Quiet days in San Francisco

Cris left three days ago, but I’ve gotten almost nothing done on my book. If only a single appointment looms in the afternoon, I blow off the whole day. Today I did nothing until my appointment at 2:00 with the tax man.

I have a great tax man. Years ago when I was doing Frighten the Horses, my sex 'n politics magazine, Ralph started doing my taxes. He made it so that everything I bought that was remotely connected to writing or publishing the magazine was tax deductible. He deducts things I would never have the guts to deduct. But when I tell him that, he protests that every single thing he puts down is defensible, and reminds me that I got audited once and the IRS found almost nothing wrong. I think I had to pay about a hundred dollars.

I stopped doing the magazine in 1995, but Ralph still does my taxes and deducts everything because I am now a published writer. My trip to Los Angeles for the reading in August -- all tax-deductible. My trip to New York in September -- ditto. My trip to the desert in December -- also ditto. Almost every year, he figures out a way to get me a refund. The only exception was when I had gotten so much money from Commerce One stock options that I owed the IRS more than $100,000 in taxes at the end of the year. But I had the money in the bank; I hadn't invested it or spent it. So I just wrote a check. I still came out way ahead. I don't know why people get so upset about paying taxes. I made almost $300,000 that year -- entirely through dumb luck -- and paid $100,000 in taxes. So what? I was still $200,000 ahead.

By the time I got home a little before 5:00, I was so sleepy that I tried to take a nap. But I’d drunk too much caffiene and couldn’t even fall asleep. I proceeded to try to round up the cats for their dinner, since it was getting dark, and they aren’t allowed outside after dark. I came out of the bedroom and they took one look at me and both ran outside. They are punishing me for Cris being absent; she pays them much more attention than I do, not that I don’t.

Despite my refusal to even pretend to work on my book, I did have an idea. It will mean restructuring much of the second half of the book, but that’s all right. I haven't even had a rough idea of how to approach the second draft until now. The new idea will help immensely.

After feeding the cats, I went out to rent a movie. As I've said before, I got a film criticism degree in college and it has given me nothing but trouble. I can't even pick out a movie in less than thirty minutes. Almost everything on the shelves falls into the category of 1., complete crap; 2., something I really like but don't want to watch so soon after seeing it the last time; 3. Something I wouldn't mind seeing but which I would much rather see on the big screen. Finally, literally after 30 minutes, I found something perfect: The French Connection II, a 1975 sequel to the original 1971 Gene Hackman movie. This sequel also stars Hackman. He goes after "Frog Number One" -- as he refers to the French heroin kingpin played by Fernando Rey -- in Marseilles. Along the way he does an homage to Frank Sinatra in "The Man with the Golden Arm." It was a lot of fun.

In the middle of the movie, the doorbell rang, and it was three teenagers. One of the girls wanted to use the bathroom. They were on the way to a party next door and couldn't get in -- whatever. I let the girl in and waited apprehensively. Her friend came up the front stairs and stared at me through the glass to make sure I didn't molest the girl -- who was, like, 15 -- and I stared back at her and the boy who was with them. Finally the kid came out, very grateful, and they all skedaddled, and I watched the rest of the movie.