October 25, 1979

Today was good. I went to school late with Sally’s car, I picked up my paycheck, first. After school I wisked down to the bank, cashed my check, went back to school for show choir, went to the hospital to visit Dad, He’s bad, I feel awful. I came home did homework, went back to the hospital, then I went to this guy Freddie’s House, Mrs. Wermuses’ cousin. We’re starting a band. Afterwards I went to Donna’s across the street, and talked to her, smoked a Doobie, It was a good night.

The paycheck was from Reinauer’s truckstop. Of course I was in show choir. My father had a bad neck thing and he was laid out in a terrible traction apparatus. (Years later, he had to get a neck fusion operation. Poor guy. But he’s fine. Plays lots of golf.) Mrs. Wermus was my guitar teacher for about eight years. She was a total Joan Baez type, smoking Moore cigarettes—during lessons—and had complete faith in my music ability. She was always trying to get me to go into to Manhattan to play at The Bitter End. All I could think was, “What am I going to play? The Night They Drove Old Dixie Down?” Freddie was tall and hairy, a total musician. Mrs. Wermus, aw hell, her name was Muriel, Muriel tried to get Freddie and I to play together. We were not a good match. I was never meant to be in a band and I never was. Donna was my girlfriend’s sister who lived in a rental apartment across the street that her grandmother owned. It was a hideous fourplex, blue-ish-gray, from the early twentieth century, shaped like the Hotel from Monopoly. Donna had two kids and a law student husband who was going to Fordham. Donna was beautiful and sarcastic with a serious rack of lamb. She was a major pothead. You could go over there at anytime and get high. And we did.