September 13 1998, Sunday

I had some sort of connection with a veterinarian who could supply me with an unlimited free supply of speed pills and a few other drugs. I was taking all the drugs I could lay my hands on, walking around with a bucket full of speed tablets, periodically popping another in my mouth and sucking on it like a chewable Vitamin C. I realized I'd eaten too many and would die of an overdose unless I did something. So I went to an apartment where Jessika happened to be living, offering her some and then saying, "Where is some place I can puke? I've been eating these things like candy!"

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n the morning, Kim and I woke up early and smoked some pot and listened to the Orb. I found myself reconnecting mentally with the last time I'd smoked pot, in the motel in Santa Rosa, California, when I'd been considering the problem of how the two major kinds of animals evolved: those who form the anus first Deuterostoms, and those who form the mouth first (Protostoms).

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fter we got out of bed, Kim and I drove northwest on the freeway to La Jolla (pronounced "Lah Hoya"), the trendy, hilly town just up the coast from San Diego. Back in the early 60s my father lived in a cabana in La Jolla and worked as a geologist at Scripps Oceanographic Institute. He's full of La Jolla stories, none of which I really remember.

Kim and I went to Harry's in downtown La Jolla and had a hearty fattening breakfast, precisely the kind Kim had said she'd never eat again once we got to California. She even ordered scrambled eggs, though it made her feel guilty to eat them in front of me. She promised she'd never do it again and then, diving into them, said, "I might as well enjoy them!" I didn't care particularly; like an eight year old I was erecting a little Berlin Wall across the table to keep the eggy slime away, complete with salt shaker guard towers.

Kim and I can be seen reflected in the doorway in front of Harry's. After we surrendered our table we sat on a bench for one more cup of their delicious coffee.

The place was busy even for an early Sunday Morning, and the coffee was suprisingly excellent. The newspapers all featured Cigarfuckgate prominently on their front pages. It struck me as ironic that this lude tale was out on every newstand, where children could easily buy copies. Remember, it was the right wing, the ones who brought this preposterous crop to fruition, who were people most self-righteously demanding that children be shielded from exposure to such sexual perversity.

Kim and I walked Sophie down to the La Jolla beach. In the middle of our walk we passed the rocky end of Point La Jolla. There's a very small seal sanctuary there, with signs advising people that it's a federal crime to molest the seals. Sure enough, down on a stretch of sandy shore near the lifeguard station, a half dozen seals were stretched out on the sand sunning themselves. A growing crowd of people was gathering close to the sluglike beasts, snapping pictures and otherwise being obnoxious, like bazzoo Americans do wherever they go. As always for repulsive scenes such as this, one of the wise guys was trying to touch a baby seal or maybe get a picture of his kid near it. It would have been a such wonderful thing had one of the seals reached out a friendly smiling seal face and then suddenly clamped down on his neck with needle-sharp fish-catching teeth, blood gushing out upon the sand. I would have gladly taken that picture instead of this one:

A crowd of obnoxious Americans crowd around the one piece of sandy beach in the La Jolla seal refuge to commune with the seals (the horizontal dark things in front of them). Within fifteen minutes the seals became fed up with the attention (for which they were not being compensated) and swam out into the cove to seek sun on small rocky islands.

Pigeons on a rooftop near the La Jolla Cove. Pigeons in this area mix in with the sea gulls and other shore birds.

Looking south from Point La Jolla.

When we were done with the beach, Kim and I drove around the streets of La Jolla establishing the locations of the various places where she will be studying.

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e bummed around the house in the afternoon, drinking vodkatea, taking showers and testing the extremes of our peculiar bed system.

After awhile we walked Sophie and Suzette out to Adams Avenue again, this time on a mission to find some panels for me to paint on and some string to tie the two halves of our bed together. We found everything we needed: plywood at a house under construction and some nylon cord lying randomly on the sidewalk. But we also found a bonus: a wonderful little dive of a burrito shop, a place called Roberto's. It had two video games in the front, and the counter, where you order your food, is behind a stout set of bars. It's the wild west, punk rock style. All the customers have tattoos, piercings and black boots. I cooled my heals outside while Kim waited for the guys to make the tacos; I was barefoot and my task to hold the increasingly-impatient dogs. When Kim finally emerged with the two cheap tacos she'd ordered, we went down our street a short ways and chowed down. The food was delicious, even Kim agreed. I have a feeling I'll be going to Roberto's often.

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n the evening, I was lethargic from both vodkatea and continued car-lag, though Rita (who'd been at the theatre all afternoon) was enthusiastically preparing a barbecue of nightshades and chicken. When it was done, Kim and I mustered the necessary energy and joined Rita for barbecue, vino and conversation.

I told Rita of the last time I went to Montreal in her native Quebec, back in August, 1989.

That time I hitch-hiked up to Montreal from New Paltz, New York, to meet up with my demanding girlfriend, Beth. She was with her friend Deb, and on a whim we decided to hitch from Montreal to Quebec City.

After a few rides eastward on the Trans-Canadian Highway, we were picked up by red sportscar driven by a wild and crazy French Canadian guy named Denis. He took us to Quebec, wined us and dined us, and then, when we didn't have anywhere else to go, took us back to Montreal and put us all up in his apartment. During this time, of course, Denis and Deb became entangled in a whirlwind romance.

When we finally wanted to return to the States and go to Burlington, Vermont, Denis tried to take us there. But American customs officials were suspicious of our mixed group and decided to go through all our things and pocket contents. In the process they unearthed Denis' parole card. It turned out he was a convicted bank robber, and that his father was a major bank official who had given Denis a nice job after he got out of jail on the condition that he rob no more banks.

Not really knowing what else to do, we all stayed with him a few more days. Then Beth and I hitch-hiked down to Burlington on our own.

The presence of large tracts of wildlands (the canyons) within San Diego adds a refreshing new aspect to life here. By the way, people have tried on occasion to colonize the canyons, but the land is unstable there and no house stays there for long.