The following is a work of fiction.

Not Nick Nolte's Diary, Malibu, California
December 20, 2004

Firs

Compared with Europe, the way they sell beer in this country is absurd. They talk about the amount of taste, as if it was something there could be more and more of. It's like a cultural optical illusion. I didn't mention yesterday what a disappointment Donner's party was. He has a wonderful house and a charming caterer, but one immutable law of filmmaking is that often the parts do not make up a whole. Perhaps it was my subdued mood, but when a young woman commented quite loudly that the spinach dip reminded her of "that Bob Dylan song about spinach" my hand was forced. I wandered outside and soon found myself looking forward to a cheery greeting from Tito. Such is the company of a bird. Scotty G. is coming over for a date in the racquetball court and I don't wish to be held in contempt. Later days.