Wednesday, June 1, 1977
5 PM. I’ve just finished writing a story, “This Is Macdonald Carey and These Are the Days of Our Lives,” which is not really the story I wanted to write. I feel so restricted by third-person narration; my prose is solid but lifeless.
I’m so much better with improvisational first-person self-conscious fiction, but after Sukenick, Katz, Sorrentino, et al., isn’t that just another dull literary convention? I have yet to find a form I’m completely comfortable with which also satisfies me artistically.
Two more rejections today – or rather, the magazines said my work was “good reading” and “fascinating” but both of the mags were stopping publication and booked up for their final issue. It frustrates me to know that I’m doing work which deserves publication, but that there are no outlets for it.
Today was cool and drizzly. Dad left on his delayed flight to Hong Kong at 5 AM. He called at 1 PM our time from the airport in Juneau, Alaska, saying 
Last night I hugged Dad goodbye and he asked what he could get me in Hong Kong, and all I could think of was tea; I don’t need any little tchotchkes.
Before I went to bed, I heard screaming coming from my parents’ bedroom, but I expected that, and Mom doesn’t seem too depressed today.
At least she didn’t spend the day lying in bed. She was even counseling Aunt Sydelle on the phone; after Grandpa Nat’s heart attack, Sydelle is not sure she wants to move to Florida.
Scott called last evening, saying he enjoyed his little weekend in Montauk. Today he started his Bar Exam course at Town Hall.
Later in the evening, Shelli phoned. She got into town on Sunday and will be here for a couple of weeks before she goes back to Madison for summer school. She’ll graduate in December as “a pretentious TV major,” and then she’ll take the GREs, which she said she’s actually begun to study for.
Shelli told me she was raped “in February and March.”
“Twice?” I asked.
“No, in late February,” she said. “But I was freaked out through March. It was pretty bad.” Three guys in a bar gave her a lift on a night when it was 30° below and raped her while parked on a side street.
“I’m so sorry to hear it,” I said.
“I just knew that those would be your exact words: I’m so sorry to hear it,” she said. “Oh, I know you so well.”
What else would I say? “Better luck next time”?
Jerry is now the assistant director of the Madison welfare agency and “may end up staying in Madison for the rest of his life.” Leon, Shelli said, “doesn’t know what he’s doing with life.” Last week Leon threw a frying pan at his roommate and moved to a new apartment.
Shelli herself will probably remain in Madison to do her graduate work in TV there; she’s chummy with all the professors. We gossiped about various people, and I told her about Scott, Mark and Consuelo, Mikey and the others.
She wants to see a lot of the old crowd while she’s here. Shelli said that she’d like to see Ivan, but only if he’ll “control himself this time and not act like I’m another woman he has to conquer.”
I could kick myself for letting myself get excited over seeing Shelli. I feel the way I did all the times Ronna backed out of seeing me and let me down. Well, at least it reminded me that Shelli isn’t reliable and that the only person I can truly depend on is myself.
Mason called from work. He’s going on a leave of absence starting this weekend; first he’ll head up to his family’s place in Fallsburg and then he’ll report to that camp for the blind in New Jersey.
Mason will be back for a few days in mid-June, when he and his roommates might have a party.
Thursday, June 2, 1977
This morning I spoke to Grandpa Nat to let him know that Dad had arrived safely; he sounded weak. He told me to “drop by.” “As if it’s around the corner!” Grandma Sylvia interjected. She said he wasn’t feeling very well today.
I just have my fingers crossed that no tragedies occur with either Grandpa Nat or Dad. Even though I’m the oldest male, I don’t relish the idea of being head of the family in the event of something horrible happening.
June was saying that the most valuable thing they own is their collection of opera records, and Richard said to Alice, “Yeah, we’re going to have a hard time dividing that up when June leaves me.”
Alice felt very uncomfortable after that as other remarks were made until finally June said, “Richard, this all sounds like an Albee play.”
So far Alice has only heard June’s part of the story: she has practically definitely decided to leave Richard because he’s not encouraging her enough career-wise and because she feels he’s not that interesting or motivated.
At the subway, Richard started pouring his guts out, about how he thinks having a kid would solve their problems, how he’s willing to do anything – marriage counseling, therapy – to save their marriage.
Richard and June are going to be going through some rough times, and I wish them luck.
It was nice to chat with Alice as we ate diet ice cream and drank diet soda; she’s such a good friend.
I’ve improved my story by eliminating twenty or so characters and focusing on five: versions of me, Ronna, Avis, Scott and Alan Karpoff. Also, I’ve incorporated totally fictional elements (the Avis character has an abortion) to make it more interesting.
I reread my “This Is Macdonald Carey . . .” and decided it’s not half-bad; even my weaker stories these days are better than they used to be. I feel I’ve turned a corner with my fiction, that I’m no longer in a rut. This has been a very creative week.
Also, I got an invitation to contribute to the Seventh Assembling, an annual collaborative venture of the avant-garde. Each contributor prints a thousand copies of whatever he/she writes (at his/her own expense) on up to three different 8½” x 11” sheets of paper.
Richard Kostelanetz wrote, “I like the first one [“Galsworthy Without Pronouns”] best, but feel free to contribute what you want to Assembling . . . 
I’ll print the Galsworthy piece at the Print Center in downtown Brooklyn because they’ll take care of all the details. Because the deadline is July 15, I’d better call Bob Hershon at the Print Center soon.
Assembling is a leading avant-garde project, and it pays to get on the good side of Kostelanetz, who’s so influential as well as being, I think, a fairly talented man.
Sunday, June 5, 1977
The problem with birthdays, as Joan Maxstein, who also just turned 26, said to me tonight, is that you have to reassess yourself. I’m feeling a bit more laid back than I had been a few hours ago, before Beverly’s party: then I felt as though my life has been all appearances and no substance.
And I still wonder: Do I have any direction or do I merely have the illusion of progress?
Shelli came over at 7 PM. She gained back some of the weight, but she’s not as enormous as she used to be. We decided to go to the movies in Flushing, and since she enjoys driving, I let her take us there. On the way we talked.
Shelli is worried about taking the GREs because her vocabulary is so bad. She’s not a reader at all; she says she can’t sit still for a book when she can get something from the tube. And that’s why she’s a TV major: Shelli’s a child of television. People like her make me worry for the future of literature and the written word.
Dr. Stone used to tell Shelli that she “liked to mother little boys,” starting with me, I guess.
Leon is Shelli’s best friend, and she defended him against my charge that he had wasted a lot of potential. She claims Leon taught her “how to have fun” (going to discos, dancing and getting drunk).
Shelli doesn’t believe in work, as I do; instead, she said she believes in “fun 
She said that she’s Leon’s friend because unlike other people in Madison, she doesn’t treat Leon like a god and let him get away with his manipulation and his terrible cruelty.
Shelli said that it was Leon’s idea for Elihu to stick Allan Cooper with that big phone bill. When Elihu got into trouble, he made Shelli and Jerry apologize to his parents, and she can’t forgive Elihu for that.
She did call Ivan, telling him that I said she’d better call him soon because he told me he was hurt when Shelli called him on her last day in town in January. Ivan laughed when he heard what I’d said, and that’s nice; it’s sort of good that after all these years, we are still friends.
Shelli hasn’t had sex since the rape, which must have been a terrible experience for her.
She told me Greg lives in Madison and is gay, too. I can’t believe all these friends of ours – Jerry, Leon, Allan, Greg, et al. – ended up being gay. When 
Shelli gets money from her parents and aunt, who pay her rent, and she gets $100 a month from Jerry – but still she’s always broke. She is a good student, however.
When she dropped me off, I kissed her, a peck on the cheek. I’m not the slightest bit attracted to her, nor do I remember her as the girl with whom I was once involved.
“We were a cute couple of kids,” Shelli said, and I agreed.
This morning I was awakened by a phone call from Dad. Mom started nagging him about coming home from Hong Kong early.
Before the past week, I never realized how dependent she was on him. I suppose one might say that it’s nice, after all these years of marriage, but I wish Mom would give Dad more room.
I fell back asleep but was awakened by another phone call, this one from Gary, who had good news: the apartment in Bayside will be ready for them to move into on June 16.
They’re going to try to get away from their Jersey apartment without leaving a forwarding address: just a box number, so they can get out of their lease and paying rent for June.
Teresa called next, to wish me a happy birthday and to tell me that she’s now settled in at her new home, an apartment on Riverside Drive and 85th Street. I’m going over there for dinner on Monday night.
It turned out that Teresa’s transfer at the Wall Street Journal was not just a lateral move but a promotion, and she’s very happy about that. They’ll even pay for her courses if she goes for an M.B.A.
Teresa spent her birthday in transit from the West Coast. A phone-friend in the Wall Street Journal’s Denver office gave her a birthday party, attended by complete strangers; Teresa liked that.
Teresa told me that Avis’s last letter was the first hint that Avis and Helmut were having problems: they’re having disagreements about where to live in the future. I think one day Avis may realize that she’s made a lot of sacrifices for Helmut that he hasn’t reciprocated. But as Teresa says, “Somebody’s got to be the one to love more.”
Avis sent me an “I miss you” birthday card from Germany, and I also got cards from Alice (who says I’ve got a present on the way), Elihu, and the eye doctor. Mom gave me a box of stationery and $20 from her and Dad, and Marc and Jonny gave me $10, which they really shouldn’t have.
It’s been so nice, again having all my friends around me: Scott, Teresa, Libby, Gary, Mason, Shelli, and Elihu all have called during the past week.
Tonight I went to the party at Beverly and Joan’s apartment on Riverside Drive and 94th Street, and spent a very nice time with some newer friends. The dinner, a Craig Claiborne buffet, was delicious, and the people there were so nice.
Abe got there late, but he had just come back from Toronto. Devra said we should all go to see Kenneth Bernard’s new play at La MaMa on Friday. As I figured, Beverly has a world-class crush on Ken.
The evening was a good change for me, being with an entirely new crowd socially and feeling very relaxed and having an extraordinarily good time. I 
I guess this birthday has to count as one of the best.
Tuesday, June 7, 1977
8 PM. To think, it’s been only 426 months since the Japanese bombed Pearl Harbor, and here I am alive to tell the tale.
Alice phoned late last night to tell me that June left Richard. It’s almost a relief by how to have it over and done with. She went up to the New York Times 
Richard called the Seventeen office, wanting to locate June. Alice said she was coming back to the apartment to pick up her things. June called Alice en route, saying the last thing she needed was seeing Richard, who in the interim had gotten desperate and called June’s parents.
There was a terrible scene at the apartment, something Alice and I can only imagine. When June came into work, she was terribly upset and it was obvious she had been crying. But she’s determined to go through with the 
Richard’s brother came over to stay with him. Alice called Richard, but he wouldn’t come to the phone to talk to her, probably because at this point he considers her June’s friend. Foolishly, Alice had told June that Richard cried to her when they walked to the subway last week, and June must have told Richard.
I sympathize with Richard – how lost he must feel – but it must be pretty rough on June, too, with all the guilt that’s being thrown at her.
But mostly Hilary was preoccupied with her sister’s illness, which must be very bad since she felt she couldn’t talk about it much to Alice. It must be horrible for Hilary’s parents; even celebrities are not immune from tragedy.
This morning I woke up at 5:30 AM and saw the Silver Jubilee procession in London: the crowds with the royal family and finally Queen Elizabeth herself. I fell back to sleep, and when I woke up again, Queen Elizabeth was giving a speech at a luncheon of Commonwealth ministers as the British celebrated 25 years of her reign.
Why do we Americans love royalty so?
Dad called to tell Mom he’d be coming back from Hong Kong this weekend rather than next week, and that made her happy. It’s very hot in Hong Kong and Dad has to take three showers a day. He’s almost finished all of his business there.
I xeroxed my two latest stories and then spent most of the afternoon typing up the Class Notes. All those alumni, so proud of their accomplishments: even now, Mr. Achievement-Oriented himself gets tired of hearing about it.
Grandpa Herb came over and said Uncle Jack is mad because I wrote the 
Meanwhile, Uncle Abe remains silent as the cancer has gone to his brain; at this point I doubt he’ll ever get out of the hospital. What a strain it is on Grandpa Herb to have his two brothers so ill. I don’t know what I would do if that happened to me one day.
It’s been so long since I’ve had a story accepted (I don’t count the Assembling invitation). Surely my manuscripts must be arriving at their destinations. Why aren’t I getting them back? It’s almost summer, which is a dead time at most literary magazines.
I’m in need of a lift. Creatively, I’ve been doing fine, but I have all these stories – at least half of them must be publishable – and no place to put them in.
Wednesday, June 8, 1977
9 PM. This week has been rather chilly for June. This morning I went down to the state Unemployment Insurance office, filed a claim, was briefly interviewed and was told to report next Tuesday at 10:45 AM.
I seem to have a hole in my pocket lately and my money is running from me as though it had entered the Boston Marathon. That extra $35 or so a week is now a necessity.
If there’s a possibility of summer school teaching, I’ll jump at it, but if I’m not eligible for unemployment, I may have to resort to some menial kind of work.
Anita Bryant now says she will take her crusade across the nation. Why does this minimally-talented plastic woman hate gay people so?
But I think in a way she’s done a lot of good. We thought the gay civil rights movement has been has been going on since 1969, but it may just have crystallized last night and turned into the kind of nationwide movement that revolutionized black/white relations in the 60s and male/female 
Gays are now a political force, like blacks and women, and a lot of people like me who have heretofore been silent bystanders will leap into the fray.
I feel guilty because I have in my time told gay jokes, because in my time I have permitted others to abuse gays, because I have not stood with people when they needed me.
At the dinner table tonight, Jonathan asked if the referendum meant that homosexuals in Miami could now be arrested just for being homosexuals. 
She calls her campaign “Save Our Children,” but she’s at war with her own children, just as the Nixonian forces were at war with the young in the days of Kent State. Indeed, I haven’t felt my own liberty to be in so much danger since that day in May seven years ago.
All this is pretty stuff, and maybe pompous, but I’ve got to watch myself. I identify with the gay movement although I don’t really want to be part of 
The other day, Laurie was talking about my news of Jerry in Madison and asked, “Does he wear a dress now?” This remark came not from one of my Italian sanitation-worker neighbors but from counterculture Laurie, who herself had a lesbian affair with Jane when she was younger and oh so cool.
And you know what I said? “No, but at the Welfare Department, he’s in charge of wayward boys.” Even though this is actually somewhat factual, it was a disgusting remark coming from the same guy who drove around a block three times today to watch a shirtless 19-year-old boy washing his car.
Tonight I spoke to Grandpa Nat, who told me he’s still having some chest pains. He keeps being so insistent that I come down to visit him.
I love Grandpa Nat, and that was why I couldn’t bring myself to ask him if he voted, or how he voted, in yesterday’s referendum. I don’t want to know if he voted with the 66% of people who said people like his grandson, and other people’s grandchildren, don’t deserve the rights of other Americans.
This morning I fell back asleep after hearing the news of the referendum, only to be awakened at 8 AM by Western Union. They read me a telegram: NOT ARRIVING JUNE 10. LETTER TO FOLLOW. DANNY.
I rushed in to Mom and said, “Dad’s not coming home from Hong Kong on Friday,” but she said she’d just spoken to him and he told her he was. Then Mom realized it was Danny Lapid, their Israeli friend, who sent the 
I called Bob Hershon at the Print Center and he said to send him my pages of “Galsworthy Without Pronouns” for Assembling. I hope it comes out all right; they’re the cheapest people I could get.