss America pageant: he got a job at the University of Pennsylvania, a real job, tenuretrack, two courses a semester, no freshman comp, just literature. God, that only makes me more angry at my own position. Lucky David but Im glad for the McKinnons, who should enjoy Philadelphia. Last evening I went to the Chamber of Commerce reception for Victoria Wagner. She autographed a copy of her book, The History of Davie and Its Dilemma, and remembered who I was. Although she can seem senile, Mrs. Wagner must be very sharp. She ran the Ethical
Culture Schools until she retired in 1962 and left New York for then-rural Davie. I saw no one else I knew at the Chamber, so I left for the Plantation public library, where I took out Alices cousin Melvin Konners The Tangled Wing: Biological Constraints on the Human Spirit, a brilliant book Im enjoying. Today I had the oil changed in the car, and the mechanic said the people who fixed the car did such a shoddy job, they should be shot. Why is there so much incompetence?

9 PM. Aside from sitting on and breaking my glasses now (they were an old pair, and Ive got the new ones), today was wonderful. Last night I went to bed early after getting a call from Ann Prospero, who said she wanted me to send her my books for a possible story in Miami-South Florida Magazine. Nothing will come of it, I predict, for their glossy, upscale publication really wont be interested in someone like me. But at least someone else will be reading my work. I slept fine, and this morning, it was a luxury to lie in bed until 9 AM. It was warm and sunny, kind of like New York in early June. I reminisced about my childhood and high school and college days, thinking of stuff I
rarely think about anymore: how skinny and well-defined my body was when I was seventeen; my addiction to Rolaids; the places Shelli and I used to go in the spring of 1971. Last night I dreamed about a Manhattan subway ride. My horoscope today said, Gain indicated through written word you find ways of transforming hopes, wishes into viable concepts. Popularity increases. After getting a new tire put on, I drove up I-95 to West Palm Beach, arriving at the new Royce Hotel near the airport at 11:30 AM. In the lobby I met Bob Tolf, who was supervising the display of his books. The president of the Friends of the Palm Beach Library, Mrs. Eckler, greeted me and introduced me to Dr. Rose Agree, who was intelligent, likable and a teeny bit pretentious but in a nice way and she was certainly taking her duty to introduce me very seriously. Bill Robertson, the Herald book critic, showed up under the impression that he was supposed to introduce both me and Bob Tolf, but he just presented Bob. Bill obviously knows me well by now, and I think he takes me seriously. I sat on the dais between Dr. Agree and Dorothy Wilkes, the vice-chairman of the Palm Beach County Commission, who was fairly ignorant about the state of Florida higher education but who agreed with me about the need for a state income tax.
It was a pleasant and delicious lunch: stuffed breast of capon with apple-almond dressing; broccoli, and redskin potatoes. After Dr. Agrees florid and flattering introduction, I did my thing for half an hour, and I got quite a lot of laughs. They were really with me, unlike at the Jewish Book Luncheon. Bob Tolfs talk on Addison Mizner, the famous South Florida architect, was hampered by mike trouble. I was really lucky to have been spared that. Nevertheless, as I know from Cocoa Beach, Bob is a pro, and he did a fine presentation that intrigued me. Id like to find out more about Mizner. When the luncheon ended, I was astounded by the number of people bought my books. About twenty copies of my books were thrust upon me to autograph. Many of the people complimented me on my wit. A lot of them also mentioned that they were from Brooklyn, too. (The biggest response I got to anything I said was one of my references to working at the Flatbush branch of the Brooklyn Public Library.) There were a good number of Jews in the audience, but they were much more responsive than the Jewish Book Luncheon crowd at the Holiday Inn in Plantation last November. I got my check for $150, and after I donated 40% of my book sale proceeds to the Palm Beach
Library, I ended up with another $50 not bad at all. It was 3:30 PM, and I didnt get to my graduate computer ed class at BCC/FIU till an hour later, but I hadnt missed much. We learned more about the PILOT programs graphics today, and I took to it really well. We have to do a final project for the course, and Im planning on programming a lesson on lesbian writers, complete with graphics and sound effects. I got home at 7:30 PM, feeling grateful, relieved and a little proud of myself. Mostly, Im just lucky.

9 PM. I didnt sleep well last night. For hours I kept having the most feverish and obsessive thoughts, but at 5 AM, I finally fell asleep. Then I did have one pleasant dream about some of my friends being down here in Florida. The weather continues to be just about perfect: 80 and sunny every day. Its almost boring. Today Dad and Mom had a 7:30 AM appointment with a $60-an-hour accountant in Hollywood. With his increased income, Dad needed some advice about taxes. He was advised to buy a condo and possibly incorporate; otherwise, the IRS will get most of his income.
As to my own financial status, I have $1,100 in the bank and I expect about $350 in retroactive salary from CUNY, $175 from New Orleans, $130 in tax refunds, and about $450 from Broward Community College. With the Poets-in-the-Schools job canceled, I have no other income in sight. Still, while Im in Florida, Im spending no more than $100 a week. Pretty soon Ill have to decide what Im going to do when May rolls around. I was pretty foggy most of the day and merely lay around my room. The only mail was the new Small Press Review, which contained little of interest. I have the impression that Im not getting a lot of my mail forwarded from Rockaway. Anyway, Ive struck out for the past couple of days. I just hope Im not missing out on some great news. I called Pete Cherches, who said his Bagatelles book is out, and Benzene has been distributing it to the local bookstores. His next chapbook should also be out soon, and the new issue of Zone will be ready for the Book Fair at NYU at the end of the month. I also phoned Mikey, whos got an interview with Legal Aid on Monday. He said the snow has completely melted by now. I told him, as I did Pete, all about New Orleans. At 4 PM I felt awake enough to go out and grab a Big Mac and read the New York Times. I did
some shopping, then came home to finally finish that story Rick Peabody sent me. I dont know what other authors he sent the prologue to, but I enjoyed working on it. I made it a circular story-within-a-story. Right now its a pleasant Saturday night: calm, relaxed, laid-back. I just wish I had the companionship of someone my own age. I went back to my diary for a year ago and saw how miserable I had been: actually, by March, the worst was over and I was beginning to get on my feet emotionally and physically. Tom had written me then he was an emotional wreck. See, life has a way of turning around for everyone. I read in my diary how Dr. Pasquale advised me that a writers life is full of ups and downs, none necessarily related to talent or the quality of work. He told me had to learn to cede control of many areas of my professional life; otherwise, Id be at the mercy of the mailbox. (That holds true for today.) At the same time a year ago, Peter Filichia told me that it was only work that mattered and that he never got depressed about his career. Dr. Pasquale suspected that Peter was blocking out feelings, and I guess he was. Today Grandma Ethel told Mom that she wants to get rid of Grandpa Herbs car, and Dad said that we should buy it from them. I wonder
where the heck well all be in March 1982. Surprisingly, Im not scared.

4 PM. Im exhausted, but I think I may have turned the corner on my long depression that started with or maybe preceded Grandpa Herbs death. The trip to Fort Pierce was brief and fairly uneventful, yet it was a break in my routine. I always feel Ive accomplished a lot after even a short trip its the old agoraphobic in me especially when Im treated like a famous author. The Pontiac performed like a pro, and I got up to Fort Pierce in a couple of hours yesterday. It was hot and humid, but the Turnpike is a pleasant highway: very unthreatening. I stopped first at the library to meet Tina Marchese, who introduced me around; shes a tiny gray-haired lady from New Jersey and Washington, D.C., very perky and funny. After getting some directions, I sped off to the Holiday Inn on the north beach, where the Library had reserved a room for me. For a couple of hours, I rested as a thunderstorm raged. Following a decent dinner in the hotel
restaurant, I drove back across Indian River to the St. Lucie County Library. My talk was in a very small room, and only about twenty people showed up, but they were appreciative and I was in good form: lecturing, reading, joking. Since the talk was free, everyone got his moneys worth, and people complimented me and told me I should be a performer. Afterwards, Tina, Susan the assistant library director and their friend David, a short cute gay theater grad student at FSU, took me out for some fun food at Fannys Saloon, within walking distance in Fort Pierces small downtown. There was good conversation and good potato skins, and I didnt go back to my hotel room until after 11 PM. Naturally, I had trouble falling asleep, but I was content to lie there in my hotel room overlooking the beach and just think. At 9 AM I was scheduled for this interview at the public radio station, WCQS, at Indian River Community College, so I was up early and had breakfast at the Holiday Inn. My interviewer, Teri Griffin, found me so funny that she kept having to stop the tape to compose herself. The interview will go on the local insert during NPRs Morning Edition tomorrow. Back on the Turnpike again, I enjoyed the ride south, heading straight to BCC. Yesterdays
classes werent covered because Lisa was out sick and Dave just forgot, but what do I care? Now I definitely feel that Im psychologically leaving BCC. The term has only another seven weeks to go. In the department, I xeroxed my publicity clips from the St. Lucie section of the Herald and from the Fort Pierce News-Press, as well as new piece that appeared in the D.C. literary magazine Alph Null. Called A Review of Richard Grayson: Spirit in Crisis by Felice Cohn-Smith (Pantheon, 2037), its a wildly narcissistic mock book review of my pompous posthumous biography. Fun and ego-gratifying. Another ego-stroke came an hour ago when Ross Murfin of the University of Miami assured me Ive got one of the Ph.D. teaching assistantships for next year, though he cant let me know officially for a month yet. Big deal: its $5700-$6000 and much less than I deserve, but its still something. If I have to, I can live on it; Ill get to stay in Miami and have time to write. Prof. Murfin is a typical academic: he congratulated me on my letter about Israel in the Herald, something that was so unimportant to me, I dont think I even bothered mentioning it in my diary.
Anyway, Im trying to relax before tonights class, but Im going to have to let them out early. Before that, Ill go over to Moms for dinner. She said that Dad left for Los Angeles last night and called her from the Beverly Hilton this morning. Its a chilly, dark, muggy day, and all Id like to do is sleep. Ed is supposed to be calling me tonight about the book party. I have lots of unmarked student papers and dirty laundry and schoolwork. This weekend Ive got a Pan Ku meeting at Bettys house, which should be more relaxing than at BCC. Monica is constantly annoying me by putting me into her life. Well, Ill feel better once Ive caught up on my sleep.

4 PM. I feel so damn lucky. Yes, because Ive been privileged to be a candidate in todays election and be a part of the political process because Ive gotten so much support from the people of Davie, blah blah blah . . . Thats what Art Lazear will say at his victory party at the Arrowhead Country Club. But I was luckier than he. Any votes I do get will be
gravy, and all Ive had in this election is fun and no work. When I voted this morning, not one of the poll workers recognized me though the man who took my ballot said jokingly, It feels like a winner. I am already a winner. I dont know what Ill do tonight. I could go over to Toni Webbs buffet or to see Day for Night at BCC. I could stay home or at my parents. No one will be able to reach me there because my parents and Jonny are going to dinner with Aunt Sydelle at Turnberry. I would really prefer to be alone and incommunicado, but I may be too excited to do that. I know Ill dream about the vote. Yesterday afternoon, I went over to xerox all my recent articles and reviews. At the copy center, I met Debby Rosen, the North Campus English instructor who was xeroxing union stuff. I helped her collate it and we had a fine talk. She said Id like the North Campus better because the teachers are younger and hipper. Then I went to the Tamarac library, to Arbys for dinner, and then home to relax until it was time to go over to Elaynes. Brad called from his grandmothers and we chatted briefly; it was great to hear from him and to know that he still cares after all these years. As it turned out, I was the only at Elaynes except for Dottie, this woman who went into a long spiel, complete with those blackboard
diagrams, about Amway. I felt embarrassed but I also figured it would be interesting to listen to if I ever wanted to do a story about these kinds of scams. I was polite, but I kept pointing out the problems with the program being a pyramid scheme, the problems with marketing, etc., and I said I would never get into something without researching it carefully. Elayne seems to have fallen for it. The positive, enthusiastic manner obviously hooked someone in desperate need of hope because of her stroke and her husband leaving her. I suppose a number of people are gullible enough to be taken in by Amway. When the woman realized I wasnt interested and wouldnt budge, we had coffee and ended up having a great conversation about her son, 13, whos had severe school phobia for five years. He seems to have all the symptoms I had but to a much greater degree. Its hard for him even to enter a school building. Because the boy cant hide his problem the way I managed to, its become a behavioral problem for the teachers. Dottie has had terrible battles with unsympathetic teachers and administrators. I told her to consider trying Triavil or some other antidepressant/tranquilizer for her son. Thanks to two Triavils, last night I slept soundly, dreaming of beautiful Brooklyn
scenes, and I woke up feeling refreshed. I was in top form as I went over The Death of Ivan Ilych this morning and process analysis in the afternoon. Today I felt super-capable, handsome, intelligent, and proud of myself. I stayed in school, marking papers, until 3 PM, and then I had a late lunch at Dennys. The votes wont be in for hours, but this has already been a super day.

10 PM. Alice called last night, and from the sounds of water, I could tell she was in the bathtub. She still sounds hopeful about getting back with Peter. When he returns from Boston to New York in June, hell go back to his apartment and shell remain in hers, but they will still see each other and go to couples therapy. Alices own therapist is taking off for several months because shes pregnant (I just thought she was getting fat). In between, Alice and Peter will take several trips together, including one to Peru in early April. She says she still loves him and needs him very much and feels that he cares for her enough to change. I hope so, but who knows? Love is a rocky business.
Mom told me that he Marc hasnt seen Daniela since they came back from Mexico. I dont know what thats about, for when they kissed goodbye on Sunday at her parents house, it appeared that everything was fine. However, Ive never been very perceptive as far as deciphering my brothers feelings. Getting back to Alice, shes gotten involved in the rent strike lawsuit against her landlord, and thats taking up her time. Shes happy about teaching at a writers conference at Cuyahoga County Community College in Cleveland with Nancy Evans (I must write Bert Stratton about this). Alices brother was in the hospital with dysentery, but their mother is in Bangkok to take care of him and hes going to be fine. Today I didnt do any schoolwork at all. Instead, I read magazines and newspapers. The Sun-Tattler article mentioned that as a delegate, Id vote for myself for President at the Democratic convention and went on: His mother, Marilyn Grayson, an uncommitted alternate delegate candidate, says she is leaning toward supporting Gary Hart. I guess Im not her favorite son candidate, quips Grayson. Miss Lillian never did this to Jimmy. Funny line.
I went over to Jonathans store to buy some more of the Levis corduroy jeans I like; he introduced me to his boss, who obviously dotes on Jonathan. C-SPAN is covering the Florida primary from the Storer Cable building here in North Miami Beach, but they never contacted me. Only a few days remain until Super Tuesday, but with the complicated ballot, election officials say we wont know the winning delegates until at least Wednesday morning. It was a gorgeous day, bright and mild, like New York in May. Grandma Ethel said there was hardly any snow in Rockaway. Tomorrows the Sunshine magazine article in the Sunday Fort Lauderdale News/Sun-Sentinel, and Im a little nervous about it. I suppose Ill have only myself to blame if I end up looking like an asshole. Theres nothing I can do about it now. In a postcard from Paris, Susan Ludvigson apologized for getting the Guggenheim recommendation much too late to write a letter of recommendation, so I have no chance for a fellowship now. Thems the breaks. Better luck next year. Todays horoscope: Teaching process figures prominently. . . You will win.
Friday, March 11, 1983

9 PM. A cold front moved in late yesterday, and temperatures fell to a record-breaking 45 last night; a repeat performance is expected tonight. Yesterday turned out okay. In my post office box there was a letter from the University of Florida informing that not only have I been accepted into their doctoral program in English, I was one of three students nominated by the department for a $7,000 university fellowship. If I dont get it, Ive been given a teaching assistantship. So now Ive made both universities, Miami and Florida, and have to wait on hearing about fellowships. Miamis fellowship would be more than $1,000 less, but other factors come into play, like the cost of long distance phone calls, the relative cost of living in Gainesville versus Miami, the difference between living in the big city and a sleepy college town. Either way, I dont think I can lose. This is the worst I can expect for the fall: to be a graduate student again. And while Ive had lots and lots of resentment against academia, I still have to take advantage of any money I can get. In the meantime, Ill be scouting around for jobs in the real world, and Ill make my Ph.D. program, if I do go to school, as relevant to getting future employment as I can. If I dont
get a fellowship at either school, I have to weigh the merits of Miami and Gainesville. The faculty meeting yesterday was nothing with nothing, just a big joke that only proved that the 90% of teachers who stayed away from it were smarter than the rest of us. Intellectually, I was interested in the reorganization of BCC, but now I feel Im on my way out and have to give myself the psychological space away from BCC. Disengaging, I guess. Still, I had a fine creative writing class last night, though I assumed one students idiotic story was a clever nonsense flight of fancy when he had meant it to be serious. For example, he had these jerky guys yell, Lets order pizza pies! and I thought the use of pies was meant to indicate that the guys were morons, but the guy who wrote it was treating them seriously. This morning I gave out midterms. Ive already graded one set from one class and have also done my Tuesday night classs papers. So the weekend wont be that difficult. I skipped the gym today and I feel guilty about it, but I just couldnt manage to make it in this chilly weather. In a week, Ill be in New York, but Ill expect to be cold there, just one day after the St. Patricks Day parade and a few days shy of the start of spring.
Lisa and I have been trying to fend off every invitation from Monica. She brought Blake and his two weird friends to Lisas poetry class twice this week, and Lisa felt annoyed. I tell Monica that Id come to Beaus baptism, if only because Im curious to see one. I got a letter from Scott, who said hed overheard a conversation about me in Dionysius, that Greek restaurant near City Hall. It seems that Jon Dash from the MFA program and some woman were discussing the titles of my books in regard to the New York Times Book Review piece; Scott stopped to ask them if that was the same Richard Grayson that he knew from Brooklyn College. Anyway, he asked me what Id been up to and he said that marriage is . . . well, Id have to tell you in person, and he invited me to stay with him if I ever got up to New York. He also said he tried to find my books but couldnt. Unfortunately, Scott will be in France during my visit next week. He sounded very friendly, so naturally I wrote him back a friendly note. I had lunch with Bob at Houlihans. Like Lisa, he has gotten over not being interviewed for a permanent position and basically doesnt care anymore. But both Bob and Lisa are uncertain about what theyll be doing next year. Im glad I made such a deliberate attempt to find things to fall back on for next year, but that thoroughness is typical of the way I get things done. My car starts up only after a
score of false starts; Ive got to take it in to the mechanic.

6 PM. Mom and Dad thought yesterdays Sunshine article was very good, as did a number of people who saw me at BCC today. I also got in todays Broward edition of the Miami Herald, thanks to Doug Delp, who put me into his column (along with my photo) under the item His Mothers Choice, about Super Tuesday. I got to get in a few good lines, and more than that, I cannot ask for, no? I spoke to Teresa last night, and shes still not sure if she can get here this weekend; for one thing, she doesnt have even have one hour of comp time coming to her. If she does arrive, it will be on Friday, because on Monday night Richie Kessel invited her to the party for his swearing-in as state consumer affairs chief. I went to bed very early and I slept soundly for about ten hours; it was really quality rest. This morning at BCC, I introduced drama in my 1102 classes. Eliot Tillinger gave me an autograph of Gary Hart that the senator had signed at a rally. Well, I dont know what Super Tuesday holds for me tomorrow, but the campaign has been a lot of fun.
I was going to just drop the whole thing about running for President after tomorrow, but theres still the possibility of that WAC-PAC dinner speech on April 1. Im not really sure I want to make that commitment, but I might get some national publicity from it and maybe even some money. I had lunch with Leon Alford, who told me of the horrors of the Broward County school system and said hed never let his child attend public school in Florida. On campus today, I spoke for a while with my student Ronnie Phillips in the Theater Department; he said the weekends performances of Anything Goes went well. Later, I saw Scott Lange and asked him if hed done the poster for the play; he said yes, that hes majoring in art now. I complimented him on it and he said, Thanks, Richard. It was nice to see his smile, and I loved being called by first name. Yesterday I was getting on the glass elevator at the 163rd Street mall when I came face to face with this guy getting off. He was this cute redhead, obviously gay, who used to hang around our building at BCC. Hi, he said and I said Hi and smiled back in those quick few seconds as we stared at one another. What these incidents tell me is that there are a lot of guys out there I could probably have
relationships with, great guys who might even be attracted to a pudgy 32-year-old. I guess I feel good about people in general. In Sunshine, Scott Eyman said I have a lot of selfrespect, and I do think thats true. After stopping off at Moms to show her the Herald piece (in which she is even called Miss Marilyn, like Miss Lillian), I came home to North Miami Beach and spent two hours lifting weights. I decided not to go to Bodyworks, as I think Im actually getting better results even a little definition from the free weights. I use thirty pounds and do a hundred reps of ten exercises; its very time-consuming, but I also get to watch my soaps and read the papers. I ate very healthily today: salad and yogurt for lunch, salad and tofu for dinner but now I desperately crave sugar. Bob called me and I chatted with him for an hour. He was going to Rockland State in New York for therapy, and he said he feels much better although hes still on lots of medication. Bob is such a sensitive, gentle soul that its hard for him to function in a fast-moving, vulgar world. He may go back to teaching in Europe for the University of Maryland next fall, but he doesnt really want to. I hope Bob continues to get better; mental illness is such a waste, especially for an intelligent person.
Friday, March 13, 1981

11 PM. I slept well last night. I dreamed that I was teaching the second day of a high school workshop, like the one I taught in New Orleans, but the only student who showed up was Jonny. I also had a nostalgic dream about the old neighborhood. The other day I overheard some people at the English Department at BCC talking about Flatbush Avenue and Bedford, and it made me feel homesick for Brooklyn. A few nights ago, a PBS documentary on the National Park Service showed scenes of Gateway National Park: Riis Park, Breezy Point, and Jamaica Bay and I got the same feeling. I guess Ill never really get New York City out of my system. Marcs landlord Ira had a long talk with Mom last night when she called to speak with Marc. Ira admitted that he had been taken in by Nikkis charm and her fabulous lies, but he said his wife Penina always knew Nikki was a phony. Marc was going to go to Rhode Island to pick up his TV, but Ira convinced him to just let it
stay there awhile, and Ira was also behind Marcs telling Mom to keep the money from the car settlement in an account down here. Ira told Mom that the idea to break off with Nikki has to come from March himself; maybe now that hes away from her, hell see things differently. Ira was there when Nikki called after Marc threw her out last October, and he said that immediately after looking at Marcs face as he got on the phone, I knew hed take her back. Well, now that Marc has nothing, Nikki wont want him and shell probably go back to Fredo. Dad says it will happen for sure because I prayed for it. I was watching TV at 2 PM when I saw Dad coming up the walk with his luggage. He left Fort Myers (very goyische) this morning and drove home via Alligator Alley, a treacherous two-line highway through the Everglades. He did well on his trip and had a lot of orders to write up. I had a fairly good class this morning; there are only six weeks left to the term now. It was rainy today for a change. I had no mail, so I went out early to lunch at Pizza Hut, then drove to the Plantation library, where I stayed for a couple of hours. I finished the once-a-month entries for my 1974 diary, but I think Im going to type up the rest of the entries, as I dont have the patience
for longhand. If I do one year each week, I can finish the first draft of the book by May. Id like to make plans to return New York in May, but first I have to hear from the various artists colonies. Im almost certain Im not getting my mail forwarded, so I sent myself a letter in Rockaway to see what happens. Tonight I decided not to go out with the others because I wanted to be a lone in the house. After making myself an omelet, I watched the news, then I called Teresa in New York. She was annoyed because she was waiting for Frank, who was several hours late for their date. She thinks he cant handle their relationship and things will have to go back to what they were. I just hope that Frank wont get rid of Teresa; that sometimes happens in these situations. I told her all about Avis, and Teresa said that Avis would never tell her about Sikhism because Avis knows Teresa would ridicule it. Teresa said theres nothing we can do, although she did agree with me that Avis looked terrible at my farewell party. But Avis will eventually find her way out, Teresa says. (The way Marc did with Nikki?)
Sunday, March 14, 1982

8 PM. I felt very depressed most of Friday afternoon, and I finally decided to do some schoolwork and shopping to get me moving. I started to feel better and thought about driving up Friday night, but I wanted to end the day and start fresh. After taking my phone off the hook, I slept surprisingly well and got up at 6 AM on Saturday. It was dark and cool when I left the house, and I felt pretty good. I got on Floridas Turnpike (the Sunrise Boulevard entrance is only a couple of blocks from my house) and sped north. By 8 AM or so, I had reached the Fort Pierce turnoff for I-95 and I continued driving without anxiety or stress. Few cars were on the road, and it was cool enough to go without air conditioning until I turned off at the first Melbourne exit at about 9:30 AM. I took a road over the causeway and onto A1A, and I had a rather long but pleasant drive along the beach until I got to Cocoa Beach. Having found the Landings Restaurant by 10 AM, I decided to drive further north to Cape Canaveral. I had hoped to see the space shuttle, which will be launched again next week, but there wasnt time, and I started feeling hungry, so I had a
second breakfast at the Holiday Inn next door to the Landings. Then I arrived at the restaurant just as all the WASPy old ladies were arriving. All of them recognized me because my photo was on the front page of the People section of Today, Brevard Countys newspaper. I was wearing a blue shirt, tie, navy slacks and a light blue sport jacket, and I flashed smiles at everyone as I entered. Margaret Reid, the chairman of the Luncheon Committee, introduced herself and got me some Perrier water. I was introduced to dozens of white-haired, good-natured Cocoa Beach residents and played the part of the visiting celebrity with a bit of discomfort that I dont think they caught. I smiled, shook hands, and listened; many people had interesting stories to tell. Brevard County boomed in the late 1950s with the space program, but ten years or so ago, with the end of the Apollo program, the economy fell apart, people said. Now its becoming a retirement community; one high school teacher told me that the student body had gone from 3,500 down to 250. I liked the head librarian, Mrs. McMillan, formerly of Carlisle, Pennsylvania, and I sat next to her on the dais. On the other side of me was my co-speaker, Robert Tolf, exdiplomat and present restaurant critic, travel
writer and self-described bon vivant. He had the aplomb of one used to regaling people in these circles, and I felt like a bit of an imposter. The lunch itself was rather trying, since I was too nervous to do more than pick at my half chicken. Finally, the tables were cleared, and everyone who had anything to do with the Friends of the Library (including about two dozen chairmen of various committees) was applauded. Then Mrs. Reid introduced me, using my own bio that Kevin sent with the book. I had intended to read But In a Thousand Other Worlds, but I never go to it. There was no lectern, just a mike I had to hold, and I was afraid of bombing but I did anything but. If I didnt realize before that I have stage presence, I do now. I was talking about being a short story writer and thought I was making serious points, but I had the crowd in stitches. They laughed at everything I said, and I felt as though I had enormous power. Oddly, when I heard my voice come out of the microphone, I realized how much my delivery resembles Bob Hopes, and even more so, Woody Allens, and for a minute I flashed on Annie Hall when Allens alter ego begins to launch his stand-up comedy career at a Stevenson-for-President fundraiser. I took questions and I fielded them well, and then I sat down to loud bursts of applause.
Robert Tolf gave a great talk on little-known places of interest in Florida; hes a pro, and I agreed with his enthusiasm for Coconut Grove and for the Spanish Monastery. My books were sold after the luncheon, and people kept coming up to say hello and a lot of people told me they were from Brooklyn or New York (there was one young Jewish woman from Woodmere) and to get me to autograph my book. It was embarrassing but fun, and Ive learned to take a compliment graciously, including those in which Im told that I remind someone of her neighbor or son-in-law. The high school teacher asked if Id speak at a banquet, and I said yes, call me at BCC to arrange details. They sold thirteen books and gave me a check for $78; then I thanked everyone and was off. I was tired, hot and hungry, but I started driving. A wrong turn got me fouled up, and I realized I didnt have the strength to make it home in one day. Having a Burger King meal at 4 PM in Melbourne revived me, but on I-95, I began feeling weak and nauseated and had a minor anxiety attack. Now I realize it was just gas, but feeling terrible and expecting to be sick all night, I checked in to the Holiday Inn at Vero Beach, right by the start of the Turnpike. Instead of being sick, I began feeling much better once I was allowed to relax in bed, to
take off my dress clothes and contact lenses, and to wash and watch TV. When I saw myself in the mirror, for some reason, the motel rooms lighting made me look like I had a terrific body, and that made me feel good. While I had a difficult time falling asleep, eventually I slept soundly and felt very refreshed in the morning. After breakfast next to the Fordham baseball team, down for a game they reminded me of all the Italian kids I grew up with I checked out of the motel, filled the ever-lovin station wagons tank with Gulf Super-Unleaded at $1.12 a gallon, and headed down the Turnpike at 65 miles an hour. Driving back to Sunrise was a breeze, and I was home in a couple of hours. I sat out in the sun, read the Sunday papers (I bet a lot of people saw my notice in the Times Book Review), and just relaxed. This weekend turned out to be, against all odds, a triumph. I sold books, got to know people, had yet another indication that Im a great performer, and took my first long drive alone. I feel Ive grown so much from my travels and also from living in Florida. This state has done wonders for me. While Ill always love New York, and though I may later live elsewhere, Ill retain my Florida residency forever, I hope. God, I feel that this is all a dream. My life is so good, I feel scared. Look at what has
happened to me in this past week alone. I even got 26% of the vote in a real election. Well, now Im hoping for some quiet days. There was an article about me in the Fort Lauderdale paper today; now I get publicity even when I dont want, need or expect it. God must be looking out for me. This week has been one of the happiest of my life.

10 PM. Last night I called Josh. I hope we can still remain close, but I dont know. Oh, what am I talking about? Of course we can. Its just that I talk about the things Im doing, and Josh talks about how hes doing nothing. Hes very unhappy, and I think he liked me better when I was unhappy, too. But Josh has a kind heart, despite the gruff exterior. He told me that after all these years, hed run into Allan in a Court Street Chinese restaurant. Allan was thin and good-looking in a three-piece suit, dining with his boss, a point hed made obvious so that Josh wouldnt embarrass him; it was clear Allan had hoped that Josh would not come over to this table. He acted very rude. Damn Allan Josh said he looked like a weaselly lawyer. Back at BCC today, I felt at home. With the morning 100 classes, I went over adjectives
and adverbs, and at 11 AM, I started marking the 101 classs definition papers. Seans paper on the word homosexual was very good, and I wanted to talk to him about it, but he skipped out before I could return his paper at the end of class. Im now certain Seans trying to avoid me, but I suppose he must have a reason. Thats okay. Unlike Stacy, I dont suffer from swollen glands or sleepless nights due to unrequited love. Hell, I dont even feel love for Sean. I think. At my parents home, I was surprised to get a $300 check from the Florida Arts Council: the remainder of my fellowship grant money. It was a pleasant surprise, and with the $78 check from Cocoa Beach, it really brought up my bank account. I decided to splurge $150 on a home computer, so I sent away for the Timex Sinclair I saw advertised in yesterdays Times. Its a little thing that hooks up to a TV set for video display and uses tape cartridges for storage. It comes with a BASIC course and will help introduce me to computers. I think its a good investment to give myself some computer literacy; in a few years the knowledge will be as important as other communication skills. Saul Cohen sent me a letter that makes me think even more that hes not the right agent for me. He wants to turn A Version of Life into something called But Seriously, Folks, What Do I Do With My Life? He said Crad Kilodney has
an anti-publishing bias that makes him impossible to work with. Crad has integrity, which is more than I can say for myself. Still, Im not losing a thing except time by letting Saul try his way, and I have time these days. Lincolns Doctors Dog is just coming out, and the Zephyr Press book will follow, and Im sure I can get other small press books published in the future, even if I have to underwrite the costs. By the way, Publishers Weekly said Jon Baumbachs new Fiction Collective novel was filled with literary pretentions. PW should be getting around to my book very soon, and Im a bit scared theyll really pan it. Life will eventually see print, Im certain. To make a big commercial sale now is probably more good news than I could take anyway. I spent the afternoon exercising, xeroxing, banking, marking papers, preparing lessons and reading the Wall Street Journal and the Village Voice. Reading puts me so far ahead of most people in Florida. I could live without writing, I think, but not without reading. Ive just switched off another episode of Brideshead and am ready for bed. Today was another pleasant, summery day. When will the bad things start to happen? I keep wondering.
Wednesday, March 16, 1983

8 PM. I lay in bed for several hours, feeling sick and sorry for myself. My head cleared up a bit when the thunderstorm finally hit. Theres a real downpour going on now. I began thinking, as I usually do when I feel depressed, about Grandpa Herb and about Sean. I loved them both, and now Ive lost them. Sean is still alive, God bless him, but he seems nearly as unreachable as Grandpa. In fact, I feel I can get closer to Grandpa Herb, talk to him, or even have him read my thoughts now that hes dead. I looked over all the letters Sean wrote me last summer, those c/o Sarrett in Rockaway, and those to the Virginia Center for Creative Arts, as well as the letters he wrote since moving to Gainesville. The letters are childish, simple, loving and innocent. I hope it works out for him and Curtis in Tampa; I really do. If I could believe Sean was doing exactly what he wants to do, I would have no misgivings. Maybe Id have regrets, but at least hed have his eyes open. I know Sean would never confide in me now, so I hope he finds some other friend perhaps his roommate James to talk about any doubts he has about leaving Gainesville for Tampa. Curtiss behavior regarding Sean reminds me a little of how Jerry behaved a dozen years ago;
he was so anxious to possess Shelli. Well, he needed her desperately: his mother had just died, and he had no job and no future and was unsure of his sexuality. You know, I almost believe I enjoy thinking about my losses because it gives me the illusion that Ive made contact with people. Oh, Grandpa, what a silly game Life is. Anyway, I mustered up enough energy to mark all but five of the thirty papers I had to get to, and I also packed a suitcase full of clothing. In two nights Ill be in the familiar green-walled living room of Grandma Ethels co-op in Rockaway. Its hard to believe. I called Mikey, who had just gone to Acapulco with Amy for the week. He sounded good because he was still on vacation, but the workload, the pressures and the long hours at Legal Aid seem to be getting to him. I hope he and Amy can make the bookstore party. I didnt send an invitation to Gary, though perhaps I should have; it will seem as if Im definitely ending our friendship. Now it appears Dad may be in New York then after all, though Im not yet certain what his plans are. Well, Ive done most of most of my clothes packing. Tomorrow I have to work out (yesterdays workout left me with slight aches in the chest from the dips and neck) and do a wash.
Ive got all my drugs and bathroom supplies; Ive taken cash out of the ATM at the bank; Ive left instructions for my substitutes at BCC. My mail will collect at the post office, and Ill have Marc pick up my paycheck next Wednesday. Oh, and I have to get my pants from the cleaners tomorrow. Right now? I can relax, get ready to watch Dynasty, and then try to get a decent nights sleep. Friday will be the hectic day: after getting up early, going to school and then to the airport, I should be too exhausted to do much of anything on Friday night. Isaac Bashevis Singer said the other day that airplane flight isnt really traveling but transcending space and time. I always feel its magical. I know the Delta terminal at Kennedy so well by now. I wonder how New York has changed. I guess its too early for any spring flowers to be in bloom. Maybe Ill be lucky and I wont get sick on the trip. At least I wont have to think about BCC. Last week in Fort Pierce was just a signal day; I havent had a real trip since the writers conference in South Carolina last November.

10 PM. A crazy day I did sleep well last night, though. This morning I got a call from Debbie
Solomon, a reporter on the Fort Lauderdale paper. She would like to do an interview with me and Grandma Sylvia on Thursday morning; I told her to come here at 11 AM and wed drive to North Miami Beach together. By now I dont really care about any more publicity, but Debbie sounded nice. I went out to Davie Office Supply to get Dads cards for the April 7 Miami Merchandise Mart show printed up. When I got there, Sally, the owner, told me that Mom had called and wanted to tell me that I won honorable mention in the Hollywood Sun-Tattlers Limerick Contest and that I should drive to their office to pick up my prize. I had expected to win something; my limerick was bright, witty and about Browards treacherous I-95. Outside, I went to a phone booth to call Mom and I ended up finding a mans wallet and papers there. No money was inside, but there was a mans drivers license. He name was Roberto Guzman of Hollywood, and from the papers, I deduced that he was member of the printers union; here was a letter about a case against them. There was also a babys photograph and a comb. I couldnt imagine anyone just leaving those things there. As I was near Davie police
headquarters, I decided to turn the wallet and papers in. After doing so, I drove into Hollywood and got my prize: a five-dollar bill. The one winner got $50 and three of us got honorable mentions. I should have felt thrilled, but Im very blas after seeing my name and my work in print all these years. All I could think of was that the newspaper had printed my poem in green ink and that wouldnt xerox well. Back home, I caught the mail nothing, really then went to the Plantation post office and library. Later I lay out in the sun for an hour and came back to uproar. While Id been out, Marc had called, hysterical, on his way home from Rhode Island. Hed gone there to pick up some of his things. Last night he and Nikki went out to eat and Fredo came into the restaurant. He told Marc that he knew Marc was in Rhode Island because Dad slipped up when he mentioned that the 401 area code is Rhode Island. Fredo told Marc he wanted all the money from the car settlement or Ill put your mother in jail for interstate fraud for reporting the car stolen. Marc was crying terribly and said he felt ashamed and couldnt face up to it. Jonny got on the line and started screaming at Marc. He resents him terribly for involving the rest of us in this. Mom told me that Marc sounded terrified.
When Dad came home, we had a conference. I said that we have to go to the authorities. We know that Nikki set Marc up for this. She admitted she had met with Fredo, and Im certain the encounter in the restaurant wasnt a coincidence. How would Fredo know we reported the car was stolen unless Nikki had told him? Obviously Nikki has gone back to Fredo and is now trying to get everything she can from our family. Dad called Irv Littman, who gave him the name of Miamis top criminal lawyer, and well call him tomorrow. I spoke to Mikey, who said he doubted a D.A. would prosecute Mom or Dad for withholding evidence in the car case, that it wasnt fraud because the car had been stolen, by Fredo, when he forced Marc to give it to him in exchange for the supposed money Marc owed Fredo. Mikey said that Fredo could be brought up on charges of grand larceny, harassment and possibly kidnapping and extortion although those charges might not stick. But you seem to have the leverage, Mikey said. Meanwhile, Marc still hasnt called back. Hes got to come down here to Florida immediately, I said. I just hope he doesnt do something stupid.

4:30 PM. A mild, sunny day. This week ahead will probably be the week I learn I aint getting no Guggenheim. I wish it were over already and I had dealt with the disappointment. I think Im going to call List in Vero Beach, though, and tell them I did get a Guggenheim in order to get out of going on that job interview. I read through List, and Id be bored silly trying to work for them. I wouldnt want to be isolated in Vero Beach, either, no matter how much they pay me. And who knows? Maybe as in Gimpel the Fool what isnt true now will be true someday. In December 1980 I was at Grandma Ethels when I got a call from Notre Dame telling me they were sorry but I wasnt going to be one of the lucky few to get an MLA interview. Thats fine, I said brazenly, not wanting the callers supercilious pity. I just got a full-time job at Broward Community College in Florida. That shut him up. And didnt that spur-of-themoment lie come true eventually? Ive been thinking of coming back here for the second summer session. If I could teach a couple of courses at BCC, I could afford to take more graduate computer education classes at FIU. I noticed there are several sections,
including one of creative writing, listed as TBA for Term IIIB. I wont move on it till registration in a few weeks. Ah, who cares? Ill be content to go where life takes me. Ive found that as long as Im receptive to most everything, things eventually come my way. My first job teaching at LIU fell into my lap, as did the job at BCC (three times!), as did the books published by George Myers, Taplinger, White Ewe, and Zephyr. As did my NOCCA visits, the two South Carolina writers conferences I taught at, and so much else related to my career. Of all the things Ive really counted on to rescue me, only the Florida Arts Council grant came through. Something will happen this year, too if its only a fellowship at Ragdale or some CUNY adjunct courses. I do want to write; I want to stop planning to write and just do it. How Ive always scorned those people who talk about doing something instead of just doing it. Josh called this morning, and I complimented him on Grinning Idiot. I told him the names of review magazines he could send it to. His Village Voice display ad didnt net him a single order, but that doesnt surprise me; people who look at display ads in the Voice Literary Supplement arent likely to shell out a couple
of bucks write a check and send it to a post office box. Josh said he threw Leslie Goss out (in a friendly way) after she stayed at his place for two days; this week shell be staying at another friends and going on an interview at Seventeen. I read and slept till noon, then drove downtown via Biscayne Boulevard, to see if Tuesdays Baltimore Sun had arrived at the main library. It did, but naturally, I couldnt find any mention of me in it. I ended up driving around Coral Gables and the Grove and then getting stuck in the worlds worst traffic jam by the Rickenbacker Causeway and US 1. I didnt look at any papers from school, though, because I know Im caught up till tomorrow. All in all, this has been a relaxing weekend, although I do wish that Teresa had come so that I would have had someone to share the weekend with. Last night, cleaning out my drawers, I found the last letter Sean sent me, with its abrupt Goodbye, Sean at the end. Its a year old, Ive had the pain for a year, and though its better much better it still hurts. Is it that I wont really get Sean out of my mind until I have another relationship or is it that I cant have another relationship until I get over Sean? Tune in next week . . . next month . . . next year.
Thursday, March 19, 1981

5 PM. Someday, when Im a much older and wiser man, Ill be able to take the material around me and give it form. Right now I can only ingest it whole and hope it doesnt overwhelm me. I didnt sleep well last night. This morning Mom and Dad went to confer with that criminal attorney in Miami while I waited for Debbie Solomon of the Sun-Sentinel to arrive. She got here at 11 AM and turned out to be a pretty woman about my age. We drove down to North Miami Beach together. Debbie grew up in New Rochelle, went to Cornell, and caught the eye of the people at Playboy when she defended their Women of the Ivy League series in the student paper. She went to Chicago and did PR and other things for them: supervised the centerfold for six months and was a TV spokesperson (whom I now remember seeing on talk shows). Then she went to the Columbia School of Journalism from which she graduated last May. Debbie came to Miami to be entertainment editor of the Herald, but she didnt like the job so I hung around the Sun-Sentinel until they hired me.
Debbie is very disillusioned with journalism now. I told her I loved the piece she wrote for Tropic about living with her grandparents, and she said shed gotten great reaction to that story. Now she freelances a lot: she just interviewed famous peoples parents for an article and she writes regularly about art for Saturday Review. She knows a lot about painting. At Grandma Sylvias, the interview took an unexpected turn as Grandma poured out her bitterness and frustration, mostly about Grandpa Nats illness. It seemed depressing and tedious to me, but afterwards, Debbie said it was great, that shed expected a cheery Jewish grandmother, but this was a lot better: Shes sort of a punk grandma who could go on TV and just keep saying how bad life is. It gave her a totally new angle for her story, Grandma Sylvia being the one celebrity who doesnt want celebrity, doesnt get any satisfaction out of it whatsoever, and who doesnt give a shit. I had been afraid Debbie would be disgusted by Grandma Sylvias negativity, but she said her own grandparents are crabby, too. When I got back home, I got the mail: the $4.36 check from Kingsborough Community College for the retroactive pay increase for adult ed teachers; the University of Calgary told me to get lost; and that was about it.
I went out to lunch and the library and arrived here just after Mom and Dad and Marc returned from the airport. It was good to see Marc although he looks awful: heavy and pale and tired. Obviously, Im going to be inconvenienced while hes here. This room isnt very big for even one person, and Im losing some privacy, and I havent shared a room with my brother since I was about twelve or so. But Im glad Marc is safe, and thats certainly worth a little trouble to me. Hes never going back to Nikki now; he knows shes no good. On Monday night when they went into the restaurant, he got suspicious when she sat next to him in the booth rather than across from him. And Fredo knows about the tapes, as if Moms letter had actually reached him but I never mailed it, so Nikki must have told him about the tapes just the way she did about Mom reporting the car stolen. This morning, the lawyer who was very abrupt but didnt charge them told Mom and Dad to tell the insurance company that the car was found and just forget about it. Marc suspects Fredo wanted to finally scare him away from Nikki. He tells me, I have enough material for you to write the best book of your life. Since Marc arrived, Jonny hasnt
come out of his room and refused a gift Marc brought him. I expect people to try to be perfect, Jonny told me. I do.

11:30 PM. Grandma Ethel just went to bed, and Im alone in the living room in Rockaway on the Castro convertible. Early this morning I drove into Manhattan. It felt strange driving over the Marine Parkway Bridge, going up the length of familiar Flatbush Avenue, then switching over to take the Brooklyn Bridge into the city. I drove into the Village and parked near Alices building on Waverly Place just east of Sixth Avenue. Alice looked well, and we spent several hours together catching up, partly at her apartment, partly a new Italian caf that recently opened up on MacDougal Street. Alice that that although her job is frustrating, she enjoys parts of it, including the many perks of being an editor. Her latest book project was canceled, although she can keep the advance. Shes applying for some new jobs in magazine
publishing, including one at TV Guide, and everything is else Shes very excited about my party, of course, and she said Andreas will bring a camera to take photos of the bookstore window with all my books displayed in it. I dropped Alice off at her office in midtown we sailed through the light Sunday traffic and I went over to the Upper West Side to surprise Teresa. She was just about to go out to meet her friend Judy for lunch, so I tagged along with them to Panarelle on Columbus. Teresa again crashed the Inner Circle dinner last night and had a great time; shes glad shes got no affiliation but that everyone knows her as a Cuomo person. At the Inner Circle, Teresa pretended to be happy with her job, and Andrew Cuomo promised her a change within the year. She put out a contract on Sharon, whos now Deputy Housing Commissioner, and she turned down several jobs and insulted some Abrams people and told Matilda Cuomo she approved of her gown after Mrs. Cuomos first words to Teresa were, How is how is my outfit? Teresa figures shell spend five years in politics and then move into a high-paying job in private industry. We walked back to her apartment, where Ed had left a message for me on her machine.
Ed got into town today and we agreed to meet for a late dinner tomorrow at 8 PM. Hes staying on 14th and Avenue A. I told Ed Id bought the book at B. Dalton yesterday and he said he hadnt gotten his copies yet. Of course I told Ed the book looked great due to his design, which it does. Back in Brooklyn, I went over to the Heights to see Josh; as with Alice and Teresa, it seemed impossible that I hadnt seen Josh in nearly nine months. We went to Cadman Diner for something to eat, and he told me about his job, his unsociable social life, and the novel hes working on. Josh told me that Todd and Prof. Goodman are probably going to come to the party. We walked down Henry to Atlantic, up Hicks, the length of the Promenade, to the old Fulton Street ferry landing, by the river, all while talking about everything under the sun. I spent a couple of hours at Joshs and then moved on to Park Slope, where I visited Justin and Nathan, who look much the same as ever. Justins screenplay wont get produced; although Davina Belling and Clive Parsons loved his script, they had problems with the whole project and dropped their option on the Peter Carey novel. Nathan and I reminisced about the days when we first met, when he was Lances roommate living next door to Teresa, and when we were
alone, Justin told me about his job frustrations and also the progress hes making in therapy. Justins trying to go straight, which sounds futile and pointless to me, but nevertheless I was touched when he kissed me goodbye. I came back home at 8:30 PM and sat with Grandma Ethel, watching a TV movie until 11 PM, just about forty minutes ago. We were interrupted by calls from Ed and Dad. Ed had seen the window at B. Dalton and thought it was terrific; he told me to make sure someone brings a camera on Tuesday night. He liked the book but realized that since it was shrink-wrapped, he should have put the price on the outside, not on the French flap. Oh well . . . Dad sounded good after a surprisingly successful day at the menswear show. Paul Guezs man assured Dad his job with Sasson is secure if Greg, as expected, takes back the mens jeans line from Claude Clement. And Dad will be getting the new lines of underwear, socks and maybe sneakers. Its almost midnight now, and spring is beginning. I feel nervous but elated, scared but happy, anxious but excited. I dont have anything until tomorrow evening, and I plan to spend most of the afternoon in Rockaway.

1 PM. Grandma Ethel and I both slept until noon (she took a sleeping pill). The winds are howling, and rain is coming down in buckets. Its a terrible day, and I have to go into Manhattan tonight. Ill probably stay over, either at Teresas or with Dad at the Sheraton. Miriam called and I made up to meet her for lunch on Tuesday. I dont know if Im getting ill or if I just needed that much sleep. I think Ill leave the diary in Rockaway; Ill probably be back here on Tuesday afternoon and then return to Manhattan for the party on Tuesday night. I hope the weather clears up by tomorrow. My luck and well get a blizzard.

3 PM. It rained buckets yesterday; even a typhoon warning came over the TV, though it turned out to be a hoax that fooled the local stations. I left Rockaway at 5 PM, drove to Brooklyn, parked the car by the college and took the train from the Junction into Manhattan. After wandering around the Union Square area, I took the Madison Avenue bus uptown for a ride and then went downtown on the train. Ed and I met his friends Marty and David at a health food restaurant in the Village.
Then we went to see the manager, Jack Barney, at B. Dalton. Everything worked out okay; so far, so good for tonight. I took the D train uptown and crashed in Dads hotel room. This morning I met Miriam for breakfast at the Greek diner on West 8th Street. She looks well and has been traveling a lot; now shes staying with her parents in Englewood and will go back to California tomorrow morning. We had a nice long chat. I got back to Rockaway a couple of hours ago. Right now I feel pretty nervous about tonights reading. But the trip to New York has done me good. Broward Community College is out of my mind (its also out of its mind, but thats another story), and Ive felt quite at home in the Big Apple; even subway riding seems very natural to me. I hardly feel that Ive been away in Florida for so long. * Midnight. I had a terrific publication party. The guy who ran the bar (wine and apple cider) said that only James Michener had a better party at this B. Dalton store. I felt, as Ronna suggested, like a bar mitzvah boy, surrounded by people I care about: Alice, Teresa, Ronna, Josh, Mikey and Amy, Larry, Wes, Mark and Consuelo, Stacy and her girlfriend Carole, Pete, Justin, Susan and
Spencer, Mrs. Judson and Wade, Elihu, and so on. The VCCA crowd aside from Susan was wellrepresented by Sybil, Steve Policoff, Carol Trice and a few others. From MacDowell, Dan Meltzer showed up, as did Rochelle Ratner. June and Carl were there. Ronna brought Lori and Dina; Joshs friends Fat Barry and Mark came; so did Elaine Taibi, Stanley and Bill Breitbart. Bobby Frauenglas was there, and Steve, the gay guy in Park Slope whod just ordered my book, and Ken Gangemi and Miriams in-laws, some of whom know Alice because her sisterin-law is Andreass new girlfriend. Todd showed up, too. Im sure I must be leaving some people out. And of course there was dear old Dad, who looked tired from his day at the menswear show but was still the last one to leave; he kvelled tonight. When I got back to Rockaway, Grandma Ethel said that Dad had called her and said it was a beautiful evening. He was right. For once, everything went perfectly. I had a tense trip to Manhattan and had to use Alices bathroom immediately. We chatted for a while and Alice calmed me down. Then we went in front of the bookstore, on Sixth Avenue, where Andreas took photos of the window, and me, and me and the window. Andreas was popping shots all evening; I cant
wait to see how the photos turn out, for this is one evening I want to relive. Ed had set things up, and of course the bookstore people helped a lot. After Dad and Alice and Andreas and I got upstairs, we found Bobby, who said hed submitted my name on a state grant application, as hed like me to do a Brooklyn book with Sunrise Press. Teresa arrived next, and then people kept coming, one after another, or in groups. It was like This Is Your Life. It bothered me that I had to merely wave to some people because there were so many others surrounding me. Several friends said I looked glassy-eyed, but it was due to my trying to go from person to person and keep up an intelligent conversation. Ive always felt that the best people were the ones who can make you feel like youre the most important person in the world as theyre talking to you; unfortunately, I dont have a talent for that. I wanted to spend so much more time with Ronna, Teresa, Mark and Consuelo, Elihu, Mrs. Judson, Stacy I hope nobody got offended because I gave them short shrift. These people are my friends, the people who stuck by me always, for years and years, and I love them. Im no better than how my friends feel about me. Richard Kostelanetz introduced me by talking about the weight of my sentences and my
desire to be a master, and he called me the most important wrier of my generation or some such nonsense. God. I tried to get through reading The Autobiography of William Henry Harrisons Cold, which seemed to work, and then people pressed me to read further, so I went with Y/Me. That worked, too. Then I talked and people talked and finally I autographed lots of books, so many that they had to take some copies out of the window display. Ed estimated that they sold thirty-five to forty copies of the book tonight, a very good record indeed. I met Cheri Fein, Miriams friend, whom Id of course heard of; I chatted with just about everyone from behind the desk as Justin, bless him, got me a drink. Its funny, but I felt I knew had to act because Id seen the author-atbookstore scene in so many movies and TV shows. I tried to be me, and I hope I succeeded. These people, by and large, were not a literary crowd; theyre people who would never let me get too big for my britches. Of course it was a wonderful egotrip, the whole marvelous evening, and I feel as if Im flying now but Ive got to remember that in the scheme of things, in the universe, this doesnt really amount to much.
Still, its my life and its been a big night. I guess I brought together a lot of old acquaintances form Brooklyn College and friends from VCCA. Mikey joked that BC people dont need a formal reunion when theyve got me as a clearinghouse. Ronnas surgery went well, she said, and we hugged tightly. Ill always love her. It was so good to see Stacy, too, and Wes, and just everyone. The party lasted until 10 PM or so. I hugged Miriam goodbye, and Susan, and others. Bill Breitbart arrived late because of a hospital emergency, but he said that on the way over hed heard about my Meryl Streep for Veep committee on the news on the car radio. Weird. The bookstore people seemed very pleased, and Ed was beaming. He told me he thought the event was a complete success. It certainly now seems worth twice the money I spent to come here. Now I can go back to Florida with a whole new perspective. I can come back to New York if I want, and I know that I can make it. Like Old Blue Eyes sings. . . I dropped Ed off at his friends East Village apartment and we said wed keep in touch; hes taking the 2:20 AM train back to Boston.
After we said goodbye, in a wind-chill factor of only 1, with snow flurries falling, I drove over the Manhattan Bridge and all the way down Flatbush Avenue from beginning to end as if I were floating along the main street of heaven. It will take me a while to come down. Well the climax of my trip is over. It definitely was a raging success. I feel no hostility to New York anymore, perhaps because I now feel Ive conquered the Big Apple. It was also important to me to see and spend time with Grandma Ethel. At dinner tonight, before I left, we had a good talk. I hope my being here helped her a little, but Ive also told her its up to her to make a life for herself now. She is a bit farbissina, as Teresa put it (Italians who speak Yiddish always know the exact word to use), but perhaps we can get her to come to Florida and shell feel better there. As for me, Im over my winter depression and am now ready to go back to Florida and take on the spring. I feel much less pressured, much more relaxed. I have a full life outside Broward Community College and even a full life outside of Florida if I want it. I may not be the best writer in this world, but I just might be the luckiest.

South Florida Winters: 1981-1984

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SOUTH FLORIDA WINTERS

SOUTH FLORIDA WINTERS

Superstition Mountain Press Phoenix 2010

For Judith Ortiz Cofer

South Florida Winters

Wednesday, January 14, 1981

Saturday, January 15, 1983

Monday, January 16, 1984

Saturday, January 17, 1981

Tuesday, January 18, 1983

Tuesday, January 19, 1982

Tuesday, January 20, 1981

Thursday, January 21, 1982

Sunday, January 22, 1984

Sunday, January 23, 1983

Saturday, January 24, 1981

Wednesday, January 25, 1984

Wednesday, January 26, 1983

Wednesday, January 27, 1982

Wednesday, January 28, 1981

Sunday, January 29, 1984

Friday, January 30, 1981

Monday, January 31, 1983

Monday, February 1, 1982

Monday, February 2, 1981

Friday, February, 3, 1984

Thursday, February 4, 1982

Sunday, February 5, 1984

Sunday, February 6, 1983

Saturday, February 7, 1981

Wednesday, February 8, 1984

Tuesday, February 9, 1982

Wednesday, February 10, 1982

Friday, February 11, 1983

Sunday, February 12, 1984

Friday, February 13, 1981

Monday, February 14, 1983

Monday, March 15, 1982

Thursday, February 16, 1984

Tuesday, February 17, 1981

Friday, February 18, 1983

intend to do. My mind is so foggy that I cant concentrate.

Thursday, February 19, 1981

Sunday, February 20, 1983

Sunday, February 21, 1982

Wednesday, February 22, 1984

Monday, February 23, 1981

Wednesday, February 24, 1982

Friday, February 25, 1983

Sunday, February 26, 1984

Sunday, February 27, 1983

Saturday, February 28, 1981

Wednesday, February 29, 1984

Monday, March 1, 1982

Wednesday, March 2, 1983

Tuesday, March 3, 1981

Thursday, March 4, 1982

Saturday, March 5, 1983

Tuesday, March 6, 1984

Saturday, March 7, 1981

Tuesday, March 8, 1983

Tuesday, March 9, 1982

Saturday, March 10, 1984

Friday, March 11, 1983