Saturday, 20 July 1996. Baton Rouge
Eight a.m. I’m sitting at Midas Muffler, getting my car checked. [We are unable to ascertain the relevance of this particular bit of information.] Instead of writing last night like I was supposed to, I bought a handful of CDs and a few magazines and fucked off for a few hours. Then I watched part one of Manufacturing Consent, which was fascinating. Like many while liberals, I have something of a Noam Chomsky fixation. I get all fired up after reading him and want to go out and protest shit [Protest what? Fucking dumbass.] and start voter-registration drives. Then, within minutes, reality sets in and I start thinking about work and women and stuff.
I’ll have to do some serious writing this weekend if I’m going to come close to making my deadline. This week’s chart doesn’t look very good: Tuesday, ten pages; Wednesday, eight pages; Thursday, three pages; Friday, no pages. But I have been riding my bike every day, which is healthy and good for me, right?