In a hotel, rather than a hotel room, in San Francisco, I was and remain the immediate cause of extensive structural damage to a bunch of rooms. Nonetheless, while for commonsense but legally intricate reasons I am not really to blame for the damage, I am afraid guilt will find its way to my USPS-perplexing address. I have thus done my best to cover for the damage. It's still pretty obvious. In the current room, frinstance, the nightstand no longer fits into the floor. There are gaps around the jointure whither light and/or water leaks. The same damage occurs in the same bit of furniture/floor plan on all floors below and above. I did this and I am sorry but fuck you I'll lie to stay unjailed.

Simultaneously: someone in my intimate circle (who is not quite the muscle hippy dreads-up street fiddler I snapped outside The Mix, or whatever it was called in 1992, though my presence there informed or maybe assaults our narrative) is trying to get us to the right airport to depart SF in time. The geography is dreamfukt. We're in the west end of the imagined city (ignore parkland), and SFO is easternmost—I guess where AT&T field is. This rendition of SF does not involve the insanely high and broad overpass highways previously intrinsic to visiting SF.

So most of the time (what time?) this broken hotel room is my sole worry; I stay here and I need to fix it convincingly before I leave. Still, it is after some social event and one by one individuals just show up at my hotel room door. Damage is def not hidden.

It's dusk so I turn on two-three lights—but a moment later they are off again. The exterior natural light is nearly enough to mask the on-offness of the electrics. But someone else calls it; and seeing the lit lights outened, the same friend calls for diagnosis. Maintenance (the department) is now on they way; but the solution is a duh moment at hand (cf. my recent real-life inability to operate a hair dryer). In this case or any, I'm still not caught for the damage I have wrought.

The room has eventually filled and we're all rehearsing something, maybe a staged reading. Nobody has enjoyed working with the NPC blond bombshell diva—she's terrible and she doesn't know it. Cf. Lena Lamont in Singin' in the Rain but she in affect she is much more Lynn Bracken (Kim Basinger) in L.A. Confidential (so one must assume Lana Turner and Barbara Stanwyck are there somewhere—only OMG she has been pissing errbody off).

So we're all hushed and attendant when one of the actors, upon finishing a scene, hies him to whisper in the director's ear; and are all delighted when the director then turns to the disingenue and asks her to step out of the room with him. I notice there is now an armed guard behind them to ensure she departs peacefully. We hear "You gotta be kidding me" from her as she is made to leave. I sympathise with her enleashed dissent; I just don't like her, so she must suck, bye.

In the aftermath (I'm listening to the Law & Order dénouement while I'm *still* trying to fix the room damage up): the newspaper scuzzlebutt is that la disparue was undercover from the DA's office but was attached as a prostitute--i.e., a solicitor nabbed for solicitation.

In other news, "At night I walk through the park with a whip between the lines of the whispering Jesuits who are poisoning me against me" is still a way more interesting line than "At night I walk through the park with a whip between the lines of the whispering Jesuits who are poisoning you against me.