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This morning I listened to Neil Rogers on the radio talking about his SOFAR (Save Our First Amendment Rights) petition to get the FCC to rescind their censorship decision. With the decision upholding sodomy laws, mandatory drug tests, and all the restrictions on what we can listen to and see and read, I feel that Uncle Sam is encroaching into my life as never before.

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Teresa and Michael seem pretty comfortable in their relationship. At times, he can be nasty to her, but he does it in a playful way. “Isn’t he mean?” she asked me. “No, I’m cute,” said Michael. “He’s cute,” I said. And Michael said, “Sure, he’s not going to say I’m mean because he doesn’t want to spend the whole summer with you.” The man is correct.

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As Amira uses profanity freely in the best of times, she was pretty heavy with the four-letter words, which enraged Teresa, and a few blows were exchanged. After Teresa hit Amira, Amira pulled Teresa’s arm “out of the socket” and Teresa said she was in great pain. Half a dozen police cars lined up on the street as 18 – count ’em – NYPD officers came up to the apartment.

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Candy definitely has a chip on her shoulder, a very quick temper, and a scatterbrained attitude. And yet she’s brave and independent and tenacious. I felt affection for her – and lust, too. Erections kept popping up all day (and they must have been noticeable under my running shorts).

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I was in bed late last night and I called out, “Hey, Miriam, I really like you . . . I just wanted you to know.” She came in here – she stayed in the living room the last two nights – and touched my shoulder, kissed my cheek, and said, “You’re a peach.”

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I passed some intimidating hoody-looking kids. But after listening to their conversation, I suddenly realized that all of these guys hanging out on my own neighborhood corner, smoking cigarettes in their sleeveless undershirts, were gay. It was weird.

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Shelli said she married Jerry to get out of her parents’ house: “It was never a great love story anyway,” “But you were crazy about each other!” I said, remembering how much they hurt me in the fall of 1971. “Were we?” she asked. “I don’t remember.”

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June said Prof. Goodman told her I was “the golden boy of the MFA program.” And then she said, “Looking at you, I can see why.”