The Captain Is Out to Lunch Read Online Free PDF Page A

said, "fuck Hollywood.“
    He didn't understand that.
    "Stop here,“ I said.
    "Oh, that's a big house.“
    "I just work there,“ I said.
    It was true.
    I got out. Gave him 2 dollars. He prostested but took them.
    I walked up the driveway. The cats were sprawled about, pooped. In my next life I want to be a cat. To sleep 20 hours a day and wait to be fed. To sit around licking my ass. Humans are too miserable and angry and single-minded.
    I walked up and sat at the computer. It's my new consoler. My writing has doubled in power and output since I have gotten it. It's a magic thing. I sit in front of it like most people sit in front of their tv sets.
    "It's only a glorified typewriter,“ my son-in-law told me once.
    But he isn't a writer. He doesn't know what it is when words bite into space, flash into light, when the thoughts that come into the head can be followed at once by words, which encourages more thoughts and more words to follow. With a typewriter it's like walking through mud. With a computer, it's ice skating. It's a blazing blast. Of course, if there's nothing inside you, it doesn't matter. And then there's the clean-up work, the corrections. Hell, I used to have to write everyhing twice. The first time to get it down and the second time to correct the errors and fuckups. This way, it's one run for the fun, the glory and the escape.
    I wonder what the next step will be after the computer? You'll probably just press your fingers to your temples and out will come this mass of perfect wordage. Of course, you'll have to fill up before you start but there will always be some lucky ones who can do that. Let's hope.
    The phone rang.
    "It's the battery,“ he said, "you needed a new battery.“
    "Suppose I can't pay?“
    "Then we'll hold your spare tire.“
    "Be down soon.“
    And as soon as I started down the hill I heard my elderly neighbor. He was yelling at me. I climbed his steps. He was dressed in his pajama pants and and old gray sweatshirt. I walked up and shook his hand. "Who are you?“ he asked.
    "I'm your neighbor. Been there for ten years.“
    "I'm 96,“ he said.
    "I know it, Charley.“
    "God won't take me because He's afraid I'll take his job.“
    "You could.“
    "Could take the Devil's job too.“
    "You could.“
    "How old are you?“
    "71.“
    "71?“
    "Yes.“
    "That's old too.“
    "Oh, I know it, Charley.“
    We shook hands and I went back down his steps and then down the hill, passing the tired plants, the tired houses.
    I was on my way to the gas station.
    Just another day kicked in the ass.

10/3/91 11:56 PM

    Today was the second day of inter-track wagering. Where the live horses ran at Oak Tree there were only 7,000 people. Many people don't want to make that long drive to Arcadia. For those living in the south part of town, it means taking the Harbor Freeway, then the Pasadena Freeway and then after that more driving along surface streets to get the track. It's a long hot drive, coming and going. I always came in from that drive totaly exhausted.
    A small-time trainer phoned me. "There was nobody out there. It's the end. I need a new trade. Think I'll get a word processor and become a writer. I'll write about you...“
    His voice was on the message machine. I phoned him back and congratulated him for coming in 2nd on a 6-to-1 shot. But he was down.
    "The small trainer is finished. This is the end,“ he said.
    Well, we'll see what they draw tomorrow. Friday. Probably a thousand more. It's only inter-track wagering, it's the economy. Things are worse than the government or the press will admit. Those who are still alive in the economy are keeping quiet about it. I'd have to guess that the biggest business going is the sale of drugs. Hell, take that away and almost all the young would be unemployed. Me, I'm still making it as a writer but that could be shot through the head overnight. Well, I still have my old age pension: $943.00 a month. They gave