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I am rarely taken aback, but yesterday I was speechless for a moment when I was renewing my driver’s license and was asked, “Are you currently addicted to drugs?” “I’m sorry,” said the young woman behind the desk, “but we have to ask you this question.” “No, I’m not.” “Some people say yes,” she told me. It’s a wild world.

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Scott flattered my vanity by asking if I’d been working out. We got into the Camaro – “This is the last car I’d expect you to be driving,” Scott said – and I took him down Commercial Boulevard to A1A and then along the Strip by the beach, where Scott was surprised at the young crowd.

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Marshall might not have all the answers, but he’s intelligent and has experienced a lot, including several years in a monastery and Haight-Ashbury in the Summer of Love 19 years ago. There are times when I like having the company of my family.

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For the past week, I’ve begun to feel certain that I’ll have the HTLV-III antibody in my blood. After all, if I could have the hepatitis B antibody, why not the one from AIDS? I keep thinking that somehow I’ve forgotten sexual encounters I’ve had.

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She saw Donald last night, for their sixth date, and it looks as though that’s definitely leading somewhere. After walking her home, I gave her a tentative peck on the cheek goodbye when we reached the entrance to her building. I was happy when, in response, she put her arms around me and gave me a big hug and kiss.

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It seems to me that the healthiest response to the question of a writer’s eventual renown came today from Pete Cherches over lunch at Dubrow’s Cafeteria: “I don’t care if I’m famous after I’m dead. I’d rather be famous now and forgotten when I’m dead.”

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Last night I dreamed that People Express had become Animal Express and would only allow pets on their flights.

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Despite her cold, Ronna wanted to go with me to Robin’s play. Whining and Dining, a “lesbian re-telling of the Job story,” had great energy. Robin essentially played herself, a working-class Jewish waitress from Canarsie who’s unaffected, romantic and idealistic, a lover of the Knicks and Grossinger’s food. I thought she was amazing.

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At Noodles on 72nd and Amsterdam, Ronna seemed a little weird, and when we started dinner, she told me she’d had a date on Thursday with a guy in publishing. She said she wanted to “clarify” things, but I wasn’t sure what she meant. I told her it didn’t bother me at all that she would see other guys and I encouraged her to do so.

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I’m so fucked up. I don’t know what I want out of life. I don’t know where I want to live or what I want to do. This morning I did an interview with a Baltimore radio station. My heart wasn’t in it, but I tried as best I could to be funny; after all, the show must go on.